protruded one large green glass vase. All the rest was left and under dust.
“Upstairs,” she whispered, and pointed to the banister beyond the parlor door.
It was unsteady when he grasped it. Tall windows let in only bursts of leafy light. Pausing, he shuddered at the rustle and the scent of rats. And from beyond the dusty slats there came suddenly the day-to-day chorus of the street—a man cursing at his mule, a child’s sudden sharp cry, and under all the rumble of wooden wheels. Gazing upward at a dim light on paneled doors that lay ajar, he felt himself wound up in the warp and woof of dream.
She led him to a dining room. Mosquitoes swarmed over a china pitcher which she stirred with an easy gesture of her hand as she passed, and reached to let in a stream of burning yellow sun on a chest that sat there, beneath the window, dusted and somewhat new. The table here still had its polish and a soiled napkin lay crumpled on a chair. The gilt-framed portrait of a black man in military dress hung on the wall.
“The Old Haitian,” Marcel whispered, remembering Monsieur Philippe’s long tale. But the sun pouring in had rendered the surface of it opaque and Marcel could make out nothing of him at all.
“Here,
cher
, here…” Juliet said quickly, as though he might forget why he had come. And dropping to her knees, she raised the lid of the chest.
It was letters, hundreds of letters. The correspondence of years! And Marcel had no doubt from whom all these letters had come.He was breathless as he knelt down. He lifted one, then another, shifted a mass of them here and there to reveal the varied scribbled words, Istanbul, Rome, Cairo, London, and Paris. Paris, Paris, Paris. And dozens, scores of them, had never even been unsealed!
“No, no,” she whispered. “Here, these new ones…see.” She picked them up and put them into his hand. One had been torn open and from its bulk and creases he could see it had once contained something larger than a letter. A mere note was inside.
But the other was more recent, he could tell. The date was at the top of the page as he unfolded it, it was this year, this spring.
“Read it to me,
cher,”
she said. “Read it…hurry, now.”
She sank down sitting back on her heels and gazed at him, her hands clasped in her skirt, with the open expression of a child. She did not see the dizziness that swept over him, the vague disconcerting fear. It was awful the sight of these letters, sealed and piled here. Yet some pounding excitement dissipated the sadness that threatened at the edges of things, and he was staring now at the creased parchment page. It was Christophe’s letter all right, there was the scrawled signature at the bottom.
What would all of those on the outside have given for this moment, Richard, Fantin, Emile, so many of his friends. But there was no “outside.” There was only this place, and this awful waste, and something akin to tragedy. He looked at Juliet who lost in her thoughts or fears did not see him. It had its wild magnetism. His voice did not sound like his own as he began:
“Maman…”
“Go on!” she said; he hesitated. It was too personal. He felt it a crime.
“Read it to me,
cher!”
she clasped his wrist. Of course, he realized, she could not read any more than his own mother could read. She had no idea, no idea at all…
You’ve won. It’s as simple as that. Sometimes when I am distraught I imagine you are dead. But then some traveler I meet in the street tells me different, that he’s only been away from New Orleans a matter of months, and you’re alive, he’s seen you with his own eyes. Still no answer from you, no response. Charbonnet goes to call on you from the bank, and you do not answer the door. For six months you do not answer the door.
Well, I won’t say that I’m giving up everything for you, that you haunt my waking thoughts and make my dreams nightmares. Nor will I say I love you. I sail at the end of the
“Upstairs,” she whispered, and pointed to the banister beyond the parlor door.
It was unsteady when he grasped it. Tall windows let in only bursts of leafy light. Pausing, he shuddered at the rustle and the scent of rats. And from beyond the dusty slats there came suddenly the day-to-day chorus of the street—a man cursing at his mule, a child’s sudden sharp cry, and under all the rumble of wooden wheels. Gazing upward at a dim light on paneled doors that lay ajar, he felt himself wound up in the warp and woof of dream.
She led him to a dining room. Mosquitoes swarmed over a china pitcher which she stirred with an easy gesture of her hand as she passed, and reached to let in a stream of burning yellow sun on a chest that sat there, beneath the window, dusted and somewhat new. The table here still had its polish and a soiled napkin lay crumpled on a chair. The gilt-framed portrait of a black man in military dress hung on the wall.
“The Old Haitian,” Marcel whispered, remembering Monsieur Philippe’s long tale. But the sun pouring in had rendered the surface of it opaque and Marcel could make out nothing of him at all.
“Here,
cher
, here…” Juliet said quickly, as though he might forget why he had come. And dropping to her knees, she raised the lid of the chest.
It was letters, hundreds of letters. The correspondence of years! And Marcel had no doubt from whom all these letters had come.He was breathless as he knelt down. He lifted one, then another, shifted a mass of them here and there to reveal the varied scribbled words, Istanbul, Rome, Cairo, London, and Paris. Paris, Paris, Paris. And dozens, scores of them, had never even been unsealed!
“No, no,” she whispered. “Here, these new ones…see.” She picked them up and put them into his hand. One had been torn open and from its bulk and creases he could see it had once contained something larger than a letter. A mere note was inside.
But the other was more recent, he could tell. The date was at the top of the page as he unfolded it, it was this year, this spring.
“Read it to me,
cher,”
she said. “Read it…hurry, now.”
She sank down sitting back on her heels and gazed at him, her hands clasped in her skirt, with the open expression of a child. She did not see the dizziness that swept over him, the vague disconcerting fear. It was awful the sight of these letters, sealed and piled here. Yet some pounding excitement dissipated the sadness that threatened at the edges of things, and he was staring now at the creased parchment page. It was Christophe’s letter all right, there was the scrawled signature at the bottom.
What would all of those on the outside have given for this moment, Richard, Fantin, Emile, so many of his friends. But there was no “outside.” There was only this place, and this awful waste, and something akin to tragedy. He looked at Juliet who lost in her thoughts or fears did not see him. It had its wild magnetism. His voice did not sound like his own as he began:
“Maman…”
“Go on!” she said; he hesitated. It was too personal. He felt it a crime.
“Read it to me,
cher!”
she clasped his wrist. Of course, he realized, she could not read any more than his own mother could read. She had no idea, no idea at all…
You’ve won. It’s as simple as that. Sometimes when I am distraught I imagine you are dead. But then some traveler I meet in the street tells me different, that he’s only been away from New Orleans a matter of months, and you’re alive, he’s seen you with his own eyes. Still no answer from you, no response. Charbonnet goes to call on you from the bank, and you do not answer the door. For six months you do not answer the door.
Well, I won’t say that I’m giving up everything for you, that you haunt my waking thoughts and make my dreams nightmares. Nor will I say I love you. I sail at the end of the
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