The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

“Now you understand,” Richard said to her in a voice barely above a whisper. “Il marche dans la nuit.”

Emma nodded and watched as the two descended the steps to the courtyard.

After they departed, Emma picked up the studio phone, barely aware of Virginie, Hassan, and the soldier in the casting room. It seemed to slip from her hands, but finally the operator connected her to the hospital in Toul. Courage . . . courage to talk to Tom. We no longer have the luxury of time. The call went through.

“Docteur Swan,” Emma said when the connection was made.

“Un moment.” Emma recognized the voice of the nurse who usually sat at the front desk. The woman put the phone down and it seemed hours before another voice came on the line.

“Thomas Swan.”

Emma hesitated, her throat constricting with emotion.

“I know about . . .” she finally managed to say.

“Emma?”

“Yes.”

A long silence reinforced the gulf between them.

“You were right about trust,” Emma said.

“What do you mean?” he asked, concern rising in his voice.

“Madame Bouchard. The child. Everything.”

“Oh, God. You saw her?”

“She came to me.”

Before Tom spoke, silence flowed between them like battering waves. “Emma, please understand . . .”

“At the moment, understanding is beyond my reach.”

“Let me explain. Don’t be hasty.”

“Time . . . I need time to think . . . please don’t call or come to Paris.”

“Emma . . . ?”

She placed the phone gently in the cradle, cutting off their conversation, and bowed her head. After a time, the room reemerged around her.

The soldier shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Hassan smoothed plaster over the wounded face. Virginie flicked her brush against the mask she was painting.

Emma left her desk and walked to the window. The finality of her conversation with Tom—the painful truth—forced her to remember why she had never told anyone, not even her husband, about the loss she’d endured years before.

CHAPTER 10

PARIS

November 11, 1918

“We came very close to extinction,” John Harvey said.

They stood at the studio window and looked down upon the revelers who congregated on rue Monge. To Emma they seemed like ants scattered by a careless footstep. Men and women waved the Tricolor, but there were other colors as well—foreign flags hoisted on banners, nations celebrating together after four years of war. Emma knew very little about these other people and nations, but shared in their relief that the war finally had come to a close. From their vantage point at the window, Emma and John heard the sharp reports of fireworks and shots fired into the air from celebrations breaking out across the city. Even an overcast sky, sometimes punctuated by blue breaks in the clouds, failed to dampen the crowd’s enthusiasm. Men hugged, women cried, both sexes laughed and kissed on the street below. Emma looked at the clock; it was just after noon.

“Do you believe in the afterlife?” John asked, pulling a chair near the window. He lit a cigarette and positioned it in the ashtray he held. The gray smoke drifted toward the window and blended with the heavy sky over Paris.

Emma turned to him and smiled. “An afterlife? What an odd question to ask considering the day,” she said casually. A disquieting emptiness filled her despite the rejoicing outside.

“Not at all; in fact, I think it’s quite appropriate.” He reached for the cigarette. “We all evaded death—even Tom. That’s something to be thankful for. Had we not, who knows where we would be.” He laughed at his own sardonic joke.

“I believe in what we have now,” Emma said. “There’s nothing more. This war has convinced me of that.”

“I’ve seen many corpses, Emma. And judging from the view, I’d have to agree with you. When you see a dead man with hands reaching for the heavens, his stomach bloated in death, the face gripped with terror, frozen for eternity, you have every right to wonder whether there is a God.” He paused and flicked off an ash. “I suppose I can tell you now. Bloody hell, what are they going to do? Hang me? The project at Porton Down, had it come to fruition, would have ended the war—possibly even mankind. We were developing a weapon—a gas so hideous its deployment would have killed hundreds of thousands more—perhaps millions.”

“Millions murdered by this war and we should count ourselves lucky,” Emma said.

“Not murder. Government-sanctioned genocide.” He stubbed out his cigarette and looked at her. “You’re behaving strangely. You should be happy . . . celebrating like Hassan, Madame Clement, and that obnoxious assistant of yours. They’re out roaming the streets of Paris with champagne in hand. A thought is an unsatisfactory substitute for the experience. . . .” John made a fist and tipped it toward his mouth.

“Not a bottle in the house unless there happens to be a stray in the alcove,” Emma said.

“Please, do us a favor and give it a good looking over.”

“Why not?” she asked, walking away. The cabinet over the sink held tea, crackers, a tin of cookies, and Madame Clement’s freshly washed dishes. A few rumpled dishtowels and a box of soap powder lay under the basin. However, she found what she was looking for in a small cupboard on the opposite wall. Emma grabbed a bottle and two glasses and returned to the casting room. John shifted his ample body in the chair and propped his feet on the windowsill.

“No more champagne,” Emma said, “but I found a half-full bottle of Irish whiskey. I imagine one of the soldiers left it—perhaps from Christmas.”

John smacked his lips. “Irish whiskey. Even better.”

Emma poured two glasses, handing one to her guest as the fruity odor of the liquor washed over them.

John raised his glass and clinked it against Emma’s. “Here’s to the end of hell.”

“Or possibly the beginning,” Emma replied, thinking about all that remained unfinished in her life.

Before he drank, John said, “Seriously, I’m concerned about you.”

She turned her back to the crowd below and leaned against the sill.