gleamed my own ghostly image at me; she was seated near the door and André sat at the far end, his back to the French window. He looked up at me and I felt,as clearly as if he had really done it, his finger trace my cheek:
pretty little devil.
‘Do you find your quarters to your liking?’ he asked.
‘They are extremely comfortable. Thank you.’
He had risen into a reverential half-bow; now he sat back in his seat, his smile in the corners of his mouth.
I looked down at the finicky morsels of food:
amuse-bouches
, a miniature egg perched on a salad, and the snails and dish of sauce – toy dinner – and hovered over the cutlery until I could be sure what each was for.
‘Mlle Roux saved my life today,’ Terpsichore said.
André pressed his thumb into his wine glass: miniature pink lines sprang to life along the stem.
‘Yes, it happened like this: I was re-reading
Thérèse Raquin
by M. Zola, which as you know,’ – she paused to press her napkin to her mouth – ‘is a great tragedy of disappointed hopes and loveless loves.’ Her eyes were busy on the table as she spoke, and her hands swept the snails’ shells fussily back into their silver dish. ‘I had come to the final paragraph, so desperately sad, where Laurent and Thérèse take the poison and collapse into each others’ arms, unable to bear the weight of their guilt.’ She lifted her wine glass; her eyes twinkled over the top of it. ‘And I sat on my sofa and thought, nothing can surpass
Thérèse Raquin
– I have known it for some time in my heart of hearts. M. Zola is a towering inferno of genius who will never again pass amongst us, so what use is it, then, to stay alive?’
André smiled indulgently.
‘So I thought then:
What will it be? Knife, rope or drowning?
My resolve was fixed; I had only to determine the
modus operandi
– I barely heard the door, nor did I hear Thomas escorting Mlle Roux into the room, but unquestionably she rescued me from certain death by my own hand.’
André snorted and smoothed his cutlery, repositioning it on the tablecloth; then looked up as the fish course was brought.‘How do we know that it was not Mlle Roux, performing voodoo in the back of our automobile, who put such thoughts into your mind in the first place?’
She levelled her knife at him down the table. ‘We don’t. Mlle Roux is therefore a rescuer or a bird of ill omen, depending on your point of view.’ She smiled her bright, interested smile. ‘In any case, the great work of saving me from myself begins tomorrow. Mlle Roux must always be on hand with matches, to set alight any book which might distress me; to remove tempting nooses, to whisk sharp objects out of my reach.’
André dipped his eyes to his food, smiling and prodding the fish with his fork. I looked up at her, and found she had absented herself, lifting her wine glass and staring at a point in the dark window past André’s head. Her neck drooped slightly, in the way that tall people’s sometimes do.
I dissected my sole into smaller and even smaller pieces, irritated by what she’d said. She expected me to be at her shoulder with the matches, always on hand to shelter the corners of furniture. It was as if I was a negative person – someone she would only notice through the things I removed.
The shutters in my bedroom window creak in the night air. At the doorway, André pauses: ‘The two of you don’t have to be enemies.’
‘You’d prefer it if we were.’
He grins, and is gone. His light footsteps patter down the stairs to his rooms one floor below, and there is the sound of his door gently shutting.
11. juillet 1913
THE NEXT MORNING I woke up naturally for the first time in years. It was wonderful: listening to the sounds of other people having to work; scratching at André’s leftover papery scales with my thumbnail.
The house was all small sounds: the clatter of pans in the kitchen, the sweep, sweep of the housemaids scrubbing down the terrace
pretty little devil.
‘Do you find your quarters to your liking?’ he asked.
‘They are extremely comfortable. Thank you.’
He had risen into a reverential half-bow; now he sat back in his seat, his smile in the corners of his mouth.
I looked down at the finicky morsels of food:
amuse-bouches
, a miniature egg perched on a salad, and the snails and dish of sauce – toy dinner – and hovered over the cutlery until I could be sure what each was for.
‘Mlle Roux saved my life today,’ Terpsichore said.
André pressed his thumb into his wine glass: miniature pink lines sprang to life along the stem.
‘Yes, it happened like this: I was re-reading
Thérèse Raquin
by M. Zola, which as you know,’ – she paused to press her napkin to her mouth – ‘is a great tragedy of disappointed hopes and loveless loves.’ Her eyes were busy on the table as she spoke, and her hands swept the snails’ shells fussily back into their silver dish. ‘I had come to the final paragraph, so desperately sad, where Laurent and Thérèse take the poison and collapse into each others’ arms, unable to bear the weight of their guilt.’ She lifted her wine glass; her eyes twinkled over the top of it. ‘And I sat on my sofa and thought, nothing can surpass
Thérèse Raquin
– I have known it for some time in my heart of hearts. M. Zola is a towering inferno of genius who will never again pass amongst us, so what use is it, then, to stay alive?’
André smiled indulgently.
‘So I thought then:
What will it be? Knife, rope or drowning?
My resolve was fixed; I had only to determine the
modus operandi
– I barely heard the door, nor did I hear Thomas escorting Mlle Roux into the room, but unquestionably she rescued me from certain death by my own hand.’
André snorted and smoothed his cutlery, repositioning it on the tablecloth; then looked up as the fish course was brought.‘How do we know that it was not Mlle Roux, performing voodoo in the back of our automobile, who put such thoughts into your mind in the first place?’
She levelled her knife at him down the table. ‘We don’t. Mlle Roux is therefore a rescuer or a bird of ill omen, depending on your point of view.’ She smiled her bright, interested smile. ‘In any case, the great work of saving me from myself begins tomorrow. Mlle Roux must always be on hand with matches, to set alight any book which might distress me; to remove tempting nooses, to whisk sharp objects out of my reach.’
André dipped his eyes to his food, smiling and prodding the fish with his fork. I looked up at her, and found she had absented herself, lifting her wine glass and staring at a point in the dark window past André’s head. Her neck drooped slightly, in the way that tall people’s sometimes do.
I dissected my sole into smaller and even smaller pieces, irritated by what she’d said. She expected me to be at her shoulder with the matches, always on hand to shelter the corners of furniture. It was as if I was a negative person – someone she would only notice through the things I removed.
The shutters in my bedroom window creak in the night air. At the doorway, André pauses: ‘The two of you don’t have to be enemies.’
‘You’d prefer it if we were.’
He grins, and is gone. His light footsteps patter down the stairs to his rooms one floor below, and there is the sound of his door gently shutting.
11. juillet 1913
THE NEXT MORNING I woke up naturally for the first time in years. It was wonderful: listening to the sounds of other people having to work; scratching at André’s leftover papery scales with my thumbnail.
The house was all small sounds: the clatter of pans in the kitchen, the sweep, sweep of the housemaids scrubbing down the terrace
Similar Books
