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Authors: Helen Humphreys
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the bird. I have the sort of courage that a soldier has, and mostly it is useless to me. I would be good in a duel, better than Charles, who is constantly being challenged, but of course no woman is ever required to fight a duel. No, my courage will never be offered up to heroics, but only to the reprehensible act of forsaking my children.
I make my decision, and I await my opportunity to act, and, as it turns out, I do not have to wait long.
Victor comes home one evening and announces that we are moving. The landlord is evicting us because of all the controversy surrounding Hernani .
“I’ve found us an apartment,” says Victor after supper. “On rue Jean-Goujon. It’s very spacious and bright. You’ll love it.”
“That’s the other side of the river.”
“I have to be near the theatre. Now more than ever. It’s very important. You know that.”
Victor is always telling me what I know. Once I used to argue with him about this, but now I can’t be bothered. He’s clearly made up his mind. The apartment is already rented. He has had packing cases delivered and has told the children that we’re moving.
It will be very difficult to rendezvous with Charles if we live across the river. It’s difficult now, when we live two doors apart.
“When?” I say.
“The beginning of the month.”
That’s in just over a week.
“Why didn’t you tell me before this?”
“It happened so quickly. I didn’t know before this.”
We are standing by the window in the sitting room, the window that overlooks the garden. Outside the children are playing some game that involves racing at top speed around the pond. It is time to call them in for bed, which is why I went over to the window in the first place.
Victor is standing beside me. He’s not looking out into the garden, but rather is staring down at his hands resting on the window ledge. I look down as well. His hands are broad, ink-stained, the nails chipped and dirty. These hands write the words that keep us all alive. They are also the hands that wrote the play that is forcing us to move across the river.
Victor slides his right hand towards my left hand, tentatively, like a cat slinking up on a bird.
“It will be an adventure, my darling,” he says.
I turn from the window before he can touch me.
“I must call the children in for bed.”
I sit on the edge of Dédé’s bed after she is tucked in and ready for sleep. She is excited about the move, keeps wanting to ask me questions, to talk about it.
“Will there be flowers over there?” she asks. “Will there be cats?”
“It’s the other side of the river, not the other side of the world,” I say.
“Will there be apples?”
“Of course.”
“Will I have a bed?”
“You will have this bed. We will load it into a cart and it will travel across the river and be set down in your new room.”
Dédé laughs delightedly and clutches my hand. “Can I lie in it when it is on the cart?” she asks.
“Shall we pretend?” I say. “Move over.” I slide down beside her on the narrow bed and she rolls into my arms. “There would be stars above us. Bright stars. Close your eyes and tell me when you see them.”
Dédé squirms in my arms. “I see them! I see them!”
“And the cart would be bumpy over the cobblestones.” I gently rock her in my arms, back and forth, back and forth. “The night air might be chill, but you would be tucked up so warm in your bed.” I tighten my arms around her. “You would be so safe and warm.” I continue to rock my daughter, closing my eyes as well, imagining the sharp stars above us, and the dank smell of the river; the yellow lick of lamplight on the bridges.
Dédé’s breath opens into sleep, but I stay with her on the bed, keep her in my arms. She is so light and small, more like a bird than a child. My little one. My treasure.
I am a selfish woman to want more than my children. It should be enough to care for them, to love them like this. For
I make my decision, and I await my opportunity to act, and, as it turns out, I do not have to wait long.
Victor comes home one evening and announces that we are moving. The landlord is evicting us because of all the controversy surrounding Hernani .
“I’ve found us an apartment,” says Victor after supper. “On rue Jean-Goujon. It’s very spacious and bright. You’ll love it.”
“That’s the other side of the river.”
“I have to be near the theatre. Now more than ever. It’s very important. You know that.”
Victor is always telling me what I know. Once I used to argue with him about this, but now I can’t be bothered. He’s clearly made up his mind. The apartment is already rented. He has had packing cases delivered and has told the children that we’re moving.
It will be very difficult to rendezvous with Charles if we live across the river. It’s difficult now, when we live two doors apart.
“When?” I say.
“The beginning of the month.”
That’s in just over a week.
“Why didn’t you tell me before this?”
“It happened so quickly. I didn’t know before this.”
We are standing by the window in the sitting room, the window that overlooks the garden. Outside the children are playing some game that involves racing at top speed around the pond. It is time to call them in for bed, which is why I went over to the window in the first place.
Victor is standing beside me. He’s not looking out into the garden, but rather is staring down at his hands resting on the window ledge. I look down as well. His hands are broad, ink-stained, the nails chipped and dirty. These hands write the words that keep us all alive. They are also the hands that wrote the play that is forcing us to move across the river.
Victor slides his right hand towards my left hand, tentatively, like a cat slinking up on a bird.
“It will be an adventure, my darling,” he says.
I turn from the window before he can touch me.
“I must call the children in for bed.”
I sit on the edge of Dédé’s bed after she is tucked in and ready for sleep. She is excited about the move, keeps wanting to ask me questions, to talk about it.
“Will there be flowers over there?” she asks. “Will there be cats?”
“It’s the other side of the river, not the other side of the world,” I say.
“Will there be apples?”
“Of course.”
“Will I have a bed?”
“You will have this bed. We will load it into a cart and it will travel across the river and be set down in your new room.”
Dédé laughs delightedly and clutches my hand. “Can I lie in it when it is on the cart?” she asks.
“Shall we pretend?” I say. “Move over.” I slide down beside her on the narrow bed and she rolls into my arms. “There would be stars above us. Bright stars. Close your eyes and tell me when you see them.”
Dédé squirms in my arms. “I see them! I see them!”
“And the cart would be bumpy over the cobblestones.” I gently rock her in my arms, back and forth, back and forth. “The night air might be chill, but you would be tucked up so warm in your bed.” I tighten my arms around her. “You would be so safe and warm.” I continue to rock my daughter, closing my eyes as well, imagining the sharp stars above us, and the dank smell of the river; the yellow lick of lamplight on the bridges.
Dédé’s breath opens into sleep, but I stay with her on the bed, keep her in my arms. She is so light and small, more like a bird than a child. My little one. My treasure.
I am a selfish woman to want more than my children. It should be enough to care for them, to love them like this. For
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