by Jody Shields
Four hours later, seated in a red banquette against a velvet-upholstered wall at the St. James, McCleary exchanged pleasantries with Mr. Geddes, the distinguished director of national service and an associate of his godson. Over a lengthy dinner, they explored the possibility of mutual acquaintances and compared news from the front.
Finally, McCleary nervously laid out his argument for Artis’s exemption from military service. It was difficult to find caretakers for face-injured patients, as few medics or nurses could stomach the work. This young man had already proven himself capable of serving patients who had little reason to hope and were cut off from the outside world. McCleary was surprised by the tremor in his voice.
“It won’t wash.” Geddes slowly set down his fork. “Orderlies, assistants, junior trainees, nurses—they’re all expendable. Every warm body is urgently needed for battle.”
“Could the young man be assigned to another hospital, perhaps a clerical job?”
“Policy now is to rehabilitate even soldiers with nervous disorders and send them back to battle. The most recalcitrant cases are treated with electrical shocks. Let me tell you, the soldiers soon choose returning to the front rather than continuing medical treatment.”
McCleary’s dignity, his distance from this man, evaporated, and he suddenly clutched Geddes’ hand on the table. “I beseech you. The boy is like a son to me.”
Geddes pulled away and leaned back against the seat, a man long accustomed to making refusals.
McCleary stared at him stonily for several seconds, believing this was the face of the man who commanded Artis to his death. Then, with a false display of confidence, he motioned the waiter for the bill.
MCCLEARY’S FINGERS and eyes were unwilling to relinquish the cramped strain imposed by work, even though he had left the operating theater long ago. He hadn’t faltered in surgery, his hands skilled and purposeful as a weaver’s, each stitch made with needles and clamps was a line of bright blood, secure as yarn. Now he enjoyed neither relief nor happiness from the success of his labors but visualized an unending succession of wounded men, stiff and remote as warriors depicted on a tapestry.
With an effort he straightened up, summoning a stiffness to his neck, and to divert himself he gazed at the plump folds of the linen towels on the sideboard. Outside, the fissured clouds appeared weightier than the tall windows that framed them, and for a moment the faint odor of ether, the deep viridian gloom of the wallpaper vanished, and he floated into the billowing, violet-tinged sunset.
Kazanjian called McCleary from the next room to join him, and they maneuvered single file through the roughly plastered corridor that had once been used exclusively by servants. McCleary was in a mood to believe the corridor’s construction was a personal affront, as he painfully struck his foot on the uneven floorboards and stooped under the low ceilings.
In the dining room, McCleary settled into a chair at the table, resigned to a lackluster dinner. “Let us not mention great subjects tonight. I’ve no stomach for it.”
Kazanjian glanced at him as if figuring the degree of his tolerance. “You’ll have no stomach for tonight’s dinner if the cook and the hobgoblins of rationing have their way.”
“Thank God tea hasn’t been stripped from the menu,” McCleary grumbled.
“Tea could be next on the rationing list. They’ve added more restrictions in the city. Meat allowed only twice a week at restaurants. Brandy available by prescription. No rice thrown at weddings. Feeding pigeons punished by a fine.”
“I happen to agree with the pigeon feeding. The birds try the patience of any gourmet. At least our patients are exempt from rationing. An egg a day and all the cream they can drink.”
“They’re better fed than the staff. Not that they’d ever dream of complaining.” Kazanjian lifted the lid from the casserole on the table, releasing steam and a slightly savory aroma, then ladled soup into their bowls.
“Good wine would improve this considerably.” McCleary stopped his halfhearted attempt to eat. “In the interest of piquing our appetites, I will re-create a menu from memory, a significant meal enjoyed at the Ritz years ago. Now then. There was caviar to start. Then boudin grillé. Ailerons de voilaille à la tzar. No. Cancel that. I ordered a cut from a Pontoise calf, raised exclusively on milk and egg yolk. I remember the meat was white as linen. Perdreaux truffles darkened the sauce.”
They speculated on the selection of wines that had accompanied this feast, and the names rolled off their tongues: Corton, 1878; Romanée, 1887. Kazanjian suggested two possible champagnes: Moët Brut, 1884, and Grande Fine Champagne des Tuileries. The dignified sommelier, who dressed in a gray frock coat by day and a smoking jacket in the evening, was always ready with Dr. McCleary’s favored vintages, even if a year passed between dinners.
Their spoons clicked companionably in their empty bowls. “An end to our feast of words,” observed Kazanjian.
“Words and memory must serve, as the finest restaurants abroad have been shuttered. An entire generation of chefs fallen in battle. I heard from a colleague at Neuve Chapelle that the Maison Dorée closed and the staff relocated to a restaurant on the Île de Jarre near the dueling grounds.” McCleary smiled ruefully. “I never would have imagined I’d be nostalgic for duel à volonté. Another lost art.”
MCCLEARY SEARCHED the wards for Artis, eager to reassure him that inquiries had been made about avoiding conscription. There was no need to reveal his lack of success, and his determination to keep the boy at the estate overrode his qualms about this half truth.
Days had passed without the opportunity to catch Artis alone, as McCleary had constantly been interrupted by the staff and called away by emergencies. Time was running out. McCleary snipped this last thought as cleanly as a suture.
Remembering that Artis made a practice of cadging extra portions from the cooks, McCleary entered the kitchen. The huge room was warmer than the rest of the house, as the enormous stove was always kept stoked. The heat was relaxing, and he gazed around at the commonplace domestic things, spoons, sieves, and bowls, which seemed somehow peculiar, brought in from another life. Only a few doors and the length of a corridor away, medical instruments rattled and the anesthesia pumps hissed in the operating room.
He passed under a batterie of pots suspended from the ceiling, enjoying their rounded gleaming weight, a bough of copper instruments. An ancient pump curved over two deep stone sinks, and the silent, decades-long drip of water had left a line in the granite, just as knives had gradually sloped the wooden chopping block. The full stillness of the room was suddenly broken when the cook began to argue with the quartermaster in the back pantry.
Outside, McCleary shared a cigarette with Brownlow, noticing that the man’s hands shook and he was wreathed with the odor of ether, familiar as grass. He asked for news of Artis.
“He’s doing poorly,” answered Brownlow. “Poorly or inspired as any other virgin soldier called to combat.”
“I’ve requested the authorities allow him to serve here in the hospital. They haven’t responded.”
“He could plead insanity.”
“Like the rest of us.”
“He could work at Maghull hospital. At least the patients wouldn’t shock him, since they’re only crazy.”
“I imagine it would take a great deal to shock Artis at this point.” McCleary calculated for a moment. “Brownlow, I ask you for one favor. Keep Artis out of the war. I cannot bear another sacrifice.”
Brownlow looked over his shoulder, checking the house, and his fogged attention cleared. “God forbid he should be sent to the bloody trenches.”
“I’ve tapped all my military contacts. No one has offered assistance. I’m afraid they will do nothing.” McCleary knew that Brownlow was a hoarder of secrets, a mover of goods, possibly dabbled in black marketeering. He had always turned a blind eye to this, and now the prospect of becoming intimately involved with Brownlow made him uneasy. There was no alternative.
“How can it be
done?”
“I leave the matter in your hands. The boy must be safe and never leave this place. It must seem as if Artis has had an accident. I think we understand each other?”
“Agreed.” Brownlow’s mirthless smile wasn’t directed at McCleary but at some hidden event in the future.
“I wish you well. I wish us all well.”
On the long route to his quarters, McCleary chose to sublimate his lingering concern about Artis. There was only Brownlow to depend on.
Telegraph poles had recently been reinstalled across the fields, and the wire swags suspended between them linked the estate with clearing stations, train depots, the battlefield. Perhaps the force of the news racing along the thin wires kept the telegraph poles upright.
Startled by a faint noise, he stopped near a pole and put his ear against it. Did he actually hear something? A humming, a vibration? Did the wires sing?
He frowned, shook his head to cancel this sensation, but it was present, continuous as a fever, spread over the surface of his skin, sinking into his bones, evident in the weightless, elusive, shifting shape of his breath.
Chapter Seventeen
CATHERINE’S FEAR of discovery expanded, had no boundaries, the infinity of an unfocused photograph. She ate very little, food had no relation to hunger, clothing felt rough against her skin. “I’m a sleepwalker who fears the evening,” she told Julian when he expressed concern, and allowed him to comfort her without further explanation.
From the isolation of her deceit, Catherine sought out McCleary, who appeared frailer, and extended him small courtesies, leaving boxes of candles, bottles of wine, a fruitwood humidor custom made for her husband on his desk. The activity of packing these gifts soothed her.
One evening, she found McCleary alone in the staff mess room.
“You must be relieved when it’s quiet.”
Startled, McCleary looked up from his tea. “God, yes. Excuse my language. I’ve seen too much today.” The mechanics of courtesy were beyond his strength. “Another round of the wards before I sleep. Tonight I’m just as happy Matron put the lamps low. Makes my work easier.”
“Easier? Why?”
“I clasp the men’s hands, make contact so they know I’m present. The darkness covers my face.” His voice thinned. “Sometimes when I’m fatigued, I swear they can read my emotions, quick as a flash.”
Catherine asked if the patients could also sense his feelings with his touch.
“When I examine a patient, I give myself over to him. An act of witness.” McCleary strayed from her question, and his words seemed lifted from another dialogue. “When I ask about their spirits, they claim everything is fine, but I see that they lie. A man can smile, and yet his eyes could remain sorrowful. Strangely, I’ve found that the upper face is subtler, more truthful than the mouth.”
It was out of character for McCleary to discuss such things with a woman. A civilian. He found it curious that he modified the severity of the topic to make it comforting for her. Or perhaps for himself. He scanned Catherine’s face.
She made no answer but gazed out the window, where the summer light still preserved its intensity.
“You’re a doctor, but nothing you’ve said is a comfort to me.”
“You are correct. I am truly unable to comfort anyone. I’ve lost the skill of lying. In fact, I am even unable to save Artis, although I have tried.”
“He will go to war?”
“Only a matter of time.” McCleary noticed the woman’s cheeks swelled, an involuntary reaction indicating relief.
Through the window, he watched Catherine leave the house, and as her figure lost its detail with distance, he had the impression she expected someone to overtake her. She was afraid. Was it the sky she feared or strangers? Hands reaching for a gun or brick? Men. Enemies. Invaders.
CASUALTIES ARRIVED at the estate in ever-increasing numbers, the damaged proof of a recent major military drive. Night after night, rectangles of light from the windows lay across the lawn near the main doors, an illuminated carpet marred by the passing of men and their shadows, hurrying to the burdened motorcars, ambulances, and lorries.
Every corner of the house reverberated with activity, even the abandoned west wing, where lanterns could be seen moving past the thick, uneven fifteenth-century windows, as new territories were claimed for patients.
The old brew house and the head gardener’s cottage were commandeered, and beds maneuvered into awkward angles in the cramped rooms. Dangling above them, fragile and untouchable, were bunches of herbs the gardener had secured with string and suspended from the rafters to dry.
Julian’s few possessions—his pocketknife, surveying tools, sketch pad, compass, a pocket book by Wells on India paper—were hastily packed by a harassed, red-faced orderly, who announced Julian was moving upstairs. He thrust the untidy bundle into Julian’s arms. Good day to you.
A place had been found for Julian in servants’ quarters at the top of the house, a small unswept room with an aged calendar on one wall, empty trunks, and blurred squares on the floorboards where unidentifiable furniture had been removed.
McCleary had discreetly asked the quartermaster to relocate Julian, explaining that he was among the able bodied and there was a shortage of beds. Unmentioned was the darker possibility that should Julian’s mental health deteriorate, it would be a terrible example for the other patients. Better that he was sequestered.
CATHERINE WOKE INTO a gray dawn, immobilized, muscles stiff as if submerged, unable to swim or save herself. Directly overhead, level as paper on a table or ice on a lake, the mirrors covered the floor of the attic, their surfaces glittering with malevolent purpose. The specter of waiting had returned.
It was impossible for Catherine to re-enter the studio. Days went by in isolation except for the occasional perfunctory conversation with a nurse or an orderly. One afternoon a nurse told Catherine in passing that visiting officials were interviewing several patients, perhaps something to do with their pensions. Catherine assumed Julian was in this group. In truth, she was reluctant to see him.
A valuable Chinese screen had been retrieved from one of the storage areas and was unfolded as a fresh object for Catherine to study in her rooms. The glassy lacquer was bituminous black, and the decorative ponds and pagodas so abundantly gilded that Catherine’s misshapen reflection glided across the three joined panels, a reassurance she was still present, could cast a shadow.
Emboldened, she sought company and spent hours in the Tapestry corridor rolling bandages with a jittery V.A.D. girl who spoke endlessly about her desire for a new hat and her craving for sugar since the stuff was rationed. Catherine had never been soothed by women’s company, so her reaction to the girl’s chatter surprised her.
CATHERINE WALKED a circular path around the studio, unable to enter, convinced it was the hour Artis would recognize the mask as Charles. Each branch that caught at her skirt and the stones that stopped her feet confirmed this, tried to keep her away from this confrontation. She stepped through the studio door as if the threshold would crack beneath her.
She set to work, staying in the shadows, hiding in the flourish of the broom, the motion of brush and rag. As Artis assisted Anna, Catherine directed the force of her concentration at him, to stiffen the boy’s hands, his neck and shoulders, and strike opacity into his eyes, to distract him from turning his memory against her.
The negative mold of Julian’s face had been painstakingly sculpted, corrected to resemble the photograph of Charles, and then cast in clay. Artis and Anna gently maneuvered the plaster mold of Julian’s face, filled with liquid clay like a bowl, and wedged it upright between two blocks on the table. With a great show of decisiveness, Anna placed a canvas-covered board atop the plaster mold, rapidly inverted both pieces, and set them down. “If the clay was too thick or too thin, or contained air, the cast will crack when it is removed from the mold.” She tinnily rapped the mold with a knife handle, loosening the firm clay inside.
&
nbsp; “Now to unveil the face I have created.”
With both hands, Anna delicately shook the mold to release the clay from its adhesive suck, and the face slowly, heavily slid free.
Catherine stifled a cry.
Formed of damp gray earth, Charles’s face appeared to miraculously emerge from the surface of the table, the right eye closed as if he were sleeping. Where the injured area of Julian’s face had been protected with cotton padding, the clay was blank and irregularly textured, as if wallpaper had been ripped from its surface.
“May I see?” Artis spoke from the far end of the table.
“Step right up.”
Catherine waited, lips tightening into a line, the tension spreading, stiffening her face and hands until she begged Artis to speak. “What do you see?”
Ignoring both women, Artis coolly studied the clay face, a fragile object that could be damaged with the gentlest pressure of a finger. His hand hovered over the thing, as if preparing to violate it. “The mask isn’t right.”
“What’s wrong?” Catherine’s frightened voice broke into the room.
Artis was clearly puzzled. “I didn’t think Julian would look like this.”
“I imagine each of us has our own vision of Julian’s real face,” Anna said.
But Artis wasn’t satisfied and wheeled around to stare at Catherine, a question in his eye. She couldn’t answer, made herself a stone. He shrugged.
Catherine looked from Artis to Anna in shocked disbelief, both of them deceived by the face in front of them. Charles was safe. She had passed.
The aura of danger surrounding the mask lifted away, clean as an erasure. The mask became a shallow oval, an object of service like a metal spoon that lifted food to the lips. A utensil for the face.
Catherine suddenly wanted to laugh aloud through this moment, disrupt their seriousness, their solemn evaluations. She found herself giddily inviting them to dinner in the State Room; she would open the oldest wines in the cellar, make them each gifts of particularly precious silver objects from the house.
