“I hope that’s going to be flattering,” he said.
“I didn’t realize you were awake.”
“I haven’t been for long.”
I showed him the drawing and saw his eyes take in the delineated scars.
“Mathieu, please, let me put on the blindfold and draw you again. Maybe I can see—”
“No,” he interrupted.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course, I do, but I don’t think you should use your power that way.”
“But it’s who I am. It’s what I do. If you want to be with me, you have to let me try to help you remember what happened.”
Despite himself, maybe because of how I’d couched it, Mathieu reluctantly acquiesced.
I gathered up a proper sketch pad and pencil. I knew his face so well that I didn’t have to study him first. I simply put the blindfold on, placed my hand on the edge of the sketch pad, and allowed my fingers to take flight.
I saw a scene at the battlefront. The same one I’d seen in the reflective surface of the pond in the Luxembourg Gardens. Mathieu was about to be attacked by the Hun. I saw the German soldier slash Mathieu’s arm with his bayonet. Blood soaked through Mathieu’s sleeve and then dripped down his hand and onto the ground. I could smell its sweet metallic scent. And the stench of the German soldier’s uniform. And the loamy fragrance of the earth and pine needles as the man’s boots crushed them. The Hun pulled out the blade. Pointed the gun at the back of Mathieu’s head.
Suddenly, a third man leaped out from between the trees and jumped on the German, grabbing him around the neck. Pulling him off of Mathieu. The German fought back, trying to push his thumbs into the Frenchman’s eyes and disarm him.
“Max, no!” Mathieu cried.
What? Was the other French soldier Mathieu’s brother?
The German and the Frenchman had each other in death grips. Then the German got the upper hand. Then Max. Mathieu lay there, his eyes filled with terror. Unable to move, all he could do was watch his brother fight the enemy on the blood-soaked ground. And then there was an extraordinary sound, louder than any scream, as the air all around us exploded in a piercing, metallic shriek.
The blast was massive, dislodging rocks and earth, blowing leaves off trees, felling branches. In the smoke, I lost sight of the three men. The earth reverberated under my feet. What was happening? Pushing through the vapors and debris, I moved ahead in time, until the smoke had cleared. All three men lay on the ground. None of them moving. Three corpses. Or so it appeared, until one of them groaned. Which one?
I walked among them. Mathieu was still alive. His groans turning into cries. And then the cries turned into shouts.
I pushed ahead further in time. Two soldiers bent over Mathieu, lifted him, and moved him onto a stretcher.
Another soldier hovered above Max, prodding him, then treating his body with less grace and care once he realized there was no hope left for him.
I knew how hard this would be to tell Mathieu. How painful these pictures would be for him to see. But I’d discovered the secret he’d pushed so far down that it was paralyzing him.
Max had died saving Mathieu’s life. Died doing what he’d been trained to do. Surely Mathieu would come to realize that he would have done the same for his brother had he been the one under attack. Once he accepted that and stopped blaming himself for Max’s death, even if he wasn’t conscious of doing it, he’d be able to let go of the crippling guilt that was blocking his ability to write.
I thought I was done. I wanted to be finished. Because the blindfold was wet, I knew I’d been crying. But there was one more image in the shadows. Just up ahead, at the end of a trail of blood leading away from Mathieu’s body through the trees. Tentatively, I peered into the gray fog there. Dim, gloomy light barely illuminated the scene. Mathieu lay on the ground again. But not in uniform. He looked a few years older. He was lying on a stone floor. Faceup.
I stopped drawing. I couldn’t bear what I was seeing. There was a knife in Mathieu’s arm. A hunting knife this time. And around it a hand. A woman’s hand, pushing the blade down, down into his flesh. I recognized the ring on the hand. My ring. Mathieu’s blood and my murdering hand.
I dropped the pencil. Heard it hit the floor.
“Delphine?” Mathieu said.
I didn’t answer, couldn’t. Now I was the one who was paralyzed. Still wearing the blindfold, I ripped the paper off the sketch pad and tore it. Once, twice, three times. A hundred times. Shredded the drawing. Thinking foolishly in that moment that I still hadn’t seen it. Not really. I was still blinded by the silk mask. Maybe I’d been wrong. And if I destroyed the drawing, it would only exist in my mind’s eye. I could deny it. Pretend I’d never seen it.
“Delphine? What is it?”
Mathieu removed the blindfold. He looked at me and saw my tears. He wiped them away with his fingers, as he asked me again and again what was wrong. Why was I crying?
How could I tell him what I’d seen? How could I explain? And then I knew. I wouldn’t tell him. Not all of it. I’d show him the first set of drawings. Of him and his brother. Help him understand what had occurred at the front. How Max had saved his life. How he, Mathieu, would have done the same thing if their positions were reversed. I would try to ease his guilt and give him absolution. And then I would do the only thing left to me. Let him live his life. Even if it meant leaving him.
Chapter 36
The next day’s highlight was giving Nicky an art lesson. Gaspard brought him over as promised, and we had a picnic in the gazebo amid the wildflower field, feasting on ham and cheese baguettes with cold cider. I showed Nicky some tricks, and Gaspard watched, proud of how quickly his son picked up on what I taught him.
I told Gaspard that I was surprised by how much I enjoyed being with his son, as I’d never spent any time with children.
“Nicky feels connected to you, I can tell. He senses the same thing in you that I do.”
“And what is that?”
“You’ve lost someone, haven’t you?”
I nodded.
“And for a time, it broke you.”
“It did.” I felt my voice crack as my eyes filled with tears.
“We have, too . . . we’ve been broken as well.”
“But we healed up,” Nicky interjected. Of course, he’d been listening. I just wouldn’t have guessed a six-year-old would understand. “We still have scars, though. Invisible ones, but Papa can see mine, and I can see his. They have Maman’s name on them. And at night when I’m asleep, she flies into my room and kisses them so every day they hurt a little less.”
Over his head, I looked at Gaspard. I’d never really healed, had I? And until that moment, I hadn’t realized it. That’s why I read and reread my journal. As if by going over and over every moment I’d spent with Mathieu, I’d wear down the memories, until they disappeared.
“Love isn’t like that,” Nicky said.
“Isn’t like what?” I asked the little boy. I hadn’t spoken out loud.