Sarah Bynum - Madeleine Is Sleeping

small, dirty feathers drift down onto Madeleines upturned face. Far above her, Mme. Cochon is flapping valiantly. Do you see him? Madeleine calls. Is he coming down the road? Possibly, the fat woman says. He is tall? Oh yes, says Madeleine. Quite tall. And wearing a smock? Oh yes, says Madeleine. All the patients at the hospital must wear them. But he no longer wears a moustache? The matron made him take it off. And his shoulders sag when he walks? His life, says Madeleine, has not been easy. In the stately manner of a hot-air balloon, Mme. Cochon floats down from the sky. Her whole self seems to have swollen with her expanded responsibilities. She is not only in charge of publicity, and spotting Le Petomane from afar; her title as stage manager is now official, and among her several duties is welcoming the performer, 1 brushing out his coat, preparing him for his splendid entrance, as Madeleine warms up the audience. Your star approaches, the stage manager announces, rearranging her wings: He is headed for the barn. He is crossing over ditches I and climbing over stiles, as if he already knew the way. As if he were drawn here, like a pigeon flying home. Of course he is drawn here, Madeleine replies. I have built him a stage.

in the morning, when he wakes, the mayor reaches beneath his bed and fails to find his chamberpot. The captain of the gendarmes sits down to his breakfast, only to discover that he has no seat to sit upon. The chemist goes to wash his face, but cannot; goes to open the curtains, but cannot; goes to complain to his obliging daughter, and learns that she also is gone.

the door is pounded with such force, it sets the fruit jumping! on the floor. Mother sadly heaves herself u£ from her chair at the table. Her petitioners have lost their patience, it seems, for now they are shoving and crowding at her door. Without opening it, she asks, What do you want? The pounding stops. Through the door, she can hear the visitors muttering among themselves. We have come to speak with you about your daughter, says a tentative voice at last, and she can picture, quite clearly, the mayor tugging at the buttons on his coat. We have been robbed! says another voice, more reedy and forlorn, as she sees the chemist’s spectacles sliding down his nose. She has gathered up our things, and our children! say a multitude of voices all at once. Those of her acquaintances and neighbors, her former customers, her sworn enemies, her shopkeepers and bureaucrats. How sharply their faces appear to her now: how terrified, and bereft. So she takes a step backwards, opening the door, and bumps into an army of her children, who have crept down the ladder and come silently to her defense. Mother unfolds her arms and takes them in. As you can tell, she says to the mob at her door, my daughters are accounted for. It’s not Beatrice we want, the voices cry. Nor Lucie, nor Mimi, the horde despairs. They are looking for Madeleine, her children whisper. Madeleine? Mother nearly laughs. How many times must she tell them? She raises her voice to the crowd: Madeleine is sleeping? And with a sweep of her hand, she ushers them in: the mayor, the priest, the captain, the chemist, and all of the suspicious wives. They stumble over the spoiling fruit that is strewn across the floor. Pressing in on the bed, they examine the sleeper: who takes up room; who attracts attention; who lies there, sighing voluptuously, as Mother stands at the door in an attitude of immense vindication. But Madame, says the chemist, in his apologetic voice. I believe you are mistaken.

mother elbows her way to the bed. Nonsense! she is preparing to say, and put the conceited chemist in his place, but just as she is opening her mouth, just as she is about to bring him low, the word refuses to come forth. Instead she says, It’s you. It’s you, she thinks and reaches out to touch the beautiful woman, fast asleep in the bed where her daughter ought to be. If only you were not sleeping, you could tell me: Did you find it? Did you ever find your voice, your lovely face? Mother thinks, I would like to know. But already Beatrice is beside her, pulling her back and murmuring in her ear, It’s not my fault. I told her, No. But she was so tired, she wouldn’t listen. And already the mayor is clearing his throat, the women are massing, the captain is stamping the heels of his boots, when a | small, gruff voice is heard from below. It is Emma, the mayor’s youngest daughter, who is squeezing I him by the hand. Papa, she says, you must hurry. If you want to have a good seat, you must come to the barn right now.

what AN acute pleasure it is, to be reunited with one’s things. To see one’s children sitting straight in their chairs, hair combed, and hands folded in their laps. What a pleasure it is, to nod to one’s neighbors, find a spot near the aisle, and adjust oneself in the seat; to enjoy the dimming of lights, ushers disappearing, programs rustling, an old gentleman coughing, and the breathless heavenly feeling that yes, yes, it is all about to begin….

MADELEINE SPREADS HER ARMS. Ladies and Gentlemen, it is with great pleasure that I introduce the phenomenal M. Pujol. Though known to me as a kind and modest man, tonight he will be presented to you in splendor, as the toast of Paris, as the darling of Algiers, as all the rage in Antwerp and Ghent — simply put, as Le Petomane. But before we begin tonight’s performance, I would be remiss if I did not warn you of certain medical hazards. Upon witnessing his amazing gifts you will, I promise, feel the unmistakable desire to laugh. You might also experience the following urges: to scream, to cry, to grip your neighbor’s knee, to beat your head upon the floor, to tear your clothing into pieces and go rolling through the aisles. Do not, at any cost, resist these urges. To do so would be to jeopardize your nervous systems. I say this with a full understanding of his powers. Those who have suppressed their natural responses, who have attempted | to maintain a modicum of dignity, have suffered the terrible consequences. Cases of apoplexy, suffocation, paralysis, and amnesia have been widely reported at the scenes of his performances. For these reasons I ask you to take a small precaution: You must open your hearts to him, ladies and gentlemen, or risk the utter destruction of your health. It is that simple, and that serious. But you have waited long enough. I can see you leaning forward in your seats. With no further ado, I introduce to you my great friend, my guide, my heart’s delight… Le Petomane!

and so the curtain is lifted. On stage: a large basin of water; a candlestick sitting atop a stool; a length of tubing; and a tarnished litde flute with six stops, in order that he may play ‘Au dair de la lune.’ Everything is ready for him, but the sad and pale-faced man has not appeared. From behind her, Madeleine hears the sound of her stage manager grunting. There is a fluttering of wings, and then a man comes stumbling out into the lights, as if propelled against his will by a much greater force. He has been stripped of his smock, as Madeleine instructed, and stuffed into a black evening coat, one pilfered from the mayor especially for the occasion. It appears, at one shoulder, that he has already burst a seam. And it appears that Mme. Cochon has tried to smooth the cowlicks in his hair, for the signs of her struggle are everywhere, tiny bits of down clinging to his lapels, as though he has come freshly from wringing the neck of a goose. Yet in his heavy fist he dutches not a bird, but a filthy string, which trails behind him, weighted down by the battered kite at its end. Faded now after months in the sun and the wind, the kite still carries a picture of his cranium. As for his face, it wears the dismayed expression of someone who finds himself in the wrong production. He looks back over his shoulder beseechingly, as if Mme. Cochon might whisper his lines, or a tremendous piece of scenery might roll out and flatten him beneath its wheels. How did I end up here? his whole body asks twitching in the footlights, longing to disappear. Upon seeing Madeleine, however, he seems to remember what it is that he is supposed to do. His eyes brighten; he steps forward with courage; he drops the kite string and — like that — it falls away from him, his clumsiness and coarseness and bewilderment, it all falls away. Like that, his purpose is revealed. He must unbutton his breeches. He must guide the little girl by her hand. He must wrap her little fingers around his cock. But doing so, his eyes fill with tears. Great drops of water spill down the half-wit’s cheeks. Taking the hands of the girl in his own, he weeps over them.