If You Are There Page 17

  “I know you are worried, but we will rest often. We are aware of our limitations,” Madame Curie said gently, tapping his hand with her fingertip.

  The doctor pushed his chair away from the table and stood. He went to the window and looked out on the deserted road. “Complete idiocy.”

  Lucia knew that despite the doctor’s best arguments they would do exactly as they liked. Indeed, three days later they left for their excursion, waving gaily from the seats of their bicycles as they pedaled off down the road and disappeared around the corner.

  That morning Lucia went down to the greengrocer’s to pick up a few things and ran into the daughter of the proprietor, who was working on a display of early pears. The girl had a mobile mouth and a square face that wasn’t especially pretty, but she always wore a red jewel, a garnet perhaps, on a velvet ribbon that somehow transferred its luster to her. Lucia asked her about the young man—the one who had checked into the hotel across the way.

  Lucia described the stranger as handsome with a blond moustache. She did not mention the color of his eyes or the way he smelled, she didn’t have to. The girl knew exactly whom Lucia was talking about. She said that he had come in yesterday at this time for a bag of oranges. She said he arrived a few days before and that he booked one of the front rooms with a view of the sea.

  “They say his clothes are shabby, particularly his coat, but that he has a fine pair of new boots and two shirts.”

  Lucia knew that the girl’s information was coming by way of the hotel maids.

  The greengrocer’s daughter didn’t have to ask why Lucia was interested. Every girl on the island wanted to know about the stranger staying at the Calais. The appearance of an attractive bachelor on Île d’Oléron was something to talk about, particularly since so many of the boys on the island had left to find work on the mainland. Lucia loaded up her basket with potatoes, onions, and garlic. The girl was just ringing them up when Monsieur Richet walked in the door.

  “Mademoiselle, what luck to see you here. I was just coming up to see your mistress.”

  “They are not here, monsieur.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Off on a cycling excursion.” She put down the few francs and lifted the basket. It was heavier than she would’ve liked.

  “Madame Curie is a cyclist?”

  “Oh, yes, monsieur. She rides often.”

  “But she is pregnant.”

  “Yes, monsieur,” she said, dropping her voice to a near whisper. He surprised her with his blunt assessment of the situation.

  “A cyclist, that’s a nice piece of color. I’ll need a picture of her on her bicycle. When are they getting back?”

  “In a few weeks. I cannot say for sure.”

  “I don’t know if I can stay that long. When will they be back in Paris?”

  “In a month.”

  “Well, that is a problem. Maybe I’ll have to turn in the article without the photograph.” He was muttering to himself. Then he noticed her struggling with the basket. “Here, let me walk that up for you.”

  Lucia reddened. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you, monsieur.”

  “I was going up anyway. It’s no trouble.”

  She offered a weak protest for the sake of appearance but gave in quickly when it seemed that he was going to take her at her word. A few minutes later they were on the path that led back to the rue Docteur Geay and she asked him how his article was coming along.

  “I have a few technical questions; otherwise it’s going well.” Then he asked about her life with the Curies. He wanted to know about their daily schedule: when the Curies went to work and when they came home, when they saw Iréne and what they did on Sundays when they weren’t working. She told him about the doctor, about the garden in the back, and even about Didi the cat.

  They stopped on the main road to let an omnibus full of English tourists go by. It was an open-air affair and almost every seat was taken by a couple or single women in pairs clutching red Baedeker’s guides to France in their gloved hands. Without taking her eyes off them she said: “They work hard, Monsieur. Their life is not easy, and yet they are very happy. Have you ever seen radium at night?” He shook his head. “It is God’s glow in a jar. His light made manifest. Quite a miracle.”

  They stepped aside to let a group of bathers go by, three young men and a girl. One of the young men had an extravagant moustache coated with a thick layer of wax. It curved out from his upper lip like the horns of a mythical beast. Once they were alone Lucia and Gabriel Richet stood there for a moment watching the fishing boats come in with the morning’s catch.

  “The sea has been good to them,” she said. “Cod, I’m guessing.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “See how the hulls are riding low in the water? The cod are migrating, but they will have stopped here to fatten up on shellfish and sea cucumbers. There should be plenty, if the sharks don’t get them.”

  He paused to look at her. “You know about fishing?”

  “I know about whiting and cod. I know how to dress them up in sauces and make them look pretty.”

  He smiled at this and together they walked up the path to the house. She stopped once or twice to point out a rare flower or grass that only grew on this particular island. He appeared to be interested and maybe even a little impressed.

  “Tell them I came by, will you?” he said, holding the gate open for her. “In case they get back early.”

  She promised that she would, and this seemed to reassure him. Then a strange thing happened as he was handing over the basket. He paused in midair and regarded her for a moment. It wasn’t anything she had said, for she hadn’t said anything.

  “Maybe we’ll meet again soon,” he murmured, giving her one of his smiles. His manner was easy and familiar, as if they had known each other for a long time. She had already reached for the handle of the basket, but instead of letting go he held on to it, so their fingers met briefly.

  She met his gaze and her heart took a step.

  Then it was over and he was turning back to the road. “Tell them I’ll need that photograph. It won’t take long.”

  That night she lay in her cot in the kitchen listening to the brief summer rain drumming on the roof tiles and sweeping through the pines. She recalled the ladies on the omnibus clutching their Baedeker’s guide as a talisman against the hazards of foreign travel. She remembered the bathers on the path, his sudden interest at the gate, the brush of his fingers against hers, the weight of him over her and how in one moment he was so thoroughly there with her, studying her, admiring her, and in the next gone, back with his work, beyond her reach. How thrilling this dance was, the choreography of near misses, unintended caresses, and vague possibilities, and how impatient she was for the next one to begin.

  The Curies arrived home from their cycling excursion one evening right after supper and went straight to bed saying they were too tired for food and just wanted to sleep. Madame Curie looked exhausted, drained, hollowed out, and Monsieur was in terrible pain. They had cut their trip short by two weeks and had ridden home in the back of a cart.

  The next morning Lucia made them eggs and croissants. They had steaming bowls of café au lait and a pot of strawberry jam that she had made from the island’s berries. They were supposed to be sweeter than the ones on the mainland, but Lucia couldn’t taste the difference. After breakfast they all went down to the beach, to swim and rest in the sun, all except Lucia, who stayed behind to do her work. At one point in the morning she went down to the Calais to tell Gabriel Richet that the Curies had returned but found he had checked out the previous day.

  In the middle of the afternoon Madame Curie came back alone saying that she was not feeling well and would go in for a nap. Lucia offered to make her a cup of tea, but all Madame Curie wanted was to rest.

  Later, when Lucia was out on the porch plucking a bird, she heard Madame cry out from the bedroom, her voice sounding choked and startled. Lucia hurried inside wher
e she found her mistress lying on her side, her knees up to her chest, her face contorted in pain. “Go for the doctor and Monsieur,” she panted. “Tell them to be quick.”

  Lucia ran down to the beach where she found them on a blanket under the umbrella. When she told them that Madame was in trouble, the doctor ran back up the path with Monsieur hobbling behind. They crowded into the tiny bedroom where Madame Curie lay on the bed curled up in pain. She was just as Lucia had left her, only now there was blood on the sheets. The doctor went to work palpitating her stomach, putting an ear to her belly, listening for a heartbeat.

  Finally, he looked up, sorrow creasing his brow. “I’m sorry, Marie.”

  Her only reaction was a shuddery intake of breath.

  Monsieur Curie was ordered out of the room and told to watch Iréne. Lucia rushed to the kitchen for towels. “She won’t die, will she?” she whispered urgently.

  “Unlikely,” the doctor replied. “It’s just that she’s so weak. If she bleeds . . .” Here he broke off, his face pale and still.

  Lucia massaged Madame’s back and that seemed to help a little. Sometimes she would help her stand or squat over the bedpan; sometimes she would rub her neck and shoulders or go for more towels and clean rags. She prayed for her mistress and for little Iréne out in the yard oblivious to the danger her mother was in. She prayed to the Blessed Mother and to Saint Lucyna, but mostly she prayed to her own mother, who was surely in heaven. She begged her mother to intercede on her mistress’s behalf.

  Unlikely.

  The pains got worse and still Madame Curie did not utter a sound. Her face was flushed, her hair plastered to her forehead. Lucia tried to keep Madame cool with a damp cloth, but sweat rolled off her forehead and pooled on the bedsheets.

  “Lulu?” she panted.

  Lucia took her hand. “I’m here.”

  “Lulu?”

  With a stab she remembered Babusia telling her how her mother kept calling out for her, even though Babusia was there the whole time. Lucia could not sit still. Her stomach filled with ice water. She forgot how to pray in French. “Do not die,” she whispered in Polish. “Please, Matka, keep her alive.”

  Unlikely.

  It took nearly three hours before the ordeal was over. Through it all Madame Curie bore it without complaint. She asked to see the child. It was a girl with dark hair and eyebrows. Her skin was strangely wrinkled and translucent, her hands and feet not fully formed and yet thoroughly recognizable as human. Lucia washed the little thing and wrapped her in a linen cloth. Then she gave her to Madame Curie, who held the tiny creature in her palm and traced the child’s delicate hand with her finger. “Give her to Monsieur,” she whispered, handing the frail bundle back. “He will know what to do.”

  Monsieur Curie did not seem like he knew what to do. He looked confused and uncomfortable as he held the sad little package in his hand. He stared at it for a while and then handed it back to Lucia. Lucia lay the baby in her room for the time being and went to help her mistress bathe. She brought the tub in and heated water for her bath. She changed the sheets and brought in fresh rosemary from the garden. She wanted to comfort Madame Curie, to ease her way. She was grateful to her for not dying. When she was done she helped her into a clean nightgown and got her into bed.

  As soon as she was able, Lucia took the little bundle to the undertaker and then went off to find a priest. She wanted reassurance. She wanted to know that she had done everything right, that the poor mite was in heaven. When the old priest assured her that the child was indeed with God, she felt a great burden lift. That evening Lucia tiptoed into the bedroom. “The child is with the angels now, Madame,” she whispered. “She is with God.” More than anything she wanted to bring her mistress a little peace.

  Madame Curie looked at her, said nothing, and turned her face to the wall.

  Two days later they gave the little girl a proper burial. Monsieur was there and the doctor and the girl from the greengrocer. It was a simple ceremony. Lucia placed a bunch of wildflowers on the tiny coffin before it was lowered into the grave. After the funeral they packed up their belongings and went home to Paris.

  CHAPTER 9

  Paris, August 1903

  It was early morning, still hot from the day before. The night had brought little relief from the devastating heat, which is why Lucia decided at first light to tramp through the Gentilly gate and head out to the woods of Clamart to find fresh sorrel. She was making Madame Curie’s favorite soup, zupa szczawiowa, in an effort to get her to eat. She could have gone to the market in rue Mouffetard or rue d’Alésia, but the sorrel would not have been fresh. She had to pick it herself and wrap it in a wet cloth if she hoped to keep it crisp until she was ready to chop it, sauté it in butter, and add it to the rich beef broth.

  She found the sorrel growing under a grove of elms. She picked a bunch, dipped the cloth in a stream, and wrapped it up. The sorrel took longer than expected to find, so by the time she walked back, the sun was up in earnest, wilting the flowers on the balconies, baking the sidewalks, and spoiling the produce in the markets.

  Even in such heat she took the time to look for signs, hoping for respite, maybe even a miracle, anything that might signal Madame Curie’s recovery. Nothing stood out, except a bunch of perfect yellow roses standing in a bucket of water in front of a flower shop. There was nothing remarkable about them, except that they were there, in the middle of the summer heat, looking fresh and plump and hopeful. She wanted them to be a signal of happier days to come, some marker of divine providence. She thought of yellow as the color of the sun, of life and health, the brightest color of the rainbow saturated with hope and promise. She couldn’t say they were a sign for sure, but she would tuck them away as a possibility, grateful for the small measure of comfort they brought her.

  Later as she walked down boulevard Kellermann toward the house she felt that familiar stitch of hope. Maybe this time she would find the Curies’ window open, the drapes pulled back to let in air and light. Maybe her mistress would be at the window, shouting down to her, to hurry up, she needed help dressing, she was going back to work. Instead when she pushed the gate open and glanced up she found the window dark, the drapes drawn, the house silent and murky in the sticky heat.

  The doctor and Monsieur were waiting for her when she walked into the parlor. Monsieur was pacing the room as usual, because he said it helped his pain. “We want you to go up there, Lulu,” the doctor said. “It’s time to bring your mistress down.”

  Lucia remembered last year when her mistress’s father died. They waited too long then. They believed by giving her time to grieve she would find her own way back. Eventually, she did, but it took months. This time they would not wait.

  Lucia forced herself to climb the stairs, steeling herself for a confrontation. She looked back once before she reached the landing and saw Monsieur Curie and the doctor standing at the foot of the stairs, Monsieur Curie smelling the back of his hand, a nervous habit, the doctor keeping his eyes squarely on her. She knocked once and, without waiting for a reply, opened the door.

  “What are you doing in here?” Madame Curie asked, her voice sounding hoarse and alarmed. She was merely a lump under the bedcovers.

  Lucia threw back the drapes and opened the window. “You need air, madame.” The room was dark and it smelled like a sickroom, like Ania’s room that time she had the croup. It was only eight in the morning and already the air was close.

  “No. It’s too bright in here. Go away,” Madame Curie said, burrowing deeper into the bedclothes.

  “Come now. It’s time to get you up.”

  “I don’t want you here, Lulu.”

  “I’m making zupa szczawiowa and your daughter is waiting for you in the garden. She is asking for you.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Yes, madame, you are. The doctor has sent me to get you up.”

  “I want to speak to Pierre. Where is Pierre?”

  “Monsie
ur agrees with him. He thinks getting out into the sunshine will do you good. Now, I’m just going to help you sit up.” Lucia slipped an arm under Madame Curie’s back and began to lift her.

  “Lulu, I am tired. Can’t you understand that? I am exhausted. I want to rest. Jestem zmęczony.” She shoved Lucia away and because Lucia was already off balance she stumbled against the nightstand, spilling a plate of congealed venison stew all over the rug and wall.

  They were both startled. Madame Curie bolted upright and shouted at Lucia, ordering her out of the room. Then she burst into tears. Lucia ran for the door and flew down the stairs. When she told the doctor and Monsieur what had happened, the doctor said he would go. But he didn’t get far before Monsieur Curie laid a hand on his arm.

  “She is my wife,” Monsieur Curie said quietly.

  Monsieur struggled to climb the stairs, using the banister to pull himself up, his face a map of pain. He remained in their room for quite a while. But when he eventually came out, he had his wife on his arm, supporting her as he led her down the stairs and out into the garden.

  A week later Lucia opened the door and found Gabriel Richet standing on the stoop. He looked fresh and well dressed, his beard neatly trimmed. She greeted him shyly, unconsciously smoothing her hair and then swiftly taking off her dirty apron.

  “Mademoiselle, you’re looking well,” he said with a teasing half smile that was confident and careless.

  She wanted to say something clever, but she was too rattled at his unexpected presence to think. She noticed that he was carrying a tripod and camera and then knew that he had come for the photograph. “If you are here to see Madame Curie, she is not well, monsieur.”

  His smile faltered. “She is sick?”

  “She cannot see you.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “She is not seeing anyone.”

  “Shall I come back tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow will be no better. I’m sorry.”

  “Then it is serious,” he said quietly. He looked past her as if he could see for himself.