Amandine by Marlena de Blasi

in the room nearest to Philippe. He shoos away the offerings of embroidered linens and towels. “It’s not my wedding night, Paul. Leave me to mourn my friend.” Next morning at five, it’s he, still wearing his country priest’s soutane, his slippers, who says mass for the sisterhood. At breakfast he announces the wishes of Philippe. All that day and into the evening, it’s he who oversees the events.
    The grave is dug in a patch of meadow only meters from the smallest, farthest-away vineyard. There will be no monument. No beribboned chrysanthemum pillows. No eulogies.
    Solange has kept Amandine by her side every moment since she found her with Philippe under the walnut tree. Though she knows that Amandine understands what has happened, Solange does not speak of Philippe or his death. Rather she tries to comfort Amandine with the familiar rites of their life. In their rooms she lights the kindling in the hearth as she does every evening, fills the tub with warm water,handing the bottle of almond oil to the child, looking on as Amandine carefully measures out a capful and leans over the tub to pour it directly under the sputtering faucet. Amandine takes a jar then from the shelf over the tub, deftly pulls out one then another round purple capsule, throws them under the running water, replaces the jar. She looks at Solange and, as if on cue, they inhale the lilac scent. Just as they do always. Still in her muddy red boots and outdoor clothes, Amandine begins to undress, allows Solange to help. Concession to the evening’s incidents. Solange bathes Amandine, washes her hair, helps her to stand up in the tub while she rinses her tangled black curls with fresh water poured from a small yellow faience bowl again and again over her head. Usually protesting this last step in the ablutions by pushing away Solange’s hand, tonight Amandine holds her small, pointed chin high, closes her eyes tightly, awaits the assault. Lifting her from the tub, swinging her in a wide arc to stand on the chair beside it, Solange wraps Amandine in a large linen cloth, carries her to the fire, kisses her “fairy’s wings,” rubs her dry, burnishes her skin to a sheen with two quick shakes of talcum from the pale blue tin with the baby on it. Pink flannel bloomers and nightdress, long pink stockings, slippers. Supper. One of the sisters has left a basket on the table. A small covered copper pot wrapped in a yellow striped napkin. Solange spoons out bits of chicken stewed in cream. Mashes a piece of boiled carrot into the sauce. She butters bread, fills Amandine’s glass with milk from a quarter-liter glass bottle. Sets down a little white porcelain pot of caramel pudding by each plate. Though neither of them has spoken a word, the slow, tinny whine of the funeral bells in the hamlet chapel fills the silence. A thrush laments somewhere among the vines. A thrush who would sing at night. Another concession. Philippe is dead.
    On an afternoon a few days later, when Solange had left her resting in their rooms, Amandine pulls on her sweater, slips into her raincoat even though the weather is fine. It’s the pockets of the coat, large and deep, that she needs. Boots, hat, she descends the stairs to the quiet kitchen, opens the door to the
garde-manger
, takes thick slices ofblack bread from the drawer where they are stored, ready to toast in the morning. She lays the bread flat on a shelf, lifts the cork from one of the large gray stone jam pots. Blackberry. With its own wooden spoon she spreads the thick, dark fruit onto the bread, folds each slice in half, pressing on them with the heel of her hand. She wraps them then in a sheet of brown paper, which she tears from the roll attached to the wall. She closes the drawer, corks the jam pot. Shuts the door on her deed.
    Package in one of her pockets, she walks to the garden, directly to the herb patches. She tears basil from its bed. Sometimes by the roots, sometimes only the leaves. She hurries, knows