Yannick Grannec - The Goddess of Small Victories

Since the funeral, I’ve spent all my time with Adele to give her support. She alternates between feelings of relief and guilt. I’ve even caught her talking to him. She is losing her mind a little. It’s probably for the best. She has to go on living without him. If you can call it living .

We’re going to find a place for her in a nursing home. She grouses about it but only because it’s expected of her. In fact she knows that it’s the best solution. She’s very afraid of being left alone. Her pension is not much, but with the proceeds from the sale of their house we should be able to find her a not-too-terrible old folks’ home .

My work here is coming to an end. Five long and horrible years. The doctors say that Mr. Gödel’s anorexia was due to a personality disorder. What a surprise! He should have been committed involuntarily a long time ago. If he had not been a bigwig in his field, he would certainly have been locked up. But it was her decision. And she paid for it right to the end. My last project will be to help her put some order into their archives. I looked around the basement. It’s not going to be any walk in the park. Her husband accumulated tons of paperwork .

I’m coming to see you soon, Jane. I badly need to laugh, sit in the sun, and forget this whole story. That’s what happens when you develop an affection for your patients!

Your staunch friend ,

Beth

“Does the staff know about your little meetings?”

“Under the heading of entertainment: never disturb an old person in conversation with the dead, with cats, or with archivists.”

Reluctantly, Anna pushed Adele’s wheelchair toward their “secret” rendezvous. She had lied to her mother, claiming she couldn’t go to California because of the flu, and now she’d been roped into taking part in this silliness on Christmas Eve. According to Mrs. Gödel, certain of the positivists took part in parapsychology séances back in Vienna, but Anna couldn’t believe that the greatest logician of the twentieth century would have subscribed to this irrationality for any reason other than to expose charlatans.

“You’re not risking a great deal. At worst, we might conjure up the wrong person.”

“At best, we will make ourselves look ridiculous.”

The old lady motioned for her to lean closer. She placed a finger on the midpoint between Anna’s eyes.

“You must open your mind. You are locked up everywhere.”

“I was taught to use my rational mind. I collect facts and make inferences from them. I am impervious to any brand of esoteric mumbo jumbo.”

“Yes, you’re a hard worker, but there are shorter paths toward the light. Ones where your little gears spin but get no purchase. Where even the words you like so much are useless.”

They entered a cluttered room with drawn curtains. In the half-light, Anna could make out easels stacked together and orderly rows of embroidery frames: this was the art therapy studio responsible for the smears and daubs on the walls of the facility. Perfumed candles flickered on a tiny round table, mixing their vile scent with the smell of turpentine. Around the table were some figures Anna recognized — Jack, the young pianist, and Gladys in her inevitable pink angora — as well as some less familiar figures to whom Adele introduced her: Gwendoline, Maria, and Karl. Gladys, wearing a pair of rhinestone-studded glasses, rose to give her a kiss. “Here is our old soul!” Anna drew away from the assault. Maria, an octogenarian with a face half hidden behind thick lenses, gave Anna a gaze intended to petrify. Gladys motioned her to keep quiet. “My friends, let us welcome our newest participant! We have already agreed on the agenda. We’ve decided to put off Sergei Vasilievich Rachmaninoff until later. Although I adore the Russians.” Maria reminded everyone of the predilection of the dead for exactitude, aiming her remarks at Anna, who was clearly lax. Gladys took off her glasses, and her eyes shone with excitement. “Jack is a little disappointed that he won’t be able to talk to his idol. That will be for next time. Today we are going to summon Elvis Aaron Presley! Did you know that I have the same first name as his mother?” Anna suppressed a laugh. As a rationalist, she was in the minority; she would keep her sarcasms for later. She settled Adele into her seat before taking the last vacant chair, next to the pianist. He winked at her with his good eye. He seemed to be enjoying the evening. She had to try and do as much: it would be an unusual Christmas, without the cheapness she had somehow imagined she would be sharing with these end-of-life outcasts. Gladys wriggled impatiently, eager for the séance to start.

“After studying your case at length, Miss Roth, we have assigned you an angel. Gabriel will be your protector in this world. You are the messenger.”

“According to whom?”

In her tobacco-ravaged voice, Maria objected to the negative vibrations coming from the young newcomer. Adele was clearly enjoying the outraged expression on Anna’s face.

“Let it go, dear girl. I am under the wing of Mehael, the liberator.”

The participants all held hands. Anna consigned her left hand to Mrs. Gödel’s cold, raspy one, and her right to the nervously drumming Jack. How does one relax in the land of absurdity? She was hungry. All these old fogies would easily last until midnight to see Christmas in. Father Christmas must have given them all amphetamines. Her eyes shut, Gladys was chanting: “ Aor Gabriel tetraton anaton creaton .” Anna let her mind drift away from these imbecilities. Elvis Presley? From the amateurishness of the flower studies on the studio walls, no one had apparently summoned Van Gogh.

Gladys woke her up. “Rock and roll, Anna. Don’t be the old lady in the bunch!”

From the sidelines, Adele and Anna watched the braver souls scamper to the strains of a fox-trot. A gentleman had paid his respects to Anna, but she had declined the invitation. Adele tapped the rhythm with her foot.

“I so loved to dance.”

“Really? I always avoid it. It makes me feel ridiculous.”

“People dance the way they make love. Look at those two! They are so attractive. Nowadays, young people don’t know how to dance together. And we’re surprised at the high divorce rate!”

A pair of septuagenarians twirled in front of their table. Conspirators, they floated with an ageless elegance. Anna thought back to all the parties where she had sat on the sofa and watched the other adolescents on the dance floor. Leo, his hair falling over his eyes and wearing a wrinkled T-shirt and jeans, danced as though it were his last chance. He enjoyed loud music and agitated his limbs vigorously and without much control. With one hand, and jittering all the while, he rolled the skinny spliffs that helped him forget his impending return to boarding school. He had never needed anyone. Anna was always waiting for the next song before deciding whether to leave. The song that might make her feel like taking the floor. She was still waiting.

“There is a kind of sadness inherent in every party.”

“You are happier being a spectator. And you take your sarcasms for insight. The fact is, my young lovely, you’re just chicken!”

The music petered out when the dining room staff had cleared the last of the tables. The waitresses had gamely tried to make their outfits festive by wearing red felt hats and metallic garlands that scratched their necks. Instantly, there was a commotion at all the tables. Piles of packages appeared from nowhere. The gratified sound of dentures clacking gave way to exclamations and the sound of paper being torn. Adele handed Anna a brown paper bag tied with white ribbon. Inside, Anna found a cardigan made from spectacular poppy-colored wool. Delighted, she slipped it on immediately.