remains
mother has lost a bridegroom, a business, and seen her heirlooms devoured by moths. But her thoughts are occupied with other losses. They visit her, one by one, at the table where she sits, like petitioners, those things that have been misplaced or neglected in the course of her schemes. The thread of a conversation: You are a woman of science, she had ventured, but how had Mme. Cochon replied? The ending of a story: so did that bloody woman ever find her lovely face? And also lost, the goodwill of her neighbors: I am far too busy! she had puffed herself up on many occasions and said. Lost too, perhaps, the trust of her children. As if in answer to her thoughts, her youngest daughter appears before her. Her face is streaked with dirt and tears. She is holding something heavy in her skirts, the cloth bunched in her hands, the hands pressed to her heart. With a cry, she lets go. Fruit comes tumbling down from her skirts and goes scudding across the floor. When an apple finds its way to Mother’s foot, she leans down with a sigh and takes it. It is misshapen; it yields to the touch. If she were to bite into it, the mouthful would be mealy arid bitter. Looking across her floor, she sees that all the apples and pears are similarly afflicted: humpbacked, wormeaten, spoiling on one side. I looked and I looked, Mimi whispers, and this is what I found.
impress
children heaving, the curtain is hoisted up to the sky. It spills down from the rafters like a waterfall. Madeleine gets lost in it, fumbling in the darkness, adoring its density and its weight the dusty smell in her nose. How radiant she will appear, when she finally steps through! She will welcome them, arms wide, heart pealing like a bell. And the gift she is bringing them — her breath quickens as she thinks of it, quickens as she pictures their delight, their laughter, pink frees, gratitude. Why, it’s nothing, she will tell them, just a little gift I thought you would enjoy, a little something I picked up in my travels…. They will never have seen anything like him before. And how lucky, and worldly, and generous she will appear: I the impresario who has brought them such unusual pleasures. | That is my daughter, her mother will murmur, and her siblings will push forward in their frenzy to be the first to kiss her. Why did I not see it before? her mother will wonder. How well she looks, how bravely and wisely she carries herself, how her complexion has brightened and her figure filled out, how she has, in short, grown into a beautiful woman. Right beneath my nose! Madeleine wishes that she could remain wrapped in this curtain until her moment of unveiling, muffled in the darkness of her dusty red cocoon. But there is still work to be done. The ticket booth is listing; twelve seats are missing; the floorboards need to be secured to the stage. So much more to do! she declares, bending down to grasp a nail, and when she cannot dose her stiffening fingers around it, she whispers to them, Not yet. Not yet.
in the wings
small, dirty feathers drift down onto Madeleines upturned face. Far above her, Mme. Cochon is flapping valiantly. Do you see him? Madeleine calls. Is he coming down the road? Possibly, the fat woman says. He is tall? Oh yes, says Madeleine. Quite tall. And wearing a smock? Oh yes, says Madeleine. All the patients at the hospital must wear them. But he no longer wears a moustache? The matron made him take it off. And his shoulders sag when he walks? His life, says Madeleine, has not been easy. In the stately manner of a hot-air balloon, Mme. Cochon floats down from the sky. Her whole self seems to have swollen with her expanded responsibilities. She is not only in charge of publicity, and spotting Le Petomane from afar; her title as stage manager is now official, and among her several duties is welcoming the performer, 1 brushing out his coat, preparing him for his splendid entrance, as Madeleine warms up the audience. Your star approaches, the stage manager announces, rearranging her wings: He is headed for the barn. He is crossing over ditches I and climbing over stiles, as if he already knew the way. As if he were drawn here, like a pigeon flying home. Of course he is drawn here, Madeleine replies. I have built him a stage.
amiss
in the morning, when he wakes, the mayor reaches beneath his bed and fails to find his chamberpot. The captain of the gendarmes sits down to his breakfast, only to discover that he has no seat to sit upon. The chemist goes to wash his face, but cannot; goes to open the curtains, but cannot; goes to complain to his obliging daughter, and learns that she also is gone.
mistaken
the door is pounded with such force, it sets the fruit jumping! on the floor. Mother sadly heaves herself u£ from her chair at the table. Her petitioners have lost their patience, it seems, for now they are shoving and crowding at her door. Without opening it, she asks, What do you want? The pounding stops. Through the door, she can hear the visitors muttering among themselves. We have come to speak with you about your daughter, says a tentative voice at last, and she can picture, quite clearly, the mayor tugging at the buttons on his coat. We have been robbed! says another voice, more reedy and forlorn, as she sees the chemist’s spectacles sliding down his nose. She has gathered up our things, and our children! say a multitude of voices all at once. Those of her acquaintances and neighbors, her former customers, her sworn enemies, her shopkeepers and bureaucrats. How sharply their faces appear to her now: how terrified, and bereft. So she takes a step backwards, opening the door, and bumps into an army of her children, who have crept down the ladder and come silently to her defense. Mother unfolds her arms and takes them in. As you can tell, she says to the mob at her door, my daughters are accounted for. It’s not Beatrice we want, the voices cry. Nor Lucie, nor Mimi, the horde despairs. They are looking for Madeleine, her children whisper. Madeleine? Mother nearly laughs. How many times must she tell them? She raises her voice to the crowd: Madeleine is sleeping? And with a sweep of her hand, she ushers them in: the mayor, the priest, the captain, the chemist, and all of the suspicious wives. They stumble over the spoiling fruit that is strewn across the floor. Pressing in on the bed, they examine the sleeper: who takes up room; who attracts attention; who lies there, sighing voluptuously, as Mother stands at the door in an attitude of immense vindication. But Madame, says the chemist, in his apologetic voice. I believe you are mistaken.
charlotte
mother elbows her way to the bed. Nonsense! she is preparing to say, and put the conceited chemist in his place, but just as she is opening her mouth, just as she is about to bring him low, the word refuses to come forth. Instead she says, It’s you. It’s you, she thinks and reaches out to touch the beautiful woman, fast asleep in the bed where her daughter ought to be. If only you were not sleeping, you could tell me: Did you find it? Did you ever find your voice, your lovely face? Mother thinks, I would like to know. But already Beatrice is beside her, pulling her back and murmuring in her ear, It’s not my fault. I told her, No. But she was so tired, she wouldn’t listen. And already the mayor is clearing his throat, the women are massing, the captain is stamping the heels of his boots, when a | small, gruff voice is heard from below. It is Emma, the mayor’s youngest daughter, who is squeezing I him by the hand. Papa, she says, you must hurry. If you want to have a good seat, you must come to the barn right now.