Spectacle(25)

“Aunt Brigitte was adamant,” Maman added in a quiet, somber tone. “She claimed she saw the man throw a baby into the river.”

“And?”

“They searched for three days. No baby was found in or around the Seine. Or reported missing. The man had no history of crime, either.”

Nathalie absorbed the words like cloth soaking up a blood stain. “How ghastly. The poor man!” She wondered what became of him, and if he ever looked over a bridge after that without first checking to see who was nearby. “But Aunt Brigitte, locked away forever because of one mistake, appalling as it was? After all, she didn’t kill him, just gave him a good fright…”

Her voice trailed off, replaced by the questions in her head. Did Aunt Brigitte end up at Saint-Mathurin because she tried to kill someone? Or because of the reason why, because she believed her dream to be real?

Maman watched the Polish children jumping over a puddle. “Your father thought it was best. Madame Plouffe was a delight but she—she couldn’t give Tante the care she needed. And neither could we. You understand that, right?”

Before Nathalie could answer the steam tram pulled up, splashing muddy water on her mother’s dress, purple with a gray swirling pattern. Maman leaned over to inspect the splatter and dropped her bag in a puddle. Then the tram door opened, with Maman lamenting her soiled dress and bag as she climbed on board. Nathalie sighed. She had so many more questions, yet she knew her mother wouldn’t answer any of them, not while sitting on public transportation with other people within earshot. Maman was prim when it came to discussing family matters, even when the only people who could overhear were strangers.

Nathalie closed her umbrella and followed Maman onto the tram, wishing her aunt had said more, or less, than “Trust no one.”



* * *



Over the next two days, Nathalie tried talking to her mother several times about Tante’s commitment to the asylum. Maman continually, and skillfully, changed the subject. (Nathalie had once commented on her mother’s ability to deflect questions, to which Maman replied, “You’ve given me many opportunities to practice over the years.”) Her evasiveness only piqued Nathalie’s interest more.

“Why is it such a secret?” asked Nathalie, after her third attempt to talk about it.

“Because your father wants it to be.” Maman’s tone, normally smooth as a gemstone, had a finality about it. The conversation was over. Not just at the moment, but completely.

The words struck her like little arrows of sympathy for Aunt Brigitte. Was Tante insane, misunderstood, or both?



* * *



“I’ll bet my mother is sorry she told me,” Nathalie remarked to Simone. They were sitting on Simone’s sofa eating grapes. The woman next door sold grapes in a street cart and sold them to Simone for half price if they didn’t sell in the first few days. During her last visit, Nathalie had suggested that Simone buy extra grapes some-time just so they could stomp on them, as if they were at a winery. Simone said it would be too messy for the apartment, but that she’d gladly stomp grapes if they ever took a trip to a Bordeaux vineyard.

“She probably is,” said Simone, fishing a grape seed out of her teeth. “But you can’t put the bark back into the dog. She’ll explain eventually.”

“Speaking of explaining,” Nathalie said, pointing to the front page of Le Petit Journal, “this doesn’t. I don’t even know why Monsieur Patenaude printed it.”

A second letter from the killer had been published. She huddled over the newspaper, rereading it yet again.

To Paris,

Thank you for coming to my second exhibit. It was marvelous to see my pieces side by side, if only for a short while. The queues have been most impressive. I don’t want to disappoint, and I promise to give you something fresh to look at soon enough.

Until the next one, I remain,

Ever yours,

Me



“These girls aren’t people to him,” said Simone. “They’re chess pawns.”

“Or works of art.”

Simone raised her brows and sat back. “That’s morbid, even for you.”

“His words, so to speak, not mine. Think about it,” Nathalie said, tucking some loose hairs into her wool felt cap.

“As if the morgue is an art gallery,” Simone said. Her long-lashed eyes narrowed in thought. “Or a wax museum. Speaking of which, I’m taking you there sooner rather than later. You have to see the latest tableaux. Louis says they are among the best he’s seen and that the attention to detail is astounding.”

“What? You want me to have fun? Simone Sophie Marchand, what kind of friend are you?”

“The kind who wonders why you have sat here for an hour but have yet to write that anonymous letter. Don’t think I’m letting you go turn in your article to Monsieur Patenaude until we have something.”

The purpose of Nathalie’s visit today was to write the letter to the Prefect of Police, and the sheet of paper had been giving her a dirty look since she sat down. Now that it was time to put pencil to paper, however, she was having second thoughts. Third and fourth thoughts, even.

“Here’s my list of reasons not to do it: One. Information is minor. Two. Cannot recall any other details. Three. Not even sure what this ability is or why I have it. And four. Feel foolish sending this in. Here’s what I have for reasons to write the letter: One. Simone said so.”