CHILDREN HEAVING, the curtain is hoisted up to the sky. It spills down from the rafters like a waterfall. Madeleine gets lost in it, fumbling in the darkness, adoring its density and its weight, the dusty smell in her nose.
How radiant she will appear, when she finally steps through! She will welcome them, arms wide, heart pealing like a bell. And the gift she is bringing them—her breath quickens as she thinks of it, quickens as she pictures their delight, their laughter, pink faces, gratitude. Why, it's nothing, she will tell them, just a little gift I thought you would enjoy, a little something I picked up in my travels....
They will never have seen anything like him before.
And how lucky, and worldly, and generous she will appear: the impresario who has brought them such unusual pleasures. That is my daughter, her mother will murmur, and her siblings will push forward in their frenzy to be the first to kiss her. Why did I not see it before? her mother will wonder. How well she looks, how bravely and wisely she carries herself, how her complexion has brightened and her figure filled out, how she has, in short, grown into a beautiful woman. Right beneath my nose!
Madeleine wishes that she could remain wrapped in this curtain until her moment of unveiling, muffled in the darkness of her dusty red cocoon. But there is still work to be done. The ticket booth is listing; twelve seats are missing; the floorboards need to be secured to the stage. So much more to do! she declares, bending down to grasp a nail, and when she cannot close her stiffening fingers around it, she whispers to them, Not yet. Not yet.