Crescent City Part 14

"But she-that woman-she is."

Eugene released her hands. "Yes," he said simply, "yes. She is."

On the other side of the wall a vendor pa.s.sed, calling, "Strawberries! Fresh and nice, nice and fres.h.!.+" The sound of his drawl will stay in my ears, Miriam thought. Such moments mark a life: that sleepy voice, the powdery hot dust and the scent of Eugene's eau de cologne-these will remain.

She thought of something else. "You should not have said that about Gabriel Carvalho. It was wicked and untrue."

"Perhaps I should not. Yes, you're right, I should not. He's a decent gentleman. And you're the mother of my children, the mistress of my house. Let us remember it. Let us live here in decency."

"In decency," she said.

"Do what is expected of you and I shall never touch you again. You have my pledge of that. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You needn't worry. I don't even want you anymore."

For a moment they waited as if they did not know what came next. Then Eugene said, "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

"We're tied together in such falsehood. Tied." She turned her palms up in a hopeless gesture. "Forever, do you realize that?"

He nodded. And there being nothing more to say, he turned about and went back into the house.

Late that evening Miriam was still out on the balcony. A heavy rain swept through the trees and dripped from the roof, splas.h.i.+ng her dress and her hair; In the smoky light of the streetlamp at the corner she could see Blaise and the stack of wooden boxes with which he took people dry-shod across the flooded street. She wondered whether he was saving his earnings to buy his freedom. And it occurred to her how odd it was that Blaise had some possibility of freedom, whereas she had none.

"Miss Miriam," f.a.n.n.y called. "I been looking for you everyplace. What you doing out there in this rain? Aren't you ever coming in?"

Miriam's dress had gone limp and her hair had been torn about by the wind. Emma always said a lady should never allow anyone to see her looking less than her best. What would Emma have to say about Queen?

"Oh, it's the way men are," she would say. Miriam could hear her voice, slightly embarra.s.sed and slightly superior. "Men are like that, my dear. But a wife should never let on that she knows. It wouldn't do any good, only make him angry. Best to look the other way. And if he treats you well, what difference does it make?"

Yes, certainly Emma would say that. So would Pelagie. And Rosa, so totally different from either of those two, would very likely say it also.

Why do I care? I have no reason to care what Eugene does. And the answer came: because he is free to take what he wants from life, while you are not. That's why.

Impatiently she tore at her b.u.t.tons. "You're ruining your dress! Here, let me," f.a.n.n.y cried.

"I don't care. It's ruined anyway." Wet petticoats dropped to the floor. "f.a.n.n.y, tell me. You can talk truly to me now. Mr. Mendes has told me everything. The boy, Queen's boy, have you ever seen him? Tell me the truth. I won't be angry."

f.a.n.n.y picked up the petticoats.

"Yes, miss, I know her boy. He looks like Queen, maybe lighter than Queen."

Then he must be a handsome child. And now Miriam felt a thrust of jealousy, not for herself, G.o.d knew, but on behalf of her own little Eugene, whose father's love must surely be divided between him and that other son. At the same time she knew this was not rational.

She thought out loud, repeating herself. "Then, he must be a handsome child."

"Yes. Smart, too." Relieved from secrecy and fear, f.a.n.n.y now rushed to tell her what she knew.

"Queen belonged to Mr. Mendes's family. She some kind of cousin, I think. Then he freed her, but not the boy. He still owns the boy."

To "own" one's child! It was all so queer and strange! The silence, when f.a.n.n.y stopped talking, thrummed and drummed in Miriam's head. The candlelight threw distorted goblin figures and mocking faces on the wall; the walls pressed themselves in and began to spin ....

"He crazy about that boy," f.a.n.n.y resumed. "Ashamed, too." She sighed. "But that's the way it always is. Nothing new about that."

She must pull herself together, keep hold. Things must not fly apart; the solid house must shelter her children, no matter what it cost; she must keep herself sane, must- "I know something you could do," f.a.n.n.y said suddenly.

"Do? What do you mean?"

"I could get you a black candle. If you want to hurt somebody, you know, like hurting Queen or"-she came closer to Miriam, whispering-"or Mr. Eugene, you write the name on a piece of paper and pin it on the candle. When the candle burns all the way down, the person will have awful sickness and pain."

This foolishness broke the spell and Miriam righted herself.

"Come! You don't believe such nonsense! You're too smart for that."

Ashamed, f.a.n.n.y laughed. "Well, you're right, I guess. Still, sometimes I'm not so sure. I've seen things. Shall I get you some tea? Laurel-leaf tea for stomachache?"

"Just plain tea. It's not my stomach that aches."

"Not your heart, either."

"No. What is it, then?"

"Your head is thinking what you're going to do all your life."

"You're right. That's what my head is thinking."

There was such a fluttering within her that she had to move. She went to the window. Thunder, moving westward, still rolled. By the weak light of the street-lamp she saw that Blaise had left, having found, no doubt, that there were not enough customers tonight to make it worth his while to stand in the rain. Eugene, as always, would come home by carriage.

She lit a candle and went to her desk, where a little stack of notices and invitations waited to be answered. Leafing through them, she read: the Society for the Visiting of the Sick; a wedding announcement; a birthday dinner for one of Emma's more distant cousins; a meeting of the Hebrew Benevolent Society for the Relief of the Aged. The annual ball was to be next month and every fas.h.i.+onable member of the Jewish community would be there. She would need a new dress. Things collapsed, but nevertheless one needed a dress.

Gabriel Carvalho was one of the officers. He can't take his eyes away from you, Eugene had said. She didn't believe it. Certainly she had never noticed. To begin with, he seldom spoke to her directly and then only to mention something about their long-ago voyage, or about the dog, or else some polite comment about how the children were growing. He was-well, stiff. Yes, that was the word, stiff. People who acted like that were often supposed to be shy. Yet how could a man as successful as Gabriel was be shy? True, he never talked very much, even among the men; it was always David or Eugene who had so much to say, Eugene commanding and David enthusiastic. But then, they always turned to him for the final say, didn't they? It was really puzzling, when you thought about it.

But she had no wish to think about it. For whatever the reason, Gabriel was aloof, so let him be so! Rosa thought he was handsome. Naturally. He was her brother. Well, perhaps he was. He had fine, thoughtful eyes, an austere expression. But what Eugene had said today was untrue. He had even admitted that it was untrue. Unconsciously, Miriam made a pretty shrug as she straightened the papers and prepared for bed.

But she did not sleep. She moved to the very edge of the bed, thankful that it was a wide bed, since Eugene, for appearances' sake, would surely sleep beside her until the end of their days.

It was so cruel! A useless woman till the end of those days! Two children she had, and now no more. In two more years they would be in school and would not need her to read stories to them, or go on morning walks. Indeed, they scarcely needed her now; their nurses did almost everything for them, anyway. Often she liked to send the nurses out and give than their baths herself; it moved her heart to see how tall and firm they were, how Angelique, young as she was, had already begun to show the graceful indentation at the waist which is so feminine, while Eugene was so compact and square. His sister was voluble, her talk a string of questions: Why must we? Who was that lady? Where are those people going? Eugene could amuse himself for hours. He had a tower of blocks in his room as high as his waist. It will reach the moon, he said.

And soon all this will be over; they will grow up and go away. Then what would be left for their mother? To spend her life making wax flowers to put in gla.s.s bells or embroidering dresses for other women's babies?

And her thoughts went to Eulalie, busy with christening clothes, exquisite as bridal veils; to the feeble body and the eyes so filled with misery even when she wore the "social smile" that was expected of her. Yes, Miriam thought, there is little you could tell Eulalie about suffering. One did not like Eulalie; a Jew especially could not like a person who in his heart despised a Jew; yet one could understand her.

Who am J? Mrs. Eugene Mendes. What is she? What does she do? If I had a talent, a voice maybe, like that girl Marie Claire, I know what I'd do. She wants to go abroad to study, but her mother won't let her, Rosa says. I'd find a way. I'd go. If I had a talent, I would, but I don't know anything.

It's not right! Men can learn. They earn money and dispense it as they please. We have to ask for it. A man can preach chast.i.ty while he keeps a mistress. He can do whatever he wants.

I could hate men, but I don't want to. I want to love one man. I want a reason to love him. I've been asking for that ever since I was old enough to know the meaning of the word.

Maybe I still don't know the meaning of the word.

9.

It was late autumn, but still very warm in the courtyard at the Raphael house, where preparations for an elaborate party were almost complete. True to his promise to "look after" his late partner's daughter, Ferdinand was giving a dance in honor of Marie Claire's engagement to Andre Perrin of Natchez.

"It is remarkable, Mama says," Pelagie observed, "that he will marry her with such a small dowry. You've never met him?"

Miriam answered carelessly, "No, but Eugene has. They've had some business dealings, I believe."

"He's quite handsome. Wait till you see."

There was a cheerful bustle under the piazza where they were standing. Sisyphus was setting the great silver coffee urns in place, these being his special responsibility and pride; Chanute and Maxim carried in the last of the potted hydrangeas. Paper lanterns trembled in a mild breeze, and the orchestra, tuning, made the expectant sound that said that the curtain would shortly rise. Except for the absence of a bridal canopy, it was exactly like Miriam's wedding scene. Having no wish to recall that scene, she turned away to inquire of Pelagie where Marie Claire might be.

"In the guest bedroom with Mama. They're all fl.u.s.tered. Some of the ruching came loose on her skirt and her own mother didn't even notice it. Mama did, of course. You can trust her," Pelagie said pridefully, "to be efficient about every last detail, can't you? She really has put a great deal of effort into this party."

"It's been two years since I saw Marie Claire."

"I haven't seen her in a while, either, except for the week she spent at our place last summer. This has been a quick romance. Only three weeks."

"Really? Is she very happy?"

"Oh, she never shows how she feels. I sometimes think she doesn't feel much at all unless she's at the piano singing. She accompanies herself, you know."

Miriam remembered a long, sober face. In spite of having seen it so seldom, it rose clearly before her eyes. And with it once more came a strange sensation that their lives would in some way cross.

"She certainly ought to be happy now," Pelagie resumed. "Andre's charming. He's of a good family. His mother's Jewish and his father's French. They've plenty of money, too." And she repeated, "It really is remarkable that he's marrying her with so little. Of course your father is being generous as always. He's bought her silver and all sorts of nice extravagant things."

Miriam heard herself quoting Eugene. "My father can be too extravagant."

"You know, I'll tell you something, but don't dare repeat it. Marie Claire told me that this was her only chance to get to Europe to study voice. Andre has business there for at least a year. Do you suppose she would marry him just for that?"

"I don't know. I do remember feeling that there was something desperate about her."

"Desperate? She thinks too much of having a great career."

"Her voice is marvelous, Pelagie."

"Not as marvelous as having the right husband. She wants to study with Manuel Garcia in Paris. She thinks she has a voice like Jenny Lind's."

"Maybe she has. How will she find out if she doesn't try?"

"It all sounds very grand, I'm sure, but for myself I wouldn't change with a hundred Jenny Linds. It always seems to me that each of my babies is more miraculous than the last My little Louie is already sitting up! And you should see how wonderful Felicite is with him, with all the little ones. Can you believe she's twelve years old? Such a good-natured child, a little mother already. In a few years, just think, she will be a real mother. Oh, you've brought the children! They're so sweet, Miriam. I think twins are so sweet."

The twins had appeared in the courtyard to stare at the musicians until f.a.n.n.y should lead them away. Pink and clean, with their well-kept hair and starched sleeves, they belonged in a picture book.

All I have in the world, Miriam thought fiercely, her eyes stretching as if to encompa.s.s and devour them.

"Yes, Papa wanted to see them," she answered, "so we're letting them stay up late. He likes to show off his first grandchildren."

"First? Are you-?"

"No," Miriam said shortly. "I'm not."

"But, Miriam, the twins are already three."

"I know they are."

Dear Pelagie could be so exasperating! When Sylvain had bought a city house for the winter season, Miriam had been so glad, but sometimes she felt overwhelmed by Pelagie's plat.i.tudes and hovering, kindly presence.

"I've a headache," she said abruptly. "I think I'll go to the yellow guestroom to lie down for a few minutes."

Instead of lying down she confronted herself in the mirror. Earlier that day she had cried again. Now two pink spots glared on her cheekbones and there was a glaze on her eyelids which even the ice that f.a.n.n.y had brought could not entirely dispel. A fleck of sawdust from the ice still clung to her sleeve. She could not remember why she had cried.

When Eugene was in a mood, he made no effort to conceal it. He spoke to her with contempt.

"The soup at dinner last night wasn't fit to eat. Can you not supervise your servants any better than that?"

She had made a dignified resolve not to let his words touch her.

"Speak up! I can't hear when you mumble, especially with that German accent."

She tried to keep herself immune, removed and above him, so that her response to these attacks was to make no response. Unfortunately, she was not always able to control her eyes, which could brim on the instant to overflowing while she kept lips and forehead steady.

"Oh, my G.o.d, crying again!" he would say. "Tears, tears, the woman's weapon."

If only she did not have to share a room with him! If only there were one place in that large house to which a woman might go and be alone with herself! Only in the morning after Eugene had left for the day could she be certain of a time alone, pretending to sleep so that even f.a.n.n.y would not disturb her until she rang. And she would lie there watching the pink light creep across the floor, thinking about nothing and everything.

Now he knocked on the door. He was irritable. He had been looking for her.

"Come. What are you doing in here? Your father's asking for you. Turn around. Yes, the dress is good enough. The color suits you for once, puts color in your face. Can you manage a smile? There are important people here, the cream of the city's business."

"I'm coming," she said softly. Her voice sounded to her ears like a sigh. But then it seemed to her that wives' voices often did. She had begun to notice such things. Even Pelagie, who was so much in love with Sylvain, seemed to speak in a tone of submission. And she followed Eugene's tall broadcloth back downstairs.

The hall was filling, as if everyone were arriving at once. It was like looking down into a kaleidoscope in which b.u.t.tons and pins and sc.r.a.ps of bright cloth can be made to whirl into fantastic shapes. Across the hall a dozen candles, casting a ruby glow, had turned the red room into a jewel box. Around the piano Ferdinand's chosen string quartet had grouped itself to play and sing the old French folk songs, familiar to the house.

Ferdinand kissed his daughter. "Come, you've not met Marie Claire's fiance. This is Andre Perrin. My daughter, Mrs. Mendes. You're acquainted with her husband."

Perrin bowed. "Yes, certainly. A brilliant man, Mrs. Mendes."

She saw first the top of a head of strong fair hair, then a lively, frank young face with laugh lines radiating from the eyes.