15. The Sun

Halfway through the morning, Lola organizes, counts, and rolls out dough, while Katja and Wulda clean, Madame Helena rushes around with hard-backed notebooks where she enters income and expenses and work to do in the house because soon the season will change and it will be spring, while Miss Esther smiles, lit like a relief figure on a frieze by the light that enters the shop window and silhouettes the golden letters edged in black of “Miraflora” on the dark gray rug, because Mr. Celsus tells her quite seriously that it may seem like winter to her but not really, for winter is over. Perhaps it has ended and that gives her this shape and outline; perhaps the curtain will be raised over a parade of feet and hands and faces on the washed surfaces of streets, sidewalks, steep roofs, floors, the curve of all-new porcelain and silk, as if deflowered again, like the chatter of guessing games and charades of children who, while Lola contemplates the platters that have been served, arrive at midday with servants and shouts, pattering shoes and busy hands through the doorway, hungry, hot, thinking about the afternoon that lies ahead when the day is no longer gray but yellow.

Because the sun came out at noon. It came out over a grayish world in a resentful winter and nothing could be done about it: in some houses the curtains were chastely closed because this sun, excessive, out of place and propriety, might fade the tapestries and worse, strike the skin on forearms and behind earlobes of protected and obedient girls inciting their thoughts, girls who transformed in that season like the sun, trading black kid gloves for itchy white lace gloves with tiny round silk-covered buttons at the wrist. The sun struck facades, excited shadows, split on edges, pushed borders; the light gave vigor to large rooms and shine to details on handrails on stairways. Maybe it was warmer, maybe it was not, but many women stopped, aware of themselves, too aware for a second or less, straightened their heads, eyes searching corners as if they might seek and find there the proof of a sacrilege, enchantment, or secret white light could illuminate the lives of everyone they knew and their own lives, the way a kinetoscope’s revelation evokes a little childlike noise in a darkened room; and many men disabused themselves of that presumption, the chill over what they had managed to flee without a trace, and frightened it away, amazed by their own strength, sure about the terrain they trod. Nevertheless, small thoughts ripe like grapes and like them in bunches, almost invincible, small wild juicy thoughts roiled like sparks, squatted like buttresses, climbed fiercely, flew bravely, slid down throats and rose up and out like bubbles, and this time mothers smiled and nursemaids cleared their throats.

Which has to do with noise, obviously. Scheller Street held what Mill Alley never did: in the time of the fat merchant when the words of Novalis sang seductively to the intimate heat of bodies and the igneous heat of newly conceived land; when strong square houses were built and contours of dreams were transformed by stone and mortar, the alley harbored all manner of noises, squeals, shouts, blows, yells, whistles, dins, voices, and racket; women called out, men gave orders, children cried, beasts brayed, and cartwheels screeched and struck doorways, bread was kneaded, rugs were beaten, pots broke, and at times songs were sung in the kitchens and at towlines. But then silence came with a century, as if saying there was no reason for delusions, and asking for polish, cleanliness, reserve, and logic instead of vanity, contending that we will all be happy and have houses like these flanked by leafy trees, polished by diligent servants, from which our bedecked coaches will leave toward happiness; who could doubt it, riches, aircraft, dirigibles, dominions, pantelegraphs, all the marvels of life revealed without danger or pain. Silence is absence, heavy and grave, the absence of flesh, flesh and word, word and body, prudent resolve, deliberation, good manners, and the right gloves for every occasion. Madame Helena had tea in her rooms and Sophie Simeoni scolded her daughter ten meters above; the sun took its time, Miss Esther wore white, Mr. Pallud bent over a violin player seven centimeters high and gently brushed the plaid pants of the minuscule figure with his finger, young Gangulf drew circles on a sheet of paper, Madame Nashiru placed the pearls from the most recent shipment onto trays lined with midnight blue velvet or white silk, and, from the street, hidden in a doorway, the General spied on her.