stirring
MADELEINE stirs in Her sleep
indolent
as far as mother understands, hers is not the only family ever to experience calamity. Daughters wander off into the woods, stumble into prostitution, fall in love with sailors, are eaten by wolves. When Mother was a child, she knew of a shapely girl who was plucked from her bath by a large and lice-ridden bird; it held her dripping from its talons and then, squawking merrily, took to the sky The girl’s family left the tub out by the barn, in the hope that once the bird tired of her company, it might return her to her bath. Over time the tub rusted and rattled; sometimes mice would scamper over its edge and drown. But the misfortunes of other families seem always to involve disappearance or abduction. The girl is missed; she is mourned; she is remembered as bonny and helpful and light on her feet. What a Joss! What a shame! Women clasp their daughters to their breasts and whisper horrors into their ears: Darkness. Appetites. Trees. And no moon to light your way. And then there is Madeleine, who doesn’t seem to be going anywhere; who takes up room; who attracts attention; who lies there, sighing voluptuously, as Mother sweats over the fire. Nothing makes ones own work more difficult than being in the presence of another’s idleness. The sight of Madeleine, stretched upon the bed, begins to try her mother’s patience. Occasionally, she she grows careless with the handle of her broom. Accidentally, she sets the pots achattering. In the middle of the night, she undertakes an experiment: when a candle drips its wax onto Madeleine’s cheek, it sets into motion a most fascinating series of twitches.
she dreams
gypsies, it seems, can no longer captivate a crowd. A woman who looks like a viol, a girl who waddles on the seared stumps of her hands, a man who sings from his backside, are incapable of provoking wonder. The procession of gypsy caravans trundles from one empty venue to the next. The fearsome Marguerite, who once wore a sword, who once played the hero, finds herself dangerously dose to despair. Miraculously, a summons arrives. The photographer has circulated his portraits among the wealthy of Toulouse. A widow, renowned for her fecund imagination, purchases every last photograph and hangs them all in her high-ceilinged drawing room. She sits, daily, for several hours, in this gallery of grotesques. One Sunday, when the lilacs are in bloom, she becomes animated by an idea. She wishes the company to pay her a visit, at her expense. She has a proposition.
depraved
like this? Madeleine asks, paddle suspended in midair Just so, the widow says. The girl’s hand falls squarely upon the backside of M. Pujol. Smack! is the sound of her palm meeting the flesh of his bared cheeks. His elegant tailcoat, his white butterfly tie, his black satin breeches, are folded neady in a pile that sits by the door. Louder, the widow says, from her chair. She cups a hand around her ear.
indivisible
the gypsies install themselves on the velvety lawns that surround the house. From a window, high above them, die widow watches as the performers step out from their caravans. Here they are, in the sunlight, on the grass; there they were, in the candlelight, on the carpet. The sight wounds her, fills her with pleasure: yes, those are the same bodies, the same gende souls. How could that be? How could the child tumbling along the shrubbery be the child who wielded her misshapen hands with such stimulating results? How could the man brushing out his coat be the man who flinched, and shivered, and moaned? And she, is she the same, standing with a Sevres cup, looking out the window of her house? As a very small child, she was told the story of a tailor who, for fear of losing his shadow, secured it to himself with stitches. This is how she imagines it: a woman sitting in a chair, in the candlelight, cupping her ear, is stitched onto the woman standing here with a Sevres cup in her hand. And she knows that, as with all thing? sutured, the two leaves cannot be separated without destroying them both. She is certain of it. Yet she persists in picking at the edges; she delights in seeing how the wound seeps, where the scab has been lifted away by a fingernail.
talent
everyone’s talent is put to use. Madeleine paddles. M. Pujol moans. Charlotte plays. The photographer composes. He, too, has succumbed to the widow’s proposition. His name is Adrien, and he is the younger brother of a famous and sought-after man who practices the same trade as he, except with greater success. That celebrated photographer counts among his sitters Victor Hugo, Gustave Flaubert, the divine Sarah Bernhardt. It is thanks to him that Adrien now finds his second-rate skills in demand. As assistant to his more capable brother, he has toured the catacombs and sewers of Paris, taking pictures underground, learning to illuminate dark places. Places no darker than the widow’s drawing room at night. Adrien shyly takes hold of Madeleine and turns her face to the light. She rustles when he moves her, layer upon layer of starched petticoat, shiny frock, drooping bow, rising up around her like froth on boiling milk. She submits to his touch with a tender complaisance, as if she likes nothing better than being arranged. But now he must fix the sad and pale-faced man. Try as he might, the photographer cannot make him understand. He must arch his back so; he must let his head drop between his arms; he must appear more dog-like. It is as the widow wishes. In exasperation, Adrien presses his hand into the small of M. Pujol’s back: Like so! He withdraws his hand, in fear. The shock of this man’s skin against his fingertips: it is something he has not felt before. Through the camera’s round eye, the man is bright as a pknet, his naked body whiter and more brilliant than the explosion that, for a single hot second, illuminates the room.
swan
if this were a myth, then Madeleine would be the swan: beating, fingers webbed, with all the powers of a god. And M. Pujol? He is overtaken; he is hot with shame.
abasement
In the starlight, behind the shrubbery, M. Pujol practices his scales. Although his backside has now been put to other uses, and the only sounds he utters are those involuntary moans, he dreams of one day returning to the stage. What a pity that the widow expresses no interest in his true talent. If only she could hear his repertoire: this the timid fart of the young girl, this the bride on her wedding night (very litde) and the morning after (very loud), this the dressmaker tearing two yards of calico, this die storm clouds thundering in the sky, this the cannon defending the coastline. Surely, it would delight her. Surely, she could sponsor his triumphant return! He confides to Madeleine: I think if I were to do one or two vocalizations…. But it is hopeless. The widow is a woman of voluptuous tastes and wide experience; only the prudish could take pleasure in his gift. The body’s eruptions, he realizes, hold no power over those who have moved beyond embarrassment. How terrible it is to recognize that one’s brilliance rests solely upon the small-mindedness of others. M. Pujol’s head droops from his long and elegant neck. The widow has selected him, it seems, for no reason other than his William II moustache, his Ledaen body. His expression of sweet, dreaming melancholy.