LOOK, SHE SAYS, I can tuck my feet behind my ears, and waddle about on my hands.
But when she demonstrates, the spectators simply shake their heads and sigh.
Listen, she says, disentangling herself, I can make a sound louder than a thunderclap!
But when she slams her mitts together, only the idiot jumps in surprise; the barn fills with the rustle of people shifting in their seats.
This I know you will like, she tries again. I can start the bullfrogs singing.
And blowing into the horn of her hands, she makes a deep, sad, bellowing sound, the lowest note in M. Pujol's scale, and soon enough, rising up in all directions, comes the distant chorus of frogs, jowls swelling with song, their voices carrying from all the wet corners of the world: the riverbank, the millpond, the water hole behind the barn, the empty pool where a widow once kept her fish.
The audience finds this stirring performance merely cause for greater pity. Madeleine hears the sound of sniffling, and is enraged.
Among the rich, she shouts, my gifts are in great demand!