The unsettling day, the child, the dead tree, pushed unwanted thoughts into her head. Faces. Why does everything revolve around the face? She remembered the boy on the street in Boston who had made fun of the disfigured soldier, her Diana, the melting faun, the face of Linton Bower as Narcissus, the drawing of Lieutenant Stoneman, the boy she had encountered only a few hours before. That face had upset her the most.
She clutched her abdomen.
The woman looked up from her book again, eyed Emma suspiciously, and reached for her bag, as if contemplating a move to another compartment.
Emma smiled and removed her hands from her stomach.
The woman shifted warily, but remained in her seat.
Perhaps the brioche she had eaten before boarding had caused an intestinal upset. The stationmaster directed her to an old woman who sold the sweet rolls on the platform. But if she considered the truth, the cause of her upset, a memory that would not die—one that appeared like a phantom—terrified her and then vanished, reopening the wound it had carved years before. The faceless baby shocked her into rigidity, Emma grasping with stiff arms the seat in front of her, her breath rushing in and out of her lungs. Why was the horror, the remorse, so strong now that she was on the verge of working with faces and reuniting with Tom?
She shivered and focused her mind on her husband’s picture in Boston, the familiar face comforting her. Soon she would be in Paris to begin a new phase of her life. Perhaps the faces from the past would fade as new ones were introduced.
A wounded French soldier on crutches, his right leg and shoulder swathed in bandages, his face partially covered in gauze, hobbled through the compartment. He turned his head and glanced at Emma, allowing her to see the dark recesses underneath the material, portions of his nose and mouth taken by the war.
The woman across the aisle frowned, waved her hands, and shouted in French above the train’s clatter. Emma didn’t understand the angry words but she knew the woman wanted nothing to do with the disfigured soldier—she wished him far away from her.
The man shrunk under the woman’s withering barrage and lurched away.
Emma turned back to the window.
The train hissed to a stop at a village. The tracks had veered from the river’s path and the land sloped higher now, purple hills filling the horizon. At the small wooden station, faces stared up at her from the platform. She turned away and closed her eyes.
* * *
Emma lifted the brass knocker at 56 rue de Paul. A sharp metallic ping reverberated through the building as she leaned against the door. The trip had been exhausting, but her excitement about being in Paris had shored up her failing energy somewhat.
Her hands trembled—whether from tiredness from the journey or the anticipation of meeting Dr. Jonathan Harvey, she was uncertain. She rested her suitcase against her leg and longed to be happy, alive in the City of Lights, free from Vreland and the faces that haunted her. She pressed her ear against the door and listened for any sign of life in the house.
The carriage ride from the train station had taken her through the Latin Quarter. Along the way, she spotted the massive dome of Montmartre, the airy latticework of the Eiffel Tower and the towering façade of Notre Dame. Like Saint-Nazaire and the villages and towns along the railway, Paris seemed crushed by the weight of the war. The overall mood tempered her excitement as a first-time visitor to the city. Doors and windows were shuttered, and the Parisians moved like phantoms, no small talk or laughter drifting to her ears. Parisian life had been transformed by the war—motorized ambulances, which doubled as troop carriers, rumbled through the city, replacing the clop of horses’ hooves. Carts loaded with food sacks, folded tents, and artillery rolled down the streets. The war at the very least had muted Paris, the once lively city aiding and supplying the unfolding battle lines no more than one hundred kilometers away.
Emma sighed and lifted her head. A half moon shone in a milky blue sky as thin horsetails of clouds traced the heavens. At last, footsteps halted behind the door. The latch clicked and the door creaked open, revealing a young nurse in a starched white uniform. She was pretty, with the spark of youth behind her serious purpose. The woman’s age, dark hair, and flashing eyes reminded her of Anne.
“Bonsoir, Madame,” the nurse said, stepping over the threshold and looking at the sky. “Il se peut qu’il pleuve demain.”
“Pluie? Rain?” Emma asked, unsure of her French.
“Oui, demain.”
“Parlez-vous anglais?”
“Of course,” the nurse replied. “I must. I work for Monsieur Harvey.”
“Is he at home? My husband directed me to come here.” Emma opened her purse, pulled out the message she had received when the ship docked, and unfolded it for the young woman to see.
“Oui, rue de Paul. Monsieur Harvey has just returned from a walk. He’s upstairs in the study.” She motioned for Emma to enter the apartment. “However, it’s not a real study . . . it’s make . . . make . . . ?”
“Makeshift?” Emma asked.
“Yes, makeshift . . . office. I have trouble with some words.”
Emma lifted her bag and followed the nurse into a hall still warm and humid from the day. Drawings and prints—wispy pencil landscapes of streams and willow trees, and etched still lifes of fruits and vegetables—decorated the whitewashed walls. A vase of yellow roses in full bloom sat on a black lacquer table. Several closed doors sealed off the end of the hall.
The nurse led Emma up a narrow staircase. “My name is Virginie. How was your trip? You are Madame Swan, I suppose. Sir Jonathan has been expecting you. Not many strange women show up at cinquante-six rue de Paul.”
Emma laughed, more from fatigue than humor. “This is at least the second time today, I’ve been referred to as ‘strange’—well, a ‘stranger.’ I’m beginning to become quite comfortable with the word.”
“Etrange? Je suis désolée.”
A voice boomed from a room at the top of the stairs. “Virginie, will you stop speaking that abominable language? I’m trying to work. How the devil can I concentrate with you clomping up and down the stairs?”
Virginie stopped at an open door to the left of the landing and motioned for Emma to enter. “His majesty will see you now.”
Emma’s throat tensed as though she, like Daniel, was about to enter the lion’s den. A robust man stood up from his chair and extended his hand. This, Emma presumed, was Sir Jonathan Harvey, the renowned English surgeon and practitioner of facial reconstruction. He was round and corpulent, wearing a black jacket, not at all the serious, thin, bespectacled doctor that Emma had constructed in her mind. She shook his hand as vigorously as she could despite his crushing grip and wondered if the doctor was always this cantankerous.
“Good night, Monsieur, I am finished for the day . . . thank Our Lord. I will see you demain.” Virginie executed a mock curtsy.
“Good night, yourself,” the doctor replied, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.
The nurse nodded and disappeared up the stairs to the third story.
The doctor pointed to a chair across from his desk. Emma placed her suitcase on the floor and watched as he shuffled his papers, scattering pens, clips, and folders in the process.
“So, you’ve arrived at last,” he said. He uncovered a cigarette from under the jumble. “It’s about time. I was bloody well ready to return to England. I must be honest with you, Mrs. Swan, we don’t have much time.” He lit the cigarette and smacked his hand on the desk. “Damn . . . I’ve told that woman more than once not to speak French in this house. How will she learn English if she continually breaks her promise? I’ve taught her nearly every word she knows.”
“It appears she has more to learn,” Emma said dryly.
“Hummmpph. She’s obstinate and smart as a whip.” The doctor settled in his chair and stared at Emma. “I can see we have a long journey ahead of us in a short time. You must be prepared, Mrs. Swan, to learn as much as you can, as quickly as you
can. I will not abide a slovenly or cavalier attitude from you, or from anyone else for that matter.”
“You can rest assured that you will have my full attention, Sir Jonathan.”
His fleshy mouth turned down at the corners. “Damn her, again. She’ll be the death of me.” He shook his head. “My name is Jonathan Harvey and I am, indeed, a ‘Sir.’ However, I am not as old as the Round Table, nor am I a member of the Royal Family. John will do, or Dr. Harvey if you prefer.”
“John’s a nice name. It has such a pleasant connotation with Our Lord,” Emma said, hoping her sarcasm drove home the point. “You may call me Emma.”
“I am in no way the equivalent of our Savior’s baptizer,” John said, glaring at her.
Emma smiled. “One doesn’t need to attend church to discern that.”
John inhaled and puffed smoke at Emma. “I can see we’re going to get along famously. How serious are you about this work, Mrs. Swan?”
“Deadly.”
He stared at her for a moment, inhaled again, and stiffened his back against the chair. His demeanor shifted from irritation to solemnity as a sudden flatness, as if he was deflated by the topic, spread across his round face. “You will see enough of death, Mrs. Swan, I can guarantee you. Death is easy enough to handle—it ends in cremation or in the ground as rot. It’s your commitment to life I question. Can you deal with life?”
“Of course,” Emma said, and her response struck her as absurd. Everyone must deal with life and death. What an idiotic question from a doctor. Irritated, Emma looked past him to a bookcase crammed with medical volumes and bric-a-brac. A young girl, dark hair curling down from the crown of her head to her temples, stared at her from a photograph, an angelic sweetness infusing her face. All children had that sweetness until they grew older and then were tainted, shunned, or spoiled by life. She shifted her gaze away from the child but just as quickly remembered the boy in Saint-Nazaire whose father had been killed.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Swan?”
“Who is the girl in the photograph?” Emma asked, trying to disguise her discomfort.
“My niece. Why?”
“She’s very pretty.”
“Yes.” John smiled and then puffed on his cigarette. “I understand your difficulties more than you think. Your husband informed me of your critical reception in Boston—your problem with faces. I know that’s one of the reasons you’re here—to study, to learn.”
Emma nodded. “I would be lying if I told you ‘no.’”
“Mrs. Swan, your life in Paris will be very different from your life in Boston. There will be no mucking about with Parisian society. No dainty hours playing with clay or counting the spots on your smock. No gay parties, expensive cigarettes, or champagne.”
“I don’t smoke and I’m hardly used to—”
“Work, work, and more work. Toil from dawn to the wee hours, until you want to crumble to your knees. Life for these men holds a completely different meaning from the existence you’re accustomed to. You must stomach the most pathetic of stories, the most grotesque of faces.” He rose from his chair, rummaged in the bookcase behind his desk, took out a black leather-bound volume, and placed it on the desk in front of her. “Go ahead,” he said sullenly. “Open it.”
Emma knew he was judging her expressions, her ability to be strong.
“Go ahead.” He glowered at her, scratched the bald pate running down the center of his scalp, and then stuffed his cigarette into a crystal ashtray brimming with butts. “This is our work.”
She opened the book and leafed through the pages, each filled with photographs of facially mutilated men. Had she not been prepared, in her own way, she might have been shocked by the pictures. The faces were disturbing: many without noses; some with huge gashes that had torn away cheeks and pieces of the skull; eyes blinded and clouded by the devastation of war; mouths reduced to thin slits or gaping holes; jaws crushed, broken, or grossly distended by grotesque wounds. Each photograph was followed by another showing the repairs the doctor had performed—in many cases the transformation was miraculous, in others the deformities showed through despite the best medical efforts.
“This is our work,” he repeated. “It’s our job to give these men back their lives, their self-respect, and their dignity.”
Emma closed the book. “If you’ll allow me to speak, Mr. Harvey?”
He nodded.
“I’m not the delicate flower you may have presumed. Perhaps my husband has painted the wrong picture of his wife . . . but that I cannot imagine.” John raised his hand to protest, but Emma continued, “I am as dedicated to my art as my husband is to his surgery and saving lives. I have fought for my right to create my own life, free from bad memories, the constraints of critics and certain men for longer than I care to remember; and, my husband, gentleman that he is, has supported me in that endeavor. Still, my life has hardly been an endless round of parties or a vacuous holiday with silly women concerned only with the latest styles of clothes and hair. I have fought for my work, dodging barbs and prejudice along the way, and I will continue to do so regardless of our outcome here.
“However, to say my work in France, and for the war effort, is entirely altruistic would be false. I abhor this war, all who started it, and all that it stands for. But, I’m here to learn and I hope our work will make me a better sculptress—one who earns the admiration of critics and my fellow men alike.”
“All noble sentiments . . . but we shall see, Mrs. Swan. The task is enormous.” He picked up the book, returned it to the case. “Would you care for a drink? I do have a nice brandy knocking about somewhere.” He offered his hand.
Emma shook it and nodded. “I could do with something to eat as well.”
“I can find my way around a kitchen as competently as Virginia.” John smiled and motioned to the door. “I’ll show you to your room. Mrs. Clement, the housekeeper, is not here until tomorrow morning. You are staying the night, of course, and you are welcome to stay as long as you wish, or until you find your own quarters.”
Emma was surprised, but she rose from her chair and lifted her bag. “I’m grateful for your hospitality, John.”
They were about to leave the office when they were interrupted by a vigorous knock, which reverberated through the downstairs hallway.
“Damn,” he said, “I don’t know what I pay that confounded woman for—retired at this hour, while I’m still working. Excuse me, while I see to the door. Your room, at least for tonight, is on the first floor at the back of the house. It’s dark, but comfortable. Follow me.”
John bounded down the stairs, his jacket flowing around him. Emma was somewhat in awe of his agility despite his size. At the landing, he pointed to a closed door down the hall.
“Let me see who this is. Put away your things and I’ll knock when I’m done.”
Emma nodded and walked toward the room. Her curiosity about the caller got the better of her and she looked back as the doctor opened the door.
A soldier, clad in a buttoned service jacket, trousers, puttees, and ankle boots stood in the fading light. Fine strands of blond hair fell across his forehead when he removed his service cap. The soldier extended his hand to the doctor in greeting and then stopped as if startled by an apparition, his eyes widening and then shrinking, and as if blinded by something he had seen. He pulled the scarf concealing the bottom half of his face tighter and lowered his head.
The soldier’s face unnerved her, leading her to think that perhaps her presence, an unknown woman in a place he had visited before, must have disturbed him. When she reached her room, she looked over her shoulder. The man’s eyes bored into her as he followed John up the stairs.
Entry: 19th August, 1917
My journal appears no worse for wear after its voyage across the Atlantic. I suppose I shall open it from time to time to record my thoughts. It has become an old friend—one steadfast and reliable.
I feel sequestered here in John’s house. He is a demandi
ng man, but not quite the ogre that Virginie makes him out to be. He can’t be all bad; how could he, doing the service he does? I think his jabs are a game. He torments Virginie (and the rest of his staff) in order to make her stronger. War is not for the faint of heart. But underneath John’s gruff exterior lies a decent and caring soul. The thought of his return to England frightens me a bit. I will need Virginie’s help, along with others, in order for my work to succeed.
I’ve had little time to think, to rest. John is relentless in his teaching and pushes me each day to learn more. I think of Tom on occasion, but not as often as I should, causing sporadic bursts of guilt. The studio has taken over my life. Of course, I imagine the same is true for Tom—once he was transported here, his surgical duties consumed him. I should be upset he hasn’t telephoned me. However, he could say the same. I know his work is as demanding as his devotion to the Hippocratic Oath. Sometimes, I think he’s like a boy playing doctor whose world has become violently real. But I’m ashamed when I fault a good man. American doctors are needed in France.
I admire his willingness to serve.
My lack of attention to my husband has caused me some guilt. Under John’s tutelage, I’ve remembered the faces I’ve seen since arriving in France: the child at Le Tonneau, the woman who sat across from me on the train, the injured soldier who struggled to walk on crutches in the compartment, the soldier who appeared at John’s front door.
Each of these faces triggers a memory—one I’d rather forget.
“I told you so!” Virginie pounded her fist against the green truck’s side panel as the rain pooled above her on the tarpaulin roof. “You have ruined Madame’s visit to her husband.”
John grimaced. “Hush up and climb in front with us! You’ll catch your death.” He turned to Emma. “She has one talent—predicting the weather. Damn this wretched rain.” The tires spun furiously in the mud, sending an ear-piercing whine shrieking through the vehicle.
They were more than three-quarters of the way to Toul when the truck became mired on the muddy road. Emma had fought a case of nerves for most of the trip in anticipation of her meeting with Tom. Would they even recognize each other? Would he be the same person who left her in Boston nearly a half year ago?
The Sculptress Page 20
