CHAPTER 8
PARIS AND TOUL
October 1918
“How was your visit to the Front?” Emma asked John Harvey.
“I’ll tell you as much as I can,” he said and puffed on a cigarette.
“I thought you had given up cigarettes for cigars.” Emma settled into her chair, restraining herself from gloating about his change of smoking habits. John, like many intelligent men, hardly seemed the type to stick to routine; he thrived on variation.
“You can’t imagine how difficult and expensive it can be to finagle a cigar at the Front. But you didn’t telephone me to talk about smoking. Why the urgency?”
“Two reasons,” Emma said, as the waiter arrived to take their order. John had been kind enough to invite her to the Hotel Charles for dinner. She kept her voice hushed in the dining room; it was morgue-like except for the occasional clink of glasses. Emma sipped her wine and put the glass down. “I’d like to know how Tom is faring, and I have a personal favor to ask.”
“Any favor, within reason, will be honored for you, my dear.” He stubbed out his cigarette into an ashtray.
Emma placed her hands in her lap, smoothed her dress, and waited for an answer to her question about Tom.
John looked around the room as if it were infiltrated by spies. The few other couples in the dining room were elderly and French. After a sigh, he said, “Tom seems to be doing jolly well, despite the war, his injuries, and the influenza outbreaks. I do believe he’s put on weight since last you saw him. He inquired about you.”
Emma straightened a bit in her chair. “I’m glad to hear it, considering the extent of the conversations we’ve had over the past several months. ‘Hello’ and ‘How are you?’ Not exactly the stuff of romance.”
“Don’t be absurd,” John said. “Romance? Balderdash when it comes to the essence of a relationship.” He planted his hands firmly on the table. “Emma, if you learn one thing in this life, let it be that a good man and a good woman are bound together by vows and duty, not by some cock-and-bull notion of the romantic.”
“I’ve ignored romance for duty too many times,” she said. “I’ll take the stuff of romance.”
“Why are women attracted to such tragic folly?” John asked without a hint of humor. “Flaubert pointed out the absurdity of romantic love years ago in Madame Bovary.”
“I think that depends on your interpretation of the novel,” Emma said. “Why are men so obstinate? Can’t you see the tragedy of it all?”
“No, we are unassailable in our masculine predispositions and assumptions.”
“Really? I thought better of Englishmen . . . ‘this scepter’d isle’ may be more backward than I imagined.”
John sputtered with a “tut, tut” and then added, “There’s no call to slander a nation.”
They stared at each other, as if at an impasse, while the waiter delivered a watery potato soup. They picked up their spoons and, after a few sips, laughed aloud simultaneously. The glint in John’s eye faded with the laughter and he replaced his spoon on the white tablecloth. “I have one impression, though, to tell you. Something is afoot, and I wasn’t able to ascertain the nature of the problem. I was very, very close to discovering the cause—like a barb had pierced Tom’s heart—but my French companion, from the project I’m working on, interrupted our conversation at a most inopportune time. Damn the bloody French—they never quite seem to get it right.”
“So, something is wrong—I’ve known it for a while now. It’s not just the injury. There’s never been a good time to broach the subject.”
John scowled. “It’s clear it’s tearing him up inside.”
Emma sighed. “This can’t go on. I postponed talking to him because of his recovery. Then I got absorbed in my work and, frankly, didn’t want to deal with it. But now, I’ll force the issue. I’ll telephone and say I’m coming to Toul. We have to talk. When my work slows. . . .”
“I believe that’s the only sensible course of action.” John spooned soup into his mouth. “Nasty stuff.” He dropped the utensil on the table. “I thought the French were experts at potato soup.”
“Onion soup . . . you know very well the war has affected cooking supplies. We’re lucky to have this.”
“That’s what I like about you, Emma—grateful for small favors. Speaking of. . . .”
“Oh, yes, my favor. Do you have any contacts in the Canadian forces?”
John looked at her oddly, gauging her intention. “Not directly, but I can make inquiries if you wish. I’ve worked with some Canadian soldiers.”
“I’d like to find out information about one of my cases—a Private Ronald Darser assigned to the Seventh Canadian Infantry Brigade. I have his medical file, but I believe the information has been falsified.”
He shook his head. “Falsified? I have no recollection of the name.”
“Possibly forged.”
“Why would medical information about disfigurement be—”
“That’s all I can tell you. You have your secret project—I have mine.”
John raised an eyebrow. “I’ll do what I can, but don’t expect miracles. If the information is indeed falsified, finding the truth may be harder than you suspect. I assume what you are looking for is the true identity of the man in question?”
“Yes. I believe the soldier may be hiding behind a false name.”
John tweaked his chin and looked around the dining room. “I will say the cultured French know how to dress, particularly those of a mature age. Do you see how refined, how quiet the world can be even during a war? Look at that couple.” John pointed to a man and woman, both elegantly attired and eating calmly, a few tables away. “I could never be as thin as either one of them. His suit is impeccable compared to the rags I have on. It gives one hope, doesn’t it, that the world will go on; and, somehow there are people worth a damn. People worth saving. Unfortunate, that—how you and I work with men so distraught they cannot face themselves, but ultimately, I suppose, are worth our time.”
“You know the French word for them—mutilés,” Emma said.
“I could give a hang what the French call them,” John said. “God, I wish this war were over and I could get back to England. The project I’m working on is an abomination. It only heightens the potential for more death and destruction.” He patted the table. “There, I’ve said it—much more than I should. The King will have me executed for treason. Where in God’s name is our food?”
“The Americans are advancing. More Germans are being captured every day.” Consumed with the thoughts of war, Emma looked at the soup in front of her.
“No more mincing words, my dear. You must talk with your husband as soon as possible. There’s more to the world than work and war, as hard as it might be to believe.”
John was about to unleash another barrage upon her when the waiter arrived with the chicken they had both ordered.
“Tell me, why do I always feel like I’m talking to my father when we chat?”
“Probably because I’m older, and the most sensible man you’ve ever met.” He grabbed the waiter’s arm just as he was about to leave the table. “Another glass of wine, and remain here while I try this dish.”
The waiter, aghast, swiped John’s arm away as Emma translated in French as best she could. The man glared at his customer, and stood next to the table with crossed arms.
John lifted his fork, stabbed a bit of chicken, tasted it, and asked the waiter in a reproachful voice, “You call this poulet?”
Emma shook her head. “Of course, the first word you’ve ever spoken in French would come out as an insult.”
John scowled.
* * *
“Please don’t fidget.” Emma hoped she could still the anxiety that lay underneath her command. Her stomach had rumbled all morning in anticipation of Private Darser’s appointment. “You must hold still or the paint will smear.”
He, as calm as an August summer night, sat in a wicker chair as she daubed paint on the mask. She had matched the skin tone at a previous fitting; the mask would be complete after applying the final touches to the beard, lips, and the chin. Soft morning light flooded the studio.
As she worked, many thoughts coursed through her mind. One was born from John’s telegram from England that had arrived in Paris two days before. It read: No Ronald Darser in 7th Canadian. Further inquiries required. Papa.
She concentrated as much as she could on the painting, her gaze locking onto the fully formed face she had created, her hand trembling as she worked the brush near the left cheekbone.
The soldier noticed her unease and waved his hands for Emma to stop. He took his pad and pencil from his tunic pocket. What’s wrong? You seem anxious today. Does my face disturb you?
He knows. Oh, God, he knows. Why has he come here? She walked to the studio table, placed her paintbrush in its holder, turned away, and looked out the window. Below, life went on as always: the parade of pedestrians, the leaves turning gold and brown, the chill of fall in the air. After a moment, she said, “Your face is perfect. In fact, it’s so perfect it brings back memories. Sometimes the strain of the job . . .” She turned to him.
He was seated, statue-like, in his chair, his eyes piercing her.
“Sometimes the strain is difficult,” she continued. “Getting the skin color right . . . I want the mask to be perfect. It’s only fair, considering what you’ve endured.”
He blinked, his eyes red and swollen beneath the lids.
The studio air felt oddly close. Emma heard the rustle of Virginie’s hands as she pulled books from a shelf; the scrape of Hassan’s modeling tool sounded in her ears. “Could you leave us for a moment?” Emma asked her assistants.
Virginie placed the books on the table and Hassan wiped the clay from his hands. They both looked somewhat shocked by Emma’s abrupt command, but they complied with her request.
“Shut the door when you leave,” Emma ordered. She kept near the window until the door closed, then, her anger flaring, she strode toward him, her voice rising, “Why are you here? What right do you have to do this to me? I know who you are.”
The soldier rose from his chair, approaching her in measured steps.
She retreated until she could go no farther, the windowsill blocking her escape. She looked for a weapon. The broom in the corner caught her eye.
The soldier stopped near her and stared out the window across rue Monge.
He could see himself in the glass—the bright sun heightened his reflection. Emma stood rigid until the soldier looked at her.
He took out his pad and pencil. Do you have a mirror?
Emma nodded, inched away from him, walked to her desk, and retrieved the looking glass from a drawer where it had been stored for her use, not the soldiers’.
Private Darser looked into it, studying his reflection, touching his left temple and the glasses’ earpiece.
Emma knew he also wanted to touch the mask, but she stopped him with a firm “No.” He was fascinated by his own image, like the Narcissus she had wanted to create with Linton. “Don’t touch it,” she added. “It’s fragile.” Even as she admonished him, she was filled with an odd thrill in her accomplishment. She had restored a man’s face through her art; her skills would allow him to live free of fear and rejection. Some might see, if they looked closely, the nearly imperceptible line between his skin and the mask, the demarcation that marked the marriage of flesh and metal, but most would go about their self-absorbed business, seeing the face like any other, never giving notice to the man who might walk among them with slightly bowed head or upturned collar against the wind, avoiding the looks of horror, sneers, or, worst of all, the laughter.
On the other hand, she was repelled by the soldier who gazed into the mirror. He was the one who had caused her the deepest pain after she had surrendered her young, obsessive self to him. And now she had recreated him.
Finally, he wrote: You’ve done a superb job. How can I ever repay you?
“You know very well how you can repay me,” Emma demanded. “You can tell me the truth.”
He returned to his chair, still carrying the mirror, seemingly pleased with himself now that his sorrow had abated. Your work is done and I must return to Canada. I will not be returning to the Front.
“I know who you are,” Emma said. “The least you can do is admit it. How long has it been—ten years since you abandoned me?”
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
“Your face! You were the father of my child.”
His unwavering stare cut through her. For a moment, Emma considered she was going mad—the strain of the war, working with disfigured men, the stress of her relationship with Tom. No, that wasn’t the case! He sat in front of her, manipulating her again for his benefit.
He wrote for a long while and then handed the pad to Emma. I am not the father of your child. I would never make any presumption of such knowledge—before God or before you. It’s clear you have suffered some indignity in your past—one that has caused tragedy in your life—but I’m not the cause. I told you to construct the mask as you wished and you have done so. I’m what you’ve created, Mrs. Swan! You’ve made me in the image you desired. I’m real in that respect, but in no other, despite your imagination. The war tries the strongest of men. Perhaps, like those men, you are no match for the horrors it unleashes.
Emma stared at the words in disbelief. Was she going insane? What if she had somehow recreated the face of a man she once loved and now scorned? She dropped the pad on the desk and sat in her chair. The studio door creaked open.
“Are you all right, Madame?” Virginie asked. It had been ages since her assistant had addressed her as Madame.
“Yes, thank you,” she responded. “You and Hassan may return to your work. Private Darser is leaving.”
He wrote: Thank you again, Mrs. Swan. I suppose this will be our last meeting.
“You may be right, but I’ve captured your face in my memory, and, perhaps, when we meet again you can look me in the eye and speak the truth.”
The soldier again stared into the mirror. When he lowered the glass, a sad smile had formed on the mask.
Such a smile was impossible, but her emotional perception was real. Could he atone for his desertion when she had needed him the most? Could he help her banish the memory that haunted her?
Private Darser found his coat, nodded to Emma, and walked out the door. His firm steps echoed down the courtyard stairs and through the tunnel. She ran to the window to see him, but he had already disappeared down rue Monge as if he’d never existed.
* * *
“I hear rumors about the war,” Virginie said, opening the studio door. She and Emma circled the teakettle like children waiting for candy.
“Fermez la porte,” Emma said. “It’s foggy and cold and I’m in no mood to catch pneumonia this morning.”
The sun, as it journeyed south, had grown feeble in the late October sky. The lovely warmth earlier in the month had been quelled by a series of dreary and bone-chilling days, damp and overcast, a portent of November and approaching winter.
“We need air,” Virginie said. “I’m sick of plaster dust and the smell of clay and the smoke from Hassan’s terrible cigarettes.”
“I don’t care,” Emma insisted. “Close the door. Sometimes you’re as cranky as John says you are.” She looked at Virginie. The young nurse had aged during the year they’d worked together. The sprite-like attitude and youthful looks, which Emma initially compared to her Boston housekeeper, Anne, had diminished as the war dragged on.
Emma also had taken stock of herself that morning and counted a few gray hairs spreading backward from her temples. The rich blackness of her hair was disappearing with her youth. She could easily blame aging on the war, but other factors had contributed to the lines now creasing her face. She and Virginie were growing older together while Anne, in her memory; Hassan, as most men seemed to do; and the ageless Madame Clement crossed the swiftly flowing current of time with ease.
“What have you heard about the war?” Emma asked. “I haven’t looked at a newspaper in ages.”
Delaying her response, Virginie closed the door reluctantly. “More battles along the Front. Many dead along the Meuse and the Moselle. The dead are everywhere—even near Toul.”
“Yes,” Emma said, remembering the uniforms at the Toul hospital that had been taken from the deceased soldiers. “We can only pray the war will be over soon.”
“The Americans are fighting . . . how you say . . . fee . . . ?”
Emma thought for a moment. “Fiercely?”
“Oui, fiercely. They surprise even our French boys.”
The kettle whistled. Emma turned off the burner, poured the steaming water, and dropped the previous day’s infuser into Virginie’s cup and then dipped it into hers, watching as thin reddish filaments streamed through the water. She looked at Virginie. “Waste not, want not in wartime. I think we’re all tired. Perhaps we need to close the studio for a week and take a rest.”
“A magnificent idea,” Virginie said, “but what about the soldiers?”
“Well, we’ll have to plan our vacation and catch up with as much work as we can before we go. . . .”
Emma started. Two voices, both speaking French, rose from the stairs. She recognized one as Madame Clement’s; the other she was unsure about until he appeared at the studio door. It was Richard, the driver from the hospital. Madame Clement opened the door.
A smiling Richard followed. “Bonjour, Virginie,” he said, taking in the nurse’s figure with obvious delight. Turning to Emma, as an afterthought, he added, “Bonjour, Madame Swan.”
Her heart raced, hoping Richard had only good news to bear. After Tom’s injury, Richard had visited the studio several times, but his visits had fallen off recently. The courier appeared as vigorous as ever, his scruffy, sandy beard making him appear older; however, the facial hair only enhanced the rakish attitude and figure he cut.
Virginie apparently noticed as well and offered her cheek for a kiss.
Richard willingly complied. “Monsieur Swan asks you to return to Toul,” he told Emma, his voice earnest and brassy.
“Is something wrong?” She dreaded his answer.
“No. He requests your company.”
“He said nothing about coming to Toul when we last talked,” Emma said to Virginie.
“You must go,” Virginie said. “The trip will do you good. Hassan and I will conduct business.”
“We have three appointments today,” Emma said, apologetically. “I have nothing packed.”
Richard spoke in French to Madame Clement and the housekeeper chuckled.
“What did he say?” Emma asked Virginie.
“He said women are too, too . . .”
“Too what?”
“Like a statue.”
“Stone-like . . . rigid?”
“Oui.”
“It’s like Tom to issue a challenge, when I’m not in the mood for one. Tell Richard I’ll be ready in a half hour. We’ll talk about a holiday when I get back.” Emma rushed up the stairs as Virginie, Madame Clement, and Richard chatted in the alcove. She gathered a few toiletries and clothes, pushed them into a bag, brushed her hair, grabbed her coat, and was downstairs in ten minutes.
Emma said her good-byes and Richard escorted her from the studio. The courtyard slept lifeless and gray under the fog, the statues black with mist, the ivy clinging to the walls with their dark tentacles.
Entering the tunnel, Emma saw the back of the ambulance parked on rue Monge. A soldier in a greatcoat rushed past the truck. He turned his head for a moment and Emma thought she saw Private Darser grinning at her. As quickly as the man appeared he was gone. She realized the soldier couldn’t be Darser—his mask had no smile. The lips had to be neutral, pleasantly full, and slightly open; otherwise, the mouth would appear fixed in a disquieting expression. She recalled the sad smile she thought she had seen on his mask at their final meeting.
She said nothing to Richard about the soldier, and climbed into the truck. They said little as Richard drove east through the Paris streets. When the city finally dropped behind them and the ambulance had traveled far along a country road, Emma relaxed enough to strike up a conversation.
“Ça va, Richard?” she asked as they putted through a village. It was the only small talk she could think of—his health. She remembered his arm injury—the one mentioned by Claude, Tom’s doctor in Toul. Emma looked at the shop windows, which appeared dismal and forlorn in the enveloping gray mist. It swirled around the ambulance and Richard switched on the headlights.
“Très bien,” Richard said.
“How’s your English? My French could be better.”
Richard cleared his throat and pronounced each word slowly, “Your . . . husband . . . is teaching . . . me.” He turned to her and smiled. “I thank him . . . each day.”
“Well, you’re making remarkable progress. Where did you stay last night? You know you are always welcome at the studio. We can put a cot in the casting room.”
“No, thank you,” he said firmly. “The masks are too frightening.”
Emma laughed. “They can be a bit scary in the dark.”
“I stay with my sister. She lives in Saint-Denis.” He paused for a moment and then asked, “How did you meet?”
Emma turned to him, confused by the abrupt change in subject.
“My husband?” she asked, knowing Tom was the object of his question.
“Yes.”
“In Boston. Tom was studying medicine. I was getting ready to attend art school. We met through a mutual friend—Louisa Markham.” Emma stopped, realizing Richard may not have understood her. “I’m sorry. Was I going too fast? Can you understand me?”
Richard nodded. “Most, yes.” He peered through the windscreen as intermittent drops of rain splattered against the glass. “Was he always so sad?”
His question seemed casual, as if sadness was normal for Tom, but his inquiry unsettled her and a queasy sensation fluttered through her stomach. “So, you think Tom’s depressed . . . sad?”
Richard stared blankly at the road.
“I can’t speak for Tom, but the war has been difficult for both of us,” Emma continued. “I would expect he might be depressed after his injury at the Front, and his continual work with injured and dying men. I’ve never been able to understand how doctors keep their sanity.”
“When we met . . .” Richard considered carefully his next words. “He was happy . . . happy to be a doctor.”
Emma slumped in her seat, guilt momentarily overpowering her. Was Richard attacking her, and not the war, as the cause of their problems? Certainly, she had done nothing inherently wrong, other than form a relationship with a Boston painter who had demonstrated affection for her and sparked her own reciprocal feelings. She embraced the thought. After all, how could innocent fondness be so misconstrued compared to the world’s ongoing horrors? But was her relationship so innocent? What of her fantasies about Linton?
“When Tom and I met we were both overly optimistic, I think. The war hadn’t begun and we were filled with joy and life. When fighting broke out, Tom grew anxious. He was eager to do something—anything he could to help. That’s why he volunteered to work with the Red Cross in France. He saw the need, and, in the beginning, I know he was happy to be here. I could tell from his letters.” She stopped, unsure of how much of her conversation Richard had understood.
“The village is small,” Richard said. “People talk. Americans are watched.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I have no proof. People say he walks.”
“Walks?” A prickle of fear rose in her chest.
“Yes, at night.”
Emma chuckled, more from anxiety than humor. “Well, I’m certain Tom isn’t a vampire. He loves to take walks—we both do. If that’s what you’re talking about?”
“You will ask him. That’s all I know. Le bruit court que . . .”
“Pardon?”
“How do you say . . . stories about people?”
“Rumors?”
Richard nodded. “Oui, rumors.”
“I’ll be sure to ask him.” Emma settled in her seat and looked out at the dull sky. As the truck rolled on, she was certain she heard shells exploding in the distance. It was too cold for a thunderstorm.
By the time they reached Tom’s cottage, night had fallen and the camouflaged city lamps fought weakly against the overarching power of darkness. The night spread a dreary cloak over Emma, which lifted only briefly when Tom limped past the damp garden and brushed his lips against her cheek. Her husband thanked Richard, and the ambulance disappeared down the lane in a spray of mist.
“Have you had anything to eat?” he asked after they had entered the cottage. “Please, sit down.” He pointed to a chair at the kitchen table. “Let me take your bag.” He reached for it, but she held on to the straps. Rebuffed, he sighed, and walked to the fireplace, knelt, and threw a birch log into the fire. The flames roared and several red embers popped and sputtered to the floor. He swiped at them with his hand.
The clutter Emma had so carefully put in its place earlier in the year had reappeared: papers were strewn about the table, the bookcase was crammed with volumes, clothes were scattered across the bed, the messy behavior so unlike his fastidiousness in Boston. The cottage’s chaos added to the chill embracing her heart.
“It’s cold tonight,” he said, still kneeling in front of the fire.
Emma stared at him—acutely aware of the changes in her husband. He had gained a little weight since her last visit to Toul, although his wool sweater and pants still hung on his frame, his eyes were hazier perhaps, his hair a shade darker but combed differently, swept down to disguise his thinning hairline, the mustache spreading below his upper lip. Emotionally, the person in front of her was someone unfamiliar. The connection between them had sagged under their separation. He might as well have been a man she met on the street, a man who could have piqued her interest, but ultimately left her cold and searching for warmth.
“Cold, indeed,” she said, scooting her bag underneath the chair. “Some cheese would be nice. A glass of wine, I suppose.” A half-empty bottle sat on the table.
Tom rose. “I made a plate for you. I hoped you would come, Emma.”
“Was there ever a doubt?”
He limped to the cupboard, opened it, lifted a white plate from the shelf, and brought it to her. It held dried meat, a wedge of cheese, and apple slices. He poured the wine.
“How is your leg?” she asked.
Tom sat next to her and looked out the window spotted with mist.
“My left leg needs patching up, but my limp is excellent.” He smiled and poured a glass for himself. “I’ve had too much to drink of late—it’s a habit I’m not happy about, but alcohol helps pass the time and ease the pain.” He picked up the glass and drained nearly half of it. “My leg has taken longer to heal than Claude anticipated. . . .”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Emma asked. “You never mentioned that when we talked.”
“Frankly, half the time I don’t remember talking at all.” He gulped the rest of the wine. “Morphine. The drug douses the pain, but leaves me in a fog. It’s addictive, hard to get off it.”
Emma frowned. “There hasn’t been much to remember for a long time.” She took a bite of cheese, the food leaving a warm, salty taste in her mouth. “How are you otherwise?”
“My stomach hurts from the wound. Hell, on bad days it hurts to take a piss. Some parts of me have recovered, some parts haven’t.” He turned and looked into her eyes. “I have a lot to say to you, Emma—some of it isn’t very pleasant.”
Emma steeled herself and sipped her wine. “I know what you’re referring to. I found the letter when I stayed over, the night before you were injured.”
His eyes widened, but the expression was one of resignation rather than shock. “The letter? Which one?”
“How many did you receive from my so-called friend?”
“A few.” Tom turned his attention to the glass again. “After a while, the letters became more flowery—her affection toward me unwarranted and unwanted. She was gleeful in her recounting of the situation between you and Linton Bower.”
Emma was no longer hungry. She took her glass and stood by the fire, the crackling heat warming her legs. She placed the wine upon the mantel and watched the flames lick and sputter and then vanish into swirling vapor. After a time, she sat on the bed nearly on top of the spot where she had found the letter tucked under the mattress.
“I guess the time for cat and mouse is over,” she said.
Tom nodded.
“I found it a year ago when you called me to the Front. I supposed then that the letter was the reason you wanted to talk.”
“Yes,” Tom said, and turned his chair in her direction.
“I saw it, quite by accident, under the mattress. The name had been torn off, but I knew it was from Louisa. I was prepared to face the consequences of her—what should I call it? Betrayal? Treachery? But a German shell ended that the next day. . . .”
“I wanted to talk,” Tom said. “I wanted to hear your side of the story, but I have to admit I was scared that I had already lost you to a lover.”
Emma laughed and leaned back on the bed. “Life is funny, Tom. You hadn’t lost me. I was prepared to tell you the truth, but after your injury we both had so much to deal with—your recovery—I didn’t want to upset you when you were ill; then the studio took all my time. Oddly enough, I was yours until I felt us slipping away. You seemed so distant, your calls and letters infrequent. I believed you didn’t want to talk to me.”
“I assumed we were already on the outs.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth. Nothing happened between me and—”
“Linton Bower? Then why would Louisa lie about your relationship?”
Emma resisted the urge to fight with him; however, her defensive instincts clawed at her to get out. “Perhaps Linton and I got closer than we should have. I have to admit he is an attractive man and I was terribly lonely after you left.”
Tom winced.
She could have gone on and cut more deeply. She could have told Tom about the carriage ride and the thrill she felt sitting next to Linton, the excitement she’d experienced in his studio when he posed for her, but she reined herself in. In a way, she wanted to smirk and blame her husband for their troubles, but she knew she was just as much at fault. There was one point she couldn’t resist, however. “Why would Louisa lie? Surely, you aren’t that naïve, Tom.” She’d hit a nerve; Tom’s eyes flashed in distress. “Louisa has always loved you, even though she brought us together. Her intentions were always directed at you. After our marriage, I was her friend so she could get to you. After you left, she talked endlessly about you. Any hint of indiscretion was an excuse to attack me. I think that was her plan from the beginning and it’s been more successful than she could have imagined. That’s what I think.”
Tom lowered his head. “So, nothing happened?”
“Linton is my friend. One time, he showed more affection toward me than he should have. Louisa was a witness to that unfortunate display. But, honestly . . .” She paused, assessing the truth of her confession, knowing she was holding back the true extent of her feelings.
“Yes?”
“Honestly, he does care for me and I do care for him. But I made my decision—I came to France.”
Tom got up and walked to the bookcase.
Emma watched as he created a cleft between two books and pulled a sheet of paper from the opening.
Tom studied it. “I worked on an American soldier last week. I couldn’t save him.” A bright pain crossed his face. “I thought you would want this.” He handed her the creased paper. “I know you cared for him, too.”
Emma stared in horror at the drawing. The delicate lines of the portrait were spattered with splotches of dried, brownish blood; the face was shredded in several places from shrapnel, giving the drawing the appearance of a facially mutilated soldier. Despite its condition, she knew the subject immediately. Only bits of writing were legible because of the stain, but Emma remembered the words: To Lt. Andrew Stoneman, from Emma Lewis Swan. To your safe return . . .
“I did care for him—as a friend,” Emma said. “He was a kind man, a good man.”
“I first met him last fall. He was with you when the Frenchman committed suicide?”
“Yes,” Emma said. “Lieutenant Stoneman was very brave.” She stopped and ran her finger over the portrait. “But from the moment I met him on the ship, I think he knew he was going to die.”
Tom placed his hands gently on her shoulders and Emma recoiled, the strength of her revulsion surprising her. The last thing she wanted was sympathy from her husband. She retrieved her bag from under the chair. “I’m exhausted from the trip. I should go to bed.”
Tom followed her to the table and poured more wine into his glass. “Yes, I understand.” He stuttered a bit and then said, “I have more to tell you.” He sat, his tall frame towering in the small chair.
“Tomorrow.” She placed her bag on the bed and stared at him. “Where is Lieutenant Stoneman buried?”
“A few kilometers from here, near a small village.”
“I want to visit his grave.”
Tom nodded. “Richard can take you.”
She put the portrait in her bag and slid it under the bed. Fighting back tears, she walked to the toilet, looked into Tom’s shaving mirror, and fought back the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her.
* * *
The dead leaves rustled on the oak. Bare branches jutted from the tree, creating weblike shadows across the freshly turned grave. Rows of white wooden crosses rose from the ground and stretched as far as the brown hills that surrounded the village. The number of new graves staggered her.
Emma pulled the lapels of her coat together—it was colder than she had anticipated despite the brilliant sun. Still, it was one of the few bright days she could remember in the countryside near Toul. She stood among the graves, blinking into the light, thinking how alone and foreign she felt, walking the muddy, narrow lanes searching for Andrew Stoneman. In the northeast corner, close to a scrawny leafless tree, she found him, his last name scrawled upon the cross.
She looked back across the graves toward the iron entrance gate coated with rust. Richard sat in the passenger seat of the ambulance, door open, enjoying the sunshine, smoking a cigarette. He waved and Emma politely returned the gesture. She turned and knelt beside the grave.
“So, this is how it ends, Lieutenant Andrew Stoneman,” Emma said over the spaded earth. Tom had told her British and American soldiers were buried in the village graveyards, next to the French. There was no time to ship the bodies home. A quick military funeral where the soldier died had to suffice.
“Time and God would aid your safe return, you said.” Emma stared at the white wood jutting from the damp earth. A ghostly breath of wind passed over her and she shook from a sudden chill. “I remember how you said it was best you didn’t have a sweetheart, a wife, or children, and how you said the war wasn’t about you—that you were just a speck in the scheme of things.” Emma let her tears fall. “You were correct, of course, but your mother and father in Kansas will miss you, and I’m deeply sorry you won’t be going home. . . .”
She remembered their walk in the Luxembourg Gardens and how brave the officer had been at the Christmas party when Monsieur Thibault committed suicide. That night, he had offered to stay with her and she had refused. It would have been easy, even mystical, to have slept with him that Christmas Eve, as she watched the moon and the stars slip by her window, but she was too sad, and he too much of a gentleman to take advantage of her vulnerability.
I can stay with you. She remembered his words and then she sobbed—not for herself, but for all the faceless men and women and defenseless creatures of the world who died alone.
“I do this for you.” She reached into her coat pocket and withdrew the portrait. “You wanted an Emma Lewis Swan and you shall have it for eternity.” She tore the drawing into tiny pieces, dropping them like snowflakes upon the grave, looking back after she walked away. The pieces were already turning black on the moist earth.
Richard lit another cigarette when she arrived at the ambulance.
“Take me to the hospital,” she told him. “I have a few words to say to my husband.”
He turned the vehicle toward Toul. As they departed, the graves swept past Emma and, in the far corner, she saw the slender tree and imagined Lieutenant Stoneman next to it, waving to her, as alive as he had been on the Atlantic crossing.
As the graves receded, Emma knew this was the last time she would ever visit the officer. And in that instant, a thrill washed over her body and she turned in her seat to see a doughboy standing by the tree, his right hand covering his mouth as if to blow a kiss.
* * *
“I have the feeling you don’t believe me,” Emma said. “I only drew the portrait as a favor for him.” She struggled to control the emotions surging through her, and sat stiffly in the chair across from Tom, her fists clenched in her lap.
Tom brushed his hand through his unkempt hair. Lately, he always looked as if he had just gotten up. If she was an emotional wreck, Tom was her equivalent on the physical spectrum.
His hospital office was dingy and crowded, and pity filled her briefly for all he had been through. However, what she really wanted was to be on her way back to Paris with Richard. Lieutenant Stoneman’s death angered her, and her husband’s implied accusation of a betrayal disturbed her—because of its inaccuracy, and because of its possibility.
Tom was about to answer Emma when Claude stuck his head round the edge of the door.
“Bonjour, Madame Swan,” he said with genuine joy. He lifted Emma’s hand and kissed it. “Ça va?”
“Comme si, comme ça,” Emma replied. Although she liked the French doctor, she wished he had come at another time for she had more important issues to discuss than social pleasantries.
“It’s been so long,” Claude said. “Too long a time.” He cocked his head toward Tom.
Tom returned the look with a scowl.
“A patient with an urgent request . . . needs to see you,” Claude continued.
“Is it an emergency?” Tom asked, leaning forward in his chair, his annoyance diminishing with Claude’s request.
“ No. ”
“Well then, please do me a favor and take over.”
“The patient is not a man,” Claude said.
Emma caught the sparkle in the French doctor’s eyes.
“I see,” Tom said stiffly. “Tell her I’ll be with her shortly.”
“Pardon, Madame Swan, women can be demanding,” Claude said.
“I’ve been told,” Emma said, the hairs on the nape of her neck rising.
“Please, Claude, Emma and I really need this time together.”
“Of course.” He ducked out of sight as quickly as he had come in.
Tom looked resigned, creases etching his face. “I do believe you drew the portrait out of kindness . . .” His words trailed off, as if the certainty of his argument eluded him.
“I’ve been faithful,” Emma said.
“How many times must I repeat . . .” A deep sadness welled in his eyes. “Oh, I’ve been such a fool. I was overtaken by the urge to be the good doctor, and in my obsession I’ve ruined our lives. I was so happy you were coming to France—to make a difference. Then Louisa’s letters began, along with relentless death.”
She reached for him. He drew back a little, not out of refusal, she considered, but from contrition. Perhaps there was hope after all. “What’s been taken can be replaced; what’s been broken can be repaired. I haven’t been a saint, Tom—I’ve been as standoffish as you. Of course, if Louisa hadn’t written those letters—her friendship, after you left, was relentlessly Lucrezia Borgia. She was a beast to Anne. I should never have underestimated her capacity for duplicity.”
“Such a fool . . . such a fool. . . .” He rubbed his forehead and then placed his hands on the desk. “It was so odd, after the letters arrived, how my life changed . . . you became this gray, faceless thing . . . it was as if you didn’t exist, as if our marriage was part of a different universe in a lost time. I got carried away with my work here. France was all that mattered. I belonged here and you weren’t part of that arrangement. I couldn’t answer Louisa. I never wrote back. . . .”
“You never responded?” Emma asked with astonishment.
“Never. I was too concerned she would take my inquiries the wrong way. I didn’t want to exacerbate the situation, and, frankly, I didn’t have the time. After a few months, the letters stopped. I assumed my feelings toward her had been made quite clear. Louisa was always my friend and I will be forever grateful for our introduction, but never beyond that. I was unaware of the depth of her feeling, or her jealousy. By the time her letters ended, the damage had been done.”
Emma got up and walked behind him. She looked through the grimy window into the deep shadows that lined the street. The sun would be setting soon. She was in Toul for another night.
She placed her hands on Tom’s shoulders and gently rubbed his neck, and, for a moment, she rested her chin on the top of his head. His warmth, his scent, drifted up to her and the smell reminded her of the intimate moments they had spent together. “Do you think we can put all this behind us?” she asked and draped her arms around his neck.
He clasped her hands in his and squeezed.
Emma warmed to his touch, but the feeling was like that of an old friend rather than a lover. Despite that, the loneliness that had been so much a part of her life lifted slightly.
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” Tom answered.
She withdrew from his grasp and returned to her chair. “Why?” Her voice quivered as she struggled to maintain her composure. “Why is it too late?”
“The trust between us . . . it’s gone.”
She stared at him, the melancholy sadness she had seen so often of late reappearing in his eyes.
“Doctor,” Claude’s voice called from down the hall, “your patient is hysterical.”
“I must go,” Tom said. “I’ll be on duty tonight and, most likely, getting home late. Richard will take you to the cottage.”
“I must return to Paris tomorrow.”
“I know. I promise I’ll be there for a visit soon. Too much work gets on one’s nerves.” He rose, leaned across the table, and kissed her cheek.
“I’ll walk to the cottage,” Emma said. “I don’t want to bother Richard.”
Tom sank into his chair and picked up a folder on his desk.
Emma’s heels clicked on the tile as she walked down the stark, white hall, once again amplifying the loneliness that settled inside her. As she descended the steps to the lobby, she spotted Claude hunched over a chair where soldiers normally sat. However, instead of a man, a darkly beautiful woman in a cream-colored overcoat sat weeping into her cupped hands. As Emma approached, the woman looked up and the color drained from her face. She lowered her hands and stared at Emma with tear-stained eyes.
Claude bowed slightly and said, “Bonsoir, Madame.”
The woman said nothing, but her eyes followed Emma.
She walked past the nurse’s station, opened the door, and nearly stumbled over Richard, who sat on the steps smoking a cigarette. He said hello and smiled rather sardonically.
Emma swept past him into the street, where the dark had already invaded the shop doors and alleyways in the faltering light. She veered to the right, looking ahead, searching for the lane that led to Tom’s cottage, blocking from her mind the face of the woman who so urgently needed him.
* * *
The memory of their conversation about trust and marriage burst as Emma searched the cleft in the bookcase where Tom had concealed the drawing of Lieutenant Stoneman. She pulled a few volumes from the case and several letters dropped to the floor. The light from the fireplace rose and fell with the burning logs; however, Emma could make out the handwriting. They were indeed from Louisa Markham. These, unlike the letter she found tucked under the mattress, were in envelopes. Oddly, there was no return address on them, only a flowing LM in script in the upper left-hand corner. The first letter was dated August of 1917. They continued, broken by the passing of months, until they ended in the following spring.
She lit an oil lamp and settled on the bed, reading the letters carefully, dissecting each word for hidden meaning. Most of them were pleasantly pedestrian and made little reference to Linton or Emma directly, but the underlying meaning was apparent—I, Louisa Markham, am good and noble, while your wife, Emma Lewis Swan, is persona non grata to the whole of Boston society because of her affair of the heart.
The fire had waned when Emma heard the cottage door open. She squirmed under the covers, knowing she had fallen asleep with the letters draped across the bed. One of them fluttered to the floor.
“I see you’ve found them,” Tom said.
Emma nodded, unsure what to say.
Tom shook his head. “Now you understand what I mean about trust?”
She gathered the letters and placed them on the nightstand. She thought of lifting her arms toward him, using affection as reconciliation, but then dismissed the idea. Now was not the time. Tom was right—she had taken advantage of his trust.
He made no movement toward her and instead undressed slowly in the pale light. He removed his shirt and walked to the fireplace where he stirred the embers and added another log to the fire. Soon, the room was filled with flickering warmth.
He stood by the bed, so Emma could see him fully. He unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them to the floor. He swayed a bit and then dropped his underwear as well.
Emma gasped.
The shrapnel wound had left a red gash across his left leg and stomach. All that remained below the brown thatch of pubic hair was the dark stub of a penis. He had been castrated as well.
“Now, you know,” he said wearily and crawled into bed. “I’m no longer a man.”
Emma moaned, then touched his hand. “Claude warned me, but I never knew. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He stared at the ceiling and said, “Timing, my love. When you lose your manhood, it’s a bit of a shock, to say the least. It’s taken months for me to even look at myself in the mirror. Claude’s been a wonderful doctor.”
Emma clutched the sheet and an unexpected wave of anger washed over her. “You should have told me. I had a right to know. I could have helped.”
Tom turned to her, took her hands, and pressed them against his chest. “What could you do? Once the surgery was over, only I could lift myself from the pain, with Claude’s help. I didn’t want anyone else to know about the extent of my injuries. I thought it didn’t matter to you because of the letters. That’s why I wanted you to go back to Paris and your work. I’m back to normal now—as normal as I can be—and when the war is over, as it eventually will be . . .”
Emma, in the flickering light, detected the sorrow building in his eyes. “Yes?”
“We can never have our own children.” A tear rolled down his cheek and onto the pillow.
A chilly sadness swallowed her. She withdrew from his grasp and turned away.
“I understand how you must feel,” he said. “You have every right to be angry.”
“Word got out in Boston that you were injured. I don’t know how they came to find out.”
“In the hospital . . . there was a soldier from Boston. We talked about the shelling, and I suppose he could tell from my wounds what was going on. He must have written home or told others. Who told you?”
“Linton . . . and Anne. They hinted . . . even Vreland knew, of all people, that something deeper was going on with you. Is there?”
He didn’t answer, only sobbed as Emma stared at the dark wall across the room, her body wracked from the emotions that filled her: anger, sadness, confusion. What was to become of their life together? The fact that she could not have a child with Tom made her feel as if no part of her would go forward in time. Only blackness lay ahead.
* * *
An infant floated through the cottage shadows, a faceless thing with no mouth and eyes. It soared like a ghost toward Emma while she balanced on the edge of a scream. She covered her mouth with her hands and the baby disappeared. In its place, the disfigured faces of Private Darser, Monsieur Thibault, and other soldiers hung in the air above her, speaking nightmarish gibberish until they faded as well. As she tried again to lose herself to sleep, the sad injury to her now impotent husband swirled through her mind. Her life had become an endurance test. She was no closer to banishing the memory of the infant than when she arrived in France. What hope do I have? She was uncertain of the answer. One overarching thought came into her head:
I would do anything to bring back the child I conceived.