The Novel in the Viola Read Online Free PDF Page B

bed of cushions. I kicked off my shoes, which were starting to pinch, and wiggled my toes in the cool night air. Anna had painted my toenails scarlet, and I thought they looked very fetching – it seemed a shame to wear shoes at all.
    ‘You are to take the pearls with you, Elise. Hildegard will sew them into the hem of your dress tonight.’
    ‘No Mama, they’re yours. I have the gold chains if I need money.’
    I reached for Anna’s hand, wishing that she would be quiet. Lights glinted in the apartments across the street, and where the curtains were not drawn we watched a marionette show of silhouettes perform rituals of daily life: maids drew baths or cleared away the supper trays, an elderly lady took three tries to climb into her raised bed, a dog sat in a chair by an open window, and a man all alone and naked except for his hat paced to and fro, hands clasped behind his back. This vantage point had been my and Margot’s favourite for many years, and we had glimpsed countless dramas play out across the street. When we were children we would squabble and scratch at one another’s faces, but dusk produced an inevitable truce, and we would creep out onto the balcony and sit beside one another in companionable silence and watch the show. It seemed almost inconceivable that it could continue without me. I looked down at my beautiful red-painted toes for comfort.
    ‘The pearls are yours,’ said Anna. ‘I gave the sapphires to Margot as a wedding gift and it is right that you should have the pearls.’
    ‘Stop it,’ I snapped. ‘Give them to me in New York.’
    Anna fiddled with the hem of her gown and said nothing.
    ‘Why do you want me to have them now?’ I asked. ‘You’re not going to forget to send for me, are you? How can you forget me? You promised, Anna. You promised.’
    ‘Darling! Calm, please.’ She laughed at my outburst. ‘Of course I won’t forget you. Of all the silliest things.’
    ‘Elise, you’re not easily forgotten,’ said Margot. ‘You’re her daughter, not a pair of gloves.’
    I folded my arms across my chest, shivering in the crisp night air and struggled against the urge to cry. My family did not understand. They might be leaving, but they had each other. Only I was alone. I fretted that they would forget about me, or worse, discover that they liked it better without me.
    From my position on the cushions I edged closer to Margot, greedy for her warmth.
    ‘Oh look,’ she said, pointing at a balcony on the top floor, where a prim, uniformed maid held a curly-haired poodle over the edge of the parapet so it could tinkle. A yellow arc rained down on the pavement below.
    Anna hissed her disapproval. ‘Ach, have you ever seen such laziness!’
    ‘I think it’s highly original, and as such I applaud it,’ I said.
    ‘God help the family you end up with,’ said Margot.
    My retort was cut short, as Julian called us to come inside: ‘Darlings, the photographer is here.’
    I can’t help wondering if perhaps I remember that last night so vividly because of the photograph. We all gathered in the drawing room, the tables pushed back against the wall, chairs laid out in higgledy rows. Lily Roth used her feather fascinator as a pointer to organise us into position, and barked at the gentlemen to extinguish their cigars and cigarettes. Margot and I allowed ourselves to be directed to low stools near Julian and Anna. I still wasn’t wearing any shoes, and hid my bare feet under my long dress. Margot and I huddled conspiratorially, giggling as the elderly ladies fussed and fidgeted and insisted that they be seated with their husbands or sons or nearer the back where their wobbling jowls would be less on display.
    Photographs are so strange; they are always in the present tense, everyone captured in a moment that will never come again. We take them for posterity, and as the shutter blinks, we think of the future versions of ourselves, looking back at this event. The photograph I have of