by Amelia Gray
I feel closer than ever to the children. They stand behind a wall of flesh thinner than an eyelid. They grasp and beckon, their hands wrapping around my wrists. Desire is nutrient to my blood, and it is desire that takes me to a place, as truly before me as the sea itself, where the poet Shelley reclines on a deck chair, turning the pages of a waterlogged folio. The rain patters meekly around him.
“The storm is overpast,” Shelley says, looking up at the clouds. He regards me in a pleasantly distant way, as if he has been expecting someone, but not me exactly. Thin waves wash over his pantlegs, and his hair has dried in a wild curl. One of his shoes is stripped of its sole and wrapped with seaweed, and the other is missing entirely. I can’t seem to find the shoal on which he has balanced the chair and so I paddle around him like a happy dog.
He seems like a man who knows his manners but might easily forget them. “I sat and saw the vessels glide over the ocean bright and wide,” he says. The shoreline is hidden, which makes it seem as if Shelley has found the last land on the planet. He offers the bare foot and I take it gratefully.
“I suppose we’re supposed to hold out here until our hearts mend?”
He shrugs. “I have neither hope nor health.”
“My boy lost his shoe as well, patent leather with a calfskin sole. We had bought them the month before, but they were already pinching him. You know how quickly children grow. Have you seen it out here?”
“The tempest is stern,” he says, patting his breast pocket and then the pocket in his pants, stretching his legs and coming up empty. “Great and mean meet massed in death.”
“It’s no matter, Patrick hated those shoes. He threw a fit when I put them on him that morning. He must have kicked it off in the car. Perhaps Annie was fussing to find it on the floor when the brake slipped. Can you imagine, all this over a shoe?”
“Our sweetest songs tell of saddest thought,” he says, finding his pen tucked behind his ear and taking up his papers again. “On a cheek the life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.”
“But I’m tired of heartbreak. I only want to join the children.”
“Chained to time and cannot thence depart.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Chained to time,” he says, “and cannot thence depart.” The rain starts up again, and he seems only vaguely annoyed as the papers on his lap are drenched. I try for one quick glimpse of his work before he kicks me off, sending me backward into the raging storm.
The sea takes me under at once. Cradled in waves and swaddled to them, my legs pinned together as I breathe the water in and spit it up like a baby at the breast. In glimpses I see the shore, where the children have a stormy seaside day. Patrick leaps to plunge a short spear into the sand as Deirdre walks on the tideline, gathering stones in a pail. I can hear their happy cries, the cracking echo of the stones.
The water pulls me down again, binds and strangles me with my own thin clothes and drags me across the rocks. My own weight returns all at once. Without a bit of strength remaining, I have to admit the sea has killed me, but at that moment my head rears back above water as my hands find the cold sand of the beach. The sea is furious at this turn of events, grinding salt water into a thick gash on my thigh as if it could force itself into my veins, to prove what made me.
The rain stops above me, and I see a man leaning over, the water running in dark-haired channels to fall in a halo around my head. From my position he resembles a figure in contemplation on a ceiling fresco, or perhaps a coroner at the morgue. My bloomers clutched around me have torn in places, blood winding sharply down my leg, my hair tangled and sticking to my face. He shivers in his shirt; farther up the beach, his coat and boots rest a shy thirty paces from my clothes, the parasol standing between them like a referee. Between my wet bloomers and his bare arms, we are a decency crime needing only a witness.
“Did you see the vastness?” he asks.
“I don’t follow.”
“The vastness. Did you see it?”
“I saw Shelley—”
“Tell me what he said.”
This man is clearly ill, with the look of a mad scientist watching his monster come to life before him. I think back to the pages in Shelley’s lap, which held every line of his careful writing, the ink indelible.
“Madam,” he says, his voice fighting waves I would be happy never to touch again. “Madam Duncan, what is it you need? Is there something I can do to help you?”
How strange! This man’s very soul is plain to me. He stands between the sea and the world. I will not force the world to cross our paths again.
“Save more than my life,” I say. “Save my reason. Give me a child.”
Without another word, he gathers me up. Or he tries to, anyway; I have become a sopping pile and he is not a strong man from the sound of it. He falls to one knee, his mouth pressed to my hair. When he tries to stand again, he makes it halfway up but loses the strength in his legs, and I hit the sand rolling. If he had aimed to carry me heroically to his flat, he abandons the plan—most of us do give up when faced with the true weight of things—and instead guides me to stumble across the sand until together we fall hard against a surface that shudders under our weight and threatens to splinter. He tries to brace against it, but it angles itself away from him; it is one of the old bathing machines, the one with the broken axle, the thing rolling haplessly back and forth on its unburied wheel.
He pries the door open, and we find ourselves in the funny little room canted hard to the side. We are sweethearts in a fun house, hanging onto each other. Under his thin shirt I find a long raised scar running diagonally across his gut. I can see him circling another man, describing blades in quick half circles, protecting his heart; I feel the corset pinch, every woman on the street bound in boning; the dueling men thrust and parry, the plunging blade; the stage the bed the empty stage; the wheel turns, the bulging door, water seeping past the ledge; the heat, the heart, the craven center of the very world; the consummate act at season’s end; he says his own name and repeats it, Romano, lips set against my skin to brand it; the burning earth, the ash, Romano Romano; my whole body willing a child into being; a baby, shocked and screaming to wake the world.
The man bows his head, his fist landing on the wall hard enough to drive it through the wood. He extracts himself, staggering back and out the door, falling into the rising tide that lifts all ships, the water that seeks me no matter where I go.
Splashing to stand, he looks back. I feel a tenderness for him, a sensation I hardly recognize for its rarity in my life; a warmth, before the silver-streaking pain of the splinter that found the very meatiest part of my ass.
On receiving word from Paris Singer that he is needed in France, Max pushes aside the idea that he has never really been needed anywhere
That wasn’t exactly true, anyway. There had been plenty of episodes in the not-too-distant past when his skills and services had been requested, if not demanded. He had always been well liked by soloists in Frankfurt for his good attitude and late nights, often insisting that a rehearsal was not finished until the artist was satisfied. Elizabeth counted on him as a contributing leader of their school, though she had been a little distracted lately and hadn’t shown her gratitude in her usual ways. The girls mostly complained about all the hard work he put into nourishing them, but they all looked up to him, he knew.
He was sorry to leave Darmstadt just as his work with the six girls had gotten under way. It was important to respect the conditions of the experiment, which meant the worst thing any of them could do would be to pack up and head to France, where conditions were fully changed and where none of the calisthenic equipment could be transported, being too heavy to move without a surplus charge that Max could not find in his budget. The girls seemed to like Isadora more than they did him or Elizabeth, whom they teased relentlessly, calling her Tante Miss as if she were their old-maid auntie. Girls could be so cruel, and so accurate in their cruelty.
He would work harder to improve Elizabeth as well. He could look a little closer at her diet, ensuring that she was eating well and properly. They could take more walks together, and he could listen well to her dark stories about the news. Perhaps Isadora would have some advice about her sister if they ever got a chance to speak; Elizabeth often complained of how critical she was, which meant Max might find in her a kindred spirit.
There would need to be some changes. Elizabeth had been mooning about, sleeping late and staring into middle distance. She ignored his efforts and dismissed him daily. Max felt mired in negative feelings. He found he was coming down with something, and wished there was someone to care for him as much as he cared for everyone else.
On Viareggio, Isadora discovers the trouble with spontaneous action undertaken in a wooden structure ignored since the Victorian era
The splinter carved a formidable slice that bled all the way back, making me look like I had been shot in the hip; fortunately, nobody but Duse was outside to witness when I came limping onto her porch. I tried to convince her to let me keep the wooden piece as a souvenir; I wanted the wound to bloom into a gory cushion, infection working black rot through my veins. How brave I would be, showing the physical proof of my own neglect to the world rather than keeping it hidden like everyone else. But she bent me over her couch, and now I have to wait for her to get her kit as, meanwhile, my ass makes a fine white altar jutting into the naked air.
“You behave as if sadness will pursue you forever,” she says, putting on her reading glasses to examine me.
“You’re right.” Outside her window, the grass is tamped down clear into the woods. “Perhaps it is only a bear.”
“Here it is,” she says, a flash of pain confirming her tweezer.
“Could you dig a little deeper? The tendons down there could stand a snip.”
“Hold still.”
“You should have seen him, lifting me like a god and taking me so boldly. We could have been caught at any moment! The passion!”
“Won’t you shut up and hold still—”
“His face was so familiar to me, more dear than one of my own dear brothers. I would not have been surprised in the slightest if we had clasped hands and become a wheel to show humanity the meaning of human connection. All right, that’s enough!”
She gives me a little slap on the ass. “If you would keep still, I could concentrate.”
“Be quick, then. Oh darling, his body was a taut band stretched over a spare frame, pure and efficient. There was a power in his demeanor, and a violence. Very sensual. He had a scar on his stomach, lateral from the navel—nick in the notch, watch it!—a short scar, as if he had been wounded in a bladed duel.”
“Ah,” she says, working her hand under me to press my belly. “His scar was around here?”
“Precisely there, yes. You know it?”
“I’ve heard the tale.”
“A rumor!” I can hardly keep from bringing both hands to my mouth in glee. “Was the duel for love or money? Did he kill his enemy and go to prison for his crime? Stripped to the waist and glowering in some dim cell, with only his mind to occupy the days? Tell me nothing but the truth! I can take any story of violence.”
“I know the man,” she says. “His appendix was removed when he was seventeen. They all gathered in the square to see him loaded into the train to Milan because they were all certain he would die. It was rare at the time, very rare indeed, the first anyone had known of such a procedure down here. They still talk about it in town. His father was beside himself, making plaster-cast models of the boy. And then he returned and showed everyone the place where they worked on him, right there. I’ve never met the man, but I know his father is an artisan—”
“You brat!” I cry, kicking her off. “Spoilsport, leave me be. What use is there to life and love without the mystery of circumstance?”
“Come now, I’m sure he’s a nice man,” she says, holding her arm where I’ve kicked her. “We could go see him and his mother for tea.”
“I’ll never speak to him again, and you’ll never speak of it either. Imagine if he went to the press. ‘She Bade Me Love Her.’ Anyone with a constabulary license could ship me to a sanitarium on an indecency charge at the very least and the charge would be warranted. And you, quit laughing! They would throw you in too for your part in harboring madness.”
“All right, all right.” She takes her tweezers up again.
“Anyway there’s no use in keeping up with him now that his purpose is served. It would be like writing daily letters to the physician who palpated my broken ankle after the series in Nice. To My Dear Doctor, thinking of you with every step. Christ’s sake, woman, slowly!”
Duse extracts the splinter with a merciless, searing pull and shows it to me—a short piece, and thinner than I thought for the pain it gave me and the blood.
“That should fix it,” she says.
“I wish you would have left it until it worked its way into my heart. Think of the fortification!”
“And you’re very welcome,” she says, turning a bottle of champagne over her handkerchief. She pats the wound with the cloth and presses it there, bracing against me to push herself up. “You can’t avoid him, you know. Your mystery man enjoys three meals a day on the passeggiata. A confrontation is inevitable.”
“I’ll go in the morning to Milan and points north. You’ll only need to drive me to the train and you’ll be rid of me.”
“And another man chases her from the scene,” she says, carrying her kit to the sink.
“You’re so cruel.”
“Have you sent word to Singer?”
“I told you, we ended poorly in Corfu.”
“That’s right,” she sniffs. “You came to me, after all.”
“Come now, darling. Trot back over here and be held. Be reasonable, don’t be angry with me.”
“I’m not angry,” she says, plunging sewing needles into a bar of soap.
“Please, love. I have nothing but my arms to give you.”
For a moment I fear she’ll ignore me forever. But she returns, wiping her hands on her dress.
Later on in bed, she wraps her arms around me, lips to my sunburned cheek. We look out the window at the rain. “Each night gets a little bit colder,” she says. “Soon it will be too cold to walk barefoot.”
“Once I leave,” I say, “I cannot return.”
“Isadora, don’t be dramatic.”
“The train will release a ball of flame, glassing the beaches and outraging the summer-dry trees, their ash falling to settle and float on the bay’s wretched eddies. Men and women will burn in their homes clawing the walls, the plaster melting to brand their blackening skin.”
“Thank you, that’s much less dramatic.”
“I’m telling you now, to warn you. Simply wear your nice brocade coat for fortification. You’ll find yourself in a charred glade, sparks framing your lovely face. Don’t bother looking for a parasol, those silly old-fashioned things.”
“You know,” she says, easing her arm out from under me. “I met an old man who lived to one hundred years old on coffee and beer. He never took a drop of pure water since he was a child. He claims he drank one glass of milk in his twenties but never ventured to another, said he didn’t trust it.”
“That’s because every glass harbors the mediocre.” Turning to face her, I trace the line between her eyebrows with my thumb, the slight ridges of muscle from tempers well and subtly honed. One bears surprise, the other makes the frown.
“You need to go back to work,” she says.
“You know, I’ve worn out my welcome in many homes but never in yours.”
“You’re unwell, you talk in the most troubling way.” Her face is lit by the window’s perfect cloudbreak light,
wild hair cascading about her shoulders. “Anyway,” she gives me a cheery little shake, “you have too much pride to ever retire.”
“Can we go for dinner?”
She cinches her gown, getting up. “There’s plenty to eat downstairs. Come on, let’s look.”
Downstairs, we find a few pickled things and cheeses, but we’re nearly out of champagne, a true shame, with so much to celebrate. She finds a boy hiding in the mudroom and sends him into town. The rain has come in to rot the windowsills, which she left open for the smell of the storm.
She tilts her head, as if reading something carved over her front door. “You should take them out of Europe,” she says. “Your girls in France. Now is the time. They should see their debut in New York, and from there you can go to Moscow.”
“There’s no taste in New York. Did you know they threw Raymond in jail for wearing his sandals on the street?”
She arranges a plate and pours me a glass of milk. “Don’t be intimidated by their intrigue. There’s no more valuable commodity to a New Yorker than something he hasn’t seen before.”
“Also it’s too expensive.”
“Then you’ve never gone on Andrew Carnegie’s dime.”
“Capital plan! We can gather round his desk. If we’re lucky, he’ll give us a hot meal before he shows us the door.”
“I’ll write you an introduction,” she says, rapping on a loaf of bread before slicing it. “He would be well-advised as a businessman to book your return.”
“Last summer, Paris took us out on the water for weeks at a time. Did I ever tell you?”
“You haven’t told me a single story about the man that I have enjoyed in tone or substance.”
Loosening the leather pouch, I extract a few pieces of bone. The last few bits have been large enough to etch down my throat in a satisfying way, but now they’re large enough that it’s best I take them with milk. Duse notices but doesn’t mention it. “We had some idea that we were bedouins, and we outfitted the yacht with carpets and thick sheets that we had hung around the cabin on the nights when we slept above deck. The children slept together in a bathtub we filled with the softest cotton batting, and each morning the two of them crawled into bed for a cuddle. We would land at some place or another and I would give a spontaneous performance. It was all so wonderful, so perfect. But something began to shift, and though Paris and Deirdre played pat-a-cake over their breakfast trays, though Patrick laughed so often we began to think he had a medical condition—as he nursed, he would spit up for laughing—though there was joy all around me, I felt a mounting dread.
