Lauren Groff - Delicate Edible Birds - And Other Stories

They were going to die there, in the barn. Starve. Already, they were at the end of the water in the donkey’s bucket and he had seen Parnell try to eat the oats. A terrible shame to die now; it made him want to weep for the glorious world out there, weep that he would not be able to see it grow healthy again. To find Cinzia, or to avenge her. Now, in the bleak night, he hoped his heart would break and kill him before the Germans did.

Lucci heard a scraping at the door and sat up. Probably rats; still, he crawled over to see. It was morning but still dark, and he pressed his eye to a crack and saw the teary old woman creep back across the yard and close the cottage door with exquisite care. Lucci was heartened; perhaps there was still good in the world. Then he smelled a smell that made him heady — crêpes — and he could isolate each of the ingredients as he never could before: butter, sugar, flour, milk, even a little rum. He felt the ground until he found the plate, and pressed his fingers into a soft stack two inches high. If he were Frank, he would eat them himself. But he wasn’t Frank, so he said, loudly, Excuse, and the others grumbled in the hay. Chaps, he said, and they sat up. Breakfast is served, said Lucci. Courtesy of Madame Lachrymose.

It was enough to keep them alive, not enough to satisfy, and by dawn they were starving again. Nicolas came early to take the donkey to the fields and recoiled at their smell. My cabbage, he called to Bern, Have you come to any new conclusions? But Bern sent a scathing stream of curses in French at him and Nicolas chuckled and led the donkey into the light and locked them in again.

Frank and Parnell sat together by the wall and conferred quietly. Lucci did not like this. He stroked Bern’s hair, telling her little tales that his mother had told him as a child so that she would not have to see the others in their low discussions. Viktor paced. Lucci wasn’t looking at him when Viktor suddenly, around noon, turned pale, sank to his knees, and fainted.

Though Frank looked close to death, he was quick enough as Bern knelt over Viktor. He stood over her and shook her shoulder roughly. Listen, he said. You don’t have to prove anything to us, you know. You’re the most courageous woman we all know.

The most courageous person, rather, called Parnell from the wall.

I’ve seen you with my own eyes, said Frank. I’ve seen you kick a wounded man from a door so a cottage full of women could escape. I’ve seen you walk through brains and guts and viscera without gagging. If you could do those things, you could sleep with Nicolas to set us free. It’d only take an hour. One hour of courage and then we can go.

It’s not about courage, said Bern. Shut your trap.

Viktor stirred on the ground and blinked confusedly, drawn and pale. She leaned over him again, cradling his pitted face. Lucci felt ill to see Viktor as low as this.

Nicolas is not even that bad-looking, said Parnell, in a rush. A bit greasy, but overall quite all right. It’d be a kindness to him, actually. He hasn’t had a woman in years and years, he said. Think of yourself as doing a kindness, Bernie.

And, listen, said Frank. You can write about it when you’re done. Imagine, a short story. Like that one you did, “L’ortolan,” that won all the prizes. It’s material. Be a good chap, Bern. Be a good sport.

Lucci leaped up, shouted, Enough, she will not do it. That is enough. He pushed Frank back, and though Frank was far larger than Lucci, he stumbled a little. As he waited for Frank to raise his fists, Lucci thought he could hear everything there was to hear in the world: distant planes, the shuffle of a weary family on the road, the wind rustling under the skirts of the trees, voices hushed and murmuring, moving in, moving out, one great tide. He could hear, somewhere, singing. No: it was Frank, whistling “La Marseillaise” softly under his breath. Lucci looked toward Viktor, who was struggling to sit up. When he looked back at Frank, a curious glint had come into the fat man’s face.

Frank said, slowly, Why the hell not, Bern? Everybody knows you’re a slut.

Shut up, said Viktor, voice deadly, quiet, but Frank gave his sour little smile. Oh, Viktor, I’m surprised you didn’t know, he said. She sleeps with just about everyone she meets. I could name hundreds.

I do know, Viktor said, rubbing his head wearily. She’s had a few lovers. It is her right, as it is yours. As it is Parnell’s, and Lucci’s, and mine. At least unlike Parnell, she’s not married. Bern, at least, is not a hypocrite.

Ha! A few lovers, well, said Parnell, his voice turning Cockney, ugly. Don’t you wonder, Viktor, why she won’t sleep with you? I do, very much. She fucks me, you know.

I know, said Viktor. I know.

She sleeps with everyone, said Parnell. She slept with Frank, if you can believe it.

What’s that supposed to mean? said Frank, but nobody heard him because now there was a hole ripped into the air in the barn, and Bern was alone in the middle of it. She reached out to take Viktor’s face in her hands, speaking low and seriously, but Viktor shook her off.

Frank, he said, very slowly. Frank? I knew about Parnell. He’s handsome, it’s uncomplicated. But Frank, Bern? Him?

Bern sighed and tried to find the sauciness in her voice again, but it came out strained. I don’t understand it myself. I guess I felt sorry for him, she said.

Viktor stared at her, and though it was dim in the barn, Lucci thought he saw his eyes fill. Well, Viktor said. I suppose you felt sorry for me, too.

No, said Bern, but he had already turned away, already walked to the muck and stink of the donkey’s area. Viktor, she said, but he raised his hand to quiet her.

Do what must be done, Bern, he said. It shouldn’t make a difference to you, should it.

They were all looking at Bern, all of the men. She took a step back and leaned against the door to catch her breath. Lucci saw that Viktor had changed something, had turned something with his words, and Lucci himself couldn’t resist the change. He saw the light again in Fiesole, Cinzia, the million small colors of that world, and longed to be in them. He longed.

In a minute, Bern stepped closer to Lucci, searched his face. She tried to take his hand. But Lucci couldn’t breathe, and he stepped away, turned his back.

Bern blinked and her voice came out ragged. Et tu, Lucci? she said with a grim little smile. Then she took a deep breath and turned her back and waited at the door. When one of Nicolas’s sons passed by, she called to him in a muted voice and told him to fetch his father. The minutes that she stood there, with her back to the men in the room, seemed to Lucci like weeks, like months. Her hair was lit golden in a sunbeam that fell in a long strip down her delicate back. He wanted, terribly, to say, Stop, to say Bern’s name, to stroke her soft cheek where it was bitten by the light. But, in the end, he didn’t do anything at all.

A SOOTY DUSK. It had begun to drizzle, and the men waited in the jeep. Under the seats were boxes of food: terrine, bread, cheese, pickles, bottles of wine. A full canister of gas. They had washed themselves with water the teary old woman had heated, they had eaten their fill beside a fire, warming their bones. The old woman would not look at them, though she wore Lucci’s woolen socks in her clogs. She held out food with a closed face, turned those perpetually watering eyes away. The two sons had stalked in and out of the house with their excitement, loading the jeep with provisions. At one point, they had both disappeared upstairs, and reappeared an hour later to sit whittling by the fireplace, dogs licking their paws, satisfied.

In the car, Viktor held his face in his hands. Frank held a bottle and his normal pink flush had already regrown across his cheeks. Parnell held an unlit cigarette and stared at his hands. Lucci held his camera, but did not take a photo.