Madeleine’s Mountain
by Monti Sturzaker
[this is the third in the three part series–
read Madeleine’s Wife from the beginning]
Madeleine’s Mountain
Puy De Sancy, France
May 1, 2005
Dearest Madeleine,
I can scarcely believe I’m writing to you from that secret spot on the mountain we discovered together, Darling, all those years ago — between the way my memory has been troubling me of late, and the state of my knees — I was convinced I wouldn’t make it.
I often wonder what that tailor at Saks who fitted us for our wedding dresses would make of my body now, given her anguish at the state of my legs. Of course, female leg hair was regarded as a crime then — never mind how you and I conducted ourselves! You should know, Madeleine, that I’ve brought Clem with me. She didn’t approve, of course, but she let me win anyway.
It’s colder now than when we were taking our summer hikes around Europe. I daresay the Puy De Sancy was your favourite, wasn’t it, Darling? Awfully hard to compare — the delightful softness here is such a different atmosphere to, say, the sheer grind of Mt Eiger in Switzerland or the wild edge-of-the-world of the Seceda in Italy. Easier for you to have a favourite, perhaps, given you were born not five miles away.
Do you remember our first time back to France after the war, our little Clem having passed the bar and me finally, actually retired – those mountains so huge and sun-scratched before us. You wept, if I recall correctly? Yes, alright Madeleine, I wept too. Perhaps we’d neither expected to see your motherland again, at least not as it was. Not with that bomb-free sky so clear and oceanic blue.
Never sticklers for rules, us, we were ever so stealthy in our escape from that hiking group – trekking through tussocks as high as our buttocks (I’m picturing you giggling at the rhyme, Darling) – and discovering that breath-taking waterfall? My memory’s awash with the song of your laughter as we clutched each other and picked precarious routes across lichen-kissed stones. Only one ankle wetted, I do believe! We picnicked on the other bank; pocket-warmed sandwiches, cold tea and English biscuits. It’s curious how I still recall that, Darling, and yet I’m often losing track of what day it is now, or what I ate for breakfast.
We were perfectly alone, the way you only can be in nature. My memories are underscored by the sweetness of your lips, your tongue – I know, I know, I’m far too old for such talk now, but we were old then too, Darling! Too old to let it go further. Not for fear of being caught, of course – you and I have always been too bold for our own good – but rather the inability to walk home, backs bruised from the uneven ground. Oh, but I reminisce about it so fondly all the same and wish we’d let the repercussions come as they may.
Retrospectively, you were right – don’t be too shocked! – we should’ve retraced our steps to the path. At the time I was too pigheaded (as always) and I never apologised. It seemed like the correct decision, you see, bee-lining to catch up with the group. I wasn’t to know about the patch of brambles. But I did pull you through them, thorns tearing up your favourite white dress – and the replacement we bought wasn’t the same, I concede – scratching trails across our legs and tangling our hair. I am sorry, Darling. Truly.
I have apologised to Clem as well, you should know. She’s too like me for her own good, and we have been flailing a bit since — well, since. And she’s never quite forgiven me for the bad example I set for her in her youth, always away on ‘work’ trips she wasn’t able to explain to her friends. Did you know she was telling people I was a spy? Of all things, really!
Oh! Do you recall the expression on the guide’s face, how absolutely fuming he was with us for disappearing? I couldn’t look at you for fear I’d begin giggling and be quite unable to stop. So child-cross, with his waggling finger and hands on hips, while we tried to feign the appropriate remorse. Poor young man, had not a chance against us two old ladies with our decades of experience upsetting authority figures!
I’ve rambled on too long, as usual. But it’s important you understand why I insisted on this place. I hadn’t the slightest clue how to explain it to Clem, as she’s never been and you always were better at talking to her than I – when I picture you two it’s with your matching blonde heads entangled, sharing thousands of whispered secrets. I never minded how she was closer to you, though, Darling, you’re so easy to love.
I’ve become so frail, my hands paper-thin like those stale old women we promised never to become. Clem fought tooth and nail for the nurses to let me come – she is an excellent lawyer (though we’ll have to share credit for her ‘negotiation’ skills) – and the travel was utterly exhausting. We thought we were old then but, Darling, we had not the faintest!
Your ashes are with me, in the sapphire-blue jar Clem picked out. It’s become our colour really, and it matches the glacial waters of the creek. She won’t let me cross it, not this time – despite all those near-death experiences while I was teaching her to drive, she’s surprisingly adverse to being responsible for the end of me now – now that I’m finally ready, irony that it is! You don’t have to say it; her obstinance is mine.
We’ve sat awhile already, and Clem’s insistent we get back before dark. Perhaps I’ll take her back through that bramble bush, teach her from whom she inherited her impatience. But first, I must let you go, return you back to the soil from whence you came, the land you’ve always loved. I’ll leave this letter for you too, Darling.
See you soon, my love.
Yours as always,
Sylvia
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