The Sculptress V.S. Alexander (ebooks that read to you .txt) 📖

“He can stay in Hassan’s room since he hasn’t arrived yet.” She smoothed her dress and stared at the young man, who looked back with equal intent. “I’ll make it up.” Emma hurried up the stairs, opened the Moroccan’s room, and stood trembling by the side of the bed, tears blurring her vision. She blinked them away, fluffed the white pillow, and pulled down the checked blanket to make sure the sheets were fresh. She jabbed the fireplace poker into the hearth and swept some fallen ash into a pail.

Virginie appeared at the door. “Madame Clement is preparing supper for the three of us. She called the hospital. Monsieur Swan is not there. . . .” The nurse blinked, as if searching for the proper words.

“Yes?”

“Your husband is at the Front.”

Emma steadied herself against the bed and then sat, bewildered by the news.

* * *

At times, caught up in Parisian life, Emma constructed romantic fantasies about her husband despite the awkwardness between them. They could make Paris their home after the war ended, she often thought. It would be their chance to begin again, to return to the days when they appreciated each other, but those thoughts had popped like bubbles in the wind as the reality of the war sunk in.

Emma slept little during the night, imagining Tom plagued by every possible war-related disaster. After a breakfast of oatmeal and pear slices, Emma and the courier climbed into the ambulance. On the chilly street, the first spreading rays of dawn streaked the eastern sky. As they drove away from Paris, the day turned mild with the rising sun. Near noon, they followed a convoy of French army trucks spewing gray exhaust and dust for an hour, until the drivers stopped under a row of spindly birches, the young soldiers spilling out into a field to stretch their legs and eat. Emma and the courier, who spoke to each other in fractured English phrases, agreed they could do without lunch in order to hasten the journey.

They arrived in Toul about seven in the evening.

At the hospital, Emma found a French doctor who spoke English and asked him about Tom. He was a thin, pleasant man by the name of Claude, who, like Tom, suffered from overwork and too little sleep. Thick lines creased his face, but the many wrinkles at his temples led Emma to believe that, even as a doctor, he was able to laugh in this difficult time.

“He was called to the Front because two surgeons are ill with dysentery,” Claude said. “Doctors are scarce. He offered to go.”

Emma thanked him and turned to walk away.

“Where are you going, Madame?” Claude asked.

“To the Front,” she said matter-of-factly.

Claude chuckled and reached for a cigarette in his jacket pocket. “Come with me. I need to smoke.” He led Emma down the stairs to the large sitting room, where he plopped into a chair and lit his cigarette. “The Front is thirty-five kilometers away, give or take a few. It is dark. You are a woman.”

“A woman? What does my sex have to do with seeing my husband? The courier told me Tom was desperate to see me.”

The doctor smiled and pointed the fiery end of his smoke at Emma. “Please understand, Madame Swan, this is not my doing. Both the French and American armies have turned your sex away from the Front—even women who desperately want to fight. They will not allow you through at this hour or perhaps any other hour.”

“Then I will go as a man.”

Claude snickered. “C’est la chose la plus insensée que je n’ai jamais entendu.”

“Did you say I was insane?”

“Oh, pardon, Madame. Not you—the idea.”

His sarcastic smile transformed into a knowing look. “Peut-être. . . Do you have clothes?”

“Those on my back and a change in my case, but I can make do with Tom’s clothes at the cottage.”

Claude brushed a few fallen ashes from his pant leg. “No, you need a uniform. I have no American uniforms—only French—from the dead soldiers.”

Emma started, but shook off her distaste. “That will do. Do you have one in my size?”

“No matter. Most of them did not fit the man who died in them. The sentries will not know the difference.”

Claude stubbed out his cigarette on the floor and then led Emma to a small room underneath the staircase. Piles of army pants, shirts, boots, leggings, and helmets lay stacked on wooden shelves. “Here is the dressing room of the dead,” Claude said with a disquieting smile. “Most widows want their husbands to be buried in a suit, not a uniform. Some we return to the army for other soldiers to wear. Most we burn because they cannot be worn.”

Emma listened halfheartedly to Claude’s comments while she poked through the jumble of clothes. Most were in decent condition, but a few were partially shredded or spotted with the blackish stains of dried blood.

“Here you can create your fashion,” Claude said.

As she sorted through the dead men’s clothes with the intention of constructing this disguise, the macabre thought of All Hallows’ Eve popped into her head. It’s like dressing for some kind of grotesque party. It is insane! She dismissed it from her mind. “After I’m dressed, will the courier take me to the Front?”

Claude waved his hand. “The courier will take you to the cottage for a good night’s sleep. He is a man, not a mule. He is tired from today’s drive—as you should be. Gather the clothes and take a little food from the hospital. Richard will escort you to the cottage.”

“I can walk from here.”

“No,” Claude said emphatically. “Richard will escort you. No woman should walk alone in the dark. It isn’t right.”

Emma sighed. “I’ve been so self-absorbed. I didn’t even ask him his name.”

“No matter,” Claude said. “He has a medical condition that keeps him from the army—but not from his jeune femme.” The doctor clicked his tongue.

After she had collected her clothes and food, Emma found Richard. He dropped her off