Madeleine Is Sleeping Read Online Free PDF Page B

her heart, her stomach, like heat from a flat and sun-soaked rock, and deep within
her something begins to reverberate, as if her own hidden strings have been set aquiver. There is only one emotion she feels, not the spectacular and edifying range that Charlotte had promised: no fury, no pathos, no longing. Just a wild tumult inside her.
    Charlotte, she says from the floor. I could do that!
    She points at the strings, the flickering bow: When you play, I feel as if I could play, too. As if to play so beautifully were as easy as taking and releasing a breath. As easy as falling asleep and having a dream.

Stirring
    MADELEINE STIRS in her sleep.

Indolent
    AS FAR AS MOTHER UNDERSTANDS , hers is not the only family ever to experience calamity. Daughters wander off into the woods, stumble into prostitution, fall in love with sailors, are eaten by wolves. When Mother was a child, she knew of a shapely girl who was plucked from her bath by a large and lice-ridden bird; it held her dripping from its talons and then, squawking merrily, took to the sky. The girl's family left the tub out by the barn, in the hope that once the bird tired of her company, it might return her to her bath. Over time the tub rusted and rattled; sometimes mice would scamper over its edge and drown.
    But the misfortunes of other families seem always to involve disappearance or abduction. The girl is missed; she is mourned; she is remembered as bonny and helpful and light on her feet. What a loss! What a shame! Women clasp their daughters to their breasts and whisper horrors into their ears: Darkness. Appetites. Trees. And no moon to light your way.
    And then there is Madeleine, who doesn't seem to be going anywhere; who takes up room; who attracts attention; who lies there, sighing voluptuously, as Mother sweats over the fire.
    Nothing makes one's own work more difficult than being in the presence of another's idleness. The sight of Madeleine, stretched upon the bed, begins to try her mother's patience. Occasionally, she grows careless with the handle of her broom. Accidentally, she sets the pots aclattering. In the middle of the night, she undertakes an experiment: when a candle drips its wax onto Madeleine's cheek, it sets into motion a most fascinating series of twitches.

She Dreams
    GYPSIES, IT SEEMS , can no longer captivate a crowd. A woman who looks like a viol, a girl who waddles on the seared stumps of her hands, a man who sings from his backside, are incapable of provoking wonder. The procession of gypsy caravans trundles from one empty venue to the next. The fearsome Marguerite, who once wore a sword, who once played the hero, finds herself dangerously close to despair.
    Miraculously, a summons arrives. The photographer has circulated his portraits among the wealthy of Toulouse. A widow, renowned for her fecund imagination, purchases every last photograph and hangs them all in her high-ceilinged drawing room. She sits, daily, for several hours, in this gallery of grotesques. One Sunday, when the lilacs are in bloom, she becomes animated by an idea. She wishes the company to pay her a visit, at her expense. She has a proposition.

Depraved
    LIKE THIS ? Madeleine asks, paddle suspended in midair.
    Just so, the widow says.
    The girl's hand falls squarely upon the backside of M. Pujol. Smack! is the sound of her palm meeting the flesh of his bared cheeks. His elegant tailcoat, his white butterfly tie, his black satin breeches, are folded neatly in a pile that sits by the door.

    Louder, the widow says, from her chair. She cups a hand around her ear.

Indivisible
    THE GYPSIES install themselves on the velvety lawns that surround the house. From a window, high above them, the widow watches as the performers step out from their caravans. Here they are, in the sunlight, on the grass; there they were, in the candlelight, on the carpet. The sight wounds her, fills her with pleasure: yes, those are the same bodies, the same gentle souls. How could that be?