The following morning, she was unable to rise from her bed, and she called to Monsieur Sorbonne and Mademoiselle Objet to come in. “Sit down, my Dear Ones,” she said when they arrived.
Monsieur Sorbonne would not sit down, but stood at the head of the bed beside her, and Mademoiselle Objet, on the blue embroidered hassock, sat near the foot of her bed.
“Thank you for coming,” said Madame Métier. “Soon now, I will slip through my body, and I wanted you to know. I can feel it. And I wanted also, before I leave, to have a little time with you.” At the foot of the bed, hands folded, Mademoiselle Objet began, a little, to cry; and for the first time ever, Madame Métier was unable to reach out and touch her hands.
“Don’t cry,” said Madame Métier. “It’s just a change of address. We’ll see one another again. But before I go, I have a few little gifts for you.”
Mademoiselle Objet stood up and joined Monsieur Sorbonne at the head of the bed and, as they stood there together, Madame Métier handed them each a smallish square package, then watched as first Monsieur Sorbonne opened his. Inside its red paper wrapper was an elegant black box, and inside the box, in a cradle of gathered black velvet, was a crystal ball. Monsieur Sorbonne held it up to the light, which was pouring in through the bedroom window. “A new lens for you,” said Madame Métier. “So you will see, always, the mystery and the wholeness of life.”
“Thank you,” said Monsieur Sorbonne, and as he did, a ribbon of tears threaded its way down his cheeks. Then Mademoiselle Objet opened her gift, which was wrapped in white paper and tied with a white satin ribbon. Inside it, beneath a golden lid embossed with its namesake flower, was a cachepot of calla lily creme. “In case you should ever have need of it,” said Madame Métier. “And because you were so patient,”—she laughed a little, remembering—“while I was creating it.”
Stilled by the elegant beauty of her gift, a stream of tears flooded Mademoiselle Objet’s eyes. She turned to Madame Métier and whispered a “Thank You,” and Madame Métier smiled. Then she looked across at the two of them. “I’m tired now,” she said quietly. “And it’s time. I want to say good-bye. Thank you for being such beautiful friends. We have had a most beautiful life here together. So many beautiful moments. So much love. Such a long and beautiful journey of healing and compassion.”
So saying, she gathered her strewn-with-red-roses white silk dressing gown a little more closely about her, and lifting her arms to embrace each one of them one more time, slipped free of her cocoon.
CHAPTER 4
Monsieur Sorbonne and Mademoiselle Objet Have a Ceremony
From her bed then, Monsieur Sorbonne and Mademoiselle Objet took the pillow that smelled faintly of clary sage, was it? Or saxifrage? Her casket they lined with rose petals of every color from her garden. With her exquisite hands, the way that in life Madame Métier had so often done for her, Mademoiselle Objet smoothed and smoothed out Madame Métier’s white hair and finally, as if in heaven to protect her from the loss of both of them, applied some calla lily creme to Madame Métier’s hands before folding them over her heart.
As she lay there in repose, beautiful, translucent, and more at peace than ever in life they had seen her, knowing in advance that it probably wouldn’t turn out—“It’ll just be a shimmering sheet of white light, but please try anyway,” said Mademoiselle Objet—Monsieur Sorbonne at her insistence, one final time, took a photograph of the very unusual woman.
And afterward, whenever they came to her grave to lay flowers down upon it, they noticed that it was always marked off by a perfect rectangle of shining white light.
Fini
Glossary
Métier (met-e-ay)
Métier A life’s work for which one’s talents are particularly suited, hence a life’s work which is an expression of purpose.
Sorbonne (sore-bawn)
Sorbonne A place of great learning, where many of life’s questions are answered and curiosities resolved, as for example, the Sorbonne, a university in Paris.
Objet (ob-jay)
Objet A material object, possession, or artifact of physical life, perceptible to vision or to touch.
avant garde unusual, ahead of its time
bain mousse bubble bath
beau beautiful
café cremè a coffee with a lot of cream
ceil the sky
compliqué complicated
crêpe a thin, delicious pancake
en masse in a group, all together
exactement exactly
fumed smoked
ici here
la bas over there
medias res in the middle of things
melanges mixtures of various things
mort dead
pâté ground up paste of a food
plage beach
plus more
poisson fish
presque almost, nearly
raison d’être reason for being
sans without
séance a time of sitting together
soirée a lovely evening event
soleil the sun
sous chef an assistant chef
trés very
toujours always
tête-à-tête a little talk
toute seule all alone
trompe l’oeil something painted so accurately that what has been painted appears to be real
vetiver plant with a lovely fragrance
Acknowledgments
Immense gratitude to the Mysterious Force which left the note with the words: “Madame Métier in a corner of the armoire of my Paris hotel room.”
A fan-deck of thanks to my agent, Johanna Maaghoul, for her passionate conviction about this book, and to Olivia Maaghoul, one of its premier readers, for her unbridled and contagious excitement.
A deep bow of thanks to my deft, delightful (and elegantly patient) editor, Alexandra Hess at Skyhorse Publishing, for her vision and enthusiasm, and for shepherding this book into the world.
I am once again hugely and humbly grateful to MJ Ryan for an infinitude of assistance, hospitality, and deep companionship along the way (It is always a gift and a joy), and to Donald McIlraith for, once again, welcoming me into the family circle.
To the many people at my little hotel on the Left Bank who tolerated years of my “you-can’t-change-the-bed-yet; I’m writing,” a heartfelt Merci.
To my daughter, Molly, at whose many kitchen and dining room tables this manuscript was endlessly refined, a dear and ever-delighted Thank you. I. L. Y.
Finally, and always, I am grateful to the voice that quietly directs my hand. It is always a privilege to transcribe your words.
The Magical World of Madame Métier Page 23
