Emma knocked twice and waited. A short time later, a soldier wearing a mask opened the door. As it swung open, his eyes widened.
“Kurt,” Emma said, keeping her voice low. “I’d like to come in.”
At first, he stood motionless under the hazy hall light.
Emma considered that he might slam the door in her face. On the other hand, the soldier had presented an offer at Saint-Étienne-du-Mont; perhaps he’d expected her to accept his proposal.
He propped his hands against the door, steadied himself, and then stared at her.
The sour smell of sweat and liquor rose from Kurt’s body. The sculpted mouth from which his breath escaped had transformed into a leer. Even in the dim light, Emma could see the mask was damaged—the paint had flecked off, dents pocked the chin, the copper was torn across the right cheek.
“I’ve considered your offer,” Emma said. “May I come in?”
He stepped away, steadying himself against the wall.
She entered the hall and he closed the door. The musty odor of a two-hundred-year-old building filled her nostrils with a dry itchiness. The wooden floors creaked underneath her shoes as she brushed past the faded rococo wallpaper of men and women cavorting on swings, which was peeling away in thin strips.
Kurt’s apartment, only a room, was open. Emma stepped inside.
He stumbled after her and closed the door.
It contained a single bed, a rickety bureau holding a white ceramic washbasin, a chair, and a wooden stand upon which a single candle burned. The flickering light triggered a memory, and, for an instant, she was transported back to the bedroom in Vermont with its fiery dappled blaze. Emma settled into the chair, her nerves taut with anticipation.
Kurt nestled a pillow against the wall and dropped carelessly onto the bed. The mask nearly slipped from his face, but he managed to secure the earpieces with his hands.
“You must listen,” Emma said. “Don’t bother to write—I won’t read it. I know who you are. I’ve known since I drew your face, but I didn’t want to believe the truth.” She unbuttoned her coat, revealing her legs. “You lied to me. You lied to me from the beginning.”
Kurt shifted uneasily on the bed.
“We conceived a child and then I killed the one precious gift you ever gave me. I threw away a life because you and I were too selfish, too absorbed, to see past our own self-centeredness. We’ve both paid the price in our ways.”
Kurt shook his head and reached for the notepad on his bed.
Emma slapped it from his hands. “No! Pay attention to me! I’m through listening to you. Since I saw you at the cathedral, I’ve hardly thought of anything else. I wondered whether I should go through with your offer. You have no idea how I’ve suffered because of my action—one you pushed me to take. I should have stood up to you and my mother, but I wasn’t strong enough to face her. I knew she would never forgive my pregnancy. For all I knew, she would have thrown me to the street, branded as a whore.
“You were silenced by the war, but I’ve been silent even longer. I’ve longed for this day—when I could take back what I did. We created a life and I extinguished it. Today, I’ve been liberated along with the world, and I’m free to do with you as I wish, free from my husband, free from a nightmare that haunts me.” Emma drew in a sharp breath. “Death has followed us, but life has given us another chance—one that will complete my emancipation.” Her voice brimmed with anger. “I’ve never been able to rid myself of that black stain on my soul. It holds my guilt and I’ve carried it for too many years. I’m going to exorcise it with the man who conceived it.”
She took off her coat, rose from the chair, and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at Kurt, who shrank from her like a wounded dog.
He groaned under the mask and reached again for the pad, but Emma seized it and threw it to the floor.
She grabbed his wrists and, with all her strength, forced them flat on the bed.
His head lolled against the pillow, his body wriggling like a snake in the talons of a hawk, but his struggle subsided after a few moments, the resistance draining from his body until his eyes appeared as lifeless as pale moons.
Emma released her grip, hooked her fingers through the thin metal earpieces, and lifted the mask, exposing the face with its mouth and jaw ripped away.
He instinctively reached to cover his injuries.
Emma tugged at his hands. At first he fought against her, but when she guided them to her breasts, he shook violently on the bed and his grip slackened.
“I want our child back,” Emma said, positioning her body over his, kissing his forehead, her anger lessening as her passion for absolution rose. She caressed the scarred tissue around the cavity that was his mouth, felt the jagged bone beneath the skin. Even as she touched him, she remembered Kurt as he was in Vermont, consummating this sexual act, an act of atonement for herself and the child she had lost. She had to remind herself it was so; otherwise, her actions were too intolerable to bear.
He weakened under her touch and soon he was lifting his body to meet hers.
She met his thrusts with her own, covering the wounded face with kisses, tugging at the buttons of his shirt.
He pulled her to his chest, pressing his pelvis against hers, his hardness jabbing against her thighs.
She quivered at the touch of his erection, and lifted herself gently from him, slid off the bed, and watched as he unzipped his trousers and pushed them down to his knees. He was exposed to her once again and she recalled the contours of his body, the smooth skin, the downy hair surrounding the clefts and mound of his pubic area, the deep brown circle of the circumcision scar, the shape of his sex. He existed in his body as he always had, except for the face, and she remembered.
Emma unbuttoned her dress, slipping out of it, letting it fall to the floor.
His chest rose and fell with his quick breaths.
She stripped away her shoes, stockings, and undergarments, and climbed on top of him, pressing her vagina against him, loosening up, for she was tight with emotion. She cried out when he entered her, but soon moved in unison with him, meeting every thrust with an equally intense motion and pleasure. Her hands massaged his chest and she caught sight of the scar on her finger with its flash of silvery skin.
Emma stopped her thrusts.
His hardness tensed.
She squeezed in response and held him tightly inside her.
Lifting the mask from the bed, she ran her finger over the cleft in the metal and then peeled back one half of the tear, exposing the jagged edge. Holding Kurt’s left arm, she positioned the mask against his wrist and prepared to slash the metal across the blue vein rising from the white skin.
Kurt shut his eyes in anticipation of the cut Emma was poised to deliver.
Instead she swung the mask above his hand, purposely missing the flesh, dropping it to the floor where it fell upon his notepad.
His eyes flashed open, sexual fury boiling in them.
“You wanted me to cut you, just as I cut myself,” Emma said. She looked down at the man who lay with his arms thrust over his head, his body as rigid as stone. “I won’t give you that satisfaction.” She reached behind her, nearly collapsing on his chest, massaging his testicles as he thrust in-and-out of her in rapid strokes. Within moments, he came in violent spasms and their bodies shook in unison, his slickness combining with hers. She held him inside until his penis slipped from her and lay limply against her buttocks. Emma rolled off and tightened her groin to keep the fluid inside. When she finally climbed off the bed, she accidentally stepped on the mask. It crunched like a dead leaf underneath her feet.
Kurt yowled like a wounded animal.
The mask lay flat upon the wooden floor.
“I’m sorry,” Emma said, despite the thrill of revenge that crept over her. “Come to the studio. I’ll make another.”
Kurt never moved, but stared at her with desolate eyes, as she dressed and slipped out of the apartment.
The night air invigorated her as she walked back to the studio, her senses heightened, the broad sweep of the city electrifying her. She spent the night alone in the bedroom thinking of what she had done—the others at rue Monge were wrapped up in their own celebrations of the war’s end. As the night grew long, the dream of the faceless infant gradually receded from her memory.
* * *
The next day she saw Kurt again at his apartment. He wrote: I am lonely.
She wrote back: I want our child.
Emma made love to him several times before she left Paris. Each successive time, her revulsion about her sexual liaisons lessened. She only had to think of a child growing inside her to erase the guilt.
Many days, she lay in her bed until Virginie called her to work. The fall and winter dragged on and their chilly depths depressed her. Even Christmas was cheerless and dull for she still wanted no contact with her husband. Despite the war’s end, Emma found it difficult to be joyful. Thoughts of Tom and Kurt quickly erased any sense of happiness. More often than not, she found herself thinking of Linton and the love he offered—the true affection she had foresworn for France. The memory of his face lifted her briefly when no other joy could be found.
The year drew to a close, but Kurt never returned to the studio for another mask.
PART FIVE
BOSTON JANUARY 1919
CHAPTER 11
19th January, 1919
Dear Virginie,
Hello, my dear one.
In life one often runs squarely into the obvious—sometimes at great cost. Writers are told to avoid clichés, but I must take exception and reiterate how profoundly my life changed in France and how much I miss you and the staff.
When I left the studio that morning after the New Year, I avoided a look back at the staircase. I couldn’t stand to see you or Madame Clement weeping at the door—God knows, even Hassan shed a few tears over my departure. However, I sleep peacefully in Boston knowing the studio is in your prosperous hands. I have the greatest confidence in your abilities and I’m certain you will carry on our work to the great benefit of your country and all soldiers in need. Be forewarned, I know John Harvey will figure later in your life somehow. Please, be gracious and welcome him with open arms. He really is a good soul at heart, and I think every one of you may benefit from any kindness he displays.
My trip home on the USS Manchuria was uneventful—if sailing on a ship loaded with American doughboys can be described in such a conventional manner. They were a gay crowd and carried on much longer into the night than I cared to, but these are men who deserve to celebrate every minute that life allows them. Even those hampered by crutches or arm slings held their heads high. But despite the congeniality onboard, I couldn’t help but think of Lieutenant Stoneman and my voyage to France, filled with my fears of German submarines and the unknown fates that lay beyond. I suffered none of those concerns on my return trip.
My arrival in Boston was tearful as well—exhausted as I was after the sea journey and the rail trip from New York. Anne and Lazarus met me at the door—Anne with a smile, hugs, and tears, and Lazarus with a subdued wag of his tail. I think he has forgotten me over the past year and a half of my absence and has grown fonder of Anne. My God, can it be that long! It’s taken me longer to re-adjust than I imagined. The winter wind in Boston cuts through you in a way unknown in Paris. Oh, it’s all so different: the city, the light (the war seems a distant memory here); the Bostonians, except for the perceived hardships of rationing, are hardly aware that millions were slaughtered an ocean away.
I asked Anne to keep my arrival somewhat of a secret. I still have to renew acquaintances with several friends. I needed time to think, to study, to read, to sit in the living room in front of the fireplace with a cup of tea while Lazarus warms my feet. This solitude, even though my art has suffered, has been the best homecoming for me. Anne graciously spoils me with delicious meals and regal touches that make me feel like a pampered queen.
So, Virginie, I will keep you from your work no longer. I wish you all happiness in life as I do for Madame Clement, Hassan, and, yes, even John.
I must end this letter on a sad note. Although I never talked to you explicitly about my troubles with my husband, I’m sure you were aware of their existence. If he takes the time to call or visit Paris in concern for my health, please let him know that I am safe in Boston. I didn’t inform him of my decision to leave France, fearing more emotional trauma. Tom has his own life at the moment—and I mine. It remains to be seen whether the two of us will reunite.
Thank you for your efforts and dedication to our task. The world is better for our work and I know we can be proud. Please write often and tell me what has transpired with our creation.
Yours always,
Emma Lewis Swan
“Oh, my dear, I am so happy to see you.” Mrs. Frances Livingston raised her crystal champagne glass and tapped it against Emma’s. “I’m so glad you could come. When I heard you were in town, my excitement bubbled over.”
“I’m very happy to be here,” Emma said. “I’m quite surprised you knew of my return. No one really does, except my mother.”
“Boston society, my dear. Nothing escapes the eyes and ears of our circle.”
Emma lifted the glass to her lips and tasted the golden, frothy liquid, which tickled the inside of her nose. She was happy to be here, surrounded by luxury. The arched marble fireplace crackled with warmth. A servant, stiffly clad in day attire, stood prepared if Emma finished her drink. She rubbed the arms of her gold-gilt chair and was reminded that her life and the life of Frances Livingston were very different. The drawing room was filled with art—portraits and sculpture—many of the pieces purchased from Alex Hippel, the owner of the Fountain Gallery. A life-size portrait of Frances, opulent in its gold frame, hung on the wall opposite the hearth. Emma immediately recognized it as a painting by Singer Sargent, a masterwork composed in his sweeping brushstrokes. Impressionistic landscapes in brilliant blues and greens also graced the walls.
To her left, Emma looked into the immense ballroom with its gleaming French doors. Past those doors lay the garden steps, now dusted with snow, where Linton had fallen in his effort to escape the pain of her decision to leave Boston. She had not set foot in the house since that party so long ago.
“More champagne?” Frances asked. Her forehead crinkled a bit as if she had more on her mind than libations. “Aren’t you thrilled the horrid war is over? You must tell me all about your travels and troubles in France—when we have the time.”
“Yes, Frances, when we have the time, and I feel up to it.” Emma sighed and settled against the chair’s formidable back. Despite its plush red-silk upholstery, the seat was barely comfortable. Emma wriggled, attempting to relax into an agreeable position.
“Is something wrong, my dear? The moment you walked in the door, I felt you were out of sorts. I hope you didn’t contract something in France or on that squalid voyage home. Imagine, using the Manchuria as a troopship. I once sailed on her to Italy.”
“I’m fine, Frances . . . a bit tired, but I think that’s to be expected considering what I’ve been through for nearly two years.”
“And that’s what I want to find out—when we have the time—but today, I have a surprise that will erase all those awful memories.” Frances raised her nearly empty glass and the servant stepped quickly to her side and poured more champagne.
“What’s that?” Emma had no idea what Frances might have in store.
“I’ve invited a guest. Louisa Markham!”
Emma flinched.
Frances’s eyes sparkled. “I knew you’d be pleased. When I spoke with Louisa, she didn’t even know you were home. I kept our meeting today a secret, so this reunion will be a surprise for both of you.”
“Oh, Frances, you shouldn’t have. I really can’t impose on your hospitality. Anne is—”
“No excuses, dear. Two old friends shouldn’t be deprived of each other’s company.” Fra
nces looked at her gold watch.
Emma, realizing Frances’s plan had been intricately constructed, twisted in her chair when a knock at the front door echoed through the hall. An elderly maid traversed the hall like a pallbearer. The massive door creaked open and then closed as the maid welcomed the visitor with a gentle, “Good afternoon, Miss Markham.”
She steeled herself for Louisa’s entrance.
Her friend entered the room oblivious to Emma. Perhaps Louisa thought an acquaintance of Frances’s, unknown to her, had been invited for afternoon champagne, or perhaps the reality of Emma sitting squarely in front of her was too much to bear. Louisa finally let out a small cry of recognition, her eyes lighting up under the brim of her black hat, her long ermine coat billowing as she strode to her side. Without saying a word, she offered her hand.
Emma took the gloved hand tepidly.
Louisa shed her coat into the maid’s waiting arms and slid gracefully into the chair across from Frances.
Emma looked at the hostess. Frances beamed and then looked at them both before she spoke. “Isn’t it wonderful to have two old friends reunited.” The hostess raised her glass. “Here’s to friendship and the end of the war.”
The servant hurriedly brought champagne to Louisa.
“I shouldn’t drink,” Emma said and placed her glass on the marble-center table.
“Nonsense, Emma,” Frances said. “The afternoon’s hardly begun and I have plenty on reserve. I’ve been saving my special bottles since the war began; but no more. The time for abstinence has passed.” She chuckled.
“That’s very kind of you, Frances, but I’ve lost my taste for champagne.” Emma crossed her arms and stared at the fire.
Louisa took a sip and settled into her chair.
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