Spectacle(46)

INSIGHT.

Nathalie thought about that last day at Mme. Plouffe’s. Several moments came back to her now, shards of glass reassembling into a window. Transparent. Distorted, but not entirely occluded.

Of course Aunt Brigitte hadn’t tried to choke her; that was a dreamer’s editorial. She and Maman had left Aunt Brigitte’s room without incident. Afterward Maman had brought her to Mme. Plouffe, who’d given her warm milk and a raspberry thumbprint cookie. The next thing Nathalie recalled was the carriage ride home. Papa had held the stack of papers close to his chest in a way that had reminded her of the way she held her stuffed bunny, Silvain. Once home, Papa had carried those papers straight into the bedroom and never spoke of them again.

Had he kept them?

If he had, the papers would be in their bedroom. She had to search.

Yes, she could have waited until the next time Maman was out on an errand or visiting friends. She hadn’t had that opportunity in several days, however, and she needed to know.

Inquisitiveness trumped patience, as it so often did.

After dinner, Nathalie sat in Papa’s chair and read from her Poe anthology. Maman settled on the sofa to work on a blanket for the Cartiers, the family across the street expecting a little one this fall. Around half past nine, Maman said she was going to “rest her eyes,” placed her knitting needles down, and fell asleep shortly thereafter.

Before long Maman’s breaths were deep and rhythmic; she was just beginning to snore lightly.

Good. She wouldn’t rouse for a while.

Nathalie rested the Poe book on an end table and stood up as quietly as possible. She took light steps toward Maman’s room. Shadows enveloped her as she slipped through the doorway, a curious Stanley in tow.

She felt in the darkness for Maman’s bedside lamp. Clink! Her hand struck the base. She pulled back her hand, listening intently until she heard the sound of Maman’s sleep from the parlor.

Nathalie put the lamp on low, the flame equivalent of a whisper, and carried it—where? She paused, glancing around her parents’ bedroom as if seeing it for the first time. She hadn’t looked around at the nooks and crannies in their room for years, not since she got caught searching for Christmas presents when she was six. (That year she received a visit both from Père No?l, who gives gifts to well-behaved children, and from Père Fouettard, who delivers spankings to naughty children. She never searched for gifts again.)

She started with the closet, full of bags and boxes against the back wall. Looking through them took longer than it should have, between the dim lighting and her efforts to be soundless. She found nothing except a pair of her baby shoes. After some hushed coaxing, Stanley hopped out of the closet. Nathalie shut the door and listened for a moment, long enough to detect that Maman was still sleeping, and proceeded to the drawers.

There were six of them. Nothing was tucked away in the first two. The third drawer squeaked like a mouse. Nathalie’s fingers danced along the interior and stopped on something long and flat with hinges on one side. A box.

The ideal size for documents.

She placed the lamp on the dresser and moved it to the edge, catching just enough light to see what was inside. Papers and more papers: her birth announcement, documents about her parents’ marriage and Papa’s work in the navy, and some papers related to money and the apartment. Her heart sank as the stack grew thinner.

The next three drawers held nothing resembling documents. A keepsake box containing coins from Papa’s adventures overseas lay nestled in the last one. Nathalie had always been captivated by those coins because they told a story of their own about Papa’s travels to places like America (she wanted to visit Boston one day) and Cochinchina and Algérie fran?aise.

An unexpected ruffle of emotion, mild yet inescapable, passed through her. I miss Papa.

His rumbling voice, his hearty laugh, even the way he looked when he was deep in thought. He’d seen much—it was etched on his face like a melancholy concerto—and spoke of it from time to time, yet Nathalie knew much more was left unsaid.

She took the lid off the keepsake box and grabbed a coin. Any coin. It didn’t matter. Just something to make her feel connected to Papa there, in that moment. She put it in her pocket, patting the coin twice as if to safeguard it. Time to resume her search.

Stooping down, she scrutinized the space under the bed. There were two boxes there, but she knew one was for storing winter clothes and the other was for Christmas decorations. Lifting the lids confirmed it. Stanley climbed into one of the boxes and she gently nudged him out. She stood up to listen for Maman’s deep breaths before moving on.

Two more places to inspect.

Nathalie stared at the outline of the wardrobe, dreading its creaky doors and drawers, and crossed over to it. She leaned in close to muffle that first thud when the doors were unlatched, cringing when it was louder than she anticipated. She listened again for Maman’s breaths. Still heavy.

With the lamp at eye level, she peered into the recess of the top shelf. Bed linens on one side and the blanket her grandmother had knit on the other, with nothing in the space between.

Nathalie reached for the first drawer and pulled it back; the wood groaned like a weary old man who wanted to be left alone. She hesitated.

Everything was quiet. As quiet as a side street in residential Paris could be. Maman wasn’t breathing audibly anymore, but she wasn’t stirring, either.