Darkness fell upon the city.
She picked up her pad and pencil, turned on the desk lamp, and then sketched Private Darser’s head, starting first with the hair and forehead, taken from a photograph Hassan had snapped of the soldier. She worked on the top half of the portrait, getting the details in place—the ears, the blue eyes, still vibrant in black and white, the thin wisps of hair—until she no longer had to refer to the photo.
She placed the completed sketch, the top half of Darser’s face, in front of her.
She lifted the mask and imagined what paint was needed to match Private Darser’s skin. Keeping that image in mind, she placed the mask so it aligned perfectly with the bottom of the sketch.
She stared at the face in front of her.
It can’t be ... it simply can’t be.
The face on her worktable never had a cleft in the chin or a mustache; her memory lucid, crystalline in its recognition. Yes, the face was older, but it was as recognizable as a longtime friend who had returned after an absence of many years.
The face of the boy, now a man, she loved so long ago in Vermont stared up at her.
CHAPTER 8
PARIS AND TOUL
October 1918
“How was your visit to the Front?” Emma asked John Harvey.
“I’ll tell you as much as I can,” he said and puffed on a cigarette.
“I thought you had given up cigarettes for cigars.” Emma settled into her chair, restraining herself from gloating about his change of smoking habits. John, like many intelligent men, hardly seemed the type to stick to routine; he thrived on variation.
“You can’t imagine how difficult and expensive it can be to finagle a cigar at the Front. But you didn’t telephone me to talk about smoking. Why the urgency?”
“Two reasons,” Emma said, as the waiter arrived to take their order. John had been kind enough to invite her to the Hotel Charles for dinner. She kept her voice hushed in the dining room; it was morgue-like except for the occasional clink of glasses. Emma sipped her wine and put the glass down. “I’d like to know how Tom is faring, and I have a personal favor to ask.”
“Any favor, within reason, will be honored for you, my dear.” He stubbed out his cigarette into an ashtray.
Emma placed her hands in her lap, smoothed her dress, and waited for an answer to her question about Tom.
John looked around the room as if it were infiltrated by spies. The few other couples in the dining room were elderly and French. After a sigh, he said, “Tom seems to be doing jolly well, despite the war, his injuries, and the influenza outbreaks. I do believe he’s put on weight since last you saw him. He inquired about you.”
Emma straightened a bit in her chair. “I’m glad to hear it, considering the extent of the conversations we’ve had over the past several months. ‘Hello’ and ‘How are you?’ Not exactly the stuff of romance.”
“Don’t be absurd,” John said. “Romance? Balderdash when it comes to the essence of a relationship.” He planted his hands firmly on the table. “Emma, if you learn one thing in this life, let it be that a good man and a good woman are bound together by vows and duty, not by some cock-and-bull notion of the romantic.”
“I’ve ignored romance for duty too many times,” she said. “I’ll take the stuff of romance.”
“Why are women attracted to such tragic folly?” John asked without a hint of humor. “Flaubert pointed out the absurdity of romantic love years ago in Madame Bovary.”
“I think that depends on your interpretation of the novel,” Emma said. “Why are men so obstinate? Can’t you see the tragedy of it all?”
“No, we are unassailable in our masculine predispositions and assumptions.”
“Really? I thought better of Englishmen . . . ‘this scepter’d isle’ may be more backward than I imagined.”
John sputtered with a “tut, tut” and then added, “There’s no call to slander a nation.”
They stared at each other, as if at an impasse, while the waiter delivered a watery potato soup. They picked up their spoons and, after a few sips, laughed aloud simultaneously. The glint in John’s eye faded with the laughter and he replaced his spoon on the white tablecloth. “I have one impression, though, to tell you. Something is afoot, and I wasn’t able to ascertain the nature of the problem. I was very, very close to discovering the cause—like a barb had pierced Tom’s heart—but my French companion, from the project I’m working on, interrupted our conversation at a most inopportune time. Damn the bloody French—they never quite seem to get it right.”
“So, something is wrong—I’ve known it for a while now. It’s not just the injury. There’s never been a good time to broach the subject.”
John scowled. “It’s clear it’s tearing him up inside.”
Emma sighed. “This can’t go on. I postponed talking to him because of his recovery. Then I got absorbed in my work and, frankly, didn’t want to deal with it. But now, I’ll force the issue. I’ll telephone and say I’m coming to Toul. We have to talk. When my work slows. . . .”
“I believe that’s the only sensible course of action.” John spooned soup into his mouth. “Nasty stuff.” He dropped the utensil on the table. “I thought the French were experts at potato soup.”
“Onion soup . . . you know very well the war has affected cooking supplies. We’re lucky to have this.”
“That’s what I like about you, Emma—grateful for small favors. Speaking of. . . .”
“Oh, yes, my favor. Do you have any contacts in the Canadian forces?”
John looked at her oddly, gauging her intention. “Not directly, but I can make inquiries if you wish. I’ve worked with some Canadian soldiers.”
“I’d like to find out information about one of my cases—a Private Ronald Darser assigned to the Seventh Canadian Infantry Brigade. I have his medical file, but I believe the information has been falsified.”
He shook his head. “Falsified? I have no recollection of the name.”
“Possibly forged.”
“Why would medical information about disfigurement be—”
“That’s all I can tell you. You have your secret project—I have mine.”
John raised an eyebrow. “I’ll do what I can, but don’t expect miracles. If the information is indeed falsified, finding the truth may be harder than you suspect. I assume what you are looking for is the true identity of the man in question?”
“Yes. I believe the soldier may be hiding behind a false name.”
John tweaked his chin and looked around the dining room. “I will say the cultured French know how to dress, particularly those of a mature age. Do you see how refined, how quiet the world can be even during a war? Look at that couple.” John pointed to a man and woman, both elegantly attired and eating calmly, a few tables away. “I could never be as thin as either one of them. His suit is impeccable compared to the rags I have on. It gives one hope, doesn’t it, that the world will go on; and, somehow there are people worth a damn. People worth saving. Unfortunate, that—how you and I work with men so distraught they cannot face themselves, but ultimately, I suppose, are worth our time.”
“You know the French word for them—mutilés,” Emma said.
“I could give a hang what the French call them,” John said. “God, I wish this war were over and I could get back to England. The project I’m working on is an abomination. It only heightens the potential for more death and destruction.” He patted the table. “There, I’ve said it—much more than I should. The King will have me executed for treason. Where in God’s name is our food?”
“The Americans are advancing. More Germans are being captured every day.” Consumed with the thoughts of war, Emma looked at the soup in front of her.
“No more mincing words, my dear. You must talk with your husband as soon as possible. There’s more to the world than work and war, as hard as it might be to believe.”
John was about to unleash another barrage upon her when the waiter
arrived with the chicken they had both ordered.
“Tell me, why do I always feel like I’m talking to my father when we chat?”
“Probably because I’m older, and the most sensible man you’ve ever met.” He grabbed the waiter’s arm just as he was about to leave the table. “Another glass of wine, and remain here while I try this dish.”
The waiter, aghast, swiped John’s arm away as Emma translated in French as best she could. The man glared at his customer, and stood next to the table with crossed arms.
John lifted his fork, stabbed a bit of chicken, tasted it, and asked the waiter in a reproachful voice, “You call this poulet?”
Emma shook her head. “Of course, the first word you’ve ever spoken in French would come out as an insult.”
John scowled.
* * *
“Please don’t fidget.” Emma hoped she could still the anxiety that lay underneath her command. Her stomach had rumbled all morning in anticipation of Private Darser’s appointment. “You must hold still or the paint will smear.”
He, as calm as an August summer night, sat in a wicker chair as she daubed paint on the mask. She had matched the skin tone at a previous fitting; the mask would be complete after applying the final touches to the beard, lips, and the chin. Soft morning light flooded the studio.
As she worked, many thoughts coursed through her mind. One was born from John’s telegram from England that had arrived in Paris two days before. It read: No Ronald Darser in 7th Canadian. Further inquiries required. Papa.
She concentrated as much as she could on the painting, her gaze locking onto the fully formed face she had created, her hand trembling as she worked the brush near the left cheekbone.
The soldier noticed her unease and waved his hands for Emma to stop. He took his pad and pencil from his tunic pocket. What’s wrong? You seem anxious today. Does my face disturb you?
He knows. Oh, God, he knows. Why has he come here? She walked to the studio table, placed her paintbrush in its holder, turned away, and looked out the window. Below, life went on as always: the parade of pedestrians, the leaves turning gold and brown, the chill of fall in the air. After a moment, she said, “Your face is perfect. In fact, it’s so perfect it brings back memories. Sometimes the strain of the job . . .” She turned to him.
He was seated, statue-like, in his chair, his eyes piercing her.
“Sometimes the strain is difficult,” she continued. “Getting the skin color right . . . I want the mask to be perfect. It’s only fair, considering what you’ve endured.”
He blinked, his eyes red and swollen beneath the lids.
The studio air felt oddly close. Emma heard the rustle of Virginie’s hands as she pulled books from a shelf; the scrape of Hassan’s modeling tool sounded in her ears. “Could you leave us for a moment?” Emma asked her assistants.
Virginie placed the books on the table and Hassan wiped the clay from his hands. They both looked somewhat shocked by Emma’s abrupt command, but they complied with her request.
“Shut the door when you leave,” Emma ordered. She kept near the window until the door closed, then, her anger flaring, she strode toward him, her voice rising, “Why are you here? What right do you have to do this to me? I know who you are.”
The soldier rose from his chair, approaching her in measured steps.
She retreated until she could go no farther, the windowsill blocking her escape. She looked for a weapon. The broom in the corner caught her eye.
The soldier stopped near her and stared out the window across rue Monge.
He could see himself in the glass—the bright sun heightened his reflection. Emma stood rigid until the soldier looked at her.
He took out his pad and pencil. Do you have a mirror?
Emma nodded, inched away from him, walked to her desk, and retrieved the looking glass from a drawer where it had been stored for her use, not the soldiers’.
Private Darser looked into it, studying his reflection, touching his left temple and the glasses’ earpiece.
Emma knew he also wanted to touch the mask, but she stopped him with a firm “No.” He was fascinated by his own image, like the Narcissus she had wanted to create with Linton. “Don’t touch it,” she added. “It’s fragile.” Even as she admonished him, she was filled with an odd thrill in her accomplishment. She had restored a man’s face through her art; her skills would allow him to live free of fear and rejection. Some might see, if they looked closely, the nearly imperceptible line between his skin and the mask, the demarcation that marked the marriage of flesh and metal, but most would go about their self-absorbed business, seeing the face like any other, never giving notice to the man who might walk among them with slightly bowed head or upturned collar against the wind, avoiding the looks of horror, sneers, or, worst of all, the laughter.
On the other hand, she was repelled by the soldier who gazed into the mirror. He was the one who had caused her the deepest pain after she had surrendered her young, obsessive self to him. And now she had recreated him.
Finally, he wrote: You’ve done a superb job. How can I ever repay you?
“You know very well how you can repay me,” Emma demanded. “You can tell me the truth.”
He returned to his chair, still carrying the mirror, seemingly pleased with himself now that his sorrow had abated. Your work is done and I must return to Canada. I will not be returning to the Front.
“I know who you are,” Emma said. “The least you can do is admit it. How long has it been—ten years since you abandoned me?”
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
“Your face! You were the father of my child.”
His unwavering stare cut through her. For a moment, Emma considered she was going mad—the strain of the war, working with disfigured men, the stress of her relationship with Tom. No, that wasn’t the case! He sat in front of her, manipulating her again for his benefit.
He wrote for a long while and then handed the pad to Emma. I am not the father of your child. I would never make any presumption of such knowledge—before God or before you. It’s clear you have suffered some indignity in your past—one that has caused tragedy in your life—but I’m not the cause. I told you to construct the mask as you wished and you have done so. I’m what you’ve created, Mrs. Swan! You’ve made me in the image you desired. I’m real in that respect, but in no other, despite your imagination. The war tries the strongest of men. Perhaps, like those men, you are no match for the horrors it unleashes.
Emma stared at the words in disbelief. Was she going insane? What if she had somehow recreated the face of a man she once loved and now scorned? She dropped the pad on the desk and sat in her chair. The studio door creaked open.
“Are you all right, Madame?” Virginie asked. It had been ages since her assistant had addressed her as Madame.
“Yes, thank you,” she responded. “You and Hassan may return to your work. Private Darser is leaving.”
He wrote: Thank you again, Mrs. Swan. I suppose this will be our last meeting.
“You may be right, but I’ve captured your face in my memory, and, perhaps, when we meet again you can look me in the eye and speak the truth.”
The soldier again stared into the mirror. When he lowered the glass, a sad smile had formed on the mask.
Such a smile was impossible, but her emotional perception was real. Could he atone for his desertion when she had needed him the most? Could he help her banish the memory that haunted her?
Private Darser found his coat, nodded to Emma, and walked out the door. His firm steps echoed down the courtyard stairs and through the tunnel. She ran to the window to see him, but he had already disappeared down rue Monge as if he’d never existed.
* * *
“I hear rumors about the war,” Virginie said, opening the studio door. She and Emma circled the teakettle like children waiting for candy.
“Fermez la porte,” Emma said. “It’s foggy and cold and I’m in no mood to c
atch pneumonia this morning.”
The sun, as it journeyed south, had grown feeble in the late October sky. The lovely warmth earlier in the month had been quelled by a series of dreary and bone-chilling days, damp and overcast, a portent of November and approaching winter.
“We need air,” Virginie said. “I’m sick of plaster dust and the smell of clay and the smoke from Hassan’s terrible cigarettes.”
“I don’t care,” Emma insisted. “Close the door. Sometimes you’re as cranky as John says you are.” She looked at Virginie. The young nurse had aged during the year they’d worked together. The sprite-like attitude and youthful looks, which Emma initially compared to her Boston housekeeper, Anne, had diminished as the war dragged on.
Emma also had taken stock of herself that morning and counted a few gray hairs spreading backward from her temples. The rich blackness of her hair was disappearing with her youth. She could easily blame aging on the war, but other factors had contributed to the lines now creasing her face. She and Virginie were growing older together while Anne, in her memory; Hassan, as most men seemed to do; and the ageless Madame Clement crossed the swiftly flowing current of time with ease.
“What have you heard about the war?” Emma asked. “I haven’t looked at a newspaper in ages.”
Delaying her response, Virginie closed the door reluctantly. “More battles along the Front. Many dead along the Meuse and the Moselle. The dead are everywhere—even near Toul.”
“Yes,” Emma said, remembering the uniforms at the Toul hospital that had been taken from the deceased soldiers. “We can only pray the war will be over soon.”
“The Americans are fighting . . . how you say . . . fee . . . ?”
Emma thought for a moment. “Fiercely?”
“Oui, fiercely. They surprise even our French boys.”
The kettle whistled. Emma turned off the burner, poured the steaming water, and dropped the previous day’s infuser into Virginie’s cup and then dipped it into hers, watching as thin reddish filaments streamed through the water. She looked at Virginie. “Waste not, want not in wartime. I think we’re all tired. Perhaps we need to close the studio for a week and take a rest.”
The Sculptress Page 29
