Читать книгу The Resistance Girl - Jina Bacarr - Страница 12

Ville Canfort-Terre, France

1926

I clutch the door handle, my eyes filled with hot tears. Gut twisting, I hold my breath. Yes, I want to be in pictures, yes, I may never have another chance, but I’d never do anything to hurt Sister Vincent. Oh, no, she’s approaching the car as we slow down to let children cross the road… she waits for the children to pass, then she darts out—

‘What is that nun doing?’ Monsieur de Ville yells, waving his arm out the window to get her to move out of the way. She stops, thank God, he floors the gas pedal, a loud squeal of rubber, then a wild skidding off to the side to avoid hitting her. She blesses herself as he straightens the large, bulky motorcar back onto the road and we race off away from the theater. I turn around in my seat, stretching my neck, see her head down, her shoulders slumped. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to her because of me.

This is all wrong.

I don’t know what to do. So many questions, so many emotions hitting me in the gut. I can’t go. I owe her an apology… I want to see her smile again… hold my hand.

All the while these thoughts tear me apart, Monsieur de Ville never stops talking.

‘I’ve never seen such a crazy sister. No wonder you want to leave that place.’

‘Sister Vincent is trying to protect me… I have no family, monsieur.’

‘I’ll protect you, Sylvie. I’ll be like a father to you, guiding you. Remember, I have your best interests at heart.’

I listen. A father… the family I never had. Oh, God, yes! A chance not to be laughed at, ridiculed, not stuck in a stuffy convent and forced to wear ugly hand-me-downs, never able to look in a mirror because it’s considered a sin or have sweets on Sunday. I always believed I had no choice but to become a novice and take the veil – but not now… no!

I huddle in my seat and think. Then there’s the matter of Sister Vincent.

I go over in my poor, turned-inside-out brain what to do about the one thing that would keep me here.

Monsieur de Ville drops me off at the chateau gate and I slip inside the convent grounds under a veil of twilight granting me sanctuary. I slink past the tall chestnut tree that has stood here for hundreds of years, then down the cloistered passageway toward what used to be the servants quarters back in the seventeenth century but is now the cells for the postulants and novices. My door is unlocked (only the sisters have keys) and no one is about as I light a candle with a matchstick. It burns with indecision in the tin candle holder, swaying back and forth on a nocturnal breeze, then nearly blowing out before flaring up again.

Warning me?

I pay it no attention as I pack the cloth bag I use for laundry. Sunday Missal, knickers and clean chemise, stockings, a comb. I grab a sweater then wrap my lace veil around my head, concealing my face. I have an hour. If I know Sister Vincent, she’ll hightail it back here for help so I have to find her first. Then I’ll beg her forgiveness… tell her what happened at the theater… tell her Monsieur de Ville is a famous director and then she’ll see things my way. I know she will—

‘Where do you think you’re going, mademoiselle?’

I spin around and a deep cold engulfs me. Sister Ursula stands in the doorway. The reality of her stark presence unnerves me, along with her rigid posture and that dreadful stare. I can’t let her stop me.

I pick up my bag, sling it over my shoulder. ‘I’m leaving for Paris, Reverend Mother,’ I say with confidence, chin up. ‘I’m going to be in pictures.’

‘You?’ She laughs. A deep, penetrating laugh that speaks of her surprise. ‘A skinny orphan who can’t keep her promise to God for giving you sustenance and a place to bed down?’

‘I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, Mother. When I’m a big star, I’ll pay it all back, I promise.’ I cross my heart, look upward. She doesn’t believe me, but it’s a truth I give to Him.

Sister Ursula dismisses my plea. ‘I couldn’t believe it when Monsieur Durand rang me up and told me what happened at the movie theater. Parading around on stage half-dressed, acting like you have talent when you have none. Have you no shame?’

I shuffle my feet. Monsieur Durand was worried about me so I don’t blame him. The telephone service never works properly, why today?

‘I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you and the convent, Reverend Mother, but Monsieur de Ville has faith in me.’ I head for the door, praying she steps aside. I don’t like her, but I respect her position as a member of the Church. ‘Let me pass… please.’

She folds her arms across her chest. ‘I forbid you to accept the director’s outrageous proposition. Your life is here with us, serving God.’

I stand up tall, straighten my shoulders. ‘If God is as all-knowing as you say He is, then He knows how much I want to be an actress, or He wouldn’t have sent Monsieur de Ville here today to find me.’

Sister Ursula is having none of my philosophical tirades. The woman has an agenda that goes deep, a hatred for me that is mercilessly female at its core. Jealousy.

‘You’re a sinner like your mother, Sylvie Martone. Yet unlike her, you’ll not do your penance in the next life, but in this one.’ Her eyes shine. ‘You’ll repent for your sins now. On your knees.’

‘No, you don’t understand,’ I say, my voice going up an octave. ‘This is my chance to be somebody, a chance while I’m young to follow my dream so I don’t end up like you… old and shriveled up and mean.’

I don’t know why I let go with such hateful words, words I’ve kept inside me for so long, but I’m desperate. And they hit home. Sister Ursula’s face turns purple, her smooth forehead below her wimple wrinkles up with lines so deep they appear like ugly scars.

I pull back, mumbling, trying to take back my words. I’ve gone too far this time.

‘You insolent girl!’ she shouts, spewing hatred. ‘How dare you speak to me in such a manner.’

I see the rage flooding her black eyes like burning coal ash. She’s not thinking of her vows now. She wants to teach me a lesson. The nun raises her arm up high, her long, black sleeve fanning through the air like a whip when she slaps me. Hard. Oh… the pain… like liquid fire singeing my skin. Her anger stuns me. I try to duck, but she hits me again… her insistent blows sending me reeling, splitting my lower lip and knocking my bag off my shoulder. Fighting for balance, I stagger a few steps, the hot pain slamming through me, burning like a firebrand. A dizzying motion sends a bout of nausea through me and the coppery taste of blood fills my mouth, making me gag. I land with a thud on the hard cot in my cell. My face burns, but it’s my pride that hurts more.

‘I was wrong to say those things, Reverend Mother,’ I say with honesty. The woman is a monster, but there are times in your life when you have to bite your tongue to save your hide. ‘But I’m not like the other girls here,’ I sputter, spitting blood. I touch my right eye, which is starting to swell and is half-closed. ‘I don’t find peace in taking the white veil and adopting the holy habit of the order and changing my name. I’m Sylvie Martone and I have a right to choose my own path in life.’ I pause. ‘I don’t know why you hate me so much. What happened to you that you’ve lost the joy of what it’s like to be young and want something so bad it consumes you like a holy fire.’

A flicker of her eyelids tells me I’ve touched a nerve and for a moment I see a human side of her in those eyes. What I’ve said is true, but whatever horrid secret she’s keeping stays under her wimple.

‘Tidy up and I will send for you.’ She smirks. ‘Remaining locked in your room is too easy a punishment for your sin of vanity. You shall be admonished in front of the nuns and novices after evening prayers, lying prostrate on the cold stone, your arms spread wide, and beg for forgiveness. Then you shall remain locked in your cell for a week, mademoiselle. No food, only water, praying the Lord doesn’t send you to Hell, a vile, black place where bad girls go, because I will.’

Then she slams the door behind her and locks me in.

Taking deep breaths in spite of the pain in my chest, I try to calm down. I’m still reeling over how I ignited such fierce anger in the woman that she struck me like I was a godless soul. I can’t ignore the fierce heat that radiated from her eyes, the posture of her body as she rose up to her full height before she struck me. Hard. I touch my face with my fingertips and the pain makes me wince. I want to curl up and cry. Let my body heal as well as my mind till I get over the shock.

I can’t. If I don’t make my move now, I never will.

I put my ear to the wood, hear her breathing heavily. I imagine she’s outside my door, expecting me to cry, yell, and bang on the door. I won’t. There’ll be time for tears later if Monsieur de Ville leaves without me and I miss my chance. I have to get out of here. I want so desperately to be an actress. I have to go to Paris, find a life for myself.

Relief floods my veins like holy water when I hear her footsteps echo down the hallway.

Then it’s not tears I shed. A giggle escapes my bruised lips.

Sister Ursula doesn’t know I have a key.

I spend several minutes on my hands and knees trying to retrieve the old, rusty key I begged off Sister Vincent a while ago. I hid it under a loose floorboard, but the board is stuck. I keep trying to pry it open in spite of the intense pain in my shoulder.

I never dreamed it would be the key to my freedom when I got into trouble for stealing milk to feed a litter of kittens and their mother that took up holy sanctuary in the chapel. I fed the family of five for a week before Sister Ursula found out, locked me in my room, and dumped the kittens and their mother out into the rain. Sister Vincent told me it was cruel to turn out the poor things, so she opened my door with a spare key and after a lot of cajoling on my part, she let me keep it so I could come and go without Sister Ursula knowing what we were about. Together we searched for the tiny creatures till we found them, the furry bundles shivering and nearly drowned, huddled under the weeping willow in the center courtyard, the tall tree keeping them safe like a majestic guardian.

Soon after Sister Vincent found the lot of them homes in the village, but when she asked me for the key back, I swore up and down I lost it. I didn’t tell her I’d hidden it since Sister Ursula has a habit of locking disobedient girls in their cell… I wanted it for an emergency.

Five, ten minutes go by… I keep tugging on the board, bracing myself when I feel it budge a little, then—

Pop! I lift up the floorboard and reach around the damp earth underneath till my fingers wrap around the jagged key. I grab it, ignoring the settling heaviness in my body from the sister’s hard blows, then rub off the dirt and pray to the Almighty to forgive me for lying to Sister Vincent as I turn it in the lock. Click. I can’t hold back the excitement filling me, the sobs of joy. Never has a prayer been answered with such enthusiasm.

I’m free.

I grab my cloth bag and peek outside the door. The hallway with its dim gaslight is empty.

Head down, I take long strides, pulling my lace veil over my face and praying Monsieur de Ville won’t notice the bloodstains on the lace from my bleeding lip. A blue indigo twilight provides cover as I tiptoe out of the novice quarters and hug the side of the building. I feel confident I can make it across the courtyard if I get past the stream of light coming from the outside lamp that lights up the pathway to the chapel. It’s time for evening prayers and the nuns and novices are gathered there—

‘Sylvie, wait… please, child!’

Startled, I spin around. There’s no escape. I heave out a sigh of relief when I see Sister Vincent running toward me, holding up her black, filmy skirts and showing her slender ankles encased in black stockings. She catches up to me, out of breath, her spectacles smudged and askew on her face.

I grip my lace veil tight to shield my bruised face from her scrutiny.

‘Thank God, you’re here.’ She hunches over, hands on her knees, and takes in deep, heavy breaths. ‘I rushed back here after I saw you drive away with that stranger in the yellow Citroën. I’ve been so worried about you.’

‘He’s no stranger, Sister Vincent,’ I tell her, leading her away from the light. What needs to be said is best done in shadows. ‘He’s a famous film director and he wants to take me to Paris and put me in pictures.’

She grabs me by the shoulders. ‘No… is that true?’

‘Yes.’ I show her his card. Guilt floods me. ‘Will you ever forgive me, Sister Vincent? I wanted to stop and tell you… but Monsieur de Ville said you’d talk me out of leaving with him.’

‘As well I should.’ She smooths down her skirts, then speaks to me with such tenderness in her voice, my heart tugs. ‘I’m not surprised you attracted the gentleman’s attention.’ She giggles like a schoolgirl and clasps her hands across her chest. ‘I saw you on stage at the cinema… I was so proud of you, Sylvie, how you stood up to those awful hecklers, but most of all, the fervent words that came straight from your heart.’

My eyes widen. ‘You were there?’

‘I went to find you… I’m not so blind behind these spectacles I can’t see what you’re up to.’ She sighs. ‘Ah, ma petite, you do have an uncanny talent for charming everyone you meet.’

‘Not Sister Ursula. She hates me. She locked me in my cell, but I… I escaped.’

Sister Vincent shakes her head and chuckles. She’ll keep my secret. ‘I understand your desire to leave the cloistered life, Sylvie, but what do you know about this man?’

‘Monsieur Durand speaks highly of him and his work in films.’ I lie, then I embellish my plea with, ‘He… he said I should I go with him to Paris.’

Sister Vincent isn’t buying it. ‘No, you must stay here at the convent until I make inquiries about this Monsieur de Ville and his promises. Then, if the Lord gives His blessing and the director is a good man, I will speak to Reverend Mother about sending you to Paris—’

‘No, you can’t!’ I rail, my voice cracking. ‘She’ll never let me go.’

She puts her hand up to her cheek in surprise. ‘Good heavens, Sylvie, we must do things in proper fashion. If we don’t, Reverend Mother will have both our heads.’

‘I can’t do as you ask, Sister Vincent… Monsieur de Ville will leave for Paris without me if I’m not at the gate in time.’

I start to turn, to run, but the sister is quicker on her feet than I imagined. She cuts me off and grabs my arm, my lace veil falling off my head and revealing my bruised and battered face.

A loud gasp escapes from her throat. ‘Oh, dear Lord, you didn’t me tell me that man hurt you!’

I bow my head, ashamed. ‘No… Monsieur de Ville didn’t touch me.’

‘Then who did this horrible thing to you?’ I wince when she touches my bruised cheek and soothes my swollen eyelid with her soft fingers.

‘It’s nothing, Sister, honest. I have to go. Please don’t try to stop me.’

I try to brush past her, but again she blocks me. Her brows arch, her chin lifts. ‘I admire your spunk, Sylvie, but your silence tells me who the culprit is. I should have known Sister Ursula would lash out at you when you gave her the opportunity. She despises any girl she can’t bend to her will.’ She blesses herself. ‘As God is my witness, I would never disobey a direct order from the Mother Superior, but I won’t stand by and remain silent. Punishing you for her lack of self-control goes against everything I believe in, everything in the Lord’s teachings. I can’t stand by and let her shame the veil we swore to serve.’

‘Then you will help me?’

She nods. ‘I can stall the Mother Superior, tell her I had difficulty getting all the supplies, and ask her to meet with me after prayers. I don’t know for how long.’

Then she does something I will never forget, something I will hold dear for the rest of my life. She folds me into her arms and hugs me tight to her bosom, stroking my hair and mumbling prayers for my safe journey. ‘Go, child, before Sister Ursula gets suspicious and returns to the novice quarters to check on you. May God keep you safe.’

‘I’ll never forget your kindness, Sister Vincent… I promise.’

‘Someday you can repay me.’ She smiles. ‘Au revoir, ma petite.’

She turns and walks swiftly toward the chapel, her step lighter than before as if a great weight has been lifted from her shoulders.

I don’t look back as I rush toward the gate, my heart skipping when I spot the yellow Citroën waiting for me outside near the tall chestnut tree. The man in the Panama hat pokes his head out the driver’s window and waves me on when he sees me running toward him.

I don’t stop. Not now or ever.

I feel deep in my bones that going to Paris is my destiny as clearly as the moment I stood on that stage and proclaimed I was an actress.

I keep running, never looking back, my hair undone, my lace veil blowing behind me. I taste freedom on my lips, washing away the blood, its coppery taste replaced by a sweetness seducing me, the elixir I’ve searched for but never found till now.

I’m either going to that place Sister Ursula says bad girls go to… or, God willing, I’m going to be an actress.