me, Romaine says, pointing a finger at Mario. He thinks I donât know what heâs doing.
No, no, Officer, Mario hears himself saying. There was a cook here who had some debts. He was fired and left angrily, taking the wine and God knows what else.
Yes, Michele says, stepping forward. Our Romaine can be a little paranoid. She has visions.
The carabiniere smiles. Itâs a smile that says, Yes, Iâm in on this joke . Poor old rich woman with five locks on the door.
But should the carabiniere choose to search the flat Mario shares with his mother, he would not find a stolen painting. He would not find anything unless he looks inside Marioâs motherâs Bible, where she has stashed Romaineâs drawings because she thinks they are evil. Lavoro del diavolo , she said, plucking them from his wall. Hebrings them home, the few times he has deigned to spend a night outside of Romaineâs elegant bedroom. Heâs kept all but the one he sold to the dealer, the money from which he will use to rent a room in Saint-Tropez. He was tempted to sell more, but it felt like a transgression, even against Romaine, and he loved the feeling of possessing her work.
He can picture Saint-Tropez now: a lover in his bed, the glittering sea, the green hills, the masts of tall boats, the women in their wide-brimmed hats and enormous sunglasses. He will be standing in a window, watching them all.
The carabiniere bids them good afternoon. Hours later, Michele and Gray have gone out drinking, and Mario is home alone with Romaine. He takes his favorite cape from the closet, gently folds it, and places it into a paper bag.
Romaine is having her dinner, hands trembling as she runs her knife through the tongue, leftovers, which she has never deigned to eat before now. But tonight is different from other nights.
I do not care for her, Mario thinks. I do not feel sorry for her. I only want to take some small slice of her life and have it for myself.
He comes to the chair and crouches down at her knees, which he has done so many times.
Can I wash your hair?
Why must you be so tender about everything? she asks, dropping her utensils to the plate. Itâs unnerving.
He moves silently about the room, adjusting the black curtains, waiting.
It would be nice to be clean before I travel, she says flatly.
He fills the tub with warm, not hot, water. He opens the small window in the bathroom and lets the fresh air in. He helps Romaine undress, steadying her as he unbuttons her blouse, never making eye contact. When she nearly slips he lifts her up like a young bride and lowers her carefully into the soapy water.
The dog is barking. The motorbikes scream underneath the window. This is what his mother does, he thinks, washing something that belongs to someone else. Romaine sits in the tub with her knees up. Relax, he says. Let go.
I canât.
You must. You should.
He grips each side of her face with his hands. It wonât hurt, he says.
She is staring at himâor she may be looking through him onto someone else, someone he canât seeâwith those eyes. One trails off, the other remains steadily on his face, searching. The night comes.
Hazel Marion Eaton Watkins performing on Hagerâs Wall of Death, 1927.
Photo originally published in the Portland Sunday Telegram, March 12, 1939.
HAZEL EATON AND THE WALL OF DEATH
1921
S he survives by telling herself not to think.
Just do. Just move. Just balance. Forget yourself.
She often feels as if she leaves her body before a performance and returns to it when her motorcycle is still and her feet are planted on the ground.
But sometimes not thinking means death, or almost death, and today sheâs lying in a hospital room in Bangor, in and out of consciousness, with facial lacerations, broken ribs, a fractured femur, and a concussion, which happened when her rear brake locked up as she was circling the motordrome at sixty miles per hour. She slid down the wall like
No, no, Officer, Mario hears himself saying. There was a cook here who had some debts. He was fired and left angrily, taking the wine and God knows what else.
Yes, Michele says, stepping forward. Our Romaine can be a little paranoid. She has visions.
The carabiniere smiles. Itâs a smile that says, Yes, Iâm in on this joke . Poor old rich woman with five locks on the door.
But should the carabiniere choose to search the flat Mario shares with his mother, he would not find a stolen painting. He would not find anything unless he looks inside Marioâs motherâs Bible, where she has stashed Romaineâs drawings because she thinks they are evil. Lavoro del diavolo , she said, plucking them from his wall. Hebrings them home, the few times he has deigned to spend a night outside of Romaineâs elegant bedroom. Heâs kept all but the one he sold to the dealer, the money from which he will use to rent a room in Saint-Tropez. He was tempted to sell more, but it felt like a transgression, even against Romaine, and he loved the feeling of possessing her work.
He can picture Saint-Tropez now: a lover in his bed, the glittering sea, the green hills, the masts of tall boats, the women in their wide-brimmed hats and enormous sunglasses. He will be standing in a window, watching them all.
The carabiniere bids them good afternoon. Hours later, Michele and Gray have gone out drinking, and Mario is home alone with Romaine. He takes his favorite cape from the closet, gently folds it, and places it into a paper bag.
Romaine is having her dinner, hands trembling as she runs her knife through the tongue, leftovers, which she has never deigned to eat before now. But tonight is different from other nights.
I do not care for her, Mario thinks. I do not feel sorry for her. I only want to take some small slice of her life and have it for myself.
He comes to the chair and crouches down at her knees, which he has done so many times.
Can I wash your hair?
Why must you be so tender about everything? she asks, dropping her utensils to the plate. Itâs unnerving.
He moves silently about the room, adjusting the black curtains, waiting.
It would be nice to be clean before I travel, she says flatly.
He fills the tub with warm, not hot, water. He opens the small window in the bathroom and lets the fresh air in. He helps Romaine undress, steadying her as he unbuttons her blouse, never making eye contact. When she nearly slips he lifts her up like a young bride and lowers her carefully into the soapy water.
The dog is barking. The motorbikes scream underneath the window. This is what his mother does, he thinks, washing something that belongs to someone else. Romaine sits in the tub with her knees up. Relax, he says. Let go.
I canât.
You must. You should.
He grips each side of her face with his hands. It wonât hurt, he says.
She is staring at himâor she may be looking through him onto someone else, someone he canât seeâwith those eyes. One trails off, the other remains steadily on his face, searching. The night comes.
Hazel Marion Eaton Watkins performing on Hagerâs Wall of Death, 1927.
Photo originally published in the Portland Sunday Telegram, March 12, 1939.
HAZEL EATON AND THE WALL OF DEATH
1921
S he survives by telling herself not to think.
Just do. Just move. Just balance. Forget yourself.
She often feels as if she leaves her body before a performance and returns to it when her motorcycle is still and her feet are planted on the ground.
But sometimes not thinking means death, or almost death, and today sheâs lying in a hospital room in Bangor, in and out of consciousness, with facial lacerations, broken ribs, a fractured femur, and a concussion, which happened when her rear brake locked up as she was circling the motordrome at sixty miles per hour. She slid down the wall like
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