Visible (Ripple)

by Cidney Swanson

  Chrétien tries to smile, but it only makes him look more miserable than ever.

  My heart pinches. “That’s why I thought of doing a movie,” I say softly. “You know, to take your mind off things. Like when I was worried in the car about falling through the road and you told me a story to distract me.”

  I’m rewarded with another of his almost-smiles. He looks down at his hands, resting on the table. His lashes look a mile long with the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight.

  “The movie was a welcome distraction,” he says. And then I hear him silently add, But….

  “I heard that,” I say. “It was distracting but what?”

  Chrétien’s smile is whole this time. “It was a fiction. A tissu … that is, a fabric of inaccuracies.”

  “Um, yeah. It was a fairytale. I don’t think they’re supposed to be big on ‘accurate.’”

  And in my head, I hear Chrétien ask me a question.

  Would you like to hear the true story of the little cinder girl?

  “There’s a true version?”

  But of course.

  Chrétien is quite comfortable with the whole mind meld thing, but I have to say it is weirding me out a bit. “Sure,” I say out loud. “I love a good story.”

  By which I mean, “I love your voice.”

  Let us go out of doors, Chrétien says. So we do not wake the others.

  “Um, February? Cold. Very cold, Chrétien. This sweater is all I have.” I pinch at one of my shoulders to show it’s not exactly a thick woolly number.

  We could ripple. You will feel not the cold. Will you allow me to take once more your hand? he asks.

  I just about choke on my own spit when he asks, but I nod, too. And then for a moment, Chrétien’s hand is in mine, and I feel his pulse against mine where our wrists touch, and I smell something—cardamom? Allspice?—and then we are invisible.

  We pass through the ancient stone of the cottage wall and out into a flood of moonlight where Chrétien tells me a story.

  Chapter Twelve

  LA CENDRILLON

  Once upon a time, in England, there lived a mother who was delivered of a beautiful girl after a barren marriage of ten years. The daughter was the joy and solace of her parents, who sang and danced for the pleasure of the king and queen. The birth of the daughter lent new strength to her parents, seeming, as it were, to make them young once more, which they neither of them had been for many years. The mother’s gray hairs turned back to gold and the father’s once-sparse hair grew now lustily upon his head, and the father and mother danced before the king and queen more beautifully than ever before.

  The king and queen were very pleased with the players and invited them often to court where they were presented with gifts of rich cloth, sometimes embroidered with silver or golden thread.

  But more precious to the father and mother than threads of gold was the flowing mane of gold and copper upon the head of their beloved daughter, Maria Anna. When Maria Anna was old enough to walk, she learned to dance. When she was old enough to babble, she learned to sing. And so sweetly did she sing that she made courtiers who had been enemies with one another embrace in forgiveness and brotherhood. The queen was so enchanted with the copper-haired girl that she presented Maria Anna’s mother with a length of cloth-of-silver.

  I interrupt Chrétien. Wait a minute, I say. I thought you said women weren’t allowed on the stage.

  Chrétien replies. Indeed, Mademoiselle, they were not permitted upon the public stage. However, in private performances, it was sometimes permissible for a female to perform.

  Okay, I say. Carry on.

  Chrétien laughs softly.

  The queen was so enchanted with the copper-haired girl that she presented Maria Anna’s mother with a length of cloth-of-silver.

  “When your child has grown to her full size, you must make for her a pair of silver slippers. For never have I seen a more lively or more natural dancer. But wait until her feet attain their full size, for otherwise you will regret cutting into the cloth of silver.”

  Maria Anna’s mother bowed low to the queen and promised to do as she said.

  Later that year, the plague broke out in London, and the theatres were closed, and the king and queen requested no private plays, “Lest we should appear to make merry whilst our people suffer and die,” said the king.

  But by the time the danger of plague had passed, the courtiers who had formerly been enchanted by the girl Maria Anna had become once more bitter enemies and many of them said to one another, “Let us close the playhouses, which breed sinners and all manner of evil.” And so the playhouses were closed, and Maria Anna’s father and mother and all her many cousins had to find a new way to earn the bread they ate and the wine they drank.

  And the day came when Maria Anna’s father had spent the last of the coin set aside for times when players could not find employment, and he said to his wife, “Shall we go hungry indeed whilst we have yet the length of cloth of silver from her majesty the queen?”

  But Maria Anna’s mother declared that she would sooner die than sell the cloth of silver meant to adorn the feet of their lovely daughter when, one day, Maria Anna should reach her full grown stature. And Maria Anna’s mother was as good as her word, too, perishing from hunger not three weeks later.

  Some fathers might, perhaps, have sold the cloth of silver in a fit of anger and despair. But Maria Anna’s father said he had not the heart to sell that which had not brought unto his wife health while she yet lived. By now, Maria Anna’s cousins and aunties and uncles had all fled England which had become a place of war, and which, moreover, was a place where players were no longer safe, for even the king himself had been executed by the warmongering courtiers.

  And so Maria Anna and her father braved the wild sea to journey to France where her father hoped he could find a castle or inn in need of such entertainment as he and his daughter could provide. They traveled through the countryside, but they found no lasting employment. Sometimes a farmer or farmwife would give the lovely child and her poor father a gift of eggs or of milk or of bread, but no one wanted a song or a play in the countryside.

  At last they came to Paris, the great city, where they fell in among a company of poor players who were nonetheless generous of heart. They sang and danced in the streets of Paris, and though their bellies were often empty, their hearts were full.

  One day, it happened that a woman among the players who had lost her beauty to the pox cast her eyes upon Maria Anna’s father, promising with those eyes pleasures the father had sorely missed since the death of his dear wife. And so, presently, Maria Anna’s father married the French woman, and Maria Anna gained also a pair of sisters. Thanks to the stepmother’s connections, the family of five traveled to court on Christmas day to sing for the French king and queen.

  “Only you must now be called Marie-Anne, which is a proper name in France,” said the copper-haired girl’s new mother.

  Marie-Anne nodded and sang and danced for the king and the queen who declared themselves enchanted by the little golden angel. But this made Marie-Anne’s new mother jealous for the chances of her own dear daughters to charm the court, and so Marie-Anne was set to brushing clean the costumes and beating the rugs upon which the family slept by night. And she was left to sleep by the fire at night, for, as her stepmother said, there was no room for a child in the bed of a husband and wife, and the sisters had only a small carpet between them as well.

  Marie Anne did not complain, and besides, she liked watching the bright embers as she drifted each night to sleep. If she was sooty come morning, well, at least she had kept warm beside the dying fire.

  In due time, Marie-Anne’s dear father became ill and, having lain down, did not rise again. Marie-Anne begged of her father that he allow her to sell her cloth of silver to buy medicine for him, but he would not permit her to do this.

  “When you are grown, see a cobbler and have him make for you a pair of silver slippers,”
said her father. And he breathed his last and died.

  When once Marie-Anne’s father had left this world for a better one, the true nature of Marie-Anne’s belle-mère, her stepmother, became apparent. Her belle-mère made of Marie-Anne a sort of slave whose job it was to do all the most distasteful tasks. As, the washing of small clothes, the sweeping from the chimney of soot, and the emptying of the chamber pots.

  But Marie-Anne did not complain. In truth, she had no heart for dancing now that her dear mother and her dear father had gone to live with the holy angels. And so she cleaned and swept and scrubbed and sang only to please herself.

  One day, it happened that the cruel belle-mère discovered the length of cloth of silver given Marie-Anne by the queen of England.

  “Why, you wretched child,” shouted the belle-mère. “Shall you have cloth of silver while your sisters wear thrice-turned coats?”

  And in spite of Marie-Anne’s great distress, her stepmother took from her the cloth of silver and traveled to court where she thought to sell it for a great sum. But when the wicked belle-mère came to court, she was accused of having thieved the length of cloth of silver and she was hung on the spot for her theft.

  News of the loss of her stepmother reached Marie-Anne only after the passage of several days. Her step-sisters wept and Marie-Anne wept, too, for she was tender of heart, although the stepmother had proven herself no friend to Marie-Anne.

  But after a week of tears, Marie-Anne declared that they three girls must find a way to keep themselves from hunger or prostitution, and Marie-Anne determined to visit the court of the queen and the dauphin, who was now heir-apparent following the king’s death, but too young to rule. Having heard that the young dauphin had inherited his mother’s love of theatricals, Marie-Anne was in high hopes of finding employment for herself and her sisters with such acting or dancing troupes as might lodge near the royal court.

  Moreover, all three were comely of appearance, which the French valued in their players even more than did the English. Marie-Anne made herself acquainted with a troupe of dancers who performed for the queen and her royal son. And while it was not permitted for a woman to dance in France, the lead danseur of the troupe took pity on the copper-haired English girl.

  Marie-Anne then was engaged along with her sisters to do the washing and carry the ashes for the troupe of dancers in royal residence at the queen’s château. But after a month, her two sisters took lovers saying they had no wish to work as laborers when they might earn their bread and wine more easily upon their backs.

  Marie-Anne was saddened at the loss of her sisters, but she threw herself all the more into the service of the troupe. And in time, she learned the French style of dancing and singing and acting. And gradually, she was no longer required to carry away the ashes or to launder the clothing but was employed as seamstress, often laboring alongside the troupe as they rehearsed for the better fitting and altering of their garments.

  And in time, when there was any question as to the manner in which one ballet or another was to be performed, they consulted Marie-Anne, for having once seen it, she could remember anything at all.

  “Oh, we cannot do without Marie-Anne,” said the singing master and the dancing master.

  And then, one day, when the young man who played the parts of the shepherdesses and young wenches fell ill from too much wine, the dancing master told Marie-Anne that she must dance his roles instead, for they were ordered to perform for her majesty the queen and his majesty the dauphin.

  Thus, when she was fourteen, Marie-Anne was presented yet again before a queen. And the French queen declared herself so enchanted with the copper-haired “boy” that she presented the twice-disguised Marie-Anne with a pair of her own royal shoes, with diamond buckles and made from cloth of gold.

  And Marie-Anne, who had once lived among the sooty ashes of the hearth, now lived at court, dancing and singing for the queen and the dauphin for many pleasant years.

  ~

  That’s the end of the story? I ask, when Chrétien falls silent.

  He doesn’t respond.

  Chrétien?

  Forgive me, Mademoiselle, do you not hear the voice of my father?

  I listen, but I hear nothing. Or maybe I do hear a tiny something. Do you hear him?

  Indeed, Mademoiselle. He is calling for me. Let us repair unto the house.

  Which I’m guessing is antiquated English for “go inside.”

  Chrétien, I say. Was that really the end of the story?

  Stories, Mademoiselle, have many endings. That was one.

  I want to tell Chrétien that was the lamest re-tell of La Cendrillon in the history of the world. Where’s the ball? Where’s the pumpkin? Where’s the marriage to the prince?

  If that is the true story of the cinder girl, then I will eat my running shoes.

  Chrétien carries us across the pavement and back to the cottage where he speaks to me again. I must bring us into our solid forms in order to release you.

  You got it, I reply.

  We shiver invisibly through the door before Chrétien brings us back solid again inside the main room of the farmhouse. Will’s up now. And Sam. The fire crackles and pops.

  Sir Walter speaks softly to Chrétien.

  And I catch the word dangereuse.

  Chapter Thirteen

  QUEEN OF GOOD CHEER

  “Fritz sent another video,” says Will, as soon as he sees me and Chrétien. He cues it up for us to watch.

  In this latest, Fritz reminds us of the deadline (now less than thirty hours) and tells us of his disappointment that he has not heard back from Sir Walter.

  Lacking anything better to do, Fritz continues, I decided to read my lady’s diary. Perhaps it ought to be preserved after all. We have here everyday descriptions of the queen of France, juicy snippets of gossip, sketches of a sweet child—perhaps the one who falls ill? Where is that entry …

  Fritz flips to the back of the diary.

  Ah, yes. Here it is.

  He reads from the diary, translating it into English as he goes.

  “The dowager queen paid me this day a visit unexpected, leaving a bottle of wine of her decoction for my darling child. And in truth Madeleine is most unwell.”

  Fritz looks up at us from the computer.

  But how is it this did not strike me earlier? The world should see this. What a perfect window into everyday life in the time of the Sun King. There is some ongoing controversy concerning the queen, is there not? What do you think, cousin? Shall I share your son’s secrets with the world at large? Or shall we make an exchange: my father’s secrets for your son’s?

  Chrétien’s face is white as death. He must have been holding his breath as well, because it all comes out in a whoosh—the sound of a man pushed to his limits.

  He storms to the door, vanishing into invisibility just before he reaches it.

  “Shouldn’t someone … go after him?” I ask. And for once I’m not thinking about me being the someone. “You’re his father,” I say to Sir Walter. “Go talk to him.”

  But Sir Walter shakes his head. “He does not ask it of me.”

  “Oh, good grief!” I say. I run to the front door and throw it open. There’s no sign of Chrétien. Just a cold, dark morning.

  I sigh heavily. I can no more find him than I could find a particular drop of water in a river. He’s gone. Returning inside, I close the door.

  “Perhaps I should have better warned him,” says Sir Walter.

  But I don’t think it would have helped. There are things you can’t prepare for ahead of time.

  “There must be laws about this,” I say. “If Fritz delivers the contents to a film crew or university or whoever, Chrétien could come forward and say it’s his wife’s private journal.”

  “There’s the problem of Chrétien’s age,” says Will, glum. “And how long ago his wife, the diarist, died.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. So, no legal recourse.

  Sam walks over
to me, holding out a bowl-sized mug of café au lait.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” she says to me.

  I raise one eyebrow. “You’re mocking me.”

  “You look like you didn’t sleep very well.”

  I grunt out a small laugh. “Chrétien was chanting in the middle of the night. It woke me up.”

  “I’ve learned to filter it out,” Sam says, taking a sip from her own bowl of coffee.

  “We talked for a long time,” I tell her. “And he told me the weirdest version of the Cinderella story, like, ever.”

  “Oh, dear,” says Sam. “He told you? He must be obsessing about everything. Isn’t it the saddest story?”

  Sad? It ended abruptly, but not sadly. I wonder if he didn’t tell me the same story he told Sam. I’m prevented from asking Sam any questions by Chrétien rippling solid next to the door.

  He bows to us. “You will please forgive my lack of self-control,” he says. “Of course we must refuse this latest offer of the son of Helmann.”

  I frown, trying to figure out if he’s really over his earlier outburst of emotion. He looked pretty upset when he heard Fritz wanted to broadcast his wife’s diary to the world at large. But now he looks calm. Although, it’s pretty hard to argue for trading back Helmann’s journal for Chrétien’s wife’s diary.

  I think back to the argument I made yesterday with Sam—how Chrétien would only really recover if he let go of his past. Well, maybe this is him on the road to recovery, finally.

  The morning wears on with Sam and Will snuggling on the couch and me trying to write the French class paper. Chrétien offers answers to my questions about some of the finer points of ballet in the court of King Louis the Fourteenth. But in the hour following lunch, Chrétien does a lot of pacing and sighing. I decide this will not do. Not at all. I’m just not sure how to fix it.

  At last, Chrétien announces that he will, perhaps, take a walk outside.

  More time alone to brood? That is not what he needs. And with a flash of clarity like when you solve a math problem, I realize how I can help. Operation Catch Chrétien is officially terminated. (There wasn’t much hope there, anyway.) And Operation Cheer Chrétien Up is officially launching.