A Winter's Promise

by Christelle Dabos

  Agatha snapped her fingers under her nose. “Right, trouble, let’s get straight to the point: your whole trousseau has to be revised. You need new clothes, shoes, hats, lingerie, lots of lingerie . . . ”

  “I like my dresses,” Ophelia said firmly.

  “Oh, be quiet, you dress like our grandmother. Holy curler! Don’t tell me you’re still wearing this old pair of horrors!” Agatha said, grimacing as she took her sister’s gloves in her own. “Mommy’s ordered you a load of them from Julian’s!”

  “They don’t make reader’s gloves in the Pole, I have to be thrifty.”

  Agatha was impervious to this sort of reasoning. Smartness and elegance were worth all the money in the world. “Pull yourself together, in Heaven’s name! You’re going to straighten that back for me, hold that tummy in, show off that top a little, powder that nose, rouge those cheeks, and for pity’s sake, change the color of your glasses—that gray is so sinister! As for your hair,” sighed Agatha, lifting the brown plait with her fingertips, “if it were up to me, I’d shave it all off and start from scratch, but sadly we no longer have time. Quick, get out, we’re there.”

  Ophelia went around as though leaden-limbed. To every petticoat, every corset, every necklace that was presented to her, she responded with a shake of the head. The dressmaker, whose long Animist fingers shaped fabrics without thread or scissors, shed tears of rage. After two fits of hysterics and about ten shopkeepers, Agatha had only managed to convince her little sister to replace her mismatched boots.

  Ophelia was just as recalcitrant at the hairdresser. She wanted to hear nothing of powder, plucking, curling tongs, or the latest style of ribbon.

  “I’m certainly patient with you,” fumed Agatha, trying her best to lift Ophelia’s heavy locks to reveal her neck. “You think I don’t know all that you’re feeling? I was seventeen when they betrothed me to Charles, and Mommy two years younger when she married Daddy. See what we have become: radiant wives, fulfilled mothers, accomplished women! You’ve been overprotected by our great-uncle—he did you no favors.”

  With her vision blurry, Ophelia looked at her face in the mirror of the dressing table before her, while her sister struggled with the knots in her hair. Without her unruly locks and without her glasses, now lying on the comb tray, she felt naked. In the mirror she saw Agatha’s auburn head resting its chin on her own head. “Ophelia,” she whispered sweetly, “you could be attractive if you just tried a little.”

  “What’s the point? Attractive to whom?”

  “But Mr. Thorn, of course, you twit!” said her exasperated sister, giving her a tap on the neck. “Charm is the strongest weapon given to women, you must use it without scruples. A mere trifle is enough, a timely wink, a radiant smile, to have a man at one’s feet. Look at Charles, putty in my hands.”

  Ophelia fixed her eyes on those in her reflection, chocolate-­flavored eyes. Without glasses she couldn’t see herself clearly, but she could make out the glum oval of her face, the paleness of her cheeks, her white neck throbbing under the collar, the shadow of a characterless nose and those too-thin lips that disliked speaking. She attempted a timid smile, but it looked so false that she dropped it instantly. Was she attractive? How can one tell? From the gaze of a man? Would that be the gaze Thorn would direct at her, this evening?

  The idea seemed so grotesque to her that she would have laughed out loud if her situation weren’t so pitifully dire. “Have you finished torturing me?” she asked her sister, who was ruthlessly tugging at her hair.

  “Nearly.” Agatha turned to the manageress of the salon to request some hairpins. That moment of inattention was all Ophelia needed. She quickly put her glasses back on, grabbed her bag, and dived headlong into the mirror of the dressing table, which was barely wide enough for her. Her head and shoulders emerged through the wall mirror in her room, a few districts away, but she could move no further. On the other side of the mirror, Agatha had grabbed her by the ankles to pull her back to Goldsmiths’ Street. Ophelia let go of her bag and used the papered wall for support, struggling with all her might against her sister’s grip.

  Without warning, she tumbled right into the room, knocking over a stool and the potted plant on it as she did so. Somewhat dazed, she stared blankly at the bare foot sticking out from under her dress; a boot from her new pair had remained with Agatha in Goldsmiths’ Street. Her sister couldn’t pass through mirrors, so she finally had some respite.

  Ophelia picked her bag up from the carpet, limped over to a solid wooden chest at the foot of the bunk beds, and sat down. She pushed her glasses back up her nose and surveyed the little room, which was cluttered with trunks and hatboxes. This particular mess wasn’t her usual mess. This room that had witnessed her growing up already smacked of departure.

  She carefully got out the journal of her forebear Adelaide and pensively leafed through its pages again.

  Sunday July 18th. Still no news from the ambassadress. The women here are charming and I don’t think any of my Anima cousins are their equals in grace and beauty, but I sometimes feel uncomfortable. I get the impression that they are forever casting aspersions on my clothes, my manners, and my way of speaking. Or maybe I’m just working myself into a state?

  “Why are you home so early?”

  Ophelia looked up towards the top bunk. She hadn’t noticed the two patent-leather shoes sticking out beyond the mattress; this scrawny pair of legs belonged to Hector, the little brother with whom she shared the room.

  She closed the journal. “I’m escaping from Agatha.”

  “Why?”

  “Little female problems. Does Mr. Say-Why want details?”

  “Not remotely.”

  Ophelia half-smiled; she had a soft spot for her brother. The patent shoes disappeared from the top bunk. They were soon replaced by lips smeared with compote, a turned-up nose, a pudding-basin haircut, and two placid eyes. Hector had the same look as Ophelia, but without the glasses: unperturbed in all circumstances. He was holding a slice of bread and apricot jam, which was dripping all over his fingers.

  “We said no snacks in this room,” Ophelia reminded him.

  Hector shrugged his shoulders and pointed with his slice of bread towards the travel journal on her lap. “Why are you still going over that notebook? You know it by heart.”

  That was Hector. He always asked questions and all his questions began with “why.”

  “To reassure myself, I suppose,” muttered Ophelia.

  In fact, Adelaide had become familiar to her over the weeks, almost close. And yet Ophelia felt disappointed each time she ended up on the last page.

  Monday August 2nd. I’m so relieved! The ambassadress has returned from her travels. Rudolf has finally signed his contract with one of Lord Farouk’s solicitors. I am not allowed to write anything more—it is a professional secret—but we will meet their family spirit tomorrow. If my brother puts on a good show, we will become rich.

  The journal finished with these words. Adelaide had felt it necessary neither to enter into details nor to give an account of what had happened next. What contract had she and her brother signed with Farouk, the family spirit? Had they returned rich from the Pole? Most probably not, it would have been common knowledge . . .

  “Why don’t you read it with your hands?” Hector asked next, grinding his bread and jam between his teeth while also languidly chewing it. “If I could, that’s what I’d do, myself.”

  “I’m not allowed to, as you know.”

  In truth, Ophelia had been tempted to remove her gloves to uncover the little secrets of her ancestor, but she was too professional to contaminate this document with her own anxiety. Her great-uncle would have been very disappointed if she had succumbed to such an urge.

  Beneath her feet, a shrill voice rose through the floor from downstairs: “This guest room, it’s a total disaster! It was supposed to be fit for a cou
rt gentleman, it needed much more pomp, more decorum! How low is Mr. Thorn’s opinion of us going to be? We’ll make amends with the meal this evening. Rosaline, dash to the restaurateur’s to get news of my fattened chickens—I entrust the directing of operations to you! And you, my poor dear, try to set a bit of an example. It’s not every day that one marries one’s daughter!”

  “Mom,” said Hector, placidly.

  “Mom,” confirmed Ophelia with the same tone.

  It certainly didn’t make her feel like going downstairs. As she drew the floral curtain at the window, the setting sun gilded her cheeks, nose, and glasses. In the dusk, through a corridor of crimson-turning clouds, the moon already stood out, like a china plate, against the mauve backcloth of the sky.

  For a long time, Ophelia contemplated the side of the valley, turned golden by autumn, which loomed over their house, and the carriages going by in the street, and her little sisters playing with a hoop in their courtyard, surrounded by dead leaves. They were singing nursery rhymes, daring each other, pulling each other by the plait, going from laughter to tears and tears to laughter with disconcerting ease. They brought to mind Agatha at that age, with their winning smiles, noisy chatter, and beautiful light-auburn hair, shimmering in the gloaming.

  Ophelia was suddenly overcome by a burst of nostalgia. Her eyes widened, her lips thinned, her impassive mask cracked. She would have liked to gambol after her sisters, shamelessly hitch up her skirts and chuck stones into Aunt Rosaline’s garden. How long ago those days seemed to her this evening . . .

  “Why do you have to go? It’s going to be tedious being left alone with all those brats.”

  Ophelia turned towards Hector. Busy licking his fingers, he hadn’t budged from the top bunk, but he had followed her gaze through the window. Despite his phlegmatic demeanor, the tone was accusatory.

  “It’s not my fault, you know.”

  “Why didn’t you want to marry our cousins, then?”

  The question felt like a slap in the face. It’s true, Hector was right, she wouldn’t be in this situation if she’d married the first comer.

  “But regrets are pointless,” she muttered.

  “Look out!” warned Hector. He wiped his mouth with a swipe of his sleeve and flattened himself on the bed. A sudden draft blew through Ophelia’s dresses. With disheveled bun and glistening forehead, their mother had just burst into the room like a whirlwind. Cousin Bertrand followed right behind.

  “I’m going to put the little ones in here, as they’ve given up their room for their sister’s fiancé. These trunks are taking up all the space, I just can’t handle it! Take this one down to the shed, and be careful, what’s in it is fragi—”

  Her mother broke off, openmouthed, when she caught sight of Ophelia’s silhouette, outlined against the sunset.

  “Ancestors alive, I thought you were with Agatha!” She pursed her lips with indignation as she clocked Ophelia’s old-lady outfit and dust-collecting scarf. The expected metamorphosis had not taken place. She struck her ample breast with her hand. “You want to finish me off! After all the trouble I go to for you! What are you punishing me for, my girl?”

  Ophelia blinked behind her glasses. She’d always had poor taste in clothes—why should she change her getup now?

  “Do you even know what time it is?” her mother asked, panicking and slapping her varnished nails over her mouth. “We’ve to go up to the air terminal in less than an hour! Where’s your sister gone? And me in this ghastly state, gadzooks, we’ll never make it in time!”

  She pulled out a powder compact from inside her bodice, dabbed a pink puff on her nose, rewound her light-auburn bun with an expert hand, and pointed a scarlet nail at Ophelia. “I want you presentable before the next strike of the clock. And that goes for you, too, you disgusting creature!” she scolded in the direction of the top bunk. “You stink of congealed jam, Hector!”

  Ophelia’s mother bumped into Cousin Bertrand, who had remained standing there, arms dangling. “And that trunk, are you planning on doing it today or tomorrow?”

  In a whirlwind of skirt, the storm departed from the room just as it had arrived.

  The Bear

  As night had fallen, so had heavy rain. It hammered down on the metal latticed roof of the airship hangar, fifty meters above. Hoisted on a neighboring plateau, this base was the most modern in the valley. Designed for receiving long-distance flights in particular, it benefited from steam heating and had its own hydrogen-gas plant. Its vast track-sliding doors were wide open, revealing an interior of wrought iron, brick, and cables, in which many gabardine-clad mechanics were rushing around.

  Outside, along the goods quay, a few lamps spat out a light made murky by the damp. A guard, soaked to the bone, was checking the protective tarpaulins on mail crates ready for loading. He grimaced on encountering a forest of umbrellas, right in the middle of the quay. Beneath the umbrellas huddled men in frock coats, women in their finery, and well-combed kids. There they all stood, silent and expressionless, scanning the clouds.

  “Well, ’scuse me, my good cousins, might one be of some assistance?” he asked.

  Ophelia’s mother, whose red umbrella dwarfed all the others, indicated the standing clock around which they had set up camp. Everything about this woman was enormous: her bustled dress, her bullfrog’s throat, her beehive bun, and, towering above it all, her feathered hat.

  “Well, you could start by telling me if this here’s the correct time. It’s been a good forty minutes we’ve been looking out for the Pole airship!”

  “Late, as usual,” the guard informed her with a cheery smile. “Waiting for a delivery of furs?”

  “No, son. We’re waiting for a visitor.”

  The guard squinted at the crow-beaked nose that had just replied to him. It belonged to a lady of extremely advanced years. She was dressed all in black, from the mantilla around her white hair to the taffeta of her stiff-bodiced dress. The elegant silver braiding on her outfit revealed her status of Doyenne, mother among mothers. The guard took off his cap as a sign of respect. “An envoy from the Pole, dear mother? You’re sure there hasn’t been some misunderstanding about the visitor? I’ve worked the quays since I were a lad and I’ve never seen a Northerner drag himself over here for anything but business. Don’t mix with just anyone, those people!”

  He tipped his cap to salute them and returned to his crates. Ophelia gazed after him gloomily, then returned to contemplating her boots. What was the point of putting on a brand-new pair? They were already covered in mud.

  “Lift your chin and try not to get wet,” whispered Agatha, with whom she was sharing a lemon-yellow umbrella. “And smile—you look miserable as sin! Mr. Thorn won’t be swinging from the chandeliers with a killjoy like you.”

  Her sister hadn’t forgiven her for escaping through the mirror—you could hear it in her voice—but Ophelia was barely listening to her. She was focusing on the sound of the rain, which drowned out the panicky palpitations in her chest.

  “Okay, why don’t you just let her breathe?” asked Hector, annoyed.

  Ophelia shot a grateful look at her brother, but he was already busy jumping into puddles with his little sisters and cousins. They embodied the childhood that she would have liked to have relived one last time this evening. Totally carefree, they had all come along not to see the arrival of the fiancé, but rather that of the airship. It was a rare spectacle for them, one big party.

  “It’s Agatha who’s right,” declared the mother under her enormous red umbrella. “My daughter will breathe when she’s told to and how she’s told to. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

  The question, for appearances’ sake, was just for Ophelia’s father, who stammered a vaguely assenting formula. This poor man, balding and graying, prematurely aged, was crushed by his wife’s authority. Ophelia couldn’t recall ever hearing him say no. She looked for her old god
father among the crowd of uncles, aunts, cousins, and nephews. She spotted him brooding, away from the umbrellas, buttoned up to his moustache in his navy-blue mackintosh. She was expecting no miracle from him, but the kindly salutation he directed at her from a distance did her good.

  Ophelia’s head felt like sludge and her stomach was churning. Her heart thumped deep in her chest. She would have liked this waiting in the rain not to have an ending.

  Exclamations all around hit her like dagger blows:

  “Over there!”

  “That’s it.”

  “About time, too . . . ”

  Ophelia looked up to the clouds, her stomach in knots. A dark mass, shaped like a whale, was breaking through the mist and stood out against the night sky, while emitting ominous creaking sounds. The whirring of the propellers became deafening. The children squealed with joy. Lace petticoats were blown upwards. Ophelia’s and Agatha’s lemon-yellow umbrella flew off into the sky. Having arrived above the landing strip, the airship released its cables. The mechanics grabbed hold of them and pulled with all their weight to bring the aerostat down. They clung on, in groups of about ten, to the manual-steering rails, guiding it straight into the great hangar, and then moored it to the ground. A gangway was put in place for disembarkation, and, clutching crates and mailbags, the crew members proceeded down it.

  The whole family rushed, like a swarm of flies, to the front of the hangar. Only Ophelia remained behind, dripping under the cold rain, her long brown hair plastered to her cheeks. Water trickled down the surface of her glasses. All she could see in front of her was a formless mass of dresses, jackets, and umbrellas.

  Above the hubbub, her mother’s booming voice rang out: “Just let him come through, you lot, make way! My dear, my dearest Mr. Thorn, welcome to Anima. So, you came without an escort? Ancestors alive, Ophelia! Where’s she disappeared to now, that moon head? Agatha, go find your sister, quick. What awful weather, my poor friend; if you’d arrived an hour earlier, we’d have welcomed you without all this rain. Someone give him an umbrella!”