“I’m sorry,” he said, quieting down at the threshold. “Where are my manners? It’s so good to see a friendly American face—and a lovely one at that.”
Emma blushed and held the door open. “Please, come in.”
“Have I caught you at a bad time? Are you well? You’re not dressed. It’s a beautiful Sunday morning.”
“Please, Lieutenant, calm down,” she said in response to his barrage of words. “I’m fine. It’s wonderful to see you, too. Would you like to sit and have tea?” Emma pointed to an oak chair in the alcove.
Lieutenant Stoneman took off his coat and hat and dropped them on the floor beside the chair. He looked stouter in his tan breeches and tunic than Emma remembered. A holstered black pistol hung from his belt.
“The stove is old,” Emma said. “It’ll take a moment.”
“Don’t go to any trouble. We can get tea—or even better, coffee—in Paris on Sunday.”
“Yes, at a hotel and pay dearly for it.” She clicked on the gas burner and the stove sputtered. Emma struck a match and a blue flame, hissing like a fiery merry-go-round, circled the burner. She took a pan from the cupboard and filled it with water. “We’ll have tea in a moment. Now, tell me how you’ve been.”
“I thought you might be at church,” the officer said.
“No, Hassan and I are the infidels of the studio. I haven’t been in . . . well, too long.”
“Hassan?”
“My Moroccan assistant.” Emma laughed. “I shouldn’t call him an infidel. He’s really a kind and gentle man. I must say, he looks a bit fearsome in his fez, and he’s always quick to point out that the Moroccans are the fiercest fighters in the war.”
“They’re like wild men. I can vouch for that.”
Emma leaned against the wall and studied the officer as the water began to bubble. She was amazed at how fit and healthy he looked in contrast to the tired and demoralized French troops she’d seen at the Front. “How did you find me? No, let me guess. The Red Cross?”
The officer shook his head.
“No?” She placed a finger on her cheek, unconvinced. “Hummm . . . you didn’t walk the streets of Paris.”
The lieutenant smiled. “I met your husband.”
The casualness of his reply caught Emma off guard. “You met Tom?” she asked, trying to mask her uneasy surprise.
“Yes. A wonderful doctor. I was sorry to learn of his injury.” He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “You see, I’ve been on what you might call a tour of the Front—from Ypres to Toul. We’re still training, but eating better rations now than when we crossed the Atlantic. The French have been great teachers, but they want us in the war now. Pershing doesn’t see it that way. He thinks America is an infant when it comes to the battlefield and we should hold back. Still, being near the Front is a good way to get killed.”
“Yes, I know,” Emma said dryly. The pan rattled on the stove. She turned off the burner, spooned tea into infusers, and lowered them into cups of boiling water, the brew’s woody aroma soon filling the alcove.
“Thank you,” he said, accepting the cup from Emma. “You’ve always been kind to me.” He smiled again, but this time Emma caught a more affectionate look in his gaze.
“When did you meet Tom?” she asked.
“A few weeks ago. When I was introduced to Dr. Thomas Swan I asked the obvious question.”
Emma sipped her tea, hoping the brew might quell the uncomfortable feeling rising in her stomach.
“He’s a very lucky man,” the officer continued. “To think an overturned operating table may have saved his life. He walks with a limp and he’s a little hard of hearing—”
“I know about his injuries,” Emma said sullenly. “I’ve not been in Toul as much as I would like since the—”
“War is hard. Your husband is a brave man.”
She leaned forward and placed her cup on the table.
The officer grasped her hand.
She paused, stilled by the gentle touch of his fingers. After a moment, she uncoupled her hand from his.
“I didn’t show him this.” The lieutenant unbuttoned his tunic and withdrew a folded piece of paper—the portrait she had drawn of him onboard the Catamount. He opened it proudly, displaying it for her. “I’m sure its luck has kept me alive on more than one occasion.”
“Looks a bit dog-eared,” Emma said. “Perhaps I should draw a new one.”
He refolded the drawing and replaced it beneath the folds of his tunic. “Not on your life. This portrait is my savior.” He patted his chest and straightened in his chair. “Would you like to go for a walk? It’s a lovely day.”
Emma thought better of it for a moment, but then decided to indulge the officer.
“It would be good to get out. Let me change.” She pointed across the hall. “Take a look in the casting room. You can see our work.”
When she returned from the bedroom, she found the officer studying the facial casts on the wall.
“My God, I had no idea,” he said. “Soldiers with injuries like these are usually dead in the trenches. You must have a strong stomach.”
Emma stood by him and pointed to the line of plaster impressions running horizontally across the wall, the multiple casts representing the reconstruction phases of the injured face. She pointed to one in the top row. “This is the face of a French officer, Monsieur Thibault, an early arrival at the studio. Virginie, my nurse assistant, and Hassan, made the first casts. When I returned from Toul I took over.”
“Half his face was blasted away,” the officer said, incredulously. He ran his hand over the vacant cavity on the right side of Monsieur Thibault’s cast.
“It was. He was bent over in anguish and didn’t want to look at us when he arrived. Virginie struggled to get him to hold his head up. He couldn’t accept that he was a man who terrified children, a man who couldn’t stand to be with his wife in daylight, a man who hid every emotion and thought from the world. The light in his eyes was dead.” Emma drew the lieutenant’s attention to the finished casts. “Look what we’ve done. We’ve restored the dead eyes, sculpted the noses and ears, and perfected the mouths until the soldiers’ faces appear as they were before the injury. It’s chilling, sometimes. In a way, it’s like Frankenstein, only we’re not creating a monster. We’re creating a face—restoring a life that’s been taken away.”
“I never completely understood what you were doing until now.” The lieutenant shook his head in admiration. “I’m amazed.”
She held up a thin piece of metal resting on the studio table. “This is the new face of Monsieur Thibault.” The copper glinted in the winter sun streaming through the studio windows.
“May I take a closer look?” he asked, staring at the oddly shaped form.
“Handle it carefully.” Emma gave it to him.
He held the mask in his cupped hands like a baby bird. “This piece of metal will be his face?”
“It will conceal his wounds. In a few more days, he’s scheduled for his last fitting. Then we’ll put on the finishing touches with paint—matching the skin tone is the most difficult part. The piece is supported by spectacles and conforms to his face.”
The officer stared at the molded copper in his hands.
“Perhaps we should go,” Emma said. “I have to work after lunch.”
“Of course.” He held the mask out to her and let it slide gently into her hands.
She withdrew, the obvious affection in his touch making her uneasy. She thought of Madame Bovary lying on her bed; and, another consideration: Perhaps the lieutenant knew a secret about Tom which she didn’t—one her husband had shared with a genial American officer who liked to talk.
“To the Luxembourg Gardens,” she said as she placed the mask back on the table.
* * *
Lieutenant Stoneman found an iron bench in the sun and whisked away the thin covering of snow, which fell in fractured white chunks to the ground. Emma, wrapped in her coat, hu
ddled near the scrolled side railing. The officer waited for Emma’s invitation to sit and when she offered it, he slid close to her, his body shielding her from the wind. She looked across the snow-covered grass toward the Palais and the marble sculptures that circled the basin. The sun warmed her as she watched a few strollers pass by under the perfect blue sky.
“The gardens must be lovely in the spring,” he said and broke her reverie.
She turned to him. “I plan to come here often when the weather warms.”
“Perhaps I can join you.” He smiled, looking to her for confirmation.
“Who knows? Perhaps the war will be over soon and we’ll all be home safe and sound.”
The lieutenant sighed and his body, overcome with doubt, sank against the bench. “Do you ever think about death?” he asked, staring across the wide garden.
Emma nodded, knowing that every day her work affirmed the fragility of life. Only God could know how long their lives would last. “Often, but death isn’t my concern at the moment. I’m more interested in healing.”
“I understand—but your work must affect you.” He looked upon the brown nubs of grass that protruded from the snow.
She followed the direction of his gaze as it shifted across the grounds. “I must admit I came to Paris for selfish reasons, the primary one being the advancement of my career as a sculptress, but there were more important reasons for coming.”
He turned to her. “What other reasons?”
Emma wondered whether she should confide in this man when she held so much inside: secrets that couldn’t be divulged, the emotional fatigue of her work, so little time to work on saving her marriage. No one other than Virginie was privy to her confidences, and those parcels were carefully doled out; yet, the lieutenant’s questions made her feel vulnerable and open to conversation—as if she had found someone she could trust.
“I don’t want to bother you with my troubles,” Emma said. “I don’t expect you to care.”
“But I’m a friend—and who can predict what the future holds. You can talk freely to me.”
“My feelings are my own, and, yes, considering the times we live in, perhaps I should be more open.” She paused for a moment considering what to say, staring at the people strolling the gravel paths, some in pairs, some alone, all absorbed in their individual worlds. “I was running away from something in Boston. In fact, I’ve been running away from something most of my life, but I’ve only recently recognized how much it’s affected me. . . .” The wind scattered a whirlwind of snow around her legs.
“Please, go ahead. Your secrets are safe with me.”
Emma believed he was telling the truth. She took a deep breath. “I was running from someone—from an attraction I wanted desperately to control because I’m married and in love with my husband—at least I’m supposed to be.” She lowered her gaze. “Our relationship has been strained for a few years. We’re both to blame—partly me, partly him.”
“You fell in love with another man?”
“Let’s say I could have and a new character would have been added to my life’s story; but nothing of significance happened, except for damaging rumors. Another woman, a friend of Tom’s and a friend of mine, I thought, found out.”
“Oh, I see. Malicious gossip.”
Emma patted his arm. “You’re very smart, Lieutenant. You’ll go far in this world.”
He edged away a bit, as if her confession had troubled him. “Please, don’t get me wrong. I think of you as a friend—albeit a lovely, talented, and beautiful one. I have no intention of taking advantage now or ever, let alone when you’re disturbed.”
She tugged on his arm, urging him to slide closer. “There’s no chance of that. Right now, I need you as a windscreen.”
He laughed and then touched her cheek with his gloved fingers.
She smiled, moved his hand away, and shivered. “No, Lieutenant, I have a husband and work to do. It’s been nice in the garden, but it’s very cold.” She rubbed her hands together to stave off the chill. “We’re having a Christmas Eve party at the studio if you’d like to come. We’ve invited all our patients. Most said they’d be happy to attend for a sip of brandy and an excuse to get out of Mass.” Emma stood and then brushed the snow from her coat. “I shouldn’t joke. Most of these men are devout and thank God daily for their lives. Maybe the war will stop for Christmas and death will take a holiday.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be in Paris on the date, but if I am, I’d love to attend.”
She held out her hand. The officer grasped it and got up from the bench. As they circled the Palais, Emma stopped near one of the white statues, which loomed like a colossus over the promenade, and ran her fingers over a delicately veined marble leg. “Sculpture was all I was interested in for so long.” She looked up. “This face . . . do you realize how important the face is, Lieutenant Stoneman? From the moment we’re born, people judge us by our faces. But I want to create more than that; I want to create real life and love—not live through a statue.” The horrible dream from the doctor’s office in Pittsfield jumped into her head. “And, if I could, I’d bring back the dead.”
“I hope you get your wish.”
They walked arm in arm, until they were a short distance from the studio. The sun was lowering in the sky, casting deep, black shadows across rue Monge. The anonymous pedestrians, in their heavy coats, moved in lines down the street. However, Emma knew they were human beings, rich and poor, soldier and civilian, with needs and wants, not just studies for her art. As she said good-bye to the lieutenant, she wished that the war and the dark winter would disappear, and that peace and warmth would take their places.
If I could, I’d bring back the dead.
As the officer walked away, she realized how hard it would be to love Tom, or any man, until she forgave herself for the action taken so long ago.
* * *
Virginie whistled a merry tune as she hung holly and mistletoe over the doors and laced their frames with paper Tricolors. Emma explained the significance of mistletoe to her nurse; it was, after all, Christmas Eve, a night for peace and love. Virginie giggled and told Emma she had never been fortunate enough to participate in such a custom.
Madame Clement dried the last of the champagne glasses while Hassan carried a few more bottles to the courtyard to chill in the freezing air. The afternoon sky had faded from an inky blue to black and the evening gleamed luminously with a nearly full moon, only the brightest of stars daring to compete with the orb’s radiance.
Emma raced from room to room inspecting the decorations; she wanted the festivities to be perfect for the soldiers. Aromas from holly, evergreen boughs, and strong black coffee wafted through the studio. Madame Clement had managed to buy cookies and a frosted white cake from a baker who hoarded flour and sugar. Emma offered to pay for the desserts, but Madame Clement refused.
The housekeeper also surprised Emma by having her son, and a soldier, haul a Pathé phonograph up the stairs. They placed the machine, with its sound trumpet shaped like a giant green petunia, on the casting room table. Hassan was the first to try it. He selected several marches from a box of records, cranked the handle, positioned the needle, and tapped his feet to the stirring rhythms. After Madame Clement chose a waltz, Hassan grabbed Virginie by the waist and attempted, unsuccessfully, to coax her to dance.
A few minutes after six, the first of the soldiers arrived, and by seven, the studio was filled with guests.
Lieutenant Stoneman, looking relaxed and handsome, arrived a short time later. “From the street, it sounds as if you’re having a raucous party,” he told Emma as she took his coat. He waved his leave pass at her.
“You can hear our celebration from below?”
“Yes, laughter and phonograph music. You’d hardly know a war was going on if you didn’t know better. Maybe it’s as you said the other day—death will take a holiday, like it did on Christmas Day 1914.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
&nb
sp; He smelled of soap and citrus cologne.
“We’ve only a few cookies and one slice of cake left,” she said as they stood near the alcove.
“That’s all right. I’ve already eaten.” The officer spotted the mistletoe above the doorway. “Merry Christmas,” he said and kissed her quickly on the lips.
She gave him a peck on the cheek, and thought briefly of Tom and what he might be doing at this hour. She had promised herself to call him tomorrow, on Christmas Day.
She led the officer to the casting room where the soldiers were posing for a picture. Some stood, others sat cross-legged on the floor, their faces covered with bandages and eye patches; others with wounds exposed or wearing newly completed masks. The few who could drink comfortably held champagne glasses. One soldier, Monsieur Thibault, the right side of his face swathed in white strips of cotton, posed with his rifle.
Hassan waved his hands for quiet. The group hushed as the Moroccan readied a tripod camera; then, signaling three, two, one with his fingers, he pressed the shutter cable with his thumb. The magnesium flash powder exploded in a puff of smoke, sending a white, acrid haze ballooning into the air. As the fumes rose and dissipated, laughter and coughs echoed in the room. Soon, glasses clinked and conversations began anew.
Emma was overjoyed at the soldiers’ good spirits.
The lieutenant looked toward the wall of plaster casts, again hidden by the white sheet. “You’ve covered them,” he said to Emma.
“For our patients’ well-being. Virginie draped the casts this afternoon. Some men have gone insane over their reflections. The soldiers don’t need to be reminded of their injuries, especially on Christmas Eve.”
“I understand. God knows, these men have been through enough.”
During the next half hour, Virginie, Hassan, and Madame Clement all breezed by Emma and the officer. The housekeeper, attired in her best black dress, swayed a little as she approached them, apparently a victim of too many glasses of champagne. The creases around her eyes deepened as she stared at the American; then, she laughed, patted him on the shoulder, and shouted in a somewhat slurred voice, “Joyeux Noël.”
The Sculptress Page 26
