*
On the last day in September, Sister Léonide tells me that I have a visitor: Edouard Clunet has arrived. “Are you willing to see him?” she asks.
My cellmates stare at me, stricken. There is only one reason that one of us would be allowed an official visitor. My voice trembles when I ask her to please, show him in.
I can hear his footsteps. I believe I would recognize his gait if he were walking among thousands. Sister Léonide brings him a chair—not the stool that the bribed guards offer illicit visitors—and he sits. We stare at each other through the bars. Then he tells me what I already know.
“They rejected your appeal.”
“So this is how the show ends,” I say. “The last dance.” Edouard buries his head in his hands and cries. I try to be brave for us both. “It’s all right.”
“I wanted to take care of you,” he whispers, gaining control of his emotions.
“I know. And I should have let you.”
He takes my hand through the prison bars. “This is an abomination of justice. What has the world come to?” He is devastated.
“Buddha said, ‘In life there is suffering because of the impermanent nature of things,’ ” I offer, holding on tightly. I imagine Edouard going home this evening to his aubergine chair, taking a brandy while his pretty wife reads to him from Le Figaro. That was the role I should have played. Not this. We could have created a family. For so many years I believed I offered the world “the dance of destruction as it leads to creation.” Now I understand the truth: I confused the order of things. I created pain; I danced to my own destruction.
I feel the pinpricks of hot tears. “I’m going to miss you so much,” I tell him.
He rests his head against the bars. “I do not think I can bear this.”
*
It should be crisp and clear this early in October, but beyond my cell window there is only rain. I dream constantly of the sun. Of beaches and water and warm temple stones. I sit on the edge of my metal bed and remember my first weeks in Java, when anything seemed possible. That’s what’s so wonderful about beginnings. They promise everything: love, happiness, eternity. I wonder what eternity is truly like, and whether Marie Antoinette thought about this more than a hundred years ago when she was sitting here, waiting to be taken to the guillotine from this very prison. Did she hope there would be a last-minute reprieve? Did she agonize over what was to become of her son? I think about my daughter living in Amsterdam and I wonder what she will make of her life. Will she be happy? Can there ever be happiness for a child whose mother abandoned her? I hope so. With Rudolph, I was once foolish enough to believe I could make us both happy. Now I know that people must make their own happiness.
*
Sister Léonide announces another official visitor. It’s Bowtie, holding an envelope in his hands. We watch each other through the bars in silence; there is no more need for artfulness between us. Bowtie’s eyes fill with genuine tears.
“No use in crying,” I say gently. “It’s not going to change anything.”
He hands me the envelope. “As promised.”
Inside is my daughter’s address and a current photo of her. I experience a rush of emotions gazing at her image: She looks so like me and yet I can see that she is kinder and so very innocent. I hope Rudolph doesn’t ruin her.
“Thank you,” I whisper, running my finger over her hair, her wholesome dress, her face. We will never meet again in this world. Everything she’ll ever believe about me will come from papers like Le Figaro.
Bowtie sits in the chair Sister Léonide brought him and watches me.
“One last interview?” I say, for old times’ sake. I’m surprised when he takes out his pad of paper and a pen. “What do you want to talk about?” he asks.
I think about it for a while. “Poppies,” I say. I’ve been remembering a poem I read in Punch magazine a couple years ago. I recite it for him: In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
For several long minutes he is at a loss for words; together we listen to one of my cellmates sob.
“Are your parents still alive?” he asks quietly, with embarrassment.
“No.” I check myself. “I’m not certain. My father may be.” I tell Bowtie about him. What he would say to me when I was a child. White is a nice color, M’greet, but it’s not your color. Your color is red. Because red is passion. It’s life.