The Uncanny Reader (47 page)

His beautiful green eyes flickered like candleflames, wavering between watching you and starting to read. He must have feared, for a moment, you might sit down beside him, then immediately regretted that you didn't, so ridiculous did he seem, his head no higher than your thighs, skimming the booklets too feverishly to truly seem interested in them.

Outside, it started raining even harder. Torrents of water hammering the tin roofs hid a quiet, almost mechanical background hum. And as you were both suddenly solemn, deeply focused, still—from time to time you merely brushed back an unruly lock of hair, while he, sparing with his motions, let his head sway to the ostensible rhythms of reading, turning the page only with infinite caution—you might have been mistaken for a pair of clockwork creatures. Stark light from the sky lit your faces, seeming to freeze time, while your springs ever so gently wound down like figures on a music box.

“Multiple complaints,” he said, suddenly breaking the silence, “make mention of the fact that you've openly criticized the Prefect of the Seine's public works policy.”

“What would you think of such a policy if it had hounded your theatre from the Boulevard du Temple and now threatened to expropriate you?” Your voice no longer held a trace of irony, and that intrigued him.

“It is not for me to judge.”

“But surely, dear, you have your own opinion?”

“I obey. And the orders I received were to see that your puppets did not stray from the scripts approved by the Prefecture.”

“I don't think you understand.” You crossed to the dresser, plucked me from the depths of my box, and went back to him. You yourself seemed surprised by the heaviness in your every gesture. “Here—take Francesca and look at her. Is she a threat to the Empire?”

I shivered at the touch of his white hands.

“She's beautiful,” he said. My rosewood must have blushed mahogany. “Astonishing how much she looks like you.”

“Papa claims he made her first, and conceived me in her image only after. But look closely. Concentrate. At first, you'll see nothing but a bit of wood and cloth. Then, if your soul isn't dead yet, stifled under bundles of official bulletins, the doll will reveal itself to you, and you'll no doubt find it a pretty plaything.”

“It's a very beautiful puppet.”

You took me back and returned me to my box. My cheeks were flushed with pride.

“If you knew how to look, you'd see she's much more than that. She too has a soul, feelings, her own character. Plaything? I am every bit as much a plaything as she. Woman? She is every bit as much a woman as I. But I'm not sure you have the talent to lend puppets life.”

You knelt before him, your great blue eyes staring deep into his, your bosom his entire horizon.

“But you do, my … dear,” said he, instantly regretting the liberty, “and so I must keep an even closer eye on them.”

“How can you say such things with a straight face? Keeping an eye on puppets—doesn't that seem ridiculous to you? Besides, they do what they want, you know. You must give them their head.”

“Come now, Mademoiselle—these are inert objects that belong to you. Keep them under control!”

“My pet, do you think we're always in control of what belongs to us? Would you like an example?” And so saying, you placed your hand resolutely at the exact spot where his trousers betrayed a pretty bulge.

He leapt backwards, but your blue eyes kept him firmly ensnared.

“Oh my!” you said, reaching out again, “I see the animal is himself the Prefect of the Seine's zealous servant … better yet, a propaganda agent for the Grands Travaux!”

And since he didn't understand, you took pleasure in dexterously undoing his buttons and freeing one of the prettiest puppets I ever did see.

“
Oui, oui,
” you went on—I thought to hear the slightest tremble in your voice—“an excellent propaganda agent … long as the Rue La Fayette, broad as the Rue de Rivoli, and finely adorned as the new opera house! Is it also pointless as the Parc Monceau and tedious as the new view leading to the Louvre?”

There was a moment of silence. You watched him, never breaking your smile, your hand flattering his firmness, your eyes seeking his. He was at a loss for what to do in his imprisonment, wavering between ridiculous flight and adventurous abandon. The downpour had stopped. A fine rain had begun to beat at the windows, and one could make out drops clinging to the panes, as curious as I was about what would happen next.

His puppet filled me with wonder. I found him madly charming, with his crimson pink head, that virility in full, unassuming flower, his air of Lamartine mixed with Saint-Just. And my resemblance to you gave me reason to believe the homage he paid you was meant for me as well.

“He's too darling! We'll call him Jack-a-dandy, shall we? Why, he's so quiet—is he shy? Perhaps he's embarrassed to be naked before us?” And, with your free hand, you took up the sewing kit you'd set aside when the commissioner arrived. Then, one after the next, you pulled out ribbons, gold braid, bits of silk trimming, and reveled in dressing up Jack-a-dandy, decking him out in diverse attire. From time to time, as much to rekindle the flame as to reward the submissive mannequin, you granted him furtive caresses that made my little wooden heart pound.

“That's enough!” Costa suddenly cried. His voice was hoarse and his tone firm.

Without taking his eyes from you, he seized you by your shoulders and laid you on the parquet, amidst the contents of your overturned sewing kit. You on the floor, and me in my box—now we were in the same position. And like you, passive and consenting, I waited, breathless, my eyes half-closed. Furiously, he rummaged through your drawers; he fumbled through your layers of lace. It was as if he were facing massive waves, battling frothing tides. But when Jack-a-dandy got too close, you sat up halfway and, seizing his hand, folding his last two fingers, so that only thumb, index, and middle finger remained upright, like a puppeteer, you whispered, indicating me with your chin: “I am as much a plaything as she…”

And as you hid your head in your arms, he abruptly understood, and brought his white hand to your proffered thighs as a swan might have brought his head. With the same delicacy, to make the illusion complete, he tugged your skirt back down over his forearm with his other hand.

Poor Jack-a-dandy was nodding sadly. I blew him a kiss and, since even voyeurs have their tact, I gave my box a little kick so the cover came down.

The rain, too, had stopped, demure.

It was several days before we saw the commissioner again. I found you dreamy, and wondered which, of the two of you, was the puppeteer and which the puppet. And then one morning, a policeman brought word. Costa had sent him.

Mademoiselle,

We have received other complaints, and I note with disappointment that you ever more openly defy the Empire's authority. I have been reprimanded for it. I am ordered to arrest the guilty parties, or else face the consequences for an irresoluteness incompatible with my profession. You know I have something of a weakness for you. But I am here to obey the orders of my superiors, hard as they may be to understand. For so many things escape us, so many tiny mechanisms have their part in the world's working smoothly, so many regulations are necessary to maintain its fragile balance. I am charged with seeing that a few of these are followed. I do not judge them; I only apply them. I beg of you—do not force my hand.

The letter had you seeing red. We had to make reply. You managed to convince us easily, we puppets. And though Old Lippi was against it, as a former supporter of the
République
he had to give in to the majority: we had to push our provocation farther. The consequences weren't long in coming.

One fine morning, I saw him from behind my curtain again. He had quietly stationed himself and his men back from the audience, waiting for the show to end. He carried himself the same as that first day: his frock coat collar turned up, a smile riding lightly on his lips, his beautiful white hands folded before him. It was as if nothing had happened.

If, when he approached, I popped out as I'd done before, it was to prolong, just for a little while, the illusion that everything was starting all over again. He seemed relieved to see me; a great weight lifted from him, reassured, for my presence dispelled misunderstandings, testified to the fact that we knew (you first, with me at the end of your arm) that all this was but a play like any other, already written long ago.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Commissioner.”

“Bonjour, Francesca.”

“We were expecting you earlier. My mistress was at wit's end for ways to make you return.”

“Here I am.”

“How is Jack-a-dandy?”

I saw him go pale. But casting a glance at the constables, he saw they hadn't noticed, and realized they couldn't catch the reference.

“He's quite miserable,” he said with a smile, “for he's no policeman and so couldn't care less about affairs of state. Come. Time to do our duty.”

He signaled to his men to follow him, and rounded the proscenium. Old Lippi was waiting for him there, resigned, almost offering up his wrists. You hurriedly set me down on the sideboard next to Punchinello and stepped between them.

“So, my dear commissioner. Come to do your job?” Your aggressive tone caught him off guard, such a contrast was it with my own good humor.

“Mademoiselle, I've come to arrest those who attack the Empire. You hardly left me any choice.”

“Indeed, you couldn't do otherwise. You're a policeman, and can't help it, darling. A puppet like Punchinello … you and he both, manipulated.”

“True,” he said, as calm as you were cross. “But as I believe you once told me, I, like Punchinello, while respecting my script and scrupulously executing my orders, am only doing exactly as I please.”

He solemnly drew from his frock coat pocket a pair of handcuffs and, dangling them from two fingers over his head, shook them so they shimmered in the sun.

He stepped forward, and without abandoning his gravity, turned to us. “Monsieur Punchinello, Mademoiselle Francesca, you have slandered the Emperor, ridiculed his institutions, and in so doing, compromised the nation's greater interests. I am forced to arrest you. Please come with me, and don't put up a fight.”

As we didn't move, he turned to his men. “Seize them!”

But since the constables hadn't understood, and made ready to arrest you and your father, he added in a peremptory tone that brooked no reply, “No, not them! The puppets!”

We let ourselves be taken away. Punchinello found the joke funny and as for me, Mistress, I was moved to tears, aware that this was my finest role, my finest hour—that at last we had dissolved into a single soul.

“As for you, Mademoiselle,” he continued in the same curt tone, not a bit flustered by the beautiful smile you aimed at him, “I cannot recommend strongly enough that in the future you'd best choose your company more wisely. For now, leave this city at once, before my orders become more specific.”

And without a care for the constables' whispers, he found the courage to turn his back on you and walk briskly off, holding us in his hands: Punchinello and me, each in the hoop of a handcuff.

Wherever you are, Mistress mine, do you remember it all? Do you remember your little Francesca? What is left of those days gone by?

Sometimes I see Commissioner Costa again. Maybe you know he left the police two years ago, dismissed after an arrest that didn't go the way his superiors would have liked.

We often speak of you. It must be said that my arrest had few consequences. They'd forgotten to build prisons for puppets, and so I was allowed to leave with Costa. I've lost track of Punchinello. The poor fellow's probably sleeping in some drawer back at headquarters. Lazy as he is, he must quite like it there; I'm sure one of these days some hand, seduced by that abominable mug, will take him from his hiding place. As you know, I myself wasn't always immune to his charms.

For now, I've set up home with Jack-a-dandy. He's a charming and very attentive boy. Every night I surround him with the softness of my dress, and we make love as best we can. Sometimes I wonder if it isn't you he's loving, through me.

What a frivolous letter this is! I'm writing you at your address on the Rue Traversine—naturally, without hope of ever reaching you, since that street vanished three months ago in the construction and clearing along the Rue Monge. It was Costa who insisted. He said that in a world of puppets, anything could happen. I believe that above all, the poor boy wanted this letter to prove that, contrary to what you might believe, he too can lend life to puppets, and as a result, make them speak.

As if I needed him …

Adieu, Mistress mine,
Francesca

 

OLD MRS. J

Yoko Ogawa

My new apartment was in a building at the top of a hill. From my window, there was a wonderful view of the town spread out like a fan below and the sea beyond. An editor I knew had recommended the place.

The hill was planted with fruit: a few grapevines and some peach and loquat trees. The rest was all kiwis. The orchards belonged to my landlady, Mrs. J, but she was elderly and lived alone, and she apparently left the trees and vines to themselves. There was no sign of laborers working the orchard, and the hill was always quiet. Nevertheless, the trees were covered with beautiful fruit.

The kiwis in particular grew so thick that on moonlit nights when the wind was blowing, the whole hillside would tremble as though covered with a swarm of dark green bats. At times I found myself thinking they might fly away at any moment.

Then one day I realized that all the kiwis had disappeared from one section of the orchard, though I had seen no one picking them. After a few days the branches were again covered with tiny new fruit. Since I was in the habit of writing at night and sleeping until almost noon, it was possible I had simply missed the workers.