stripped
the gypsy camp is disappointing in its tidiness. No smoking fires, no wagons painted in raffish reds and golds, no unmentionables hanging from the windows to dry. Instead, the camp is an outpost of sorts, a miniature rococo fantasy, the creamy-colored caravans are ornamented with flutings and fig leafs, and brocade curtains hunker in the doorways. In the gypsy mama’s window boxes, a tiny but well-manicured topiary grows where geraniums ought to be straggling. Madeleine’s bandaged hands have wilted by her sides, and she slumps dejectedly on her stool. Trying to cheer her, Marguerite waves a pair of glittering shears in the air, as long and keen as a sword. Be brave, she instructs Madeleine. Don’t move a muscle. The scissors dive down between Madeleine’s shallow breasts, she shivers, and Marguerite brings the blades together with a snap. The monstrous dress falls to her feet, neatly cleft in two. A sartorial disaster, Marguerite says as she repockets her enormous shears. She setdes down onto her haunches: Now, give me one of your hands. And she takes hold of the little bundle, so dear that she can hardly bear to touch it, like a butterfly collector cradling a cocoon. Her fingers By over the bandages as if they were reading Braille; soon she has discovered and disinterred the ragged end. Madeleine watches mildly as the punished hand is unwrapped. I She sees that her hand has healed-The fingers have mended together, sewn up tightly along the seams. My hand looks like a paddle, Madeleine says. That might prove useful, Marguerite replies.
la lucrezia
Madeleine stares down at the two paddles sitting in her lap. An accident? Marguerite inquires. Madeleine shakes her head. I feared not, the woman sighs. And straightening up, she resumes a conversation that Madeleine can’t recall their ever having: Among the first parts written for me was Lucretia. An old story* a woman raped by the son of a tyrannical king. There is nothing left of her but shame and rage. From hell I shall seek his ruin, she sings. With savage and implacable fury. And then she does herself in at the end. Sword through the breast — J pantomimed the whole thing. The Marquis Ruspoli said he felt shivers running up and down his spine. When the composer came to kiss my hand, I hissed at him, Don’t ever write such a role for me again. Marguerite draws her scissors from her pocket as though she were unsheathing a terrible blade. I told him, Make me a general. Make me a son. If you give me a sword, let me bury it in Ptolemy’s side. For who wants to be a woman wronged? With no recourse but wretchedness and death? Not I, Marguerite declares, her blade flashing. Not I! Her gaze falls suddenly upon Madeleine, who is caught unawares. She thought that Marguerite, in the throes of her story, had forgotten her. The woman narrows her eyes: Do you understand me? The girl shrugs. I suppose so. Marguerite takes the injured hands in her own and says, coldly, You are disgraced. Disfigured. So what will you do now? Madeleine announces an idea that has occurred to her only a few seconds before, as she reflected on how pleasant it felt to be wearing only her underclothes. She says, with dignity. I plan on being a tumbler. Or a contortionist. Whichever I am better at. Marguerite claps her hands. Her severity gives way, in an instant, to laughter. My dear child! she cries, voice lifting into song. If drinking is bitter, Marguerite sings, become wine.
palimpsest
the small brothers and sisters receive a letter from Madeleine! The envelope is bedecked with bright, mysterious stamps. After gingerly prying open the seal, Beatrice smoothes the contents against her chest, delighting in the crackling fragility of the paper, and then lifts it above her head as the others clamber about her. Mother quiets them in the folds of her skirts so that Beatrice can read the letter aloud: She is happy at the convent, she says. The other girls like her very much and she has a bed of her own to sleep in. Bernadette is the name of the girl who is kind enough to write this letter for her (Beatrice exclaims over the loveliness of her handwriting). She gives each one of us a kiss (Beatrice delivers kisses) and she prays for us every night before she goes to sleep. Love, Madeleine. Very good, Mother says, and heads out to the shed to tell Papa that everything has turned out as it should. Once alone, the children huddle together while Beatrice brings down a candle from the mantelpiece. The wick flares, and they are breathless in their conspiracy. Madeleine has taught them the secret language of siblings, the head flicks and eye rolls and coded words, and now, true enough, she has buried another letter beneath the surface of the first, a letter meant especially for them. Beatrice holds the parchment up to the flame and the effaced writing becomes translucently visible. Written in lemon juice, of course! She sighs at her sister’s cleverness. So she tells aloud the second story, the one inscribed in invisible ink, and the children sit around her, rapt. I do not miss anyone at all, she says. I live with gypsies. I have learned to stretch my feet back behind my head and waddle about on my bands. Yesterday a photographer appeared and asked to take our portraits. He stood me between the dog girl and the flatulent man and told me to display my hands as if they were the crown jewels. What a fool, his buttocks sticking out from behind his machinery. In the picture, we will all be laughing.
scriptor
Charlotte pauses in mid-Bourish. Are you going to tell about me? New paragraph: I know a woman who looks like a viol Madeleine dictates.
method
boxing jean-luc s ears, Mother is struck by an idea. She hurries off towards the pasture, where Matilde is wrestlingwith kites. Madame! Mother hollers up to the sky. Please share some tarte aux pommes with me. Matilde disentangles herself: Happily! She sails down from the heights like a mighty barge, then politely collapses her wings and strolls alongside Mother: The two take their tea outside, on a stone bench warm from the afternoon sun. Matilde asks after the children. I am so busy now, Mother sighs. My children are growing wild like weeds. I can’t read them as well as I used to: Jean-Luc crept out from right under my nose! In earlier days, I would have known his wicked thoughts before even he did, and been waiting for him, arms outstretched, when he slid out from beneath the covers. Please forgive him for interrupting your experiments! Matilde tsks: I wasn’t bothered. She pats Mother’s hand. You are a woman of science, Mother ventures. Matilde nods. Then perhaps you can help me! Mother says. Matilde gestures for her to continue. “When Madeleine sleeps, Mother explains, she smiles. Sometimes she sighs. Sometimes she is as still as a log. But these signs are so small and faint, as if coming from a great distance, and I cannot decipher them. Matilde extracts her leatherbound diary from deep within her le petomane cleavage. As she opens the book, its pages fen out like a peacock’s tail. I have filled a volume, she says, describing small and mysterioug signs. I have yet to see the pattern, but I know that it will emerge. She presses Mother’s hands against the pages: One day I will be leafing through my book, and suddenly the signs will become sensible. They will reveal themselves as a language, a story. That is what I am waiting for. She lifts Mother’s hands from the pages. Shutting the diary, Matilde tucks it back between her breasts.