Madeleine’s Wife
by Monti Sturzaker
Madeleine’s Sapphire
(publishing December 11th)
Sylvia’s Retirement
(publishing December 12th)
Madeleine’s Mountain
(publishing December 13th)
Madeleine’s Sapphire
London
August 28th, 1939
My Dearest Madeleine,
I trust that what I’m about to detail to you will be kept in the strictest confidence as, if word gets out, I may find myself imprisoned for the rest of my natural life. Yet, it is worth the risk to share with you the excitement of my latest adventure.
It was early Thursday morning this last week when the animals escaped – perhaps you’ve read in the Parisian papers? The Lemurs were first and of great importance to the rest of the plan, causing havoc around the enclosures, stealing keys from guards’ belts and unlocking cages left, right and centre. Once the Elephants were out, the police were notified, and –
I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ve been honestly employed – yes, honestly! – as a secretary in the offices at London Zoo and, where needed, supervising patrons in the Children’s (petting) Zoo. I was actually there that Thursday! But, let me first tell you of something that happened six months prior. I would’ve told you sooner, of course, darling, but I did not wish for you to leave your job in Paris to assist me.
A Prince had come from Saudi Arabia in possession of one of his Country’s great riches, a sapphire of not insubstantial size. He believed there was a plot to steal it and as a friend of Lord Onslow, the Zoo’s president, he wished to store it in a safe on the grounds. In return, he promised to bequeath us a pair of Hamadryas Baboons. Onslow practically leapt at the opportunity; he is a great lover of Darwin’s ridiculous theory and would likely have given his left kidney to gain possession of such an unusual primate.
You must be wondering why I would choose to work in such a place, when I dislike animals so. This job enables me to move money through Zoo finances, you see, as the authorities are woefully ignorant as to the quantity of food needed to sustain full-grown Elephants. Ah! But it is a terrible job, Madeleine, I had not anticipated the horrors of such a place. The smell, Darling, oh, the smell! There is nowhere else on Earth where the distinction between Man and Beast is so clear.
Anyway, the sapphire. I caught a glimpse of it as it was being delivered. I could picture it around your neck as clearly as if you were standing before me, its marvellous hue the exact colour of your eyes. Oh, Madeleine, Darling, I just had to have it. The safe was kept hidden at the bottom of the pond in the turtle enclosure within the Children’s Zoo, invisible to anyone who did not know it was there. Luckily for me, Onslow was barely aware of any woman’s ability to function beyond that of a child, and it was fairly straightforward for me to find his safekeeping plans in the office.
Taking the keys from a keeper’s belt was like taking cocaine from a baby, a skill you well know I am accomplished at from years of petty pickpocketry. As there is no time of day when the Zoo is completely empty, much as a prison is never without guards, I chose an early morning – not so early my presence would be suspicious, but before the patrons were admitted for the day (and let me tell you, Dear, the only thing worse than the animals are the patrons, especially the children which rampage like wild beasts).
I entered as usual through the Main Entrance, greeted the gateman, Norbert – the only man I’ve ever met more likely to sling shit than the Monkeys – and strolled towards the Children’s Zoo. As I passed the Monkey House, I found myself drawn trance-like towards the bars. A Blue-Eyed Black Lemur (I’ve even learned their ridiculous names, Darling!) stared at me, her hands clasped around the bars and wearing the saddest look you’ve ever seen. I must confess, she looked a lot like you, Madeleine, with her oceanic eyes and red hair. There was something distinctly human about her pleading expression, and I imagined you in her place, caught in one of our schemes.
I let her out.
It wasn’t what I had planned and you must think me foolish, but she seemed grateful. Along with her companions, she had the keepers running about like headless chickens and, in truth, it provided me the perfect cover. While she released the Ostriches and the idiot men scrambled to subdue them or reclaim their keys, I sauntered unnoticed to the turtle enclosure and unlocked the gate. I stripped to my undergarments and dove into the muddy waters.
I’d never lock-picked underwater, but the safe was too heavy for one woman to drag to shore and I was forced to hold my breath and hack, near-blinded, at its machinery. I surfaced for air twice, on the second occasion finding a Pelican making off with my hat. It was the one you had acquired for me from Liberty’s, when that girl-child distracted the store’s grey-haired guard with a perfectly-timed spitball, allowing us to escape unnoticed. A shame to lose, but I had more important things afoot. The gem was in my hand mere seconds later. I dressed immediately, and picked a careful route back to the Main Entrance, the sapphire hidden amongst my skirts. Norbert stopped me this time, concerned about my disgraceful smell and dampened appearance. I feigned hysteria about a rampaging Hippopotamus and he let me leave without a further word of protest.
London was awash with animals (and Police, the former not unlike the latter) and I must confess a part of me hoped that they would avoid capture. I happened upon that sweet Lemur as I made my way home and she now sits upon my kitchen counter, a spitting image of you. As soon as things have calmed down we will catch the next ferry to Paris and to you.
Until then and love as always,
Sylvia
Sylvia’s Retirement
São Paulo
February 8th, 1979
My Dearest Madeleine,
How grateful I am that you insisted I go on this solo trip, Darling! I do now see how disruptive my empty nesting must’ve been for you, especially when our Clem is doing so brilliantly at Harvard. I’m missing you terribly, of course, but it has been a wonderful adventure, reminiscent of our youthful romps around Europe before the war. You were right (as always!), retirement has been splendid. I wonder – has the Times covered the passing of one Wolfgang Gerhard, by way of stroke? Perhaps he is too insignificant to have made the New York news.
Darling – yesterday was the most glorious day of the trip so far. The sun has never been so dazzling, the sky so breathtakingly blue. On such days, the tourists all conglomerate in Bertioga. It is no wonder, with its postcard-perfect beaches and sapphire waves. I do so loathe the beach, Madeleine – there’s absolutely no way to keep intimates free of sand, is there? Nonetheless, I packed my small bag (with Ted Hughes’ The Iron Man, sunscreen, a few cruzeiro and a hypodermic needle) and joined in on the frivolity. Not even ten in the morning and it was already crowded! Positively bursting with hourglass-figured young women (exactly as we once looked), families huddled under vibrant parasols, and altogether too many men.
Oh! But I have not told you why I was even on that ghastly beach. You see, four days ago (not long after I landed in Brazil) I received a call to my hotel room. The mysterious caller uttered only a dollar value and a single name – not Gerhard’s, by the way – repeated himself and hung up. I suspected his accent was Israeli, perhaps even that lovely Mr Navon we met several years ago at the embassy – I hear he’s even president now, isn’t that nice? Well. Assassinations are more your specialty, Darling, but I simply couldn’t resist the thrill (and the money)!
Anyway, yesterday. By the time I spotted my target – instantly recognisable from the lopsided moustache worn under similarly lopsided eyes – it was well into the afternoon, the sun charring any beach-goer who dared leave the safety of their parasol. Unfortunately, he could not be dealt with from under the umbrella, and as it was too hot for the sand I was forced to wade towards him in the water, my little bag suffering from the lashings of spray. I shan’t be able to finish the book now – but not to worry, it was utter drivel written by a terribly boring man.
Can you pinpoint the exact age we turned invisible, Darling? I refuse to believe anyone who gazes upon you isn’t awestruck by your beauty – you’re even more radiant now than when we were young, like a fine French wine. It’s the reason I forget, I think, that men no longer notice me – and the reason (as I waded towards my target) that I was struck in the face by a volleyball. The teenaged boy who threw it gave only silence by way of apology, as if he couldn’t see me at all! I have a deep aubergine bruise today, Madeleine, the perfect match for that gorgeous velvet dress of yours.
Much to my annoyance, when I regained enough vision to resume stalking my target, I was aghast to find him removed from his cerulean parasol. In my agitated state, I splashed about so that a lifeguard (whose face bore a striking resemblance to a pig) appeared and forced me from the water! Concerned about a repeat performance once I had my target under thumb, I decided to first find a suitable distraction.
It took me longer than I care to admit. By the time I did, my knees were protesting and I had begun to wonder if you were correct in your assertions that retirement necessitated no further work on my behalf. It was a relief, therefore, when I spotted an attractive bikini-clad young lady sleeping under an umbrella quite close to the lifeguard’s watchtower, a pair of exquisite lace gloves on the blanket beside her. As you well know, arthritis has been giving me some trouble these days, but my fingers are still very sticky and it was inconsequential to wander past and acquire her gloves. Ignoring the pain in my legs, I clambered up the watchtower and showered the guard in gratitudes while I slipped the gloves under his plastic throne. After, I returned to gently nudge the chartreuse umbrella over, awaking the lady. Discovering her gloves’ misplacement, she let out a squeal (indistinguishable from a pig in heat), summoning the lifeguards.
The thick crowds, while oft an aid for this sort of mission, slowed my progression back to where I’d last seen my target – thrice I spied a person of similar impression, spending valuable minutes to ensure they were indeed different men (aren’t they all so boringly similar, Darling!). Eventually I uncovered him a little ways offshore, having graduated from sunbathing to swimming. He was only slightly older than I – but still male – so to him I was practically invisible and he utterly failed to notice my approach. Perhaps I should give him more credit – at the time, a pretty lady on shore was wailing accusations about pig-faced lifeguards pinching exquisite lace gloves.
I was ever so surprised by the speed at which rat poison injected into the man (if you were here, Madeleine, no doubt you’d have dreamt up a more sophisticated method) completed the job – he was breathing water and sinking before I’d even left the ocean. A fitting end, I think for Josef Mengele, given the war crimes of which Auschwitz’s ex-doctor was accused. Of course, the papers all believe him to be Gerhard, as that’s the name he’s been using lately.
You know, retirement is far more thrilling than I anticipated, and perhaps I shall retire after all. Next time, however, let’s holiday together, my love!
Always yours,
Sylvia
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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