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

He wrote: You have no idea how painful this war has been for me. I appreciate your sacrifice, the work you do for me and others like me, but, suffice it to say, you have it easy. You sit here in Paris, in relative safety, while the bombs and the bullets of the world’s armies rend their terrible destruction. My life is destroyed and I can never get it back. He shoved the paper across the desk to her.

Emma took it gingerly. As she read his words, thoughts of the Christmas party—and Monsieur Thibault’s suicide—raced through her mind. Fearing this soldier might explode as well, Emma attempted to calm him. “Private Darser, our studio can help. I know you understand our work, and we can help you recover your face and life. You’ll be able to enjoy the company of your wife and friends again and be able to hold a job, if you wish, without fear of ridicule or laughter.”

He snatched the paper from Emma and scrawled the words in capital letters: I AM SILENCED FOREVER. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN SILENCED, MRS. SWAN? I SUSPECT YOU HAVE. I CANNOT SPEAK; BUT, FAR WORSE, I HAVE NO ONE TO SHARE MY SILENCE.

The soldier dropped his head, and his shoulders trembled as he fought back sobs.

Emma touched his hand.

As she did so, he threaded his fingers through hers and grasped them tightly.

Emma flinched, but made no effort to withdraw. “I know silence,” she said, “a terrible, cold silence that fills the body, and when you think it’s released its frigid grip, it returns stronger and more deadly than ever. Yes, I’ve walked hand in hand with lonely silence—and suffered from its constant companionship, the suffocating withdrawal from pain. Suffocation can be as horrendous as loneliness.” Emma stopped, quieted by her thoughts. “Are you married, Private Darser? It was wrong of me to make such an assumption.”

He looked up and shook his head, his eyes softening a bit as he released her hand to write. Never—there was a girl once, but we came to a bitter end. She was quite beautiful and I loved her in my way, but she couldn’t understand my affection and I couldn’t convey it. I was younger then—if I had the chance today, I would be stronger and more forgiving. But she has moved on, and now I am mute.

“I understand, but you’re not mute. You’re talking with me now.”

He brought his hands to his face and covered his eyes for a moment. When he removed them, he wrote: Words, when spoken, last only seconds, but can change lives forever. How I wish I could correct the harm I’ve caused. How I wish she could forgive me for all that we went through. I could rest in peace if she would tell me that all was forgiven.

“I’m certain she would.” For a time, they studied each other from their respective viewpoints, until Emma spoke again. “Are you ready to begin? Virginie, I’m sure, has explained our work: the casts, the sculpting process, how we reconstruct the face as it existed before the injury, and finally the making of the mask. When the mask is painted, fitted, and ready, you will have—”

He placed his left hand over hers to quiet her. Dr. Harvey has explained everything. I am ready to begin.

With a start, Emma recognized the solider—he was the one who had arrived at John Harvey’s her first night in Paris.

* * *

Through the summer, the sweet perfume of yellow roses drifted through the house as Madame Clement continued her self-imposed task of finding flowers. More than anything, the housekeeper wanted to brighten the studio and make sure the casting room was filled each day with blooms. Monsieur Thibault’s suicide had affected her deeply, making her even more cognizant of the soldiers. Now, she offered each a cheery greeting, despite her own mood, and offered them food or drink before they had the chance to ask.

One evening in August, the exhaust, the smell of horses, lifted from the street into Emma’s bedroom and overtook the odor of the fragrant roses. She sat on her bed and leafed through the few letters she had received from Linton Bower. The last was dated July 23rd, 1918. She opened it gently as if it were an expensive gift. The paper smelled like the paint in Linton’s studio. It was his mark; his imprint upon the world he shared especially with her. The writing was his: choppy and scrawled across the page. There was no mistaking his hand; a few letters had arrived written by Anne on Linton’s behalf. They had been more formal, less revealing than when Linton desired an intimate message.

Emma stretched across her bed.

My Dearest Emma,

I’m so happy we’ve been able to write to each other. You will, of course, excuse my handwriting. I didn’t want Anne to transcribe these words, although I’m having her address the envelope for fear of the letter not making it to Paris because of my bad hand.

By the way, Anne and Lazarus are fine. I believe you were quite correct in your assumptions about her—unlike Louisa’s assessment—she is the perfect housekeeper and organizer of your affairs, and she dotes on Lazarus, who seems, to me, to have become a very pampered and lazy animal, but still as kind and faithful a companion as one could ever require.

As you and I have corresponded, the connection between Anne and me has grown stronger. She’s been kind enough to ask me over for dinner. I think she truly enjoys having company—the house must get lonely at times—and my social calendar isn’t overflowing. One can attend only so many art openings and exhibits. Only Alex keeps me entertained on that account.

Anne has a beau, a young man she met the night of Fran Livingston’s party shortly before you left for France. But don’t concern yourself. I believe it’s just a flirtatious crush. Anne is too firmly rooted in Catholicism to allow