“When I finish cleaning the chicken coop.”
If his parents hadn’t made him study to become a priest, he might have married her. But at that time he was the son of the poorest sister and hadn’t yet gotten his inheritance from his uncle in Dakar. He was a sickly little boy who always wore a scarf around his neck, fastened with a safety pin.
A sharp thud in the kitchen banished the ghosts. She placed the nightgown on the table and went to see what had happened.
•
Picarol was sleeping in the corner. The light must have woken him. He got up, stretched his front paws far in front of him, and arched his back.
“Don’t be afraid, Picarol.”
She examined the kitchen with an anxious eye. Above the stove stood half a dozen white glass jars.
The tomato must have fermented.
She found one of the lids lying on the gas burner. She smelled the jar before she replaced the lid. Another liter of canned tomatoes ready to be thrown out. She opened the cupboard and glanced at the provisions with satisfaction. Chocolate, cookies, a tin of coffee, another of tea, five kilos of sugar, a row of ceramic jars filled with duck and chicken covered in animal fat. The marmalades were on the top shelf. And two bottles of rum: two! All that in the middle of the war. He might want a little glass of rum every day, and rum. .
She was filled with sadness as she left the kitchen. Those provisions had cost her a lot of money and maneuvering. A lot of chasing people and doing them favors. She watched over them as if they were a treasure. When her cousin moved in they would share them. At midnight she often drank a cup of hot chocolate, but only on really cold nights, purely out of necessity, to be able to work till dawn. Maybe he liked hot chocolate too.
•
“Yes?”
Someone had knocked on the door, then pushed it ajar. A head with lively, happy little blue eyes appeared.
“Can I come in?”
Palmira lived in the apartment beneath her. Ever since Maria Lluïsa’s cousin had been in the hospital, her neighbor had cooked for her, brought her two hot water bottles every night.
“You mean it’s already eleven o’clock? Time goes so fast.”
“It flies, it flies! And you work much too hard. Don’t move. I’ll put them in the bed for you. Better to do it quick, while they’re still hot.”
Palmira headed to the bedroom. I should give her a collar; I’ll get Simona to sew the edge. She’s faster than me.
“How’s your cousin?”
Palmira had come out of the bedroom, rubbing her hands with lotion. She was missing the index finger on her right hand. Folds of skin formed a swirl at the tip of a cluster of useless flesh.
“A bit better. He might be released in a couple of weeks. But he’s very weak.”
“Poor man! It’s one thing if he gets his health back, but I can’t see you having another person in the house, someone so sick.”
Palmira stood in front of her, admiring the nightgown as Maria Lluïsa continued to sew.
“If only I didn’t have to work for a living! I would even enjoy sewing, but. .” What a bore. Couldn’t she just leave?
“And all the medication; it must be terribly expensive.”
Palmira couldn’t take her eyes off the mountain of brilliant snow that she dared not touch. If I show her the nightgown, she’ll stay another hour.
“Come on, Palmira, off to bed, you have to get up early.”
Palmira sighed and headed for the door with a sense of regret. “Good night. Don’t be up too late.”
•
Yes, the medicine was expensive. First the hospital, then the surgeon, now all the medication. What would be left of the hundred thousand francs? The stack of bills would slowly dwindle. “One operation might not be enough. If it isn’t, he’ll need a second,” the physician had said as he looked at her apologetically, wiping his glasses with a splendidly white handkerchief. What if one operation proved not to be enough, and he decided at the last moment to leave his money to the other relatives? That would really upset things. Of course she could always. . Then everything would work out. But how could she do it without anyone realizing? She wouldn’t be the first to try it. Or the last. Increase the dose, little by little. He was already so weak; everyone said it was a lost cause. He would probably live only a few months.
Dr. Simon had been her physician for years, a kindly old soul, a bit absentminded, only kept a few of his former patients. He would never even notice. His house calls were more like visits from an elderly, tiresome relative than a doctor. Twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five drops. Two months and it would be over. How could she be sure? When she went to the pharmacy to buy the drops, she would wait until the place was empty. When she had paid and was holding the bottle, her hand on the door about to leave, she would turn around: “Senyor Pons, this medicine isn’t dangerous, is it? If I lose count one day, I don’t suppose it would matter.” Maybe the pharmacist would say: “Oh no, be very careful, only twenty drops.” I would have to ask in a very natural tone, with maybe just a touch of uneasiness. “Well, it’s best to know.” Senyor Pons was very neat. He would scratch his white beard and smile at her above his glasses, lowering his head a bit between the two large glass spheres that stood on the counter, one green, the other a caramel color. A small bottle with a rubber dropper. The glass would be cold, the liquid murky. He wouldn’t suffer at all. It would really be for his own good. He would fade away, slowly withering.
She could set herself up right away. An apartment in the center of town, on Cours Clémenceau, for example, near Place Tourny. A parlor with two balconies overlooking the street, half a dozen armchairs upholstered in cream-colored damask, a mirror with a gold frame, a few antique fashion engravings scattered about the walls. She would have the workshop at the back, by the gallery. Nice and sunny. I’ll take Simona with me — she does the best edging — and Rosa, the best embroiderer. She would take the two girls from Indochina who worked for hours without opening their mouths, quiet as a pair of cats, only raising their heads to smile. She didn’t want Madame Durand; she would find herself a good ironer, that would be easy enough. Adrienne would be dumbstruck when she saw that her best workers had abandoned her, left her high and dry! She would go to Paris every year to look for new designs. She would ride first class, wagon lit, with velvet seats and a shiny ashtray by the window. At the beginning of each season, she would send cards, printed with calligraphic swirls framing her name in English script, to her clients. Perfumed cards. She would keep them in a cushioned box where she had sprinkled drops of perfume. . If she increased the number of drops too quickly, she could be caught. And he might suffer. Some time ago she had read The Pink Shadow, where an attorney poisoned three people over some stolen documents. He laced their coffee with arsenic. She had lent the book to Adrienne; all the girls in the shop had read it. Drops were the surest method. Twenty-five, then thirty. Her hand would shake a bit, and the glass dropper would rattle against the glass. One, two, three, four. Perfect round drops that would become slightly deformed from the weight as they slid from the dropper. When they hit the water they caused a tiny mist. Five, six, seven.
The Cathedral clock struck twelve. She opened wide her round eyes as if she had just woken up. What was I thinking?
The needle was out of thread; she would have to start another. She yawned. Suddenly, mid-yawn, she became conscious of what she had been imagining and was terror-stricken. She closed her mouth slowly and rubbed her eyes.