Wanda managed to persuade the countess to bring Sylvie’s cradle into the room. At first Patrizia protested loudly, saying that the baby’s crying would disturb the patient. And the wet nurse’s milk might dry up if she had to sit in a sickroom. And if she refused to come to the palazzo anymore, what would they do then? Of course Wanda didn’t want to risk that, but she nonetheless insisted, hoping that Marie would recover more quickly if Sylvie were nearby.
It turned out that the new arrangement worked for everyone. The wet nurse didn’t mind putting the baby to her breast in the mother’s room, and her milk came just as it had before. Sylvie slept most of the time, and Marie held her when she was feeling strong enough. Those were the best moments, when Wanda could rest and gather her strength, hoping that everything would be all right.
At first Patrizia stood by the door all the time like a watchdog, her eyes never leaving the sickbed. Only when Wanda told her directly that she was not leaving until Marie was well again did Patrizia begin to leave them alone, at least while Marie was asleep or hallucinating. Every time the countess left, Wanda felt she could breathe more freely.
Patrizia’s behavior was extremely odd. At first glance she really seemed to be a worried mother-in-law, full of concern for her granddaughter and the baby’s mother. But Wanda soon got the impression that the countess was trying to control Marie’s every waking moment; whenever her daughter-in-law woke up and wanted to talk to Wanda, Patrizia would come into the room as though she had been listening at the door or had sent the servants to spy on them. She always brought something for Marie—a pitcher of lemonade, or fresh water and washcloths to make the cold compresses, or a clean gown—but she never brought anything for Wanda. It was as though she were trying to force her out to the kitchen to grab a bite to eat. Wanda rarely went there, though; she was so worried about Marie that her appetite had quite gone.
More than once she sensed that Marie was urgently trying to tell her something. But the impression vanished as soon as Patrizia came into the room. Then there was simply a look of need in Marie’s eyes. But Wanda could hardly throw Patrizia out of the room, here in her own house! So she had no choice but to wait for their chance to talk unobserved and to save up all the questions that were burning inside her.
Why haven’t you written for months? Did our first parcel with the baby gifts even arrive? Why does your father-in-law look at us the way a hungry snake studies a rabbit every time he comes into the room? And why on earth isn’t your husband here? All your mother-in-law has told me is that he’s in New York. In New York? While you give birth to your first child?
But whenever Wanda even tentatively tried to broach one of these subjects and Marie began to speak, Patrizia stopped her.
“Speaking is too much of an exertion for you, remember what the doctor said!” And to Wanda, “You are irresponsible, asking Marie questions like this when she has a fever! Can’t you see that she’s hallucinating?”
Wanda didn’t think that was true at all. It was easy to tell the difference between those moments when Marie was off in a world of her own and those when she could think clearly. She thought that Patrizia was a dragon guarding the cave where Marie was held prisoner.
She grew to dislike Marie’s mother-in-law more with every passing hour. If the dragon had actually mistreated Marie or neglected her, then Wanda would at least have been able to say why she disliked her so. But there was fresh bed linen every morning; light, nourishing meals were served at regular intervals; the pot of herbal tea at her bedside was always full—Patrizia did everything by the book. She also made sure that the doctor came twice a day. Wanda had to leave the room during these visits. She would have liked to talk to him, but he spoke neither German nor English and she had only a very few words of Italian. But Wanda learned all she needed to know when she saw how grave his face was when he left the room. Her aunt’s life was in danger. Every time Wanda asked Patrizia what the doctor had said, the countess replied that the fever was the greatest risk. Marie had suffered a tear during the birth and had to have stitches. Although they had done all they could to keep the wound clean, it had become infected. The fever showed no signs of abating.
At these moments, standing outside Marie’s room in the hallway, Wanda and Patrizia were united in their fears.
A flame, bright yellow, flickering, right there in front of her eyes. But somehow blurred, as though seen through a window on a foggy night in Lauscha. She goes closer to the flame. Or is the flame coming closer to her? It’s all the same . . . Strange, it’s not as hot as it looks . . . The core of the flame is pale. Marie puckers her lips to blow air into the flame. “You have to blow hard to make the flame sing!” That’s Father’s voice! Marie smiles. She can hear him, but where is he? She’s so happy that for a moment she forgets the flame, forgets to blow. The flame dies. And Papa says, “You see, it’s gone out now. Gone out forever.”