13, Rue Therese - Elena Mauli Shapiro [42]
“Oh, Louise,” said Henri, “don’t be fussy. Please indulge me!”
It was true; she was being fussy. What harm could there possibly be in having her picture taken on a lovely, quiet day such as this? She gave her husband the camera. Henri took it from her, took the lens cap off, and took a few steps backward down the road. He positioned himself, looking at his wife through his device as he focused it. She looked a bit forlorn there in the sidecar by herself.
“Come on now,” he said. “Just give me a little smile.”
Louise pulled the corners of her mouth up with the slightest twitch, and her husband pushed the button. The shutter clicked:
*
You can see that the photograph came out well, despite its extensive fading through the years. You can still see the texture of the grass, and even the shape of some of the leaves in the background. If you squint, you can even read the number on the motorcycle’s license plate. If you squint, you can even make out the soft oval face of Louise Brunet on that fine summer day, slightly anxious at having her likeness captured but trying to look happy to please her husband.
Look now. Look now at the face of the owner of the record. After all this sifting through the documentation, we have finally pinned down her elusive gaze. She is looking at us through the lens. At this moment, she does not yet know what we already know about her. She has just turned thirty and she still hopes that she might be pregnant soon. She thinks: this year is the year.
It is not, and neither is the year after that. But the year after that, there is the sudden appearance of Xavier Langlais, and who knows what might come of it?
The owner of the record peers at us through the jumble of the documentation. Somehow we know that once Henri has taken the picture, he feels great tenderness for his wife. He asks her, “Do you want to drive for a bit?”
Her face lights up. She does not even have to say yes for her husband to perceive her immediate glee. He lets her do this only when they are out alone in the open, because it is not entirely proper for a woman to be seen driving a motorcycle. She scrambles out of the sidecar before Henri changes his mind. He smiles at her as she takes her place. She saddles the motorcycle and kicks the engine alive with violent gusto. A metallic rush of adrenaline floods her mouth as she leans into her gathering speed.
She, flying down the road with her laughing husband at her side, unlicensed and free—dimly registering fear of wreckage, but happy.
L’amour est enfant de bohème
LOUISE IS WEARING A fringed black dress with an open V neckline tonight, Friday, November 9. She is waiting for Garance. They are going to the opera, and Henri will go out drinking with Pierre Cleper. It seems a wonderful arrangement.
The doorbell rings, and Louise walks to answer hurriedly, hoping the girl is dressed appropriately. She is, after all, sixteen, and as far as Louise knows has never been to the opera. She opens the door and is stunned.
“Garance! Where did you get that dress?”
“Uh—it was my mother’s,” the girl stutters. “Is it too much?”
“My dear, it is gorgeousness.”
Garance is wearing a bright red satin dress, floor length, with a small train in the back. The skirt is the trumpet shape that was in fashion before the war, but the outfit is much more daring than anything Louise remembers anyone wearing back then. The shiny fabric clings to the girl’s hips, and the bodice is tight and boned like a corset. It blooms open in a heart-shaped neckline that reveals Garance’s pale and flawless throat. There are no sleeves, only