It was unframed, and propped up against it was an envelope on which her name was written in André Breton’s trademark green ink. Nanée imagined it then: Edouard, sitting at the table where André so often wrote, using a pen André would have left there.
She touched a finger to the photograph, at Edouard’s mole. “I suppose you’re right, T. I suppose I do push the good ones away.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, open the note, Nan,” T said. She set down the suit and opened the envelope herself, unfolded the sheet of notepaper inside, and put it in Nanée’s hand, Edouard’s words in André’s green ink:
My Nanée,
I suppose I have known all along that you would read this, that Luki and I would go alone to Spain. To Portugal. To America. I suppose that’s why I fell in love with you, because you won’t choose Luki and me over so many people you can save by staying in France. Not won’t, even. Can’t. Because you are who you are.
If it weren’t too much to ask, I would tell you that I will wait for you until you come back to America, or until Hitler is defeated and I can return to France and to you.
Instead, I leave you this self-portrait, so that you might be reminded of what you have done for me, and for Luki too. You have taken the dark places in our life and brought light in again. You have allowed me to see that there is darkness in all of us. That is simply who we are.
—ELM
Nanée held the note out to T, who took it and read it. “This Edouard Moss is much cleverer than your usual ‘terrific lout,’ Nan—heading to America without you,” she said. “Someone once told me there’s an advantage to an overseas love. ‘Make her want something she can’t quite reach.’” She smiled and said, “I do think even your father would have liked this one, not that you should care.”
Nanée took the photograph of the swimming woman from its frame and put the self-portrait of Edouard in its place. She closed up the frame again and tucked the little sketch back into the back corner, the top third of that Exquisite Corpse. The head in a birdcage. A face that might or might not be hers. Did it matter? The cage door had always been open.
“Varian didn’t like to say it before he welcomed you back home,” T said, “but he has a delivery he needs you to do.”
She left then, taking the suit and saying just before she closed the door behind her, “It’s good to have you home.”
Wednesday, December 11, 1940
LISBON
The hotel clerk found their reservation under Edouard’s real name, which he could use now that they’d reached Portugal, exhausted but safe, finally.
“Welcome to Lisbon, Mr. Moss,” the man said. He smiled down at Luki, then pulled a beautiful brass key from one of the wooden pigeonholes and offered it to her.
“With your permission, I’ll send word to our mutual friend Mr. Fry that you and Miss Moss have arrived,” he said to Edouard. “And so often these days our guests collect mail for others. Shall I be directing packages and mail under any other names to you?”
Edouard allowed that the clerk might watch for anything arriving for his friend Henri Roux.
“Ah yes, I believe . . .” The clerk opened a drawer and flipped through some envelopes and sheets of paper. “Here it is.” He set a telegram on the reception desk, addressed to Henri Roux. “It arrived from Marseille this morning. I’ll trust you to get it to your friend.”
Sunday, February 2, 1941
MARIGOLD LODGE, MICHIGAN
Edouard sat with Luki on the big log Nanée had told him about, the “log sofa,” looking out to the lake, to this new shore in the red morning light.
“Sometimes I lose what Mutti sounded like,” Luki said, “but I can remember when she sings to me.”
Edouard listened to the lapping of the waters of Lake Macatawa, frozen only at the shoreline despite a thick new snow quieting the ground and the willow trees.
“And sometimes I can’t remember exactly what she looked like,” Luki said. “I can’t remember which face is Mutti and which is the angel.”
Edouard set a hand on the wool hat on her head, unsure whether to correct her, to say “Nanée,” or simply to let it go.
“Maybe it’s like with the Lady Mary,” she said, “or like the three gods who are all the same. Reverend Mother’s gods that aren’t ours.”
He thought: Nanée is doing god’s work under any definition of god, or none at all.