All Pure Souls

by John Brooke

  “It’s not Flossie. It’s me. I’m the one.”

  Georgette stands. “Let’s stop this! We should have a lawyer!”

  “No...” Ondine looks away from the offered hand.

  “Yes! You’re in no condition to — ”

  “Georgette!” Aliette interjects. “Let her speak or you’ll have to go.”

  “You have to help her!”

  “I have to find out what happened first!” In a more appropriate tone: “Please remember where you are...and that you came here of your own accord.”

  Georgette does not like to hear it. She sits, glowering as only Georgette can.

  Aliette asks Ondine. “Who killed Manon Larivière?”

  “I did.”

  Aliette cannot make her pen move. “You did...how?”

  “With a knife... It was for me to do it. It was my responsibility. My fault. My mistake. My terrible, terrible mistake...” Tears are streaming now; yet she sits there unflinching, needing to tell.

  All Aliette can do is ask, “What happened?”

  Ondine relates the events of the night of August 5th.

  3.

  The weather has been impossible. People’s nerves are frayed. When Flossie appears at her door, Ondine stands there mute, on edge, as if looking at a stranger. “You must come, Ondine. Manon needs you.” But she’s been expecting her. Looking into those sparkling umber eyes, Ondine has to admit part of her had been hoping for this summons. Those have been unspeakable hopes but she can’t deny them. Manon’s confessions and fears have turned to troubling hints about redemption, and of how she might resolve it all. It’s Flossie who has planted this notion; if you know Manon at all, that’s not hard to see. Manon’s been saying these words, but she has always only been a vessel. The worse it was becoming for Manon Larivière the more clear was the voice of Flossie Orain coming through the complaints and the longing... Intimations of purpose. And service. Ondine had begun to understand she would be called. She would be needed.

  It’s good to be needed. Ondine has been waiting, still, passive, for too long.

  They walk through the streets in silence, at an urgent pace, faster than is comfortable for old joints only slightly lubricated by the steamy air. But that’s how it had always been with Flossie, urgent. Those early days...Ondine had been so impressed by her. Her and Louise. Impressed and intrigued: they were educated — Flossie with a Philo A baccalaureate, a degree in History and a term at the Law Faculty, Louise with the B bacc and two years of Economics. They were big readers, good talkers. They were thinkers. What were they doing at Mari Morgan’s?

  “Dropping out and going to war,” was how Flossie put it.

  What did that mean to a seamstress? Had the two new girls been in the streets of Paris in May of ‘68? Were they involved with one of those German Maoist factions that liked to plant bombs? Ondine could never quite grasp the world they had come from. But what was clear, in the way they talked and their manner of confronting the world — clients, Herméné if he said the wrong thing, even someone like Erly the baker next door — was that they understood perfectly the machinations behind the values sustaining a place like Mari Morgan’s. They’d come, they said, to “ground zero” because it was simply the best place from which to break it all apart and find something new.

  They had embraced the goddess — wholeheartedly!

  They had been equally delighted when Herméné introduced them to Maeve.

  “Le minou n’a pas besoin de carabine!” proclaimed Flossie, returning from the library loaded down with more books containing dusty stories that picked up where Ondine’s old nameless red book had left off. Some showed the goddess in her guise as a ruthless, fearless fighter: Maeve, a politically astute queen who played heroes off against each other, in her bed and in her battles, always keeping her sizable territory shifting — liquid, you might say...always ready. Pussy doesn’t need a gun...? “They’re only stories, Ondine. But they show us everything we can be...have to be, when the time is right.” Then Louise would turn around and show her a plan for profit-sharing, or a salary scale equating Ondine’s share with Ondine’s efforts, and Herméné’s with his.

  Impressive and intriguing. And disturbing, being pulled forward so drastically by this energy, this attitude — then being pushed aside. Ondine could never be a part of it. She had walked away. But they would not let go...kept coming to her: repairs to a garter belt, more pretty things. These things were also part of the new design. She had complained: is that all I’m good for? I’m your teacher. Is there no role for me now?

  But Flossie had kept one. A special role — only for Ondine.

  ...They go in the back way, all in a rush after ten — no, twelve years away, Flossie holding the door, ushering her through the empty kitchen and into the cool room where the apple twigs burn in a dish on the unadorned table. Her old work room. It’s exactly how she’d left it. As with everything they did, Ondine has to admire the way they’ve concealed it, filling in the window, extending the wall behind Céleste and making it a seamless structural support, the room itself a forgotten closed-off space which opens only to hands that know exactly where to touch. But why? Surely not for the sake of Herméné Dupras... Why are they hiding her like this? What had they done with the goddess?

  “Protecting her,” says Flossie, closing the wall behind them; “...keeping her safe, pure. In a world like this, a woman like Manon needs the goddess to be pure and clear.” She takes the jar and a glass from the old cabinet and brings it to Ondine. “She can’t go on, Ondine... Too miserable. Too hopeless. She’s reached the absolute end of all her hope...August 5th is the day. She believes it’s the only thing she can do.”

  “I know.”

  “Then you know she needs you to help her.”

  Ondine confronts Maeve, the hand that offers, Flossie’s earnest face. “How can I?” At that moment she does not feel anything but a weightless curiosity as to how a person could do it. She had been thinking about it. As the need and the request had become clear, Ondine had been trying to conceive of doing this thing. Now, confronted with it... The release of one’s deepest self into the act; in many ways it would have to be greater even than the victim’s. And from a farther distance than an executioner’s. And from a stronger place than a murderer’s. All those things, combined in one act. How could she do it? How could anyone be expected to?

  “She will show you,” says Flossie, handing her the glass.

  Ondine accepts it... Would she do that? Would the goddess take her as a priestess and take her out of time? After all this time alone in a dingy shop? Two minds. It’s difficult to find balance on a muggy night... No! She tells Flossie, “Manon doesn’t know what she wants. She’s being morbid. She needs love and help. This is not the time for — ” For a moment, in the vague light of the small sanctuary, Ondine hangs there confused and intimidated. Where are my tape and scissors? She’ll make something new and exquisite, just for Manon. That was her role... Looking around for the things she needs.

  Flossie lays a calming hand on Ondine’s arm. “It’s the ultimate gift. It means the most. It gives the most energy. It’s what she believes she is meant to do. An active spirit, Ondine... A purpose for everyone. It’s what you taught us.”

  “I can’t.”

  Flossie asks, “What do you believe you were meant to do?”

  Make underwear? Left unsaid, but Ondine knows Flossie.

  And Flossie knows Ondine.

  “This...” Ondine reels, remembering, feeling the quiet coolness of the room where she had worked and taught them, breathing the sweet scent of the smoke, sharing the verse, the ideas, the goddess. I made this place. I helped some women who would never have known it find some integrity, a bit of meaning; it’s what I believe I was meant to do. “Nurture an active spirit,” is what she hears herself whisper.

  Flossie says, “I know you’ve been waiting, Ondine...waiting to move forward. None of us can stop until we’re off the wheel. The only way to move is to
do the real thing our fate says we’re meant to... You know this is where your life has brought you.”

  “You do it.”

  Flossie smiles, with love — or something so much like it to the eyes of a needful Ondine. “Not me...not yet. Drink. Maeve will help you.”

  Not you, not yet: a strong woman, still young and alive to the world, many things still to do.

  And me: is this where my life has brought me? Ondine knows she has brought this moment upon herself, invited it...by hiding, by sitting in the past and only waiting — waiting for the goddess to show her the next thing. But if I turn away, where will I be? What will I have to show? Show her... Thus Ondine tastes Maeve again after so long away. It’s the same as before, burning, leaving layers of flavour on her palate and down her throat. It’s the same as the first time, on an island at the edge of the world.

  Closing her eyes, she bends toward the meagre trail of smoke rising from the dish of burning twigs. She stays there, in wordless prayer...empty prayer, losing track of time, letting the smoke infuse her being. And Flossie lays a caring hand upon her head.

  Finally, looking up, through changing eyes — Maeve is working... But where is Manon?

  “She was here, with Dorise and Louise and me. We burned some twigs. We shared Maeve. We made sure we understand. Dorise was helping her with her hair...”

  Ondine can see it: Dorise with Manon, preparing. She can see Dorise’s raw hands holding the silver brush, brushing the unreal platinum hair. Dorise afraid — but also in awe. And her grey eyes, the eyes of a homely fifteen-year-old who had believed completely in another, better existence. And Manon believing it too, to save her soul.

  “It was beautiful to see,” says Flossie. “I could feel the goddess there with us, so proud, grateful for this gesture... She’s waiting for you, Ondine. She’s with Herméné...”

  With Herméné?

  “Don’t worry.”

  No? Why? ...Then she understands.

  Flossie nods. “It may as well be him.”

  Practicalities. When push had come to shove, Mari Morgan’s had always been defended in the most practical of ways. Now an unseen door to protect the goddess. And Herménégilde Dupras to protect Ondine. Yes, it may as well be him... And the others? What of the others?

  “They don’t know... Ondine, it’s between Manon and the goddess.” And those of us who will understand, those she needs to help her go through. It’s only Dorise, Louise and Flossie who have adjusted their movements on this special night — Louise is out in the front making sure, Dorise is watching the back stairs, it’s safe and quiet, it’s the best we can do for our friend Manon...

  But these worries are fading from Ondine’s mind. Already she can feel Maeve lifting her away from the concerns of one brief night in time.

  Flossie proffers the book. Ondine sets it on the table, touching it, bemused. Yes, Maeve works differently on an older woman’s mind. Ondine feels her...but it’s as if she feels her come and go. Has the space between herself and the goddess grown smaller with the years? Is she with her already? Mmm, two minds returning to one... The book opens at the verse. Ondine sees the words and follows them...

  Flossie takes her hand. The wall swings open slightly and together they go out.

  Manon is unaware. She’s at the bookcase, examining the photos gathered there, many of herself, feeling them, going from one to the next, searching... Ondine waits, watching her, letting her feel her way. Herménégilde Dupras is slouched over his desktop in a formless heap. The sight of him’s a jolt — the face of the goddess dims. No! Ondine can’t dwell on Herméné — won’t allow him into her fate. Not now. Far too late. It’s Manon. She’s the one who’s trapped here. She’s the one who needs to leave. Ondine moves closer. The red book is still open in her hand.

  Manon senses her and turns. Her face and hair have been done as if for work. They were always made this way. Manon has not changed, not even for this night...she had insisted that she could not. Even as she’d poured out her despair at what she believed was the end of her useful life, Manon had refused to consider shedding that mask. She holds a knife and comes to Ondine with a halting step, as if walking in the dark, looking but not focusing, face trembling like she’ll shatter. “Please, Ondine. Maeve can only give me so much courage.” Hearing it, here in this room where Ondine herself had spent so much time helping build a playworld around Manon... Ondine trips inside herself again — she thinks she sees what the men must see: this is where the charm turned hot, Marilyn Monroe’s lonely heart opened wide.

  ...But, finding strength, Manon whispers, “Read it to me.” A humble request; while passing the knife into Ondine’s hand; “I want to be inside the verse. With her...Ondine. Away from this.”

  Ondine begins to read for Manon — slow, deliberate, the same care for these words she’ll give the most intricate hand-embroidered hem. And reading so, each line allows Ondine to see more clearly. The situation...and its necessity. Manon is an inch away, pressing closer, keeping her hand...now both, now tightly, on Ondine’s right hand as it holds the knife, pressing its point against herself, against the silk covering her body.

  A silken thing that Ondine had made? Wavering...

  Looking up and into Manon’s eyes, that notion is the last one. Ondine reads for herself: Each line brings her closer into alignment with something original, infinite. So Ondine disappears from herself. Only the words remain. In a voice. Inside the faintest scent of apple smoke.

  Manon is a woman without a future. But the golden-haired acolyte is luxuriant, full in her presence, giving herself fully, insistently, willing it, the merging of her life with that last line.

  “I am the tomb of every hope.”

  A sound...a woman’s sound. Pain. The sharp surprise of it.

  The knife is now inside her. Feeling momentum, Ondine presses further.

  Then lets go of the knife, not like a knife but a handle on a door.

  Manon sinks down, carrying it with her to the floor.

  Ondine hears a voice — Dorise? or Flossie or Louise — say simply, “From corruption, sweetness.”

  She remembers a hand on her shoulder...and blood seeping into the material of Manon’s chemise.

  After that, the heat again, outside, as they hurry her away.

  14

  On Secret Doors and Waiting

  The inspector lays it out — raw, cool, mean; it’s the only way: The act is central, but Ondine’s part is marginal and highly mediated despite her tragic claims. She is an outsider. She’s an old woman — just a seamstress. It’s not her world anymore. She was used by someone younger, stronger, far more dangerous. No, what would be the point of arresting Ondine? One’s sense of justice, not to say the goddess, will be skewed. Can you live with that, Ondine Duguay?

  Or is there a way to effect some change before reaching legal closure?

  Your move, Ondine... Not that I expect much from a helpless old lady. Who would?

  Ondine leaves with her sister, empty, leaning on her sister’s arm. Will a tired seamstress respond to one cop’s bitter assessment? It’s a challenge, and a gamble. Aliette feels the presence of Georgette may improve the odds... She folds the deposition sheet and puts it in her pocket; for all intents and purposes it’s still clean. In the beginning was the word, no? This applies to legal process as much as to the notion that the goddess takes her cue from the environment. Can the goddess do much good at all from behind a secret door? Surprise me, Ondine... Stand in for me, Georgette.

  She leaves it and heads home. But she can’t walk away from it. Such a useless cop!

  Up through the anger comes that voice, conciliatory, trying to tell her no one’s perfect:

  Her house is full of many mansions, Aliette; didn’t the good sisters ever tell you that one?

  Yes.

  Of course they did... And most of them are reached through secret doors.

  She doesn’t buy it. A secret door in the kitchen. Quelle conne, Aliette! How could you be so stu
pid? No one gets fooled by a secret door any more!

  Au contraire — everyone does, every day.

  I should have guessed!

  But you’re a professional — you don’t guess.

  I could have known. I touched it. I went right over and touched that model cow.

  Because you thought she was beautiful.

  There’s no excuse for not seeing it... A cow. So literal. How blind!

  Please! ...Give yourself a break here. Secret doors are basic to the job. Secret doors opening to a labyrinth of elemental passages. It’s the world you live in. It’s why you have the job you have...You, the inspector: the things you recognize — just...just a glimpse, a clue — and move toward. How do you arrive if not by means of secret doors? But don’t expect each one to open just like that — just because you happen to be standing in front of it. It doesn’t work that way, ma belle... Nine years on the force? You should have come to terms by now.

  No! She doesn’t want to listen. Or it could be that she can’t; professional identity is on the line here. She tells herself: You should have sensed it. Deduced it! It’s in the logic of the place...in every move they make. Finding it could have saved Colette Namur. Kept that girl Vivi from ever setting foot inside the place... She asks herself: Are you truly the best we have to offer? Do you really deserve all that supposed freedom to pick and choose and come and go as you please? And pretending you deserved the top job... Bullshit! Just a sham. A secret door. Pretty pathetic, Inspector. Etc. Etc... Too much anger. Hard to think clearly as the waiting begins.

  She’s not the only one who’s bothered by developments. Arriving home, collecting her mail, there’s another communication from Substitute Procureur Cécile Botrel. Through the post? Because her boss Michel Souviron is back on the job? And this one’s not on official Parquet stationery...

  I trust you will treat the attached with discretion and not for the purposes of work per se, but more, perhaps, for research into why we are the way we are — some women, that is. — CB.

  The attached being a copy of a printout from an RG file on Florence Orain.