Madame Tussaud's Apprentice (5 page)

• • •

Manon’s mother wastes no time producing a vat of hot water that the cook in the kitchen has boiled. I slip gratefully into the warmth of the copper tub, which has hastily been set up behind a curtain that does not close completely.

“I’m sorry for the lack of privacy, child,” Manon’s mother apologizes, turning once I am fully submerged, “but from the look of things, a bath was long overdue.”

I blush when I see how dark with dirt the bathwater has become. But still, I will not let her think I chose to live this way.

“When you live on the streets, staying clean is hard,” I say.

“I’ve no doubt,” Manon’s mother responds matter-of-factly. Then, she turns to the cook. “Marthe, hand me the soap, please.”

“Baths are a waste of good water with brats like these,” Marthe says, handing over a bar that smells of lavender and then returning to her wood stove. “A beating would be better for her.”

Manon’s mother smiles. “Children should learn through example, Marthe. Perhaps this little kindness on our part will show her how to reach out to others.”

I frown. “I am no child, and I certainly don’t need a lesson in kindness.”

The cook snorts at my words. “See. Like I said, a waste of time.”

I ignore her as I begin to wash myself. I have seen things that would curl these women’s hair: children eating rats because they were desperately hungry; men fighting and killing each other over a piece of sausage; women giving birth in a crate. These women in their fancy house and their cozy kitchen have no idea what the poor of Paris suffer, or what true kindness would entail.

I hear a sizzling sound, and the smell of frying sausages reaches my nose. Embarrassingly, my belly gurgles loudly.

“When you are finished,” Manon’s mother says, “you must have something to eat.”

With that offer, I hungrily climb from the tub and dry myself off.

Manon’s mother has a silk nightgown in her arms. She holds it out to me from around the curtain. I stare at the creamy white fabric.

The gown is beautiful, but how I am to escape in it? I cannot run through the streets of Paris in a nightgown. And yet, it is lovely. For a few hours, anyway, why can’t I enjoy feeling something that soft against my skin?

And so I take the gown and slip it over my head. The beautiful nightdress floats down my body, enveloping me in white folds that fall to my feet.

For a moment, I imagine Algernon’s expression if he saw me now. Would he finally notice that I am a woman and not just his willing accomplice?

“That gown was Manon’s when she was your age. You are about fifteen I would guess,
n’est-çe pas
?” Manon’s mother says, smiling at the recollection as I come out from behind the curtain.

“Sixteen,” I say sharply. “Just.”

It makes me angry that it is not my own
maman
standing here, growing dewy-eyed with memory. But because of people such as this, she is dust now and will never have that pleasure.

I sit, and Manon’s mother puts a plate of the sausages in front of me.

“Slow down, child,” she says, as I shovel in the food. “There is plenty here to eat. You are safe now. We will take good care of you. You needn’t worry.”

The woman’s concern hits me hard. Not since the death of Maman have I had a woman be anxious about me. Algernon has coddled me, taught me, saved me. But a woman worrying is different. It is warmer, truer.

I shake myself. The hominess of this place is causing me to come undone. I have to remain strong, remember Algernon and my plan to escape.

At last, I finish every bit of sausage.

“Come,” Manon’s mother says. “I will take you to Manon and Dr. Curtius now.”

I follow her out of the kitchen and down one corridor after another, making myself memorize everything, for the kitchen has an outside door that will provide an easy escape, and perhaps we will return one day for a few of the valuable items these people own.

In spite of the quickness of Manon’s mother’s pace, I commit it all to memory: a crack in the third board at the right turn, a stain on the sea-green wallpaper on the left, a sconce that is slightly askew.

At last, we stop, and Manon’s mother knocks upon a closed door.

“
Entrez
,” commands a voice.

And I go inside, not knowing what awaits me.

I stop short.

Wax candles burn about the room, sending out a soft light that shimmers on books lining shelves. They are real books, too—not like the fake ones many merchants collect these days to make themselves seem wealthier than they are, the ones with covers only and no insides.

I don’t read, but Papa knew how. Because he handled the distribution of items from the Comte to the villagers, it was necessary that he learned. I remember him reading softly to us at night from books he had borrowed, after a day in the fields. He had smelled of the earth and fresh air. He had told me he would teach me someday, but Maman had objected. She said that a girl learning to read was a waste of time.

I understood. After all, my days were spent patching threadbare clothing, cooking thin gruel over a hot fireplace, and sweeping dirt floors until my fingers bled. One does not need to know how to read to do these chores. Still, I had not been happy with the decision. I loved to draw and believed that I would have loved to read, as well.

“Do you like books, Celie?” Manon asks, following my gaze. She is sitting in a chair by the fire, wiping her hands on a cloth.

“
Oui
,” I say.

“Then perhaps you would like to take one with you when you retire for the night?” she suggests.

I am not about to tell her I would be able to do nothing but look at the words—or that books are no longer soothing, but a bitter reminder of what I have lost.

“Let’s get on with this, Manon,” her uncle—Dr. Curtius—says from his desk. “We have a lot of work ahead of us this night.”

Manon nods, and rises from her chair. “Come. Sit, Celie.”

She pulls out a chair near a table, and I see that pieces of parchment paper and sharpened charcoal pencils lie on the table. My exhaustion evaporates in a moment. It is as if I have stumbled upon old friends.

“I want you to take a few minutes to remember the kitchen where you bathed,” Manon instructs me. “Then I want you to draw what you have seen.”

I do not mean to be so pliable, but my mind is already working, creating a picture. I go to the chair, my fingers picking up the charcoal pencil and lovingly smoothing out a sheet of fine white paper. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, savoring the sweetness that always comes right before I begin. How easily I am already envisioning the sparks of the fire in the kitchen fireplace, the dark black of the stove, and the soot marks on the walls. I see the one window high on the left wall, which has a small crack in its third right pane, and the copper pans, one missing the end of its handle. My mind shows me the cook with her curly auburn hair, the mole on the left side of her chin. And I have a flash of Manon’s mother, with blue eyes and a small waist.

So I begin to draw. I draw and draw. Time falls away. Place falls away. I draw for a very long time. At last, I finish. I sit back, spent. I feel as if I have run through every street in Paris.

“Celie?” Manon asks, rising from her chair. “Are you done?”

“
Oui
,” I say, my voice cracking with weariness.

She glances at the drawing, and then goes and touches her uncle gently on the shoulder. Dr. Curtius jumps when she wakes him.

“She has finished,” Manon says. “Come see.”

Her uncle rises sleepily and walks over to where I sit. He looks down at the drawing, his eyes widening. With a quick motion, he snatches it up.

I start in surprise. “That’s my drawing. You can’t just take it.”

“It was done on my paper,” Dr. Curtius reminds me. “And you may have it back in a moment.”

He leaves the room.

“Where is he going with my drawing?” I demand.

“He’s just gone to the kitchen,” Manon answers. “He won’t be long.”

I have only drawn twice on real paper, and I had hoped to keep this one. I wanted to hide this drawing in the tiny alcove in the alley where Algernon and I sleep, keeping it safe and dry. Then I could lie in the dark and look at it, and remember the warmth here, and the smell of the sausages cooking, and the softness of the gown I now wear, and be transported from the sounds of snoring and belching that surround Algernon and me nightly in the criminals’ camp.

Then I remember. Algernon!

“What time it?” I ask.

“Ten-fifteen,” Manon answers.

“I’m tired,” I say. And I am, though, more importantly, I have to escape.

“I’ll show you to your room soon,” Manon tells me.

Not a moment later, her uncle comes back, holding the paper as if it is a valuable painting.

“Extraordinary,” he says. “She has captured everything, down to the crack at the base of the back door. She will save us much time and worry. With her help, our displays will be perfect down to every detail. She must accompany you always, Manon. You are her admission, but she must do the drawing. Her recall is amazing.”

He turns to face me. “You are a treasure, child, with an extraordinary ability. So, welcome. Welcome to
La Caverne des Grands Voleurs
.” He hands me back my drawing.

I have no idea what he is talking about, nor do I care. It is nearing ten-thirty. That is all that matters. “I’d like to go to sleep now.”

“Of course. It’s late,” Dr. Curtius says. “Manon, take her upstairs.”

Manon inclines her head, and motions for me to follow.

• • •

I catch my breath when she opens a door upstairs. Inside is a large four-poster bed, draped in green velvet. Windows stretching from the floor to the ceiling with drapes of the same green velvet fill one wall. The curtains are of a soothing mossy color, with bands of pink embroidered roses curling down and around the fabric. And there is a beautiful shining mirror.

I walk as if in a dream toward it, seeing myself for the first time in a very long while, completely from head to toe. My large blue eyes look back at me from a head covered in blond ringlets, and though I have curves, my cheeks are gaunt.

I will never resemble the lovely women Algernon and I rob of their valuables. I look like just what I am: a peasant’s daughter once, and now a captured thief. How can Algernon be drawn to that?

“I hope the room is to your liking?” Manon asks.

The plump pillows and heavy coverlet on the bed do indeed seem inviting. I set my drawing upon the dresser, not giving her an answer. Now that I am away from the spell of creating art, I simply want to get out of this place, where I am nothing but a useful commodity, and return to Algernon, who cares for me.

I go to the bed and get in, sliding beneath the covers. I sink deeply into the mattress. There is no poking here of husks, only the softness of feathers. The sheets are washed and starched, and once again, I am awash in a pleasure I have not enjoyed since Maman died. The simple comfort almost chokes me with nostalgia, but I force the lump in my throat away.

“Goodnight,” Manon says. “I will see you in the morning.”

She closes the door, taking the candle with her, and the room is enveloped in darkness.

I turn over and lay my cheek against the soft pillows, breathing in the scent of clean linens. I cannot believe that I am lying here in a feather bed, when only twelve months ago I was dying in a ditch. Carriages and horses had passed me on their way to Paris that day, kicking up dust that settled softly on my face. No one had stopped. Why would they? I was a peasant’s daughter, a nobody to them.

I remember forcing my weary eyes open to look for the last time at the gray sky and the clouds that were threatening rain. I thought of Maman and Papa and Jacques, and how I would soon be with them, having also succumbed to starvation.

Then a shadow had fallen across my face. And he was there—a boy with mud-dark hair and sea-green eyes, a dirt-streaked face and hair-stubbled cheeks. Algernon, my savior.

I close my eyes now and envision the way he looked that day, so strong and kind. I picture my arms about him, as if he were here, feel my lips on his as if he were willing. And the quilts are so warm and my dreams so desirable, that I wish I might, just this once, have a whole night to enjoy this bed.

• • •

I wake with a start and sit up. How could I have fallen asleep? Have I missed meeting Algernon on time?

Quickly, I throw back the covers just as a clock somewhere below chimes eleven. I have not slept long, and yet, even if I hurry, I will be a few minutes late.

In the darkness, I reach for a candle beside the bedside. I cannot find one, and decide it is better that way. A flicker of light bouncing within the house might alert someone, especially if they are still up.

Silently, I slip from the room, taking my drawing with me. I retrace my steps back to the library, pausing outside the door. I hear no sound from within, although I remember that Manon’s uncle had said they would be working all night.

Now comes the hard part, finding my way back to the kitchen. Tonight, I make my way in blackness.

It was a short walk from the library to the bedroom, up a long winding staircase. But the walk from the kitchen to the library had many twists and turns. I memorized many details of each corridor so that I could find my way back, but I had not counted on doing so in total darkness. There is no way for me to see a crack in a wall, or a painting of birds, or a nick on a floorboard.

Still, I have to try. I have to find my way to the kitchen door and my clothes, which have been washed and are hanging there to dry.

I wend my way in the direction I believe I had come from, knowing that more minutes are ticking away. The house is eerily quiet, and I shiver in my nightgown.

At last, I find the kitchen. I can smell the scent of ashes dampened for the night from behind its closed door.

I place my hand on the knob and turn, stepping into the room.

Two severed heads stare at me, their eyes wide, their mouths open in a sick kind of grimace. Blood drips from their necks.