THE GYPSY CAMP is disappointing in its tidiness. No smoking fires, no wagons painted in raffish reds and golds, no unmentionables hanging from the windows to dry. Instead, the camp is an outpost of sorts, a miniature rococo fantasy: the creamy-colored caravans are ornamented with flutings and fig leafs, and brocade curtains hunker in the doorways. In the gypsy mamas window boxes, a tiny but well-manicured topiary grows where geraniums ought to be straggling.
Madeleine's bandaged hands have wilted by her sides, and she slumps dejectedly on her stool. Trying to cheer her, Marguerite waves a pair of glittering shears in the air, as long and keen as a sword.
Be brave, she instructs Madeleine. Don't move a muscle.
The scissors dive down between Madeleine's shallow breasts, she shivers, and Marguerite brings the blades together with a snap. The monstrous dress falls to her feet, neatly cleft in two.
A sartorial disaster, Marguerite says as she repockets her enormous shears. She settles down onto her haunches: Now, give me one of your hands.
And she takes hold of the little bundle, so dear that she can hardly bear to touch it, like a butterfly collector cradling a cocoon. Her fingers fly over the bandages as if they were reading Braille; soon she has discovered and disinterred the ragged end.
Madeleine watches mildly as the punished hand is unwrapped.
She sees that her hand has healed.
The fingers have mended together, sewn up tightly along the seams.
My hand looks like a paddle, Madeleine says.
That might prove useful, Marguerite replies.