The Life of Elves (13 page)

 

At that very moment, the little girl removed her hand from Eugénie's shoulder, and the old woman felt, understood, and recognized everything. She focused on the sick man's body and saw that he was infected with the sticky yellow substance from her dream, and that the air was saturated with the same odor as all through the war—it was a gangrene that sought only to destroy and defeat, invading and gradually sucking away everything that lived and loved. For a moment she was overwhelmed by the evidence that the enemy was far superior to anything with which a poor country healer might oppose it—her limited means and unworldly knowledge. But she had the strength of a new illumination that had entered her when Maria touched her shoulder.

Wars . . . We know they dictate their laws of retribution, and drive the just to the battlefield. But what would happen if everyone sat on the grass in those fields, and in the pure dawn air put their weapons down beside them? There would be the sound of the angelus ringing from the nearby steeple, while the men woke from their dreams of horror and darkness. Suddenly, it would start to rain, and one could merely succumb to the prayer that brings with it a life full of violets and abundance. How futile it was to hope to triumph over the attack by sacrificing three soldiers—what could they do against hordes and cannons . . . What was healing, in the end, if not the making of peace? And what was living if it was not for love?

Important decisions are made by those who are invisible, by the humble people. The dark army was building its bastions, piercing the sick man's very skin with spurs from which they could suspend their web of infection. So, instead of sending them to the lines, Eugénie made her soldiers sit down. Her gift visualized the path the garlic and thyme would take through the sick man's bowels and blood, and her dream increased its viscosity tenfold, oiling the walls so that it would be harder for the enemy to plant its barbs. Her dream became stronger still, and she coated the base of the existing hooks until they were swept away by the crushed cloves and the needles of thyme and, at the same time, their healing properties filled the holes the enemy had drilled, and set about closing the wounds with their beneficial active ingredients.

She was filled with enthusiasm. It was so easy to use the medicinal plants in this way, and to apply them directly to the substance of the illness, and so miraculous to see how one could work toward recovery by using the magic of the dream to hasten processes that were themselves quite natural. But she also felt that her gift drew upon declining reserves, and she could tell the moment was approaching when the energy of her dream would have drained away and she would have to renounce her efforts. Then she caught a glimpse of an iris. She did not know where, it was there and it was nowhere; she could look at it but it was invisible, and it was radiating an intense presence even though she could neither locate nor grasp it. It was smaller than the irises in the garden, its white petals streaked with pale blue, and it had a deep purple heart with orange stamens. It emanated something fresh, and she could not identify the formula at first, but then she suddenly understood that it was the freshness of childhood. So . . . Now she knew why the iris could not be seen even when it was so visible, and she understood how she must carry her task to fruition. She gave a start when she read the flower's message, written in letters perfumed with the joys of early childhood, then she relaxed her entire being, transported by the pure and simple acceptance of the gift.

She returned to the eighty-seven-year-old body she had forgotten when Maria had touched her shoulder for the second time, and in which she was now reincarnated, feeling alive as never before. She looked around her at a painting whose pigments had been brushed with a smooth, shining varnish. The room was silent. Angèle was kneeling on the old chestnut
prie-dieu
she had always refused to replace with one of those fine red velvet ones you could see in the front rows of the church, and she was so absorbed by her prayer that she had not noticed her nightgown was turned up over a pair of cotton bloomers with a hem of pristine braided ribbon. Léonce was sitting on the duvet next to her Marcel, rubbing his feet with the patience of a Madonna. Jeannette and Marie both stood in the doorway, which seemed to dwarf the two old ladies: fear had made them even smaller than age. Eugénie took Marcel's pulse and then lifted his eyelid. His breath was weak but regular, and the injections of blood that had marred his eye had disappeared. Just to be on the safe side, she slipped a last dose of garlic and thyme into his mouth. She suddenly felt very old and tired. Then she turned around abruptly to face Maria.

Her black eyes filled with tears, and she was clenching her fists, the focus of her heightened sorrow. Eugénie felt despondent for the little girl, whose magic could not change a heart made like all little girls' hearts, a heart that would bleed for a long time from this first wrenching experience. She smiled at her with all the tenderness of a mother who would kill and die a hundred times for her child, and with her hand she made a gesture in which she placed the consciousness and majesty of the gift, in the form of the iris of childhood. But Maria's tears were still flowing and the expression in her eyes was one of bitterness and sorrow. Then she stepped to one side and the connection was broken. Besides, it was not a time for distress, while this great wave of relief was washing over the little room and they were all leaving their battle stations, including the
prie-dieu
and the down duvet, in order to embrace one another in triumph.

There was victorious reciting of the rosary beads, there was a celebration of the constancy with which Eugénie had always praised the virtues of garlic and thyme—but what was going on inside the heads of these yokels: over those two snowy nights there'd been no need to add two plus two to conclude that the little girl was magical and that glorious seasons and human boars do not fall from the sky every day. In fact, faith and what they had before their eyes were made to coexist, and they were convinced that the Lord must have something to do with powers of the sort where what you believed and what you saw—well, you needn't bother to try to make the two agree. Above all, there was a more urgent task at hand now that Marcel was snoring like a baby and they had all gone down to the kitchen to drink some coffee as a reward: they must make sure that Maria was well protected, for a reason Angèle had been convinced of from the beginning, namely that the child was very powerful, and would constantly attract the attention of other powers in the world. No one had noticed that Eugénie was not drinking her coffee; she went on sitting there, a dreamy smile on her old timeworn lips.

“What a long, or short, night it's been,” said the father finally, putting down his cup, and he smiled to all those present the way only he knew how, restoring time to its regular and peaceful amble, and placing the day back on the rightful path of routine.

They heard the angelus ringing from the village steeple, while smoke rose into the sky from the chimneys of happy farms, and life went back to normal, nourished with hawthorn and love.

O
h, so handsome; so tall and blond; eyes bluer than the water of a glacier; porcelain features in the face of a virile man; a supple body, superbly unselfconscious, and on his left cheek, a charming dimple. But the most splendid thing about his remarkable physiognomy was the smile that beamed upon the world like an iridescent shower of sunlight. Yes, the handsomest of angels, indeed, and it made you wonder how you could have lived until now, without this promise of renewal and love.

 

Raffaele Santangelo looked at Clara until she had finished playing, then turned to speak to the Maestro when silence had returned.

“I've invited myself, how thoughtless of me,” he said, “and I'm disturbing a friendly gathering.”

It was the same voice Clara had heard in the past, resonating with the same violence that paved the road of death.

“I wish to pay my respects,” he said to Leonora.

She stood up, and held out her hand for him to kiss.

“Ah, my friend,” she said, “we are getting old, aren't we?”

He gave a quick bow. “You are as beautiful as ever.”

When he had come into the room, all the men had stood up, but they did not greet him, and they had continued to stand there in a position of feigned deference, while their expressions belied any friendship. Acciavatti had gone to stand closer to Clara, but the most remarkable change was in Petrus, who had had time to do justice to the moscato then collapse into an armchair; the arrival of the Governor had not roused him from his seat, but now he had sprung to attention like a watch dog, his lips deformed in an evil grimace, accompanied by the occasional hostile growl.

 

The moment the Maestro's gaze met the Governor's, the piano room exploded with a spray of lustrous bronze stars: Clara was so surprised that she leapt up, and the space was resplendent with a shining dust, a double cone of light dancing with fragments unknown to memory—originating in each of the two men, then converging where their powers were concentrated. Alone of all the guests, Petrus seemed to have seen the cone, and he emitted another hostile growl, his nose in the air and his suit unkempt. But the Governor was looking at the Maestro, and the Maestro was looking at the Governor, and neither one of them seemed to be in any hurry to speak; not to mention the fact that the little group of friends also remained silent, admirably motionless and mute, despite their fear. But on Alessandro's face there appeared a fresh light, which rendered him younger, sharper, and Clara liked what she saw at the same time as it filled her with fresh anxiety, like a foretaste of the pain of important things and final resolutions.

 

“A joyful company,” said Raffaele at last. But he had stopped smiling. He made a gesture—oh, how graceful—which embraced the assembly as if he wanted to call a friendly brotherhood to witness, and he added, “One hopes there will be more, and that they will form alliances among themselves.”

Gustavo smiled. “Alliances are formed naturally,” he said.

“Alliances are forged,” answered Raffaele.

“We are merely artists,” said the Maestro, “and our only guides are the stars.”

“But every man must find courage,” said the Governor, “and artists, too, are men.”

“Who can judge the destiny of men?” responded the Maestro.

“Who can judge their inconsequence? Stars have no courage,” said the Governor.

“They have wisdom,” said the Maestro.

“Only the weak invoke wisdom,” said the Governor, “brave men only believe facts.” And without waiting for the Maestro's reply, he went up to the piano and looked at Clara. “So here we have another little girl . . . ” he murmured. “What is your name, young lady?”

She did not reply.

From deep in Petrus's armchair came a growl. “A virtuoso and a mute, perhaps?”

The Maestro put his hand on Clara's shoulder.

“Ah . . . the order had to come,” said Raffaele.

“My name is Clara,” she said.

“Where are your parents?”

“I came with my uncle Sandro.”

“Who taught you to play the piano? Painters are obviously good professors, but I didn't know they could make the stones sing.”

In the cone of light there was an image of a pathway of black stones, lined with overhanging tall trees; the Maestro's words—
the Pavilion where our kind can see everything
—came back to her memory; then the cone again became the same breeding ground of incomprehensible projections.

The Governor looked at her thoughtfully and she could sense he was troubled.

“What dreams are you chasing, given that you are all crazy?” he said.

“Troubadours feed off dreams,” replied Gustavo amiably.

“The carelessness of spoiled children,” said Santangelo, “when others work so that they might continue to dream.”

“But isn't politics a dream in and of itself?” said the Maestro in the same smooth, urbane tone.

The Governor gave an adorable laugh, resplendent with the cheer of lovely things. Looking at Clara, he said, “Take care, lovely miss, musicians are sophists. But I am sure we shall meet again soon and we shall converse at greater leisure about these pranks that music inspires in them.”

There was a menacing sound from Petrus's armchair.

The Governor turned to Leonora and bowed over her in a way that made Clara's blood run cold. This courtier's gesture betrayed no respect, only a cold hatred, fleetingly visible.

“Alas, it is time for me to leave.”

“No one is keeping you here,” said Petrus, his voice only moderately clear.

Raffaele did not look at him. “Thus you surround yourself with dreamers and drunks?” he asked the Maestro.

“There are worse companions,” said Gustavo.

The Governor gave a joyless smile. “To each his own,” he said.

He made ready to leave but, as if it were staged, Pietro Volpe entered the room at that very moment.

“Governor,” he said. “I thought you were elsewhere, and now I find you in my own house.”

“Pietro,” said the Governor, with a touch of the same hatred he had displayed toward Leonora. “I'm pleased to surprise you.”

“The advantage of numbers, I'm afraid. But you were about to leave?”

“My own family is waiting for me.”

“You mean your troops?”

“My brothers.”

“Rome is speaking of no one else.”

“It is only the beginning.”

“I don't doubt it, Governor. Let me see you out.”

“Always the servant,” said Raffaele, “when you could reign.”

“Like you, my brother, like you,” replied Pietro. “But time will reward the servants that we are.”

Petrus gave a snort of satisfaction.