The Missing Italian Girl Read Online Free PDF

her satiny purple dress swayed above her ankles. Hands folded in front of her, the singer turned slowly and, with piercing dark eyes and resolutely closed scarlet lips, demanded the attention of everyone in the room.
    “I’ve been told,” she announced, “that we have a special guest, a new supporter of our cause, born and raised in Lille. Let’s sing this song for him.”
    Bernard leaned over to Clarie and whispered, “Tilyer knows I’m from the north, so he requested something for me.” Still tense from her exchange with the carpenter, Clarie nodded and gave Bernard a tight smile. The pianist played a few measures and paused. The singer lifted her head and raised her folded hands to her chest. A surprisingly stirring voice issued from her bird-like body. She began slowly:
    They were from the same village
    And loved each other tenderly
    To unite themselves in marriage
    They had vowed with great solemnity
    The lad worked with such energy
    As he followed his father into the mines
    She became a weaver in a factory
    They lived with honor all through that time
    “Sing with me, now,” the singer interjected. And a few voices joined her in a chorus.
    She was young and beautiful
    He was strong and full of worth
    Everyone remembers them
    The Fiancés of the North
    Marie Rossignol put up her hand, for silence. Spreading her arms she sang about the fiancés’ pure love and how they marched for their rights on the Workers’ Holiday. After another chorus joined by more of the audience, she opened her eyes wide and signaled a halt to the piano. She began the next lines in a harsh whisper which slowly rose to a tragic crescendo:
    The dawn that day shone bright and clear
    As flowers bloomed on the First of May
    The day that put all France in tears
    Because of the great calamity
    In the square near the church in the crowd
    They stood tall at the front of the line
    Then shots rang forth and the blood flowed out
    And the two of them lay there dying
    She began singing again, louder and stronger:
    Oh massacre so sinister
    That all will cry henceforth
    O’er the tomb where they’re fore’er interred
    The Fiancés of the North
    She waved her hand, and shouted “Now!” and most of the room responded, some with beer steins pounding on the wooden tables and others lifted by emotion to their feet:
    She was young and beautiful
    He was strong and full of worth
    Everyone remembers them
    The Fiancés of the North
    Clarie was mesmerized by the passion of the performer. Still, she glanced at Bernard from time to time to observe his reactions. She thought she saw tears forming in his eyes. He leaned forward as if he were about to stand and join the singing. But this was not him, at least not yet. She had never seen him show his emotions in public. He did clap with those who clamored and whistled as Marie Rossignol bowed.
    “The Fourmies massacre,” he shouted to Clarie above the din. “In 1891. This is their song.” Having some vague memory of the event, in which workers peacefully marching for their rights had been shot by government troops, she nodded. Bernard joined the applause again.
    “Maître Martin.” Tilyer appeared at Bernard’s side. A weary-looking woman and two towheaded boys dragged behind him. “I hope you enjoyed that.” He pointed to the pianist and singer conferring. “It’s going to be mushy love songs from here on in, and we gotta get home. Work tomorrow. Even the wife, you know.”
    “Thanks for this,” Bernard said, gesturing with his head toward the stage.
    “Eh, maître,” the carpenter said as he clapped Bernard’s arm again, “it will be such a victory when we finally have a living wage and the eight-hour day they were striking for at Fourmies.” Bernard took the man’s hand eagerly, shaking it in agreement.
    Although she was happy that Tilyer was ignoring her, Clarie hung on his every word. If she were still living at home in Arles, her father would have taught her this worker’s song and what it