Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children of Paris

by Tim Willocks

  Carla almost said: I know such a man. I married him. I love him.

  But she didn’t want to interrupt Alice’s reverie; her sharing of a mother’s burden.

  ‘He never wooed another, lost all feeling for love – refuses to speak of it – but this old woman won’t credit the whore for that. His heart mended as hearts do. No, he lost his desire. That was the fruit of his mother’s curse, too. And who knows what else? For he’s grown into the darkest of men.’

  ‘You say Grymonde has a daughter?’

  ‘He never recognised her, for which, among much that he can, he can’t be blamed. He never knew his own father, though that was no tragedy. This grandmother hasn’t seen that little love since she was born, right here in this room.’

  If these events were about ten years ago, Grymonde was much younger than Carla had imagined, only thirty or so. She couldn’t help but think of Estelle. She recalled the fierce, sooty face, and could find no resemblance, though, as she knew too well, that meant little. It was the girl’s look that struck a bell, the molten arrow of jealousy she had loosed at Carla. Whoever the granddaughter was, the wound her loss had left in Alice had never healed.

  ‘My son was taken from me the day he was born,’ said Carla. ‘He was raised a bastard, an orphan, in a world not unlike these Yards. He was twelve before I saw him again. It took me that long to find the courage to look for him. And now he is lost again. This child, I swear, I will never let leave my arms.’

  A pang arose of such tremendous intensity that Carla felt that her hips would be rent in two. It passed and she felt purged of emotion. She asked for some cold tea and Alice gave it to her and she drank. The drawing lay on the bed and Carla picked it up and studied it, again marvelling at the work. The blacks had been sketched in powdered slate with a metal stylus. The red flush that made the subject throb with life was in rusty clay. The spark of light in the irises was caught with brown pencil. It was a masterpiece. She contained her curiosity. Alice smiled.

  ‘There’s a fine story to go with that picture, if you want to hear it.’

  ‘Please, I’d love to.’

  ‘So, my lad is eating breakfast outside a tavern in Les Halles one day, when a most distinguished gentleman walks up and asks him if he would object to having his portrait drawn. Now, a person runs into all sorts in Les Halles, but even there this request was without precedent, and my son took him for a sodomite – the gentleman would not have been the first such to approach him – and he told him to be on his way while he could still walk. But the gentleman persisted, offering to pay him handsome for an hour of his time. For what? Well, the gentleman sees in my son an irresistible challenge to the practice of his art, whereupon he declares himself the most famous painter in France.’

  ‘I knew it: Monsieur Clouet. He is painter to the royal family.’

  ‘That’s the very fellow. The name means nothing to my son, of course, but his vanity is now piqued and, having nothing to fear, he finishes his sausage and follows him to a splendid apartment in the Louvre, where – as good as his word and without any tricks – Monsieur Clouet makes this splendid picture in no more than a trice. Quite a performance, by all accounts, and very pleased with himself he was, too, the monsieur.’

  ‘I should think so, it’s superb. But how do you come to have it?’

  Another pang of great intensity intervened. Carla bore it with impatience. The birth was close now, she sensed it for the first time, and then no distraction would suffice.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘So, Monsieur Clouet thanks him and hands my son five gold écus – a sum so far beyond his expectations that he wonders if they were not counterfeit. But before he takes them, he gets his first sight of the picture. What do you think happens next?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘“No, monsieur”, says my son. “I’ll take my picture as my pay, thank you very much, for it will please my mother. And since you’ve had your challenge and met it square, the bargain is straight.” You can imagine the to-do.’

  ‘If I wasn’t in such straits I would laugh.’

  ‘When my son’s mind is set, it’s set, and there’s an end to it. So by the time the palace guards are called, the monsieur is in quite a tremble, and my lad threatens to tear the picture in pieces and use the shreds to mop up their blood. “But since t’would be pity to spoil this elegant trifle,” he says, “– and if you’re giving me five écus d’or it must be worth five hundred to you – I’ll stand while you make another picture, and we can have one each.” And so it was and there it is.’

  ‘From the look in his eye, this must be the second drawing.’

  ‘No, love, that’s the first. During the second the monsieur’s hand shook so much my son didn’t reckon the quality to be good enough.’

  For a moment Carla’s delight overrode her caution and she laughed. Her body responded with another wrenching throe. While she lay groaning, Alice retrieved the picture and stowed it away. She returned and removed the linen cloth and dried her. She dipped her hand in the pot of lotion.

  ‘Let’s see how we’re doing.’

  Carla opened her legs and Alice explored inside her.

  ‘Grand. There’s naught but a lip left, the head is full down. But don’t push yet.’

  A moment later they heard heavy footsteps below

  ‘Mam! I’m coming up!’

  ‘You wait down there until you’re told different!’

  ‘I’ve news.’

  ‘You heard me.’

  Carla was too engaged with the next pang to be much alarmed. Alice waited.

  ‘My son grew up in this room, watching his mother’s work. Since her strength’s not been what it was, he’s helped out more than a few times when the baby’s been awkward. Far more likely than not we’ll have no need of him today, but on my oath, you can trust him more than any surgeon. That said, if you’d rather he didn’t come in, he won’t.’

  Mattias had been with her through most of her last labour, except at those points where his anxiety had so taxed her she had sent him out to chop wood. All that mattered was the baby. Her concern for its welfare surged through her. If she’d been standing before a crowd it would no longer worry her.

  ‘If he might help, he’s welcome, I don’t care. But I need to stand, or squat, I feel too feeble lying on my back.’

  She clambered to her feet without letting Alice help her. Her vision went black for a moment, then returned. There was no frame to the bed, so she went to the short, stout bench that she’d used earlier. She grabbed the backrest and felt calm enough. She breathed evenly. She heard Alice and Grymonde talking outside the door, some dispute conducted in murmurs, on Alice’s part with quiet ferocity. She didn’t try to eavesdrop. She wasn’t curious. She was more tired than she had realised; the heat had sapped her. The pressure on her pelvis was immense, greater than when lying down, but on her feet she felt at least the illusion of greater control. Her thighs were heavy but after years in the saddle she had no doubts as to their strength. For the first time she felt the inclination to bear down building inside her.

  ‘Alice, I want to push.’

  ‘Wait for the next pang.’

  Carla waited but the next pang didn’t come. Her womb felt less tense than at any time since she’d got here. A kind of physical silence had fallen. Her mind struggled in a vortex of rogue feelings and emotions. She took deep breaths. She knew that at this stage the dangers were greatest. Was the baby’s head too big? She dismissed the thought. Were her muscles exhausted? Was the baby in distress? She was, after all, a week or two early.

  ‘The pang isn’t coming.’ She didn’t hide the tremor of panic in her voice.

  ‘Don’t fret, love. That’s common enough when you get to the brink.’

  ‘Your body is gathering its strength for the real work,’ said Grymonde.

  Carla turned her head and looked at him. She had forgotten quite how grotesque his face was. Monsieur Clouet’s portrait flashed through her mind. Sweat
ran into her eyes and she wiped it with her scarf. In as far as she could read the crude features, Grymonde seemed troubled, but not by her. As far as she was concerned, he showed not a trace of diffidence or embarrassment. He roused a broad smile. While the situation seemed unremarkable to him, its absolute strangeness was not lost on Carla, despite the vortex, and yet his massive presence did lend her confidence.

  ‘Carla,’ he said, ‘you’ve done us all proud.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re most welcome.’

  ‘Have you washed, you big ox?’

  ‘Of course I’ve washed.’

  As Grymonde brandished his huge hands for inspection the contraction came in a great surge and on instinct Carla squatted and bore down. For the first time she felt the actual movement of the baby. Her skin began to burn. She groaned and pushed until the long wave waned. She breathed deeply and looked down but her nightgown covered her thighs. She pulled it up but it still obscured her view.

  ‘Tie it up for me, please.’

  She tucked the front edge of the nightgown beneath her breasts and Grymonde gathered the skirts up behind her and tied them snug behind her back.

  ‘No need for shame,’ he said.

  ‘I feel no shame.’

  She bent her head over her belly to look between her thighs, but still couldn’t quite see. She took a hand from the rail and felt herself. She was swollen and bulging apart. She heard both Alice and Grymonde utter soothing encouragements, but hardly noticed their words. She was alone in this now. The thought redoubled her strength. This was her baby. The baby was counting on her.

  ‘I won’t let you down.’

  The next surge roared through her and she moaned and pushed and the burning intensified. Again she felt the movement, enormous and inexorable, peeling her open. The pain flooded her imagination. She shifted her feet on the dried rushes. Her legs were strong. She gave herself to the opening, she willed herself open. She pushed. She groaned.

  ‘I love you.’

  The pang faded. She stood up for a moment, bent forward, caught her breath. The burning raged at her core. She wanted to push but breathed and waited. Again, the wait seemed endless, harder to endure than the pangs, for they required only submission, not restraint. Grymonde spread a linen towel on the floor between her feet. She realised the effort that so simple a task would have cost Alice, and she was glad he was here.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  ‘The honour is mine. I’m going to open the curtains, so that the babe might emerge into sunlight.’

  She nodded. Her back was to the window, yet after the relative gloom to which she had become accustomed, the light was blinding. She closed her eyes. She squatted. She felt Alice’s hand squeeze her shoulder and she reached back to stroke it.

  Another pang.

  She pushed and moaned.

  Another.

  Another.

  Another.

  Another.

  With each surge the burning reached a crescendo that seemed impossible to exceed, yet with each following the intensity was greater. Grymonde knelt beside her.

  ‘With your permission.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  He peered between her thighs. He took her hand from the rail.

  ‘See. The babe is near crowned.’

  She put her hands between her legs. She felt wet hair. A warm, hard head.

  ‘Oh God.’

  Her elation at touching her child vanquished her pain; but only for an instant.

  She felt Alice squeeze her shoulder again.

  ‘You’re almost done, love. On the next throe don’t push too violent or sudden, but strong and steady, so you won’t tear.’

  ‘Like pulling a cork,’ offered Grymonde.

  The pang rose and she bore down, strong, steady. The burning peaked.

  ‘I am the Fire.’

  She let out a moan of ecstatic release as the head passed and turned.

  She released a rush of water, more than she had thought still in her.

  She heaved for breath.

  She reached down.

  ‘Is he all right? Tell me.’

  Grymonde sat on his heels, ducking low, indifferent to the fluids.

  ‘Pink as a ripe peach and already blinking.’

  Her fingertips touched skin of exquisite softness. A cheek. She sobbed.

  ‘Don’t relax just yet, love. A couple more throes and you’re done.’

  ‘Should I wait?’

  The pang came before Alice could answer and Carla closed her eyes and bore down. The burning rose again, though she hardly noticed and cared not at all.

  In a final torrential rush her baby’s body slithered out of hers.

  In that instant she felt loss pierce her, then it was gone amid a wave of relief so complete she swayed on her heels. She squeezed on the rail to keep her balance. She opened her eyes and looked down.

  The babe sat gleaming in Grymonde’s enormous palms. The damp head flopped this way then that in venturesome movements, eyes blinking through pearls of fluid, which also sputtered from its lips. Limbs flexed in seeming delight at discovering such freedom. A torn sheet of translucent white membrane, still attached to the cord at one end, clung around the babe’s shoulders and encased the flexing legs.

  ‘Born in the caul,’ said Grymonde with pride. He glanced at Alice. ‘As near as matters to me. It’s a good omen.’

  Carla hardly listened. She let go of the rail and Grymonde offered up the babe. Carla took the babe under the arms. Her hands encircled the warm body, smeared in creamy grease, and her heart flooded with rapture. She felt the delicate ribcage heave, and life and hope and courage throbbed between her palms.

  With great gentleness, Grymonde peeled the caul away.

  Carla supported the babe’s head with her fingertips and sat backwards on the floor.

  She held her new child up before her face.

  Carla was overwhelmed by her beauty.

  Her beauty.

  Carla’s heart flooded again with pure love.

  The babe was a girl.

  Carla cradled her and put her mouth to the little girl’s lips and sucked out the remnants of fluid. The baby girl blinked and waved tiny hands and looked at her. Her eyes were as pale and lustrous as opal. Carla knew she had given birth to an angel.

  ‘Amparo.’

  Amparo uttered a short, sweet cry.

  Carla put her cheek to Amparo’s. She whispered in her ear.

  ‘You will be a singer of songs.’

  She felt Alice at her shoulder and turned to see her joy.

  She loved the old woman.

  ‘Thank you, Alice. I will never –’ she swallowed. ‘I will never forget.’

  Carla looked at Grymonde. How could such a man contain such darkness? She thought of Mattias, of whom she had asked herself the same question. She had a terrible urge to see Mattias hold his baby girl in his arms, for she knew it was a girl he had hoped for. But Mattias wasn’t here, and she and their daughter were. Before sadness could overcome her, she mustered a smile for the monster kneeling before her.

  ‘Thank you, too, Monsieur Grymonde.’

  Grymonde displayed the unnatural gaps between his teeth.

  ‘I did nothing, Carla. You did it all.’

  ‘You’ve both been generous friends to me. To us.’

  Emotion overwhelmed her and she felt tears fall.

  ‘Let’s move to the bed,’ said Alice. ‘There’s a few chores yet undone, not least giving Amparo her first feed. The sooner the better, the colostra will help the afterbirth.’

  Grymonde stood behind Carla and put his hands around her waist and lifted her to her feet as if she weighed no more than the baby. The absence of the load she had carried for so long unbalanced her. She steadied herself. She found she could walk well enough but was happy for the bed when she got there. Alice spread two clean towels and Carla sat on them and reclined against the pillows. She put Amparo to her nipple, who at once took it in her mouth and suck
led in absolute bliss.

  Carla’s happiness was near as complete as her baby’s.

  ‘My daughter. My lovely daughter. And all this time I thought you a boy.’

  She smiled at Alice. Alice inclined her head towards her son.

  ‘In this woman’s view you got the better side of the bargain.’

  ‘I believed her to be a boy because she kicked me so hard.’

  ‘This old girl predicts you’ll be far from the last she kicks. Here, love, feel the cord, while your two hearts still beat, the one to the other.’

  Carla took the blue coil in her hand and felt her own blood pulsing through it.

  ‘It feels strange, but beautiful. Should we not cut it?’

  ‘We cut it when it stops its beating. Is it not still a living part of you both? What fool would kill it before its natural end?’ She scoffed and held up her palm. ‘Don’t tell me. Now, while you’re both content, let’s see how the afterbirth goes. And you, you big ox, clear up those wet reeds before they go sour in this heat. And draw those curtains, we’re roasting.’

  Grymonde laughed. ‘The big ox will tend to the caul, then the slops.’

  ‘And tell Hugon to make us some fresh tea.’

  Grymonde spun, quick as a wild beast, his hand on his knife, as a strange sound, itself deep and raw enough to have come from the throat of some fabled creature, echoed up the stairs. Carla knew the sound. Someone had bowed her gambo violl, crudely but well.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed. It’s my violl.’

  ‘Your violl?’

  Grymonde bellowed down the stair.

  ‘Who’s that? Get up here now!’

  Hugon appeared at the door, shamefaced and afraid. Grymonde glowered.

  ‘Is it true, knave? Did you tamper with the violl?’

  ‘Please,’ said Carla. ‘He did no harm. Don’t chastise him.’

  ‘Your pardon, madame. I heard your music. We all did. It made me cry.’

  ‘I’ll make you cry, boy.’

  Grymonde raised a hand and Hugon waited for the blow. It didn’t fall. Hugon looked at Carla without remorse; but with the yearning she had seen before.

  Hugon said, ‘I wanted to know how the sound was made.’

  ‘You made a fine start,’ said Carla. ‘You attacked the strings with a spirit that few ever dare.’