Paris Exposition Universelle, May 4, 1900
Paris Exposition Universelle,
Elisa is exhausted.
After waiting in a queue for over an hour, they were shoved aboard the Grande Roue de Paris—Ferris’s famous wheel, taken from Chicago and improved, according to the advertisements, because there’s nothing Americans can do that can’t be done better in Paris—and now little Claude is crying because he needs the toilet.
She asked him three times before they got to the front of the line, and each time he insisted no. No, he did not.
Now they’re crammed in the car, barely able to see because big Claude wouldn’t spring for first-class, and little Claude is crying.
She’s certain he’s going to wet himself, which will fit right in because the baby has already soaked through her diaper.
Elisa can feel the foul damp seeping into her sleeve.
She hasn’t been truly dry in the last four years since giving birth to little Claude followed by Pierre and then the baby, Odette.
Something is always leaking. Her breasts, their bladders, her eyes, their noses.
She didn’t even want to come today, but Claude insisted.
He said it would be good for the children to see what grand things their country is capable of.
But the children don’t care or understand.
It’s all just buildings and bridges to them, and what child cares about those?
Little Claude only wanted to ride on the moving walkway for hours and screamed every time they stepped off.
Pierre has toddled away three times, forcing Elisa to chase after him while trying to keep Odette asleep in her arms because Claude said bringing the baby buggy would slow them down.
And Claude has aired a nonstop stream of complaints about the cost of everything, grouchy that with all the money he’s spending, no one seems to be having any fun.
He resents Elisa, she knows it. She was so good at catering to his moods before, but now she has three more demanding bodies constantly pawing and tugging on her. She’s exhausted.
Claude glances over at her, eyebrows raised, then scowls when he sees she isn’t looking out the window in awe and delight.
Elisa actually wants to be here. But she wants to be here alone.
She wants to experience the wonders of the modern age on her own terms, without worrying about how everyone around her is experiencing them, too.
Without being responsible for making sure they’re all happy and fed and clean and satisfied.
By the time they get off the Ferris wheel, it’s too late.
Little Claude is so soaked that he leaves wet footprints as they walk.
Claude doesn’t even notice. He’s talking about the aquarium, how much the kids will like it.
Odette is thankfully asleep once more, and Pierre is holding on to Elisa’s skirts so tightly he’s riding them more than walking alongside her.
Elisa wants to stop where she is. She wants to throw herself to the pavement and scream and cry and kick her heels.
She wants to refuse to move until someone does what she wants, for once.
She wants Claude to crouch next to her and speak in low, comforting tones, stroking her hair, promising her sweets and affection if she behaves.
But she doesn’t want that, because she doesn’t want to behave anymore.
“Mama, look, a ghost!” Pierre points as a man walks by. He’s handsome, with brown skin and black hair, and on his arm is a woman. Her red hair is pinned up, her dress fashionable, her expression fierce and determined. She knows exactly where she’s going, and no one can stop her.
“Where?” Elisa asks, exhausted.
“Behind the pretty lady. See? No shoes.” He points to his own feet.
“I don’t see a ghost,” Elisa says, but she feels like one herself. Trailing, unseen, unappreciated, unchanging. Haunting her own life.
Elisa wants to be the red-haired woman, moving with confidence through the world.
She loves her children, she does. And Claude is…Claude. Necessary. Tolerable. But she married him so young and started having kids immediately, and she longs for a day—just one day—where she can simply be Elisa. Not Claude’s wife, or the children’s mother.
A flyer catches on her heel. She struggles to pick it up while balancing Odette and not dislodging Pierre from her leg. Claude hasn’t noticed she’s paused; he keeps striding ahead. She watches him go and wonders what would happen if she just didn’t catch up.
As soon as she wonders it, she’s made up her mind. If he doesn’t turn around to check on them, so be it. She’ll let him lose them.
“The ghost,” Pierre says, taking his thumb out of his mouth to point to the flyer. “She’s pretty, like Mama.” Elisa smiles, flattered. The woman pictured there has long, dark hair like hers, but Elisa’s never been so bold or beautiful as the woman staring out at her from the image.
The House of Curiosity. It sounds more intriguing than anywhere else Claude wants to drag them to.
Something about the image feels both alluring and forbidden.
Maybe it’s a house of ill repute. Maybe it’s a show more risqué than the one they saw in the Palace of Optics with the dancers glowing in the dark.
Either way, it feels like something the red-haired woman might confidently stride into.
Elisa watches Claude’s back as he disappears into the crowd. He didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder to see if she was still with him. If she needed anything. It’s up to her to see to her own needs.
“Come along,” she says, hoisting Pierre up with her free arm and nodding for little Claude to hold on to her skirt in his place. “We’re taking you to Grand-mère’s house.”
Elisa’s mother will take the children for the afternoon, and Elisa will make up some story about coming back to meet Claude at the Palace of Electricity or the Eiffel Tower. And then she’ll at last have some free time to satisfy her own curiosity.