Wormwood
for Steve Moore
Gran’père was dying, and p’tit Pierre stood at the door clutching his cap, clawing at the rim in his terror and excitement. P’tit Pierre was not yet nine and in the light of the lantern his face was very small and white—like a lima bean. M’man ran for her shawl and the two of us set off after p’tit Pierre, who was walking very fast, already a good way ahead. M’man and I were wearing our nightgowns and slippers; we had to walk carefully else stub our toes on the cobbles. M’man called out: “Allez! Pierre! Pas si vite!”
It was very dark and foggy. We chased after p’tit Pierre’s lantern, which blinked like the Devil in the distance, and once I stumbled. When we reached the gate where Old Owl Head lived in her tiny room above the street, I was frightened and tried to take M’man’s hand, but she pulled away. “Slow down!” she yelled at p’tit Pierre again. “Brigand!”
Walking as fast as we could, it took us twenty minutes to reach Gran’père’s. We could hear his raving even before Margarethe opened the door. I was afraid to go in; the house was transformed by Gran’père ’s terrible cries. M’man prodded me, her knuckles hard in my back: “Allez! Allez! Depêche-toi, Nanu!” We followed Margarethe up the stairs and the closer we got to Gran’père ’s room, the louder the sound he made. I thought: What if he’s already in Hell? Pulling back, I collided with M’man. “Merde! Nanu!” she cried. ‘Je me fâche!” I hid my face with my hands because I feared she would strike me, but she only pushed me into the room, which was dark except for Gran’père ’s head lit as if from within by Margarethe’s lamp. She set it down on the bedstand beside Gran’père ’s teeth and offered M’man a chair. Gran’père could have been dead but for all the noise he was making.
“P’pa!” M’man shouted. “P’pa!” Gran’père snorted and smacked his lips. “He’s thirsty,” M’man decided. Dipping the edge of her shawl into his glass she squeezed some water into his open mouth. “Rah!” he said. “Oui!” said M’man. “C’est moi, Reine. I’m here beside you: Reine.” A strange sound came from Gran’père—like a bullfrog’s croaking—so that I laughed out loud. “Nanu!” M’man made a slicing gesture across her neck. This sobered me enough to approach Gran’père. ” Gran’père ,” I said. “It’s me, Nanu.” Gran’père said, “Nah?” “Si!” I said. “Nanu. Your little Nanu.” When he did not respond I asked M’man: “Does he know us?” “Shut up!” M’man said. “Conasse!” I wanted to cry then so I looked around the room for my own place to sit. I found Gran’père’s chair beside the desk where in the old days he went over his accounts. For a time I sat there in the dark, staring at the ugly statuette Gran’père called Wormwood. His nose and tongue and knees horribly protruding, Wormwood was sitting on a stump.
Gran’père was asleep and as he slept he whistled: a sound as monotonous as the wind. Downstairs a clock ticked; I could hear M’man’s soft breathing and from time to time I heard her sigh: “Ah, merde. Merde, merde, merde.” She was almost singing.
On the desk there was a little china vase and because it was too deep to see inside I emptied it into my hand. Some pen nibs tumbled out, two coins, and a key. I slipped the coins in the pocket of my nightgown and examined the key. It was very small and appeared to be made of green brass. I held it in the palm of my hand and, making a fist, squeezed hard. When I opened my hand I could feel the key’s impress in my flesh with the tips of my fingers.
Once when I was a tiny child I had asked Gran’père why he kept a thing as ugly as Wormwood around. “If Wormwood were mine,” I told him, “I would throw him into the fire.” Gran’père said: “Little idiote! Wormwood is made of brass and cannot burn. But he has a hot temper: behave yourself, Nanu, or he’ll wake up—because yes, even though his eyes are open he is fast asleep. If I decide to wake him, you’re finished, Nanu! Foutue! Foutue! Fucked, petite garce. Tu comprends?”
Remembering this, I bit my lip, but what I really wanted to do was bite Gran’père. I imagined creeping across the room and poking my head under his covers. Before he or M’man would know what was up, I’d have taken a good bite out of Gran’père. And because the room was dark, Gran’père asleep and M’man sleeping too, I stuck out my tongue. I stuck it out so far it touched the bottom of my chin and still I had not stuck it out far enough. Then I saw p’tit Pierre standing inside the door. Made fearless by the dark and the fact that Gran’père was dying, he crept over to me. His mouth hot against my ear, he said, “I saw you! If le père Foucart doesn’t die I’ll tell him! I’ll tell him I saw Nanu making faces in the dark. And then I’ll watch him give you a good spanking with his shoe.”
