unmanned
WE cannot leave him alone! the children wail, clutching onto the sides of the pony cart. They take turns staring miserably after the half-wit and directing poisonous glances at their sister. Horrible girl! It was not his fault, they are certain of it: all the blame they reserve for heartless, bungling Beatrice. Mother will thank me, she says as she applies, with cruel precision, the switch. The cart lurches forward: He’s no good as a husband. But he had nice manners! they protest. Who needs manners? snaps Beatrice. His cock stopped working at the hospital! That seems an unfair way of putting it. You just didn’t know how to work it properly, declares Mimi, the youngest and also the most foolhardy. In her eyes there is a defiant look, always, even when she is about to fall asleep. I despise sleep! her shining eyes declare as the lids droop ever more heavily downwards. Drunk with her own courage she continues, unwisely. I don’t think you pulled it hard enough. For there he is, standing in the ditch, in the moonlight, with his smooth face and his noble body, not looking broken or imperfect at all. I don’t think you knew what you were doing, Mimi persists. Beatrice swivels in her seat and gazes down at her siblings, huddled in the back of the pony cart, wincing in expectation. The load is so much lighter now; she says, without fury; And then: We can go even faster if we let off one more. This observation having been offered, the brothers and sisters keep their complaints to themselves. Instead, they stare behind them at the idiot, who, with every flick of the switch, grows smaller and more indistinct, though they are certain they can still make out, even from here, the slow hypnotic churning of his jaws.
a puzzle
you wanted to be alone, Madeleine says. Rather than answer, the photographer embraces her, and for one or two minutes it feels fairly wonderful. Her nose sunk in his shirt, his arms around her; her breathing, without permission, filling in step with his own. Ahhhhhhh, she thinks, words leaving her. Ahhhhhhhh. There is only weight, warmth, covers, breath. Far down below, their feet touch. But after one or two minutes have passed, the embrace becomes intolerable. Madeleine believes that she will die, that if she can’t escape the arm, or kick her feet out from beneath the covers, she will surely, quickly, quiedy die. She feels the panic of the dying: a swarming on her skin; a series of soft explosions coming closer, the difficulty of finding her next breath. So she twitches, lets out a sigh; she acts as if sleep has come to take her. He relinquishes her then, he delivers her up. The parting is easier this way. And he curls over on his other side, tucking his hands beneath his cheek. She is not sleepy in the least. She wants only the coldest part of the bed and slides to the far edge in search of it. But as soon as she arrives, she misses him. She would like to eat him up, if possible, or else be eaten up herself. If she were to kiss every part of his body, it would not be enough. She could gnaw at the back of his neck, suck on his fingers, cup his nose in the warm cave of her mouth and it would not suffice. To smother herself in his nice-smelling shirt, allowing his weight to extinguish her last breath, would still leave her wanting him. And he is not even the one she loves. She cannot tell which is more strange: enjoying his closeness or thinking she might die, or suffering this sad bout of appetite.
denied
tomorrow, then? Madeleine asks. And with a sick heart she imagines the three of them panting on the grass, the hospital a glittering red shard in the distance; M. Pujol rolling on his side to gaze at the photographer and the photographer, beneath his gaze, beginning to smile (there will be wine in the afternoons, a basket lowered and raised from die window); and the act thus coming to its end, the night descending swiftly like a curtain — but then, there in the dusk, is the pop of a tin being opened. The shadow beside M. Pujol releases into the air an unmistakable smell, a shadow with small shoulders and two great mittens for hands. It leans closer, becoming Madeleine. She is offering him a selection of twenty-two cigarettes. They tempt him; he chooses one, and as he draws up onto his elbows to accept her burning match, he is astonished to observe how well she looks, how her complexion has brightened and her features softened, how resourceful she is, and generous, how irresistible the scent of her cigarettes— Madeleine turns to the wall. She has got it all wrong. Open a tin? Light a match? She vows to return her winnings to the cook. The cot creaks beneath her, the photographer sighing. He is not answering her questions. Again she asks, Tomorrow? Adrien reaches for her hands but cannot find them. Tomorrow? she asks, back curved away, withholding everything. He does not want to come with us, Adrien admits at last.
song
they will come soon, Mother thinks, and puts flowers in a jar, tugging them up from between the floorboards. Her blessed children, and a bridegroom! She sings to herself in a low, gay voice one she hasn’t used in a long time, perhaps since her discovery of the mole on her husband’s side, blooming just beneath his ribs like a small patch of lichen. All this time, and yet something new! How wonderful that his body, so well known to her, should still be capable of surprises. Such are the gifts of marriage. I will count them for you, she sings to her daughter, her hair drying on the pillowcase. And upon finding herself unable to do so, she croons, They are without number.
madeleine reasons
Why won’t m. pujol leave the hospital? Because he is without hope. How did he lose hope? By accepting that he will never have what he wants. What does M. Pujol want? He wants to perform as he once did, in a theatre, wearing a tailcoat. And why can he no longer perform? Because audiences care little for authenticity or artistry. No, truly, why can’t he? Because he requires an audience that is quaint, small-minded, suspicious, excitable, easily made red in the face. And such an audience can no longer be found in Paris. Or Toulouse. Or the Bois. Or many other places in the world.
the photographer dreams
HAVING SORTED out the facts, Madeleine whispers to the photographer: I plan to build him a stage. In my town, where they will love him. Then you can show him the poster, with his name on it, and he will be persuaded to come. A stage? repeats the photographer, half-asleep. He finds her hand; he holds it up to the dim windows. You? Build a stage? He presses his mouth against her hand and kisses it. Yes, Madeleine says, a real stage, inside a grand theatre, large enough to fit all the people in my town. There will be litde footlights, and a velvet curtain, a printed program, and— A poster. His name. A picture: a man delicately parting the tails of his coat. And letters, she is saying, tall red ones, as Adrien slips off to have a dream about his brother. In his dream he moves more freely than usual, leaping over things, yelping, swinging his arms; high above his head. If he runs, he is able to keep up with Felix quite easily. And off they go crashing into a pond, where they slap the water’s surface with their outstretched arms, as though they had grown the heavy wings of a swan. When he wakes, light pouring through the windows, he finds himself spread selfishly across the cot, sheets bunched at his feet, and she, with her sticky hands, already gone.