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

Emma shook her head. “Of course, the first word you’ve ever spoken in French would come out as an insult.”

John scowled.

* * *

“Please don’t fidget.” Emma hoped she could still the anxiety that lay underneath her command. Her stomach had rumbled all morning in anticipation of Private Darser’s appointment. “You must hold still or the paint will smear.”

He, as calm as an August summer night, sat in a wicker chair as she daubed paint on the mask. She had matched the skin tone at a previous fitting; the mask would be complete after applying the final touches to the beard, lips, and the chin. Soft morning light flooded the studio.

As she worked, many thoughts coursed through her mind. One was born from John’s telegram from England that had arrived in Paris two days before. It read: No Ronald Darser in 7th Canadian. Further inquiries required. Papa.

She concentrated as much as she could on the painting, her gaze locking onto the fully formed face she had created, her hand trembling as she worked the brush near the left cheekbone.

The soldier noticed her unease and waved his hands for Emma to stop. He took his pad and pencil from his tunic pocket. What’s wrong? You seem anxious today. Does my face disturb you?

He knows. Oh, God, he knows. Why has he come here? She walked to the studio table, placed her paintbrush in its holder, turned away, and looked out the window. Below, life went on as always: the parade of pedestrians, the leaves turning gold and brown, the chill of fall in the air. After a moment, she said, “Your face is perfect. In fact, it’s so perfect it brings back memories. Sometimes the strain of the job . . .” She turned to him.

He was seated, statue-like, in his chair, his eyes piercing her.

“Sometimes the strain is difficult,” she continued. “Getting the skin color right . . . I want the mask to be perfect. It’s only fair, considering what you’ve endured.”

He blinked, his eyes red and swollen beneath the lids.

The studio air felt oddly close. Emma heard the rustle of Virginie’s hands as she pulled books from a shelf; the scrape of Hassan’s modeling tool sounded in her ears. “Could you leave us for a moment?” Emma asked her assistants.

Virginie placed the books on the table and Hassan wiped the clay from his hands. They both looked somewhat shocked by Emma’s abrupt command, but they complied with her request.

“Shut the door when you leave,” Emma ordered. She kept near the window until the door closed, then, her anger flaring, she strode toward him, her voice rising, “Why are you here? What right do you have to do this to me? I know who you are.”

The soldier rose from his chair, approaching her in measured steps.

She retreated until she could go no farther, the windowsill blocking her escape. She looked for a weapon. The broom in the corner caught her eye.

The soldier stopped near her and stared out the window across rue Monge.

He could see himself in the glass—the bright sun heightened his reflection. Emma stood rigid until the soldier looked at her.

He took out his pad and pencil. Do you have a mirror?

Emma nodded, inched away from him, walked to her desk, and retrieved the looking glass from a drawer where it had been stored for her use, not the soldiers’.

Private Darser looked into it, studying his reflection, touching his left temple and the glasses’ earpiece.

Emma knew he also wanted to touch the mask, but she stopped him with a firm “No.” He was fascinated by his own image, like the Narcissus she had wanted to create with Linton. “Don’t touch it,” she added. “It’s fragile.” Even as she admonished him, she was filled with an odd thrill in her accomplishment. She had restored a man’s face through her art; her skills would allow him to live free of fear and rejection. Some might see, if they looked closely, the nearly imperceptible line between his skin and the mask, the demarcation that marked the marriage of flesh and metal, but most would go about their self-absorbed business, seeing the face like any other, never giving notice to the man who might walk among them with slightly bowed head or upturned collar against the wind, avoiding the looks of horror, sneers, or, worst of all, the laughter.

On the other hand, she was repelled by the soldier who gazed into the mirror. He was the one who had caused her the deepest pain after she had surrendered her young, obsessive self to him. And now she had recreated him.

Finally, he wrote: You’ve done a superb job. How can I ever repay you?

“You know very well how you can repay me,” Emma demanded. “You can tell me the truth.”

He returned to his chair, still carrying the mirror, seemingly pleased with himself now that his sorrow had abated. Your work is done and I must return to Canada. I will not be returning to the Front.

“I know who you are,” Emma said. “The least you can do is admit it. How long has it been—ten years since you abandoned me?”

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

“Your face! You were the father of my child.”

His unwavering stare cut through her. For a moment, Emma considered she was going mad—the strain of the war, working with disfigured men, the stress of her relationship with Tom. No, that wasn’t the case! He sat in front of her, manipulating her again for his benefit.

He wrote for a long while and then handed the pad to Emma. I am not the father of your child. I would never make any presumption of such knowledge—before God or before you. It’s clear you have suffered some indignity in your past—one that has caused tragedy in your life—but I’m not the cause. I told you to construct the mask as you wished and you have done so. I’m what you’ve created, Mrs. Swan! You’ve made me in the image you desired.