Ignorance (17 page)

I got up, put on my dressing gown, glided out of the dormitory into the vestibule at the far end. Thick darkness. I didn't dare switch on a light. I'd have to find a candle. I slipped down the stairs, flight by flight, to the ground floor, passed the refectory, approached the big black door marking the boundary of the convent. I pushed through, entered the school, the red-tiled passage. A red glow from the shrine: a flame inside a red glass holder. I entered the shrine, lifted down the stubby candle in its red cradle, set off again, back towards the convent.

Beyond the big black door, I turned right not left. I crept into the convent's oval entrance hall. My red light gleamed on the columns bracing the front door, the porcelain stand bearing its pot of flowers, a marble lip of stair, the curled-over end of the balustrade.

I peered up into the darkness. Nothing up there, Mother Lucie had said. What did nothing mean? Heaven was always referred to as up there. You couldn't see it but you had to believe in it. At the top of the stairs might be ghosts, or monsters. There was something up there. If I didn't go up I'd not find out whatever it was. It waited for me. Did I want to meet it or not?

I ascended the staircase, pressing up into the dark, testing each step. Whoreschild spread her red wings and hovered above me. I held the votive candle in one hand and gripped the handrail with the other. The long, ornate iron curl spiralled upwards into shadows, tugging the wedges of marble to curve up with it. I reached out, held on to Whoreschild's red mane, which twined round me.

On the first floor an oval vestibule echoed the shape of the hall below. It led, through two sets of double doors, into a
salon
. Curtains of mossy greyness, old hangings swagged with dust, let me through. I slipped across a curved, comma-shaped parquet floor, between walls of grey shadow. Lofty room draped with cobwebs, piled with spiky shapes of broken furniture, soft mounds of what must be yet more dust in the corners. Neglected spaces, smelling of rot. A girl in a long white robe advanced towards me, one hand outstretched. I jumped and squeaked and almost dropped my little light. The ghost-girl met me and struck me: my hand on a clammy mirror.

The steps to the second floor were of wood. They creaked under my bare feet. Now the house narrowed, shrank to a little panelled entry containing a single door. This opened into an oblong room, empty of furniture, the dust rolled into bolsters of fluff along the angles of floor and walls. I swivelled my candle-glass around, swept my glance up and down. Round dents in lino. Eight tiny punches. I bent closer, moved my flickery flame to and fro. The marks of little wheels. Trolleys? Beds? Perhaps the nuns had once used this room for an overflow of orphans. Mother Lucie probably knew the details, but I'd not get the chance to ask her now. She might have forgotten, in any case. She was no longer reliable. I could hear her quaver: they cried for their mother, but what else could we have done?

I retraced my steps back out to the landing. One more floor to go. I edged up a short, straight flight of ladderlike steps to a small wooden door. Opening this, I entered the open space of the attic. It ran off right and left, ends lost in shadow. Rafters reached down, bracing the sloping roof that skimmed my head. To one side, a low row of round windows faced out. I walked forwards over unpolished wooden boards, past a row of broken statues. Moonlight splashed on to battered, noseless Virgins, pale paint peeling from their moulded cloaks, their chipped hands clasped in prayer.

At the far end: a tall cupboard. I tugged at the white china doorknob, pulled it open. Two pairs of little wooden-soled boots spilled out. The cupboard was very shallow, its back a wall of raw brick, the cracks between blocks oozing hardened curls of mortar.

Perhaps the wall had been built to stop up an entrance. Perhaps my dreams had got it right: from here you'd once been able to get through, into the house next door.

I went back down the steep little stair to the second floor. I felt sleepy now, as though I were melting, part of the grey shadows. As I paused in the little foyer the place woke up, stirred, rustled. A kind of yawn took place inside me, outside me. Something, the fabric of my life, parted and tore, my skin peeled back and the world rushed in, I forgot how old I was, the wall cracked and something erupted through. Footsteps clattered on the staircase below, the steps creaked and shook, wooden soles bumping on to the bare treads, a child wailed, a young woman's voice whispered hush, be quick, be quick. I shivered. I felt I'd been slashed with a knife to the belly, I bowed over, wanted to cry, but knew I must make no sound. When I shivered again the crack in the wall mended itself, whatever had escaped went back in, the night folded back around me, I stood alone once more on the landing.

I returned to my cubicle, lay awake for the rest of the night listening to postulants and novices tossing on their hard mattresses, coughing and farting, one or two moaning in dreams. When the bell for rising clanged, I got dressed as usual, in grey blouse and skirt, blue overall and blue headscarf. I shoved the filched letter into my pocket, along with my money. I pushed back my cubicle curtains, joined the end of the short file of beginner-nuns processing past their stripped beds, sheets and coverlets all folded back. I stilled my breathing, bent my head, took neat steps.

The stone-floored chapel felt as chilly as ever. Kneeling to one side of the row of postulants, I blew on my hands, rubbed them together to try and warm them. Opposite me, beyond the altar, in their fenced-off chapel behind their grille, the nuns faced forwards in their stalls, fingers knotted on top of their prie-dieux. Backs as straight as they could make them. Faces turned towards God. Prayer stilled them to a black and white pattern of devotion. Like a photograph I'd take away with me. I was looking at them from a distance, saying goodbye. Set apart from me, suddenly they seemed holy, and powerful in their holiness. Not just ordinary women whom I knew well, their peculiarities and weaknesses, but so good. They accepted serenely what God sent them, whether he spoke to them or not. They had real faith, and lived their lives according to that faith, bravely dealing with loneliness, boredom and cold.

A voice growled in my ear. Sentimental rubbish. Why don't they ask questions? Perhaps they are scared?

I jumped. Sister Dolly would have said it was the voice of the devil but I wasn't sure. A puff of dust whirled up near the door at the back of the chapel as though someone had just gone out and let in the wind from the cloister.

I walked for the last time from the chapel to the kitchen. My convent-city: I could have strolled it blindfold. I laid a tray ready for someone to take up to Mother Lucie, who was still in bed. My fault: I'd not helped her get up. I was abandoning her. No other word for it.

Dolly stormed in, pointed at the trolley, stacked with unwashed supper bowls: leaving dirty crockery out overnight just encourages mice. Whatever's got into you? It's all this jaunting about. She grumbled on, while I ran water into the sink, kept one eye on the coffee urn, the big pan of milk. Washing up in a hurry, I didn't rinse things properly. Lifting crockery from basin to draining board, I dropped a bowl. Coated with soap, it slipped through my fingers and smashed on the floor. Smashed plate smashed mother smashed Whoreschild smashed me.

I knelt down to pick up the fragments. Thick pottery bits, painted with glittery brown glaze. I gathered them into one hand. Sister Dolly's big black shoes parked themselves in front of me. I ducked my head and studied the shining tiles, those old friends I'd washed last night. Suddenly I wanted to kiss them. I bent over, let my lips touch the cold surface. Smell of linseed oil and soap. Goodbye, floor. Peace descended on me. Thank you, floor.

For heaven's sake! shouted Dolly: no need to exaggerate! Stop showing off!

I got up, threw the broken pieces into the bin. Dolly jerked a greying tea towel between her hands and picked at its frayed edge. I was the tea towel. She wanted to give me a good shake but couldn't. Holy charity forbade it.

Sink lapping with warm water bobbing with slivers of onion. Rimmed with grease. The used smell of our woollen clothes. Not enough air in here: windows all sealed shut. I said: I forgot the handcart at the station yesterday. May I have permission to go and fetch it?

Dolly folded the tea towel against her belly, smacked it smooth, hung it over the empty rack on the draining board. She blew out her breath and said: away with you. Off you go, you daft creature. You're in no fit state to serve breakfast. I think you've gone mad.

I lowered my head, started untying my apron. Why were warm drops falling on my fingers? Knots. Why were the strings wet? Dolly hesitated: sorry I shouted. I shouldn't have.

She made me cry so that then she could be nice to me. Stick the knife in then pat the wound. Shout more. Don't be kind. How will I manage to leave if you start considering my feelings? Whoreschild turned her head in anguish from side to side, neighing and trampling. Just let me out. I arched my neck and whinnied, reared on my back legs, striking my hooves on the door. I banged out so that Dolly wouldn't halter me with a soft word. Stay cold, Dolly. Stay hard as the floor. Remember after I've gone that I kissed the floor rather than you.

I'd turned Dolly to stone. I turned myself into a trolley on quick wheels. The corridors stretched ahead, very quiet and clean. I bowled down them. Another wave of my wand and I became the solitary ball of dusty fluff blowing along, the sole piece of grit fetching up against the doormat. I swung open the front door and the dustpan-house tipped me out into the square.

Behind me the chapel bell tolled eight o'clock. My scarf, fastened behind my head, felt too tight. I untied it, re-arranged it, knotting it loosely under my chin in the style of the women of the town. I pulled it forward, to shield my face.

The early air smelled fresh. Cobbles still wet with dew. A couple of men, holding newspapers and baguettes, stood on the corner. They took no notice of me. A dog trotted past, lifted its yellow leg to piss against a lamp-post, trotted on again.

I descended the steep street that led towards the parish church. Wind flipped up the point of my headscarf, chafed the back of my neck.

My pace began to slow. Such a cold morning. I had no coat and no jacket. Should I turn round and go back? They wouldn't have missed me yet. Dolly would simply suppose I'd flounced off in a huff. She'd be expecting me to return with the handcart sooner or later, once I'd had a good sulk, to get on with the vegetables for lunch. A hill of turnips awaited me. I could slip back in, no questions asked. Be safe again. I wanted a gendarme to tap me on the shoulder and demand to know my business. I wanted to scream: capture me! I've run away! Take me back!

I called to Whoreschild to follow me, stuck my hands into my sleeves and marched into the park. Dark flowerbeds put up ramrod stems. Evergreens dripped and gleamed. When I passed the tramps' bench, the shape slumped there stirred, spotted me and sang out. Hello! Hey, Andrée!

White-grey crewcut, creased reddish face, bald brown coat, brown scarf. Georges Duchamp patted the bench. Come on, don't be in such a hurry, sit down. Where are you off to in such a rush? His voice slurred and slid about. I said: I don't know. I've run away.

Georges patted his pockets. Dearie me. Hey, what's this? He proffered a squat bottle.

I took a sip, not wanting to hurt his feelings by saying no. Deep, dark taste. Sugared and fiery, it hit the back of my throat, made me splutter and cough. Georges dug his hand back into his pocket and brought out a broken bit of petit-beurre biscuit. He folded my fingers around its pleated edge. He laid his hand on my arm:
bon appétit
.

My lips began trembling. Words jumped up from somewhere deep in my stomach, flew out of my mouth: what happened to you? Why are you homeless?

He wiped the neck of the bottle on his brown coat sleeve and handed it to me again. I shook my head. He sighed, flattened his wrinkled eyelids over his eyes. People were supposed to be in charge of their own faces but his loosened far too much. His cheeks plumped, sponges to soak up tears. I whistled, summoned Whoreschild, who leaped over the park fence, trotted up. I murmured to her; she swished her tail, backed off, nibbled grass. He said: who wants to employ a
mutilé de guerre
? Who gives a fuck? No one. Then if you're out of work you can't pay rent. So you're thrown out.

I said: you've no family left? Georges shook his head. Let's say the bastards don't want to know me. Gone to the bad, haven't I? He mused for a while. I ate the piece of ancient biscuit, stale and soft. He said: I lost touch with most of my friends during the war. I've had to start all over again.

He opened his eyes, took another swig. His breath smelled thick and sweet. His mouth worked. He said: what with one thing and another. Thousands like me.

I waited for him to put some more words into the right order, tell them to look sharp, but his words wouldn't obey. His lips parted, but the words flew out soundlessly and escaped over the treetops. The spirit I'd drunk felt like a knife scouring my innards. I said: we need something to eat.

I could take Georges to a café, pay for breakfast with Madame Blanchard's money. Rolls with blackcurrant jam. Real coffee, not mixed with chicory, served in thick green cups with gold rims. Sugar cubes wrapped in paper. No need to rush. Bask in the heat of the café, the pop music on the radio, the sight of men's caps and hats on the hatstand, the smell of their tobacco as they lit up and inhaled. I'd wait as long as necessary for Georges to feel like speaking. Warmed and fed, smoking a cigarette, he'd tell me what he remembered about my mother. Perhaps he'd help me think of a way to discover where she was living. Someone at his hostel might know what you had to do. Where you went to find out. I could ask them to help me. Then I could write to her. Suggest a meeting.