Story
There are times in life when we are all forced to make irrevocable decisions, which ultimately leave a profound impact on those affected. There is often no logical solution to such moral dilemmas such as the one in The Wife of Martin Guerre by Janet Lewis. In attempting to explain the situation of Bertrande de Rols, she inevitably leaves an impact upon how we perceive the world, and whether or not it is possible for doppelgangers to usurp the affection that we would otherwise give to the rightful person. The situation facing Bertrande de Rols is not unique, as it has happened before, in the ancient Greek poem, The Odyssey, in which Odysseus returns home to find his wife betrothed to another man. In this, there is a solution by which the means is obvious; only Odysseus can string, and fire his bow. This solution is what lends Homer’s The Odyssey its unique status. However, in doing so, it sets the precedent for later tales. In the same way, Bertrande de Rols faces up to the awful consequences of her actions, in which she does not regain Martin or Arnaud, and the latter is sentenced to death. This is Bertrande’s punishment, the guilt of sentencing one man to death so that another may live. This story attempts to explore the theme of anticipation, and the endless wait for news.
~+~
In the dark
In the dark
In the dark
We all try to hide our secrets away
In the dark
-Good Charlotte, Secrets
When horrific events happen, the human mind has the capacity to somehow block them, to prevent the memories of such a thing happening again. The idea of psychological repression to disintegrate painful memories is quite recent, a Freudian idea. With this in mind, the young woman standing on the footpath outside a mechanic’s garage was sure of her memories. No, they hadn’t been repressed. She could still remember the events clearly.
She was five foot, three inches tall, with copper coloured hair reaching down to her shoulders, bright, clear green eyes, a smattering of freckles across her nose. Her skirt was decidedly bohemian, coming down to her ankles in soft cascades of fabric that clung to her legs. This was green, with silver bells attached to her belt, making her seem like a belly dancer. The shirt, a man’s old work shirt, was soft, faded from many years. Her only things left from him. She had a determined gleam in her eyes.
Again, she wondered what she was doing there. Did she really want to go there? To face the mechanic’s garage where, just months ago, she had first gone to see if he were there, only to find out that he’d never turned up for work. She bit her lip, wondering if it were the right thing to do.
The garage smelt of petroleum, oil and the strange scent of permanently wet concrete. Her heels echoed strangely as she walked; the noise alien to her. Memories danced in her mind. Shared memories. She remembered walking in there the first time, and he’d smiled at her from across the bonnet of a car he was working on. She remembered the few times they’d been so overjoyed that he’d spun her around, and how their kisses seemed to linger. Everything was changed.
A shout rang out. The woman turned her head. A plump man, wearing a grease-stained cover-all was shouting something-she couldn’t hear what. Finally, the man stopped shouting long enough to notice her. When he did, he blanched.
“What can I do for you, love?” one of the other mechanics called out, obviously noticing the presence of the woman in the garage. Dominick, his name was. She knew him well.
“Any news?” she asked. Dominick shook his head. Every single week, she came, asking, hoping-dreaming that there might be some word. But there was none. The war was taking its toll on everyone, especially women left behind, women who were expected to stay and look pretty in a very Lyistratia way. Except, of course, in Lyistratia, it was just a matter of not giving their men pleasure until they gave up their warmongering. This wasn’t so easy to pull off anymore, not with technology and whatnot taking over a substantial proportion of war.
“No, not yet, love,” he said, “I’ll send of my men round to get you the minute we hear anything at all.” It wasn’t entirely the most comforting piece of information, or the most comforting promise. But it would have to do. She sighed, dejected. Really, she couldn’t hope for more.
She left the mechanics. Turned into her street, down the laneway a little. She felt the same despair she always felt after going and returning with no news. There was a crushing sound under her heel; she looked down at the glass, and her eye caught sight of a piece of paper wedged between the gaps of the fence railings.
The writing on the paper was unfamiliar. She read it quickly, her heart beating rapidly.
Ms O’Donahue
Your husband is alive. Please send us a thousand dollars and he will be returned to you at a later date. Your cooperation is appreciated greatly. If you have not sent the money by twelve am on the third November he will be killed. This is no joke.
She felt all the blood drain from her face. This had to be some form of sick joke. Nobody, not anyone, would dare do this to a wife who was scared for her husband’s safety. But then, when was she safe? Never.
The next thing she remembered was coming to in a hospital. She didn’t remember her legs giving way, trying to grab onto the railing to stop the fall. She remembered none of it. The doctors came and went. She was in pain, so much pain. There was talk of surgery, her mother coming, worried faces. He never came back.
~+~
Some months later, when she was sitting on the veranda enjoying a cup of earl grey tea from a chunky, oversized ceramic mug, a shadow fell across her light. She glanced up. It was Dominick himself. He looked tired, worn out. Obviously, he’d hurried over; he was still in his cover-alls from the garage.
“They say he’s gone,” he said. She bit her lip. Dominick continued, “even Nick and Gaza don’t know where he is, and they were his buddies up until the day he disappeared.”
She felt tears spring to her eyes. Felt them trickle down her face. She wiped them away. Bit her lip, and attempted to smile through them. It didn’t work. She was alone, and that was it. She’d spent too much time listening to emotional music, songs which held meaning to her. Too many memories of their time together lingered in the house. There were too many photographs hanging on the walls, too many scents that she recalled as his. The wine bottle became her best friend, and she drank to try and ease the pain.
There would never be another man in her life. She was alone as she possibly could be. She died, months later. There were the haunting strains of a song playing as she died.
The end.
I’ll top the bill!
I’ll overkill!
I have to find the will to carry on!
On with the,
On with the show
The show must go on
-Queen, The Show Must Go On