Read Online Pictures at an Exhibition by Sara Houghteling - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sara Houghteling
Ads: Link
trotted out of the other, pissed against the building's facade, and hurried back into its bar. A monk in a cassock, with a rope around his middle, shuffled by.
The hospital was only a few paces beyond the town square, behind a high wall. The first nun we met cried out with joy at seeing Rose. “You've grown so slender and chic! What a beautiful coat.” She caressed its sleeve in her childlike fingers. “Look at what Paris has done to you!” She herself wore the extraordinary habit typical of those days, her starched wimple like a winged ship.
“Catherine, do you know where my mother is?” Rose asked.
The young nun colored and her hand dropped to her rosary. “Look at me, going on about your coat. It's past the regular visiting hours, but I know she'll want to see you. I go in there and sing to her, and she watches me but doesn't say a thing. Your father hasn't come once. She's had no visitors but me, poor Madame Clément!”
Rose inhaled sharply and I thought it a dangerous sound.
We followed the young nun down a dim hallway. Her skirts streamed out over the varnished floor.
“I'll go in first to tell her you're here,” the young nun said. “On account of her heart.”
Once Catherine disappeared, Rose said, “I thought she might have died already.” I wiped her eyes with my handkerchief and she took it from me. “Will you stay outside when I see Mother, Max?” she asked. “She knows very little about my situation in Paris, and I want to explain it to her.” I agreed. After Catherine emerged and Rose replaced her, the novice offered to take me on a tour of the hospital grounds and gardens. Even though it was dark, some of the oldest buildings were still lit at night and, the young nun said, even prettier that way.
She was twittery and gay as we strolled between the rows of herbs and vegetables in the kitchen orchards, gesturing with her hands so that the wide sleeves of her habit fell back to reveal plump, hairless arms. She reminded me of an uncooked biscuit. We returned to
Madame Clément's ward in three-quarters of an hour and found Rose outside, shaking the hand of a young doctor who had also been her classmate. He shook mine, too, heartily but with some disappointment. This hospital was unlike the ones I was used to in Paris. There were no patients in sight and no news on the radio, only Maurice Chevalier.
We walked back through the shabby plaza, through a series of unlit side streets, to Rose's childhood home. Rose smoked as we walked, coughing while she inhaled. We arrived at a two-level house with a slanted roof. A window on the second floor emitted a sooty yellow light. It began to drizzle. Rose pressed the buzzer and waited. We heard a movement inside.
“I swore I would never sleep in this house again,” Rose said.
I pulled her away from the door, tugging her alongside me through the mist, through a maze of alleys with low-hanging clotheslines. “There must be a hotel then, somewhere, even if we have to sleep in its parlor.”
Inquisitive lights lit our footsteps as we passed.
“The only hotel is in the plaza,” she said. “The proprietress is the aunt of the doctor you met in the hallway. We'll be the gossip of the town.”
I had begun to envision Rose still sleeping next to me in the morning and the pleasures of waking her up.
“We could let two rooms,” I said halfheartedly. Her face lifted.
“You would do that?” she asked, and added, “And pay?”
I said I would and she kissed me. Someone inside the dingy café hooted. We entered, and Rose spoke with the white-haired woman behind the bar, who took down two keys from their hooks below the liquor bottles and led us to our rooms.
Mine had evidently not been used in some time, as a layer of dust covered its surfaces. A newspaper waited in the trash bin, as did a bloodied bandage and a rusty razor. I was nearly drunk with fatigue. When I pulled the musty blankets to my chin, a sleep as heavy as sand settled over me.
When
The hospital was only a few paces beyond the town square, behind a high wall. The first nun we met cried out with joy at seeing Rose. “You've grown so slender and chic! What a beautiful coat.” She caressed its sleeve in her childlike fingers. “Look at what Paris has done to you!” She herself wore the extraordinary habit typical of those days, her starched wimple like a winged ship.
“Catherine, do you know where my mother is?” Rose asked.
The young nun colored and her hand dropped to her rosary. “Look at me, going on about your coat. It's past the regular visiting hours, but I know she'll want to see you. I go in there and sing to her, and she watches me but doesn't say a thing. Your father hasn't come once. She's had no visitors but me, poor Madame Clément!”
Rose inhaled sharply and I thought it a dangerous sound.
We followed the young nun down a dim hallway. Her skirts streamed out over the varnished floor.
“I'll go in first to tell her you're here,” the young nun said. “On account of her heart.”
Once Catherine disappeared, Rose said, “I thought she might have died already.” I wiped her eyes with my handkerchief and she took it from me. “Will you stay outside when I see Mother, Max?” she asked. “She knows very little about my situation in Paris, and I want to explain it to her.” I agreed. After Catherine emerged and Rose replaced her, the novice offered to take me on a tour of the hospital grounds and gardens. Even though it was dark, some of the oldest buildings were still lit at night and, the young nun said, even prettier that way.
She was twittery and gay as we strolled between the rows of herbs and vegetables in the kitchen orchards, gesturing with her hands so that the wide sleeves of her habit fell back to reveal plump, hairless arms. She reminded me of an uncooked biscuit. We returned to
Madame Clément's ward in three-quarters of an hour and found Rose outside, shaking the hand of a young doctor who had also been her classmate. He shook mine, too, heartily but with some disappointment. This hospital was unlike the ones I was used to in Paris. There were no patients in sight and no news on the radio, only Maurice Chevalier.
We walked back through the shabby plaza, through a series of unlit side streets, to Rose's childhood home. Rose smoked as we walked, coughing while she inhaled. We arrived at a two-level house with a slanted roof. A window on the second floor emitted a sooty yellow light. It began to drizzle. Rose pressed the buzzer and waited. We heard a movement inside.
“I swore I would never sleep in this house again,” Rose said.
I pulled her away from the door, tugging her alongside me through the mist, through a maze of alleys with low-hanging clotheslines. “There must be a hotel then, somewhere, even if we have to sleep in its parlor.”
Inquisitive lights lit our footsteps as we passed.
“The only hotel is in the plaza,” she said. “The proprietress is the aunt of the doctor you met in the hallway. We'll be the gossip of the town.”
I had begun to envision Rose still sleeping next to me in the morning and the pleasures of waking her up.
“We could let two rooms,” I said halfheartedly. Her face lifted.
“You would do that?” she asked, and added, “And pay?”
I said I would and she kissed me. Someone inside the dingy café hooted. We entered, and Rose spoke with the white-haired woman behind the bar, who took down two keys from their hooks below the liquor bottles and led us to our rooms.
Mine had evidently not been used in some time, as a layer of dust covered its surfaces. A newspaper waited in the trash bin, as did a bloodied bandage and a rusty razor. I was nearly drunk with fatigue. When I pulled the musty blankets to my chin, a sleep as heavy as sand settled over me.
When
Similar Books
