In the Fall They Leave, page 2
The woman looks out at the rue de la Culture through the lace curtain. “Do you know, my mother said nearly the same thing before I left. That I could work in a hospital there.” She regards Marie-Thérèse again. “But I am needed here. All the more so if war is declared.”
“I am pleased you will be staying, Matron.”
“Merci, mademoiselle.”
It seems a dismissal. Marie-Thérèse pushes back her chair and stands, then attempts another tangled apology for going to the station that morning.
“Mademoiselle Hulbert, it was of no consequence. Please remember that if you need to finish your studies elsewhere, I will write you a strong recommendation.”
“Merci beaucoup, Matrone.” The matron never offers glib compliments. Marie-Thérèse tucks those words away for hard days. After replacing her chair, she turns to go.
“One moment, please. Could you walk Jackie and Donnie this evening if you have an hour to spare?” She offers the smile usually reserved for patients.
“I…yes! I will be delighted. Merci. Merci beaucoup!”
“Tell monsieur so he won’t worry they got out on their own.”
“I will do so now. Thank you again.”
“Oh, and please take your biscuit for later.”
The gardener is holding a minuscule piece of paper up to his eyes while a pigeon struts back and forth on the coop’s plank counter. Its feet, she notices again, are so extraordinarily red.
He drops the paper on the counter, and as he seems in no mood for even minimal conversation, she picks it up and deciphers its tiny print. Ponts de Liège détruits.
“They destroyed the bridges, Papa?” she says, using their pet name for him.
“We did.”
“We did? So that means… Does it mean we are not agreeing to the ultimatum?” Of course it must. Don’t be stupid.
He hands her the pigeon and then, with knobbed and scarred fingers, rolls up the paper. The bird seems just a few bones and feathers and a tiny, quick-pumping heart, its round eyes shiny as obsidian. The gardener finally gets the paper inserted in the tube, and the tube fastened to one of the twig-like legs. Then he takes the pigeon outside and brings it to his face. “Idź z Bogiem,” he says. Go with God.
The bird flaps upward. Rising above the trees, it turns eastward. When they can no longer see it, she tells him about coming for Jackie and Donnie later. After a moment she adds, “Does it mean war, Papa?”
He probably was a soldier once. She’s heard there’s an old saber over the mantel in his cottage. And he keeps his white hair and mustache evenly clipped. A cross-hatching of nicks and scars on both face and hands and one rather large scar through his left eyebrow add to the impression. Also, there’s the way he wears his workman’s clothing belted and neat, even the brown boots polished. Marie-Thérèse has never asked him about his past. There’s something too reserved about him. And possibly tragic. She’s read somewhere, or at least has gotten the idea, that those who’ve seen much often say the least.
“When they want,” he says now, “they take.”
Wrong Notes
Marie-Thérèse lets herself into her family’s home, and there is the housekeeper, Francine, at the far end of the hall, holding dinner plates. Marie-Thérèse has startled her.
The woman isn’t tall and over the years has grown stout. Her black hair is still worn pulled straight back into a bun level with her ears. White streaks stratify the once-solid black. The bun itself, once plump, now appears deflated.
Since Marie-Térèse’s defection, Francine has never offered a greeting.
“Bonsoir, Francine. How have you been? You look well. Are they at home?”
“Only madame. Do not upset her. She is very nervous today.”
Madame. Francine was only thirteen or fourteen when employed to help Marie-Thérèse’s mother at the ballet, who, at the time, wasn’t much older than Francine. As Mademoiselle Adrienne rose in the ballet corps from chorus to soloist to prima, Francine’s fortunes ascended with her. Now she rules the household.
“May I let them stay inside? They’re quite thirsty.”
The housekeeper glares down at the two dogs through the thick lenses Monsieur Hulbert has fit for her. The panting dogs are flopped on the cool marble of the foyer and seem to be smiling up at her.
On any other day, the black sheep of the Hulbert family might have laughed at the juxtaposition.
“Are they yours?” Francine asks.
It would not surprise me, Marie-Thérèse hears, you having two such mismatched mongrels.
“Oh no, no. They belong to… Ah, the school.”
“Some school. I will get them water. Go see your mother but do not upset her.”
“Merci, Francine. They’re tired and won’t be any trouble.” She loops the leashes around the newel post, hoping they won’t pull it down.
Passing the dining room, she glances in at the blue hydrangeas on the sideboard, the candles to be lighted. In a salon, glass doors open onto a stone terrace where three stone steps lead to a lawn. Madame Hulbert, wearing white that appears lavender in the shade of the arbor, sits at a round wrought-iron table. There are dangling clusters of immature grapes, still chartreuse, above her. Francine refills Madame Hulbert’s cup after moving aside a sheet of newsprint. Then she splashes out tea for Marie-Thérèse.
“Merci, Francine.” In the Hulbert household, Marie-Thérèse is well aware, the woman can be as grumpy as she pleases as long as it isn’t with madame or monsieur.
“Ce n’est rien.” Francine turns back to the house.
Evening is coaxing the scent of moisture from lawn, vegetable bed, and Francine’s herb garden. Sparrows chirp fiercely in a shrub. To Marie-Thérèse, it sounds like they’re arguing.
Which brings to mind the tirades. It is so hard to abandon one’s hopes for a child. To see that child throwing away her gift as if it were no more than a few potato peelings. When you become a parent, you may understand. Only I hope you won’t have to go through this.
Yet during those tirades and arguments two years ago, there was at least hope of convincing the other. There was, at least, emotion.
Now the words are simpler. “Bonsoir, Maman. Comment allez-vous?”
“As you see.”
What Marie-Thérèse sees is a still-lovely woman whose oval face is smooth, whose dark hair, with its feathering of silver at the temples, still gleams in its low chignon. Her skin always reminds Marie-Thérèse of apples, nearly white apples, as if light were radiating through them. Twenty-six years ago, Mademoiselle Adrienne was at the pinnacle of her career with the Belgian Ballet, yet remnants of that time still wreath her like some vivifying mist. As a child, Marie-Thérèse was oblivious to it, but as she grew older, it became obvious. If anyone ever “trailed clouds of glory”—in the English poet’s words—it was her mother.
Though her own thicker bones are a legacy from her father, Marie-Thérèse inherited her mother’s height as well as her dark hair and fine-grained, pale skin. Both of her brothers, in contrast, have their father’s bronze hair and ruddiness. Her decision to leave the Académie—and her mother’s beloved world of the arts—might not have been so hard on Madame Hulbert if her daughter hadn’t resembled her quite so much. Or so Marie-Thérèse often thinks.
“I found myself nearby,” she says now, “and wanted to stop. The news is awful. What does Father say?”
“How was it that you found yourself nearby?” Madame Hulbert emphasizes the final three words of the question.
“I, ah, I…I was asked to walk, to take for a walk, the two dogs that belong to the school.”
“Dogs.”
“Yes, well, and I’ve read the newspapers and was, I mean I am, concerned. What does Father say?”
“Will it make any difference?”
“Pardonnez-moi, Maman. Perhaps I should not have come today and…disturbed you further. I’d better go. I will telephone.”
“Did you walk all that distance from the school?”
“Oui.”
“Your father and your brothers are at soccer. Imagine. On such a day. If you can wait, they should be home within the hour. Why not have dinner here and then he will drive you back.”
The thought of waiting in the quiet house with the two censorious women sends her heart skipping. She’s glad for an excuse. “I have duty soon, Maman. Perhaps I can arrange something for tomorrow.”
“Ah. Duty.”
Marie-Thérèse turns to see what her mother seems to be gazing at. The plum tree, its branches arcing downward, heavy with ripening purple and green-hued plums. This tree dates back to the time when her parents first met after Mademoiselle Adrienne had just performed the dual role of Odette/Odile in Swan Lake. Most admirers brought armloads of roses, but Marie-Thérèse’s father, a student from Berlin then, had a small plum tree snowy with blossoms, its roots wrapped in rough cloth. He had seen the performance several times. That moment backstage became a family story, how he said the tree reminded him of her, and Mademoiselle Adrienne replying with hauteur: Why? Are my feet so ugly?
Madame draws her gaze back to her daughter. “I have been thinking, ma chère, that if war is declared against us, you will be surrounded by wounds and death far more than you are now. It will be a…danse macabre. Reconsider, I beg you. They will have you back. I have spoken to them.”
“Maman!” Astonishment and pain erupt from the word.
Madame chooses to ignore it. “I was going to surprise you with this news when you next came to dinner. But my thoughts are so roiled today. You might be sent to a battlefield hospital if it comes to war. What then? A danse macabre for certain and not on any grand stage. It will be dangerous. It will be terrible and demoralizing. Please return to the piano, I beg you. Your teachers will welcome you back. They are holding the door open for you.”
Because you and Father support the Académie.
“I have been thinking that you can spend some weeks at home, getting back into practice. We will find a teacher to help you prepare…Monsieur Coussens was quite good, no? And when you regain confidence, you can return. And if we should have to leave Brussels, well, we will find another instructor for you.”
But I never did have confidence, Maman.
“One day you will look back on this moment and realize how happy you are that you decided to go back. You know, many times while in some pique I was tempted to leave the ballet out of spite. Had I given in to that childish impulse, I would be a bitter woman today, perhaps blaming everyone else for my failure. But instead, I vowed to work harder. I drew strength from within. And now I can look back on triumph, not failure.”
“Maman, Madame Gonczy didn’t invite me into her master class. Remember? Year after year. You of all people know what that means. What if you had never made soloist year after year after year? How long could you have gone on, being passed over like that?”
“Oui, oui, the great Madame Gonczy. I spoke with her and asked the question outright. Why did she not allow you in? Her answer was that you had potential. She said she was sorry you left. She all but said, ma chère, that you needed to work harder.”
“You…spoke with her?”
“I did. I made an appointment and went there. She said she remembered you with fondness. She said that you had potential.”
Marie-Thérèse remembers different words. Mademoiselle Hulbert, I wish you well in whatever you choose to do. It has been a pleasure knowing you. Bonne chance.
“And so, you…asked if I could return. Oh, Maman.”
“Don’t sound so grateful, ma chère.” Madame’s eyes fill.
“Maman, I must go. I’m so sorry. I just wanted to… Please tell Father I will telephone, though not tonight. It will be too late when…”
She stands and so does her mother. Then Madame Hulbert embraces her daughter. “I want only what is best for you. Do you believe me?”
“Oui, Maman.”
“Do you have money for the tram?”
Marie-Thérèse nods though she has none.
“Bien. If you need more, ask Francine.”
“I will.”
“And, Marie-Thérèse, promise me you will reconsider.”
“Oui, Maman. Oui.”
She gets the prancing dogs outside and closes the heavy door behind her. In trees and shrubbery along the rue Belliard Stratt, birds are chirping their piercing evening songs. Sunset light sets beveled glass aflame, bronzes the ornate stone facades of row houses, and transforms flowers in front gardens and window boxes into fountains of color. It should be beautiful.
She and the two dogs race along the streets, Marie-Thérèse not caring what they must look like, flying along like that. Yet she can’t outpace the ghost words keeping up with her. But, Mama, I was only a talented mediocrity. My teachers saw this and thought it best I leave sooner rather than later.
They do not know everything, teachers. I worry that you have leaped into nursing without understanding what it entails. You felt disappointed in one area and jumped, without much thought, into another. And you will be trapped in an unsuitable profession. You will lose your gift and become despondent. How many times did I think I wasn’t good enough? I will tell you. Sometimes every day. Often after every performance. But did I give up? Non! If you expect constant praise from your teachers and fall apart when you do not get it, that is what a child would do. Not a true artist.
I must not be a true artist then.
At ten years old, she had been able to transform pages of tangled notes into gorgeous sound—the playing her mother must remember. Madame Hulbert hadn’t heard her at the Académie, though, in the salons of her instructors, the careful, vapid attempts at grandeur. Anticipating the next mistake and then invariably making it. The stone of dread in her stomach. The wooden fingers. The shameful sounds. And then after so many years, her instructors finally withholding the lifeblood of criticism. Which meant she wasn’t worth critiquing. Wasn’t worth their valuable time. This, she hadn’t been able to tell her mother—or father. It would have been cruel. Nor did she describe the way her instructors’ smiles finally returned when she told them she’d be leaving. Yes, you’re right of course, mademoiselle. It will be good to get on with your life.
What happens? Is it loss of faith or loss of ability?
Or are they interwoven?
And now to have to go through the agony of deciding all over again?
As she runs, she recalls her final performance at the Académie, how one wrong note had led to a jumble of them and then a loss of concentration—that white impenetrable wall—and finally to awful silence. She had to start over again. Her mother, father, Willy, and Jacques in the audience.
They want me back?
Impossible.
Yet she feels worse for her mother. That hope, and going there, to the pompous Académie, and begging.
As Mademoiselle Adrienne never had to do for herself. Nor would have.
And Still the Day is Not Over
Rani looks up from her textbook. “You missed dinner. Where have you been? You look awful.”
“I was walking Jackie and Donnie. I’m fine.” Marie-Thérèse removes her shoes and lies down. The space between her temples holds a rushing stream pulsing through narrow channels.
“Well, you certainly look fine. And the day is not over for you, mademoiselle. You will never make it through. I’ll get you something from the kitchen if Amalia doesn’t chase me out.”
Thinking nothing at all while lying in a quiet room is a gift. Soon, though, Charles Darwin comes to mind. Charles Darwin and his theory of species and individuals within species fighting for space. As her worries are doing. War. War with Germany. The Académie. Her mother.
I was weeding my mother’s roses when—
You would do that with a…trowel? Marie-Thérèse has never weeded a garden or planted even a pot of flowers. You would weed with some sort of tool, perhaps. A spade? She tries to imagine this something in hand. This trowel or spade or whatever. But if you can’t envision it, how can you dig at the large thistle that is war with Germany? She’s trying to solve the mystery of the proper tool when Rani enters with a tray holding a glass of milk and a bowl of lentil soup.
“I told Amalia you took the dogs for a long walk, and she softened right up. She even added a cookie. How do you feel? You still look like you belong in the women’s ward, in one of the beds.”
While Marie-Thérèse eats to please her, Rani sits at her desk, its chair angled outward, and relates the news. In all, ten of the school’s twenty-nine student and senior nurses have decided to leave.
“Liese?”
“No luck there, but Felicia and—”
“No! Not Felicia!” The quiet Polish girl is their bandaging genius. She quickly learns the complex and even beautiful bandaging patterns and spares no generosity when it comes to helping others, Marie-Thérèse always among them.
“She wants to go home. Papa told her there might be fighting along Poland’s western border if Russia and Germany go at it in that area, but she wants to be with her family now.”
Marie-Thérèse quells an inrush of guilt. “So that means we’ll all fail the bandaging test.”
“I’m glad you can joke about it,” Rani says, though Marie-Thérèse hadn’t been. “You must be feeling better.” Rani regards her open textbook. “I think I have to leave too. I heard about the bridges. Papa told Felicia. He always talks more with her. By the way, you need to be in the ward in eleven minutes. Better change. Quickly!”
“Rani—”
“Hurry. You know how she is about punctuality.”
Marie-Thérèse does. They get graded on it in each Form of Report card. She pushes herself up and looks for clean cuffs. “Why don’t you think about it for a few more days? Not much can happen in that time. Maybe…maybe there’ll be some unexpected resolution.”
