The Painting (24 page)

She sips her soup, trying not to breathe.

The bells of Saint Denis Cathedral were melted down today so they could make more cannons, says Svensk. He looks at Jorgen. What’s wrong? You’re not eating?

Jorgen picks up his spoon.

Pierre turns to Jorgen. You were a rich French man’s replacement, weren’t you? How much were you paid?

Enough.

How much?

Jorgen doesn’t answer.

Well, at least he got paid. My sister comes along and joins the army for free. For free!

She rubs her thumb on something stuck on the table.

Pierre sets his glass down and fixes her with a fierce gaze. Can you believe
this country was at a peak of splendor a short three years ago? We hosted the Great Exhibition. We were the crown jewel of the world. Everyone yearned to be like France. It was in Paris that Lister introduced antisepsis, and Nobel invented dynamite. Do you remember, my dear, Natalia, what Prussia sent to the Great Exhibition? Do you recall?

A statue of King Wilhelm I, says Svensk, his tone more of a question than a statement.

Yes, but do you remember what was beside it? A fifty-ton gun. There it stood. But did France take note? Did it see this was the largest gun the world had ever seen? No, of course not. The French were too arrogant. They called the cannon grotesque and ugly. The Prussians sent the world’s most powerful cannon to the Great Exhibition and Louis-Napoléon sent a statue of a robust nude reclining upon a lion. It was entitled
Peace
. You see, my little sister. I am a man of the world, and that has saved me. My passion is not with France or parochial Paris. My engagement is with the world beyond these borders, with the rivers of money and goods that flow around the globe. It is in my veins. Which you despise. But we are different, aren’t we? You made it a point to be different. Some might say strange. Odd.

She clasps her arms around her front. You will soon be rid of me, she says.

He doesn’t mean it, says Jorgen.

Of course he does, she says, pushing away her soup.

Svensk points to the butter. Real butter, he says. Not the Central Market’s big yellow squares of horse or beef fat.

Oh, yes, Pierre says, you are leaving. Eat slowly, Natalia. You always eat too fast. You should savor your food not consume it, as if there might not be enough. Look at this plenty. There is more than enough. Our family, the Blancs, have always had abundance. Remember the Blancs eat slowly for pleasure. Imagine holding a peach and letting the sweet juice drip into your mouth. He deliberately and ceremoniously pours himself more wine.

Pierre is detestable, thinks Jorgen, and now she is rubbing her eyes, her head in her palm. How worn she looks, how drained. He hadn’t noticed it before, but her hair. What did she do to it? Is it tucked underneath her headband? He senses something tremendously awful has happened to her, and not
just the loss of her brother. It’s as if something has taken possession of her soul, but he can’t name it or say what it might be.

I tried to find some clematis for you, Natalia, says Pierre. A flower for dreamers, says Pierre, but couldn’t. Only daisies. Too bad. The city is bare. Stripped down. What a horrible state Paris is in. Pierre raises his glass. To your success. Maybe you will save her.

She instinctively bows her head.

Pierre finishes his glass and sets it on the table with a flare. I have one small favor to ask.

Jorgen watches her carefully.

A small request, really.

She lets out her breath. Go ahead.

I’d prefer if you didn’t use our last name, he says. It can’t be good for my business to have my sister join the army. It is against custom and protocol for a woman of our social class to do such a thing. You must understand, don’t you?

Of course. Whatever you want, Pierre.

Pierre feigns surprise. Whatever I want? Whatever I want? Someone, please take note.

Svensk looks up from his pile of food.

Then I want you to change your last name. Use something else. How about Uchard or Zeller or Bocher or Capoul or Bourbonne? Our honorable father is crying in his grave to think his daughter is doing such a thing.

Fine, she says, the slightest irritation crossing her brow. Edmond would never demand such a thing.

No, he was a saint and I am the devil. But you’ve always thought that, haven’t you? So easy to divide the world up into stark contrasts. The mind of a simple girl.

Jorgen picks up his fork and fights the urge to plunge it into Pierre’s pudgy hand. Pierre sits there now, smiling sarcastically, while his sister seems to have left the table, flung her spirit far from this miserable dinner. She’s going to leave any moment, and why shouldn’t she? Jorgen shifts in his chair uncertainly and announces all the lofts are almost done.

Pierre’s mood shifts magically, and he is jubilant and triumphant again.
Wonderful! The Danes are good workers, after all. For a while, I had my doubts. Natalia, did you know Jorgen threatened to walk off the job? He was going to try to stop you from leaving. God knows what he planned to do.

I’ll be quite fine, she says, her face expressionless.

I told him it was a lost cause. Once you put your terrible mind to something, it is done. Do you know when she was a young girl, she pleaded with my father to give books to the poor children in our neighborhood, but my dear father wouldn’t support such a thing, so Natalia took up tailoring, sewing coats and trousers for the people of our small town. With the money she made, she bought them books. It was utterly embarrassing. These people didn’t want books. They wanted food or liquor or medical supplies and so they ended up hanging around our Chaumont estate, waiting for handouts. Which she proceeded to give them from the back kitchen door! It was abominable. I charged at those beggars with a pitchfork to drive them away.

Natalia sets down her wine glass, her hand trembling.

Jorgen is the same way, says Svensk, pouring himself more wine and stabbing his dirty fork in the air at Jorgen. Not giving things to people, but putting his mind to something. He was the smartest in our class. The teacher helped him get into the university. Didn’t you get some money? A scholarship? But he dropped out or got kicked out, I’m not sure.

Jorgen doesn’t say anything.

He could have done anything. The teachers were always praising him. His father was a mean son of a bitch. His mom got sick, and his father was never around—always at work, at the bar, or gambling. Debtor’s prison for a while. Everyone thought Jorgen was going to take care of his mother, since his father was no good. But you just took off one day. You just left. Even your mom—

That’s enough, says Jorgen, scooting his chair from the table.

Pierre tells Natalia he saw a huge bull mount a cow this afternoon. He’s had too much wine, thinks Jorgen, and he’s trying to shock her.

Thank you for the meal, she says, setting down her napkin and rising. Now I should be going.

You never forget your manners, do you Natalia? says Pierre. A redeeming quality and it makes it difficult to dislike you completely. Oh, you are quite welcome. A cause for celebration. Your leaving and all. Before you go, you must see my newest acquisition. Go and see the birds, the ugly bunch of pigeons shitting in the backyard.

She hesitates.

It’ll take just a moment, says Jorgen.

She follows him out the back door and they stand on the porch. The blackness of the sky is speckled with stars and the melody of gentle cooing comes from underneath the blankets. They walk to the first loft and peer in. Jorgen stands beside her. The air is filled with winter cold. Something pools in his throat and stays there.

They will wither if left unseen, she says solemnly.

He feels flimsy and shaky and she feels so solid, so sure of herself. What could he possibly say that would make her pause and reconsider?

Look at their wings, he says. Their feathers are so dry and clean. And somewhere in that body, they know how to fly home.

She doesn’t say anything.

I’ve always thought of them as dirty birds, says Jorgen. Scavengers. Living off garbage and far away from their natural cliff homes, but up close they are quite beautiful. He tells her this batch comes from Tours.

The thunder of cannons rings in the far off hills.

You didn’t eat much dinner, he says.

No.

He means well. Pierre. Giving you a dinner.

No he doesn’t, she says, directing her dull eyes at him. He is despicable, but that is how he means to be. Natalia’s hand is resting on the cage. One of the pigeons pecks at her palm. He gently takes her hand and moves it away from the cage.

Your hand is cold, he says.

She puts it in her pocket, turns to him, and fastens her eyes on him. What were you going to say to make me stay?

He leans against one of the lofts. What can he say? What should he say? He pauses.
She is standing, waiting. I just want to make sure you know what you are doing, but I guess I already asked you that.

Yes, you did.

You’re going, aren’t you?

She nods.

She buttons her coat to the top. Her face is blank and steady. He searches for the words he meant to give her. She is shivering now. What can he say?

Your brother Edmond once mentioned someone named Henri.

She looks at him bewildered and slowly begins to shake her head.

This Henri. A boyfriend. Edmond told me. Jorgen says it before he knows what he’s doing.

Edmond mentioned him, says Jorgen. Your brother told me about him.

She drops her head down and hugs herself. Henri was never a boyfriend. A good friend, yes, but not a boyfriend. And—she hesitates. He’s gone. In the war. Like Edmond. I never told Edmond because I didn’t want him to lose heart. She pauses and looks across the dark yard.

Jorgen feels something break inside. He grabs his hands together and cracks his knuckles. Clouds are racing in from the north.

Maybe I shouldn’t have prayed so hard for Edmond to live, she says. He was in such pain at the end. Maybe I should have prayed for him to die.

He touches her shoulder and she stiffens.

What else is there? he thinks. What else is there to do? I have something for you, he says finally.

He leads her upstairs through the back door. There, in the corner, his well-kept rifle. He tells her it has a farther range than hers. Better than the majority of guns used by the French, or the Prussians. Along with the rifle, he hands her a bag of metal cartridges.

She lifts the gun to her shoulder, walks over to the window, and aims at the tree. She pulls the trigger of the unloaded gun. He feels the ripple of excitement upon hearing the gun’s cocking and firing.

I have come to love the smell of gunpowder, she says, her voice dreamy.

He nods, knowing the intoxication of the smell.

She recocks the gun and fires again. Thank you, she says, and touches him lightly on the forearm.

For the first time all evening, he feels her presence. She is here, he thinks, she is finally here, and he reaches underneath the bed. The laughter of Pierre and Svensk rings up from the first floor of the house. I wanted to show you this, he says.

He sets the painting on the bed and lights another lantern. His heart beats faster. Yes, this is what he meant to show her, not the birds or the gun, but this. She will see and something will shift inside. She steps closer to the bed. He slowly lifts the cardboard covering, and there is the green of the hill and her lacquer black hair, her ivory complexion, and the shading on her face. So much more vibrant than the last time he looked. And look! The dark red leaves glossy and fluttering around her body and his. A wonderful spring day, look at the yellow flowers all around them, it must have just rained, everything shiny and full of color. There, the tiny village down below. Is that a rice farmer with his straw hat and hoe? The air smells of flowers and honey, he is sure, and her kiss, the bow of her pink mouth, so tender. Her feet are bare, and her toes, such small feet. And the way the man is gazing at her, such tenderness, and yes, such love. An aliveness to everything, a vitality uncontained, and not just the man and woman. The trees are singing and swaying and the long grass is rubbing up against the flowers. The sun is melting on the world below and the sky holds everything, a thick, blue container. And there’s a small bird. He smiles. A brown bird with a tinge of orange on its wings. He thought the couple was parting. But no, he was wrong. They are in love, they can’t bear any part of their flesh not touching. He has never drawn anything in his life, but if he did, if he could, he would want to be the maker of this painting.

Pretty, she says, leaning away from the painting. She pulls out her pocket watch. I should get going.

His soft face tightens and his jaw drops. Her eyes are distant and glazed, as if she’s considering something remote.

What? he says.

It’s a fine painting, but I’ve got a lot to do before I leave.

He quickly covers it up again and slides it underneath the bed. She turns to the door. He follows her numbly down the hallway. They reach the top of the staircase, the gun clutched to her side. He keeps following her as she steps down the stairs and outside.

She stops on the front porch and turns to him. Well, I’ll be going.

I’m sure you’ll be fine, he says. He leans over to pat her, but she steps toward him, into the open arm, and now he is hugging her, she is lingering there, in the nest of his arms. Natalia and Jorgen stand under the burning streetlight. She thanks him again for the gun. What is the scent of birds? she asks.

I don’t know. Wind. Air.

That’s your smell, she says. I will remember it.

T
HE AIR BITES AT
his ears and exposed hands. The cold freezes his nostrils. He watches her lonely figure walk across the park, the bright gas lights highlighting her slender form, his gun slung on her shoulder. He wants to call out, say something, but instead, he just watches.

His stump aches and he’s about to follow her, but he hears them, calling louder, demanding him. He’s learned their sounds; this one is hunger.