won’t recall that night, and even thinking about it now, his hand reaching for hers across the darkness, she, startled out of her sleep, the rising and falling of his warm chest, she feels embarrassed and still unsure whether it really happened.
The Dane’s eyes do not burn with anything, and she has come to think he does not see or feel much at all. Locked away into himself, he seems a confusion of impatience, and there is a constant disquiet about his dark sullen eyes and perpetual frown. But there must have been a flicker of something. That one night she didn’t come by the hospital, too exhausted from work. When she arrived the next morning, Edmond told her that in the middle of the night he felt overcome with thirst and called and called, but no one wouldcome. The Dane finally sat up in his bed and grabbed a nurse by the wrist. Get him some water, he hissed. Do it now. The frightened woman quickly brought him a jug. Even now, thinking about it, she’s still surprised the Dane did such a thing. He does not seem like a generous man. In the hospital, he barely spoke a word to her or her brother. They had, for the most part, left him alone.
Perhaps his name should be Donatien, she thinks, and she will say, French, my dear friend, for gift. A gift to my brother, she thinks, hopefully both brothers. She prays this arrangement works out, prayed in church this morning, but knows Pierre is not a patient or kind man. It was just luck that Pierre’s assistant quit the week before to join the army. She boasted to Pierre that the Dane was a good worker, educated, and she exaggerated only slightly when she told him the Dane was fluent in five languages and excellent with numbers.
She steps into the kitchen, and as she cleans Pierre’s pile of dirty dishes and her cup, she hums a tune they sang this morning at church. A lovely song, she thinks, looking out the window. “May We Rise to the Lord in the Heavens.” The words flow as she scrubs the grime from Pierre’s good china plate. A quick visit with the Dane, with Donatien, she corrects herself, smiling, and then she must hurry to the hospital before returning to work.
From the kitchen window, she sees a group of Parisians walk by, waving open champagne bottles and singing La Marseillaise . She’s never heard the French national anthem sung in public. Napoléon III banned it years ago, afraid of its revolutionary associations. Let us go, children of the fatherland, our day of glory has arrived . Ever since the French declared war on the Prussians, Paris has felt perversely festive. She forgets herself sometimes, forgets that this mood is about war. Seeing the celebratory people, the excited mood, she feels compelled to join in. To arms, citizens! Form up your battalions. Let us march! Let us march! That their impure blood should water our fields . She imagines herself thrusting a French flag high in the air, leading a parade around the city. Shouts envelop her and her followers, who number in the hundreds; they sing and chant and the city becomes enlivened again, believing that God is on their side. She carries a bundle of her favorite flowers in her arms, dark redroses, white lilies, and blue peonies, and tosses them to people in the crowds that line the thoroughfares.
She watches the celebrators pass by, her head tilted to the right, her face soft, a dreamy glaze over her eyes.
T HE DAMN P ARISIANS ACT as if they’re on holiday, thinks Jorgen, as he shambles on crutches over to the window. Someone opens a champagne bottle and white foam shoots into the air. The crowd screams with delight. An open carriage rolls by and the men inside wear goatees and red carnations. They wave a big French flag, bright green wine bottles gripped in their hands, and lying across their knees, a drunken woman, her bosom half exposed for the men to fondle. Jorgen slumps against the wall, feeling nothing as he stares at the woman’s breasts, only a dullness in his senses.
Beyond the
The Dane’s eyes do not burn with anything, and she has come to think he does not see or feel much at all. Locked away into himself, he seems a confusion of impatience, and there is a constant disquiet about his dark sullen eyes and perpetual frown. But there must have been a flicker of something. That one night she didn’t come by the hospital, too exhausted from work. When she arrived the next morning, Edmond told her that in the middle of the night he felt overcome with thirst and called and called, but no one wouldcome. The Dane finally sat up in his bed and grabbed a nurse by the wrist. Get him some water, he hissed. Do it now. The frightened woman quickly brought him a jug. Even now, thinking about it, she’s still surprised the Dane did such a thing. He does not seem like a generous man. In the hospital, he barely spoke a word to her or her brother. They had, for the most part, left him alone.
Perhaps his name should be Donatien, she thinks, and she will say, French, my dear friend, for gift. A gift to my brother, she thinks, hopefully both brothers. She prays this arrangement works out, prayed in church this morning, but knows Pierre is not a patient or kind man. It was just luck that Pierre’s assistant quit the week before to join the army. She boasted to Pierre that the Dane was a good worker, educated, and she exaggerated only slightly when she told him the Dane was fluent in five languages and excellent with numbers.
She steps into the kitchen, and as she cleans Pierre’s pile of dirty dishes and her cup, she hums a tune they sang this morning at church. A lovely song, she thinks, looking out the window. “May We Rise to the Lord in the Heavens.” The words flow as she scrubs the grime from Pierre’s good china plate. A quick visit with the Dane, with Donatien, she corrects herself, smiling, and then she must hurry to the hospital before returning to work.
From the kitchen window, she sees a group of Parisians walk by, waving open champagne bottles and singing La Marseillaise . She’s never heard the French national anthem sung in public. Napoléon III banned it years ago, afraid of its revolutionary associations. Let us go, children of the fatherland, our day of glory has arrived . Ever since the French declared war on the Prussians, Paris has felt perversely festive. She forgets herself sometimes, forgets that this mood is about war. Seeing the celebratory people, the excited mood, she feels compelled to join in. To arms, citizens! Form up your battalions. Let us march! Let us march! That their impure blood should water our fields . She imagines herself thrusting a French flag high in the air, leading a parade around the city. Shouts envelop her and her followers, who number in the hundreds; they sing and chant and the city becomes enlivened again, believing that God is on their side. She carries a bundle of her favorite flowers in her arms, dark redroses, white lilies, and blue peonies, and tosses them to people in the crowds that line the thoroughfares.
She watches the celebrators pass by, her head tilted to the right, her face soft, a dreamy glaze over her eyes.
T HE DAMN P ARISIANS ACT as if they’re on holiday, thinks Jorgen, as he shambles on crutches over to the window. Someone opens a champagne bottle and white foam shoots into the air. The crowd screams with delight. An open carriage rolls by and the men inside wear goatees and red carnations. They wave a big French flag, bright green wine bottles gripped in their hands, and lying across their knees, a drunken woman, her bosom half exposed for the men to fondle. Jorgen slumps against the wall, feeling nothing as he stares at the woman’s breasts, only a dullness in his senses.
Beyond the
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