Читать книгу Undressing Emmanuelle: A memoir - Sylvia Kristel - Страница 29

25

I have come to say goodbye to Sister Marie Immaculata. I’ve passed my baccalaureate and want to tell her. Unusually, she strokes my cheek, and tells me she knew I would. I talk to her about my plans, because you have to have plans.

‘I want to teach, to share …’

My voice tapers off; I’m struggling to convince even myself.

‘That’s good …’ says Sister Marie, limply.

She doesn’t seem convinced either. She knows me well, and knows all about pious hopes, too. But what ought I to do? I’d like to do nothing. Wait for life to paint itself. But that’s not possible, you have to have a plan, to make the first brushstroke. Becoming a teacher seems to me easy, obvious, noble. I’ll have free time, and hang around with children, remain with them; it’ll be joyful, I’ll stay like them, I can grow up later.

‘How is your mother?’

‘Well. We have new rules at home. We’re a proper family now. Mum is always saying “Better late than never”!’

‘Your mother is wise; that’s the definition of hope!’

Sister Marie is surprised at her own philosophical words and soon returns to more practical advice.

‘Late is perhaps OK, but not backward. Never be backward!’

Sister Marie makes a quick summary of all she has taught me over the years – guidance on how to live well, to be dignified, to take pride in oneself, to win at life. Then she pauses, and reminds me of the thing she’s worrying about: ‘Finally, promise me you’ll see a doctor if it hasn’t come within a year.’

Sister Marie Immaculata is a bit embarrassed, waving at my abdomen.

I am tall but not fully developed. It bothers her.

I promise.

‘Right then, run along, my girl!’

Sister Marie hugs me, turns quickly round and walks away. She will smile at other girls, she will carry on. It’s summer, a beautiful day. I have my bac, I refuse to be sad.

I still see Sister Marie Immaculata. She’s old now but almost unchanged, lovely inside and out. She has remained curious, hungry for life. She has followed my career with interest and circumspection. She has never seen me at the movies, only on television programmes and in the national newspaper Volkskrant. She’s even cut out a few articles.

She says she always knew that my life would be out of the ordinary.

‘You were different. A kind of angel, innocent and impish at the same time. You were keen to learn, I could see your wings growing without knowing where they would take you. You were beautiful, you still are, my girl, graceful, soft and vivacious, funny and sad, different.’

She keeps a few photos of me nearby; she praises my bearing and claims it as her work. She has prayed for me, she says.