The Painting (12 page)

He sets up a target for her, a piece of plywood, and carefully draws a big black circle in the center with a piece of charred wood.

Perhaps this isn’t a good idea, she says, her voice soft.

Why? he asks.

She bites her lower lip.

Let me show you how to insert the cartridge, he says. He opens the top chamber of the rifle, inserts the metal cartridge, and pushes the bolt forward then over to the right. He hands the gun to her. She hesitates.

I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to teach you, he says.

She looks at him, then takes the gun.

He tells her to let it rest on her shoulder. Feel the weight of it.

The gun glues onto her shoulder and it rises and falls with her breathing.

The gun is moving too much. He feels her excitement and remembers when his father first taught him how to shoot when he was a young boy, out in the snowy woods hunting deer, how a fierce current ran through his body, and he could barely keep his hands from shaking; he was so thrilled. His father, usually so disappointed with him, calling him weak spirited, disowning him, You are no son of mine, but not this time, with a rifle in his small hands, his father looked on proudly and claimed him as his own. When the first flash of a deer bolted by, he missed, and he missed again. He had to kill a deer. Had to. The third time he missed, he heard his father swear. When he finally hit one, he didn’t let his father see the tears as he ran over to the deer, placed a hand on the warm animal’s dull fur, and saw its big glassy eyes filled with fear, looking right at him.

He takes the gun and rests it on his shoulder. See?

He hands her the gun. She puts it on her shoulder.

Better, he says.

He tells her to gently place her second finger on the silver cock and her thumb on the trigger. When her body is relaxed, and only then, pull the trigger.

She does as he says, firing the gun, hitting the dead center of the circle.

She looks at him, her eyes wide, her face flushed with awe and fright. She wants to hug him, tell him he is so patient; she’s surprised to discover he’s such a good teacher. The Parisians at the restaurant stand and clap and shout and raise their wine glasses in the air. She turns to the crowd and bows.

She will save Paris! someone yells. Long live our French women.

Well, it won’t be the National Guard.

Everyone laughs.

She turns to him with a big grin.

Good, he says, a hint of a smile.

He has her try it again. And again. Then faster. From the gun by her side, the gun on the ground, in a bag, slung across her shoulder. Clumsy at first, as the hour progresses, she picks up speed, and she has patience, something he never had. And her strength, he underestimated it. He knew women could be unflinching and brimming with resolve, but he thought it was only about women things, about marrying a certain man or purchasing a particular fabric for a new dress. Never about doing a man’s job or fighting in a war.

At the end of the hour, she thrusts the gun toward him.

Your turn.

He shakes his head. My balance is off, he says. His good leg is trembling. He needs to sit down.

I’ll help, she says. I’ll hold on to your arm. She is giddy with her quick advancement, and how much he seemed to take to this endeavor; it is the first time she has seen him care about anything.

Not now.

Come on.

He pushes her hand away. Can’t you see? They chopped off my fucking leg.

W
ALKING BACK TO
P
IERRE
’s boardinghouse, neither one says anything for a while. Finally, she says, In the hospital, you called out a name in your sleep.

He looks straight ahead.

You said the name Agneta. Who is that?

I don’t know.

Natalia is quiet, waiting for more, but the silence drags on. His leg throbs and now he can’t look at her. He turns to the park instead, to the stumps of trees and the scavengers, who have stretched canvases and sheets over branches, impromptu rickety shelters. A gang of children run by barefoot, wearing ragged, dirty clothes.

Around the corner is the boardinghouse. He is suddenly adept on his crutches, moving as fast as she normally walks, eager to get home.

T
HE NUMBERS SKITTER AROUND
the page. Her name, Natalia said her name. He feels her presence in the stale air of the office; how did she find him here, thousands of miles away; she followed him here, and now her small hand is pressing down, making it difficult to breathe. He rises from his desk and shuffles down the hallway to his bare room, nearly collapsing onto the cot, as if he forgot how to stand.

N
ATALIA PULLS OPEN THE
heavy, wooden door of the old church and steps inside. She stands still, as she usually does, savoring the interlude between the busy street and the quiet of the church. She closes her eyes, leaving behind the pushing and selling, feeling something inside stretch out, like a taut ribbon.

Footsteps echo in the high-ceilinged church, and when she opens her eyes, she breathes in the candles, incense, safety, and silence. And then it happens. Her best self steps out of its shell, and it is shining and luminous; though it’s always there, tucked behind her other self—the one that thinks so many critical thoughts about her brother, her neighbors, the world—here her highest self unfurls and subsumes everything else. It is a perfect moment.

She bows her head and enters the womb of the church. A few people sit singularly on benches, their heads bowed, hands clasped tightly, some desperately, in prayer. There’s a gathering of old men in worn overcoats holding prayer books. People look beautiful in that pose, she thinks. Humble in the face of God.

She walks down the tiled aisle and slips onto a polished wooden bench. An
old man tilts his head her way, discreetly, his white hair a puff of cotton. He smiles, his eyes watery and yellow. Kneeling on the oak plank, she bows and prays to God and Christ hanging on the crucifix at the front of the church. She knows she is glowing right now; the old man glances at her again. He must see it, she thinks, the luminosity, her best self, the one united with God.

With the ringing of the gun settling to the bottom of her brain, she calls up those in need of a prayer. What will become of that poor woman on the street corner selling herself for one franc? And the old women shuffling around the park looking for firewood? She prays for them, Our Father and Hail Mary, prays for their souls. For Edmond, who is doing so well, for Jorgen, who is so much more generous than she originally thought—Forgive my earlier stinginess. And after a while those thoughts drift away, and so do her worries about Jorgen and Edmond, her precious brother.

She prays with such concentration and pleads with Mary and Jesus and her patron saint, Saint Natalia, beheaded for openly practicing Christianity, and also her favorite, Saint Joan of Arc; her fear and excitement from this morning augment the fervor of her prayer. I must serve, she prays, I must fight for France. She has waited for a true purpose all her life, and here it is, so she must rise, rise up with her best self and fight.

Please give me a sign, she whispers. A sign that I will be chosen.

The bench creaks, the old man slowly rises and walks down the aisle. The light streams in through the stained-glass window, fracturing into red, purple, and yellow. The purple falls on her hands and she almost gasps. Purple, the color for penitence and mourning, she thinks, and also for royalty. A way to cleanse my sins and also to be my highest self. Here, this light, now caressing both her hands. She looks to the front of the church, to Jesus hanging from the cross, and bows her head in gratitude.

As if the world knew what just happened to her, a young infantryman walks to the melodeon organ and begins to play
Immaculata Reprisa Suprisa
. When she comes back from the war, they will honor her by playing that song. She sees herself standing at the front of the church, the priest telling the audience of her bravery. His voice booms out, She put herself in front of the devil in order to save us all. No, it won’t be like that. It will be Edmond standing
beside her in front of the congregation. Edmond, fully recovered, will join her in the war, and they will return together, victorious. The congregation lines up in the aisle and slowly makes it way up toward them. She bows her head and they kiss her cheek or pat her hand. Thank you, they whisper, some of them crying, pushing gifts into her arms, sweetbreads and bottles of wine, pictures of the crucifix, and handwoven cloth. Thank you.

I did it to serve God, she says.

She raises her hands. The congregation quiets. She wants to say something, but she must put this delicately. She has always felt there was something special about herself. For years, I sensed there was something else for me on this earth, something extraordinary, other than the normal duties of a woman, of becoming a wife, of bearing children. She says this, her head slightly tipped in humility, and tells them her role in the war was God’s design and she carried out His will. The priest stands by, his arms crossed in front of his corpulent frame, and Edmond, too, looks on and admires this reception; the choir sings a glorious, uplifting song, the music pours over everyone, and something opens for her at that moment. A sense of walking through to another plane. She has known something exists parallel to the earthly world. She’s read about it, the place beyond the body, and prays she will someday step into it. It is heavenly. There are no needs, no desires; it is a unified state where there is a beauty that could only be called sublime. Sometimes when she prays hard, as she’s doing now, she can feel this other world crackling.

S
MOKE SATURATES THE LATE
afternoon sky, seeps into his room, and rouses him. Jorgen’s first thought, The Prussians have invaded Paris and they are burning it down. Grabbing his crutches, he hops over to the window, and there, across the road in the park, it is not the Prussians, but a huge bonfire, with Parisians tossing into the flames couch cushions, shutters, legs from tables and chairs, and cloth lampshades.

What does France have to be proud of now? he thinks, watching the blaze and the people with their warmed red faces, the ashes twisting and blustering in the air like a swarm of black insects. He jerks open the window and cold air rushes in. The first cold of early autumn. A man tosses in a carved
rocking chair; a woman pulls her red scarf tighter around her neck. An old woman drags something heavy—what is it?—a painting, a large one that once must have filled an entire wall. One corner of the painting trips along the ground.

They help her heave it onto the fire, and the small gathering shouts its approval. It is a picture of a curvy naked woman with long brown hair reclining on a sofa. The flames tear through the canvas and devour the image. The burning paint sends colorful flames, blue and purple and green scalding the air.

Downstairs, the front door opens and closes. The bell rings out, and Pierre calls up to Jorgen that he has a visitor.

Jorgen hobbles down the hallway and stands at the top of the stairs, and there is Svensk, a friend from home. He’s leaning against the baluster, a big grin on his face, his hands shoved in his pockets, his fair hair longer; he is bouncing from foot to foot. Now he is bounding up the stairs, his expression buoyant, but halfway up, Svensk’s upturned lips fall and his step slows. He stops and looks down at Jorgen’s empty pant leg.

Natalia, says Svensk. I met her and she told me you were here.

Jorgen grips the top of the stairwell, shaky from Svensk’s intense scrutiny of his missing leg. Svensk walks the rest of the way up the stairs, the liveliness emptied from his step. Jorgen leans forward and clouts him on the back, a gesture from a former time. Pierre is at the bottom of the stairs scowling, and Jorgen turns, leading his visitor down the hallway and outside, onto the back balcony. They stand awkwardly.

What happened? asks Svensk.

Jorgen steps over to the railing and looks out to the backyard. Svensk follows him.

Jesus, she didn’t tell me nothing, says Svensk.

Jorgen barely hesitates, telling him the same lies he told Natalia, and as he speaks, Svensk looks down at his hands with false absorption.

Goddamn the French, says Svensk. You? A spy? Makes me damn angry they did this to you. Svensk clenches his hands into fists. Makes me want to get them back.

Jorgen feels slightly dizzy. Next to Svensk, his body is ancient flesh. Svensk goes on and on, how they should come up with some plan to get them back, those French, and as he talks, his eyes dart back and forth, down to Jorgen’s ghost leg, back up to Jorgen’s face.

It’s not contagious, says Jorgen.

Svensk blushes and stammers.

Jorgen motions to the bench. He asks Svensk how he met Natalia. Svensk says he was watching the women train the other day—A damn funny sight, if you ask me—and he’s about to say more but stops.

You know about that, right?

Jorgen tells him yes, and if he didn’t, he’d know about it now. Svensk smiles sheepishly.

Never could keep quiet about anything, says Jorgen.

Svensk’s smile widens and he sits up straighter, as if vitality has found its way into his body again. She heard me speak Danish, he says, so she comes up to me and asks if I know a man named Jorgen. I said I sure did. And so, that’s how I come to be here now. Funny, isn’t it?

Jorgen watches Svensk settle into his skin again, his complexion rosy and his hair a blond halo around his head, though he is no angel. They used to go to the pub in Copenhagen, leaving only when the place closed. Women loved Svensk, his soft curly pale hair and dark eyes, and he loved them back, indiscriminately. Svensk pats him on the back and tells Jorgen it’s sure good to see him. Jorgen forces a smile.

Remember the fish? Svensk holds his hands up. Never thought I’d get rid of that goddamn smell.

They worked together at a fishery, and at the end of the day, they’d head to Neil’s Pub on the corner of Gothersgade and Oster Sogade and drink and play cards. The floor was sticky from spilled beer, and an old coal stove warmed the place during the cold winters.