Liberty's Fire

by Lydia Syson

  ‘I think you look beautiful,’ said Zéphyrine. ‘I hope Jules can do you justice.’

  Anatole shook his head. ‘Zéphyrine!’

  ‘Oh I don’t mean to be rude. But you won’t do one like that, will you?’ She pointed at a blurred and shadowy image of Anatole. ‘You can’t really see what he looks like, can you?’

  Anatole laughed. ‘Oh that was when Jules was obsessed with his “theory of sacrifices” – wasn’t that what you called it?’

  Jules nodded, smiling faintly. ‘That’s right. It’s a matter of light and shade,’ he said. ‘And letting go of the idea of focus as your goal. I think it gives a photograph more soul if you simplify. Sometimes – to capture the inner likeness – you need to sacrifice. It’s a case of trying to eliminate external detail.’

  ‘Oh. I think I see what you mean. But I like detail,’ said Zéphyrine firmly. ‘It’s more truthful, isn’t it? This makes him look like … like an angel or something.’

  ‘It was an experiment,’ said Jules.

  ‘Something to do with how much you screw the lens?’ said Anatole. ‘I like that one. It makes me look more ethereal than I’m used to. The violin helps.’

  ‘Ethereal?’

  ‘He means not quite of this world. Celestial you might say,’ said Jules.

  ‘I think he looks like a Greek statue,’ added Marie. ‘Except for the violin.’

  ‘Or just plain dead,’ said Zéphyrine. ‘I won’t be in your way here, will I?’ She went to sit on a chair in the corner, on her hands, as usual. ‘No more questions now, I promise. But how long does it all take? Will I be able to see the photograph right away?’

  ‘You’ll be able to see the negative quite soon. The print takes a little longer.’ Jules was patient, but he also made it clear that he needed to get on with things.

  Zéphyrine tried to shrink herself. But then she saw the pile of flat wooden boxes waiting beside the big camera stand. ‘And what do you do with those? No, no, tell me afterwards. I’ll shut up now, I really will. You won’t know I’m here.’

  ‘What do you mean, we won’t know you’re here?’ said Anatole, shaking his head. ‘Don’t you understand?’

  ‘Oh sorry … I think I’d better go now then, right away.’ She leapt up. ‘It was lovely to see everything. Very interesting. Thank you so much for showing me,’ she said again, looking around. ‘But, Anatole, what have you done with my shawl?’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Zéphyrine. Stop!’ Anatole blocked the doorway. ‘I didn’t bring you here simply to watch. Jules is going to take your likeness, too.’

  That did shut her up.

  ‘Mine?’ she whispered. ‘Really? A photograph of me?’

  ‘Yes. You.’ He took her hand, but she pulled away.

  ‘But he can’t … look at me … if only I’d known. Why didn’t you tell me? I could have … I would have …’ She clutched at her hair, then her skirt.

  ‘You see,’ Jules said quietly to Anatole. ‘You have to be careful with surprises. I did warn you.’ He coughed. ‘I’ve got three plates ready to prepare for each of you. If you’re lucky, and keep still, you’ll even have a choice.’

  Marie glared at both men, and swiftly detached herself from the column.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It won’t matter what you’re wearing. Head and shoulders. That’s what’s important. I’ll fix your hair for you, and I’ve another shawl here too, a good one … if you don’t want to use your own, that is.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’ said Zéphyrine.

  ‘If it’s clothes you’re worried about, have a look in that trunk,’ said Anatole still not understanding Zéphyrine’s dismay. ‘All sorts of things in there, aren’t there, Jules? Have you ever even been through them all?’

  Anatole opened the lid and Marie began pulling things out. Brocade curtains and satin cloaks. A black-and-white Pierrot costume. A military jacket, with a row of brass buttons forming a V in front.

  At the other end of the studio, Jules was opening and shutting drawers. ‘Eureka!’ he said, waving the promised hairbrush, and striding over.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Marie. ‘Now, this is going to be fun.’ She pulled out the last pin, tucked it into her bodice, and began to brush Zéphyrine’s hair with vigour. Her scalp tingled delightfully and the air crackled with electricity. Nobody had brushed Zéphyrine’s hair for her since she was tiny.

  Anatole seemed dazed.

  ‘What about this?’ Marie held up a length of black organza. ‘Drape it round your shoulders – that’s right – slip the dress down a little more – and you’ll look just like —’

  ‘No. Stop. This is ridiculous. I want you to take her portrait just as she is. A Communarde, and proud of it,’ said Anatole. ‘Why should you have to pretend to be someone else? You’re a citizen of Paris, and anyone’s equal. Anyone’s.’ He took her by the shoulders and stared into her face. ‘Aren’t you?’

  Zéphyrine let the silk slide from her shoulders and float to the floorboards.

  ‘Aren’t you?’ repeated Anatole. Minou came out of the shadows to catch it. A cat-eating Communarde, thought Zéphyrine.

  ‘Yes … yes, of course you’re right,’ she said.

  ‘Look,’ he said, snatching up a newspaper from a chair. It was the Journal Officiel, the Commune’s daily, containing every new decree. ‘Hold this. For posterity. Will you be able to see the date, Jules?’

  Jules looked from one to the other, and back to the window, still checking the light, the lenses.

  ‘I doubt it. You’ll probably see the title though.’

  ‘That’ll do. Well? It’s up to you.’

  Zéphyrine straightened her back. ‘Yes … just as I am then. Take me as I am.’

  ‘Good,’ said Anatole proudly. Zéphyrine was glad he hadn’t kissed her in front of the others. He stepped back a pace.

  Jules went under the hood. ‘Ready now?’ he asked Marie in a muffled voice.

  ‘Yes. What do you think?’ A different kind of smile had appeared on her face. A stage smile, realised Zéphyrine. She thought it looked charming. But it was no good her trying anything like that.

  ‘Almost ready,’ said Jules. ‘Could you just open that blind please, there, just a little more, Anatole? Yes, that will be perfect. Don’t move now.’

  Marie held her smile while Jules vanished into the darkroom. They heard the clink of glass, a bottle unstoppering, and he returned a few minutes later with a large dark square in his hand and a greater sense of urgency. Zéphyrine held her breath while he slid the plate-holder into the back of the camera, then slid out the dark slide that protected it.

  ‘Ready?’ he called. ‘But don’t answer! Now!’

  He removed the lens cap. Every one of them stood as still as they possibly could while the seconds ticked by. And at last it was over. Jules raced back to the darkroom with his plate. Zéphyrine, Marie and Anatole laughed with relief.

  ‘Don’t disturb him now,’ Anatole warned. ‘This is the moment that matters most.’ And he told the girls about the early days, when he’d nosily drawn back the curtain to see what Jules was up to with his mysterious light and all that pouring water, and ruined everything.

  Three plates for Marie, then three for Zéphyrine.

  The first time she closed her eyes at the wrong moment.

  ‘Now you look dead,’ said Jules bluntly. ‘Let’s try again.’

  The second time, her trembling fingers dropped the newspaper, and she bent to pick it up. She knew the plate must be ruined even before Jules disappeared into the darkroom.

  ‘This is terrible. Such a waste. I don’t think I’m any good at this,’ said Zéphyrine, holding out her hands. ‘Look how it makes me shake.’

  Marie glanced at Anatole, who had taken her hands, and was trying to still them.

  ‘That won’t help,’ she said. ‘You’re making things worse.’

  She took Zéphyrine aside, away from Anatole, and taught her how to breathe, slowly, steadily, from a
place deep inside. ‘Here,’ she said, laying a hand just above Zéphyrine’s stomach. ‘Breathe from here. Let me feel you breathing. That’s right. In. And out. And when he says “Ready” don’t move, but take in most of a breath and just hold it, and that will keep you still.’

  Zéphyrine nodded, hardly daring to look at Jules, who was setting up the camera again.

  ‘This time, it will be fine,’ said Marie. ‘Won’t it?’

  Anatole gave Zéphyrine the newspaper again, and squeezed her hand.

  ‘It’s just a photograph,’ he whispered. ‘Not a death sentence. Don’t look so grim.’

  ‘I’m ready,’ she replied. ‘I won’t move. I promise I won’t spoil it this time. Is this right?’

  ‘Now!’ called Jules, and again, whisked off the lens cap.

  She stared, unblinking and defiant, at her own reflection in the lens.

  Even after she had changed into her ordinary clothes, the glow of performance clung to Marie, and her eyes stayed bright. ‘Thank you!’ she called to Jules. ‘Emile will be so delighted.’

  It wasn’t a good moment to answer, so he didn’t.

  ‘If you send the print to his regimental headquarters, I expect he will get it, eventually,’ Anatole said.

  ‘I wonder if it’s worth the risk,’ said Marie. ‘It would be dreadful if a photograph got lost. And perhaps they read the letters …?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Zéphyrine.

  Marie fluttered her fingers vaguely. ‘Oh, you know … “them”.’

  Zéphyrine picked up the newspaper. She wasn’t a very fast reader, but the nuns had done their job, and she was competent enough.

  ‘Have you seen this, Marie? They’re calling here for the “active collaboration of all the women of Paris who realise … that the present social order bears in itself the seeds of poverty and the death of Freedom and Justice.” It says we must “conquer or perish”.’

  ‘“Conquer or perish’?’’ Jules’s voice cut in from behind the thin walls of the darkroom.

  ‘Everything seems to be happening so quickly,’ said Anatole quietly. ‘How active, do you think?’

  Zéphyrine didn’t answer.

  ‘Look, Marie!’ She waved the newspaper at her. ‘They are talking to us. “Mothers, wives, sisters of the French people”. Is it a meeting? Why don’t we go? See what they say?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure. I don’t much like meetings,’ said Marie, taking the journal and scanning it uneasily. ‘There are quite enough at the theatre, if you ask me, with all this cooperative business. And this one sounds as if it might get violent.’

  Zéphyrine continued to read over Marie’s shoulder. ‘It sounds splendid to me,’ she said. ‘They want a march of women to Versailles. Imagine! If the Versailles army were to fire on a crowd of unarmed mothers. The world couldn’t ignore us then!’

  Marie went white. ‘The army would never do that,’ she said. ‘Do you think the men are monsters?’

  Zéphyrine realised she’d been tactless.

  ‘We’re probably too late anyway,’ she said. ‘There’ll be another meeting.’

  ‘There’s always another meeting,’ agreed Anatole. ‘See what happens.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marie slowly. ‘We’ll see what happens.’

  Jules emerged from the darkroom and declared the success of the final plate.

  ‘I’ll make some prints tomorrow,’ he said. ‘But you can see the negative now. Don’t touch – I haven’t varnished it yet of course.’

  They kept a careful distance. It was a fine portrait, even in reverse. You could read the name of the newspaper quite clearly – in mirror writing – and somehow, despite the necessary stillness, Zéphyrine looked full of life, proud and purposeful. Jules was pleased, Anatole even more so.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Anatole. ‘It’s extraordinary how well you’ve caught her. Look at those fierce eyes!’

  Zéphyrine pretended to toss her head.

  ‘Blazing,’ agreed Jules. ‘You’ll have to sign it when I’ve done the print.’

  ‘Will I?’ said Zéphyrine.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marie. ‘Citizen Zéphyrine.’

  21.

  18th April

  A week later, Montmartre was still preparing to conquer or perish. There had been no let up in the bombardment and the newspapers were reporting heavy casualties among the National Guard battalions fighting in the green suburb of Asnières, on the banks of the Seine eight kilometres from Paris. In the vestry of the church, sitting in a semi-circle round the stove, Rose’s aunt read aloud from The People’s Voice while Zéphyrine, Rose, the Ladle and some fifteen other women recruited by the neighbourhood committee got on with their sewing. The more experienced seamstresses worked on uniforms; the rest made sandbags, ready to be filled.

  Zéphyrine looked at the pile of hessian on her left, and her heart sank. So many sacks still to sew. She would never get away. The only answer was to speed up her stitching. Hunched over her work, she began stabbing furiously with her needle.

  Rose, who noticed everything, said, ‘Is there a prize now?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Zéphyrine, without looking up.

  ‘I thought they must have announced a reward for whoever makes the most. You’ll put the rest of us to shame if you keep going like that.’

  ‘I’ll sew as fast as anyone likes,’ said the enormously tall woman they called the Sleepwalker, who was working through her own pile at a great rate. ‘Makes sense to get more money.’

  ‘That’s if we ever get it,’ her neighbour mumbled, and went back to sucking on her pipe.

  That stopped a few needles in their tracks.

  ‘What? Not more delays?’

  ‘It’s the bank. Monsieur Whatshisname won’t release the money to the Commune. So the Commune can’t give it to the Women’s Union.’

  ‘Men!’ Rose tutted. ‘They’ve got to stop all this shilly-shallying. Time to apply some pressure. Show who’s in charge.’

  ‘They’re scared, I reckon,’ the woman next to her said, shaking her head. ‘The men of the Commune are scared of going too far. But it’s too late for that.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s ridiculous. How can we get things done without money?’ agreed the Ladle.

  ‘I’ll show them how to put pressure on the bank,’ said the Sleepwalker. She rolled back her sleeve and flexed an impressive arm. Someone whistled, and a few others put down their sewing to clap. ‘Never too late for the Commune to take over the Bank of Paris.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll get what we’re owed in the end. And at least it’s a fair wage,’ said Zéphyrine. She wasn’t used to being so optimistic. It was a good feeling. She had never realised before that having something to look forward to was a pleasure in itself. She dropped a finished sack on the pile on her right, licked the end of a new length of thread, and squinted at her needle.

  ‘And an equal one,’ agreed another woman.

  ‘Thank heaven there are no convents round the corner any more, doing the same job for less!’ added Rose’s aunt. This provoked laughter and a cheer of solidarity from the other women, and, of course, a song. It would be all right, they chorused: ‘Ça ira, ça ira.’

  Zéphyrine joined in. The singing slowed down the sewing, but it felt good. She felt part of things here as she never had all those months working away alone with just her grandmother. Times like this always made her worry about what could happen if the Commune failed. She had nothing to go back to.

  ‘What time do you think it is now?’ she asked Rose, who puffed out her lips and said she reckoned she’d heard the bells for the hour about ten minutes earlier.

  ‘I can stay later and finish your lot if you like,’ she offered. ‘Got nothing better to do. No fancy man to meet, any rate.’

  ‘How did you know …?’ Zéphyrine stopped, and shrugged. She supposed it was obvious.

  Rose looked at her sideways. ‘You’ve not said a word about Anatole since the Gingerbread Fair.’

  Zéphy
rine’s needle hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then kept moving.

  Rose persisted. ‘Nothing wrong?’

  ‘I’ve hardly seen you.’ Zéphyrine sounded defensive.

  ‘Not my fault. You know where to find me.’

  ‘I know. Sorry.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  Zéphyrine didn’t want to talk about Anatole any more. Before anything had happened between them, Anatole was like an idea, a thought to play with. She didn’t mind sharing a thought. Things had changed.

  ‘I suppose he’s different from anyone you’ve ever met before? Hey! Are you even listening to me?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am … sorry. I’ve been busy.’ She couldn’t even quite bring herself to tell Rose about the photographs. Sitting next to her, Rose hard at work as usual, Zéphyrine was ashamed. How vain she had been. Rose was interested in more important things. Maybe Zéphyrine would tell her another day, when the print was ready. ‘I’m a bit tired.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ said Rose. ‘Not getting enough sleep?’

  Her arch look maddened Zéphyrine. ‘Shut your filthy mouth!’ She pretended to laugh, pretended to be equally knowing. ‘Get back to your sewing.’

  So much for asking Rose for the advice she needed so badly. Zéphyrine stitched a final knot and bared her teeth as she bit the thread off. The moment she’d spoken, she knew she’d made a mistake. Once you’d suggested a thing like that, let someone imagine you were a woman of the world, you couldn’t go back on your tracks. You couldn’t admit there was stuff you had no idea about. Now she didn’t know who else she could talk to. As far as Gran’mère was concerned, there was only one way for a girl to stay out of trouble: stay out of reach. That was how Zéphyrine had been brought up, constantly reminded that she only had to look at herself to see what happened if you didn’t. But how could Zéphyrine make herself stay out of reach of Anatole? Just the thought of him, even when he was nowhere near – the memory of one moment, or the anticipation of another – it could do strange things to her body. It alarmed her the way he made her burn up inside.

  She realised Rose was speaking again, and returned to the room with a jolt, determined to concentrate. When Zéphyrine had pieced together the floating fragments of words, her mouth fell open.