Marianne instructed them to lift Claudine, who had almost passed out from the pain, out of the car. “Take her into the kitchen and lay her on the table!” she called, curling her fingers around Sidonie’s pebble in a reflex. It felt warm, as if it had soaked up and preserved Sidonie’s living heat. Marianne closed her eyes and sought to conjure up her memories of helping her grandmother Nane with home births. This time, though, she wouldn’t be helping someone; she would have to do it all on her own. She hoped that her hands would recall the movements. She pushed the button that opened the car’s trunk and found the first-aid kit.
The three men’s faces turned to expressionless masks when they had laid the moaning Claudine on the cool stainless-steel table. Jean-Rémy rushed to the telephone and asked the operator for an ambulance. “We need to get her to the clinic in Concarneau,” he whispered, waiting for Marianne to give the final command.
She turned over a large cooking pot and arranged bandages, scissors, compresses and the pebble on it. Then she held her hands under hot water to warm them up, and pulled on sterile latex gloves.
“Support her, Lothar,” she said as she pushed her fingers into Claudine.
Claudine shrieked. “Oh my God! Bloody hell!”
“Her cervix is open, her perineum is bulging and she’s cursing like a trooper!”
Jean-Rémy passed on this information to the emergency services. “They say we shouldn’t drive her in that state.”
The contractions came at ever shorter intervals, and Claudine screamed ever more loudly. “Bleeding son of a bitch!”
“Now they’re saying that they’re going to come to us.” Jean-Rémy ran away.
“Men! They always want to be there at the beginning, but never for the outcome,” mumbled Marianne. “She needs to breathe regularly,” she instructed Yann, who was standing there watching her with inscrutable eyes. “Tell her everything’s normal, everything’s fine.”
“Don’t you need hot water?” the painter asked.
“The only reason midwives need hot water is for making coffee and keeping the men busy,” growled Marianne. “Bring me a glass of brandy and some towels—clean tea towels. And the electric heater. Lothar, stop rubbing the woman. It’ll drive her crazy, all that pushing and shoving. Move her nearer to the edge.”
Yann bent over Claudine and urged her to breathe regularly.
“Fuck your mother, you bastard!”
—
When Yann had gone out to fetch the towels, Lothar asked, “Why did you leave me?”
“Do you really want to talk about that now, Lothar?”
“I just want to understand!”
Yann came back into the room and directed the heater at Claudine.
“Jean-Rémy!” called Marianne. “Where’s Grete?”
“She’s in her room. With the fisherman. Simon.”
“He can stay put, but fetch Grete. Are there any other women in the house?”
“A few fest-noz guests who’ve stayed on, and…Oh my God!” The top of a little head had appeared between Claudine’s legs. Jean-Rémy turned away and threw up into the sink.
“Shut up!” roared Claudine.
“Don’t push anymore!” Marianne said loudly. “Pant! Jean-Rémy! Grete!”
She panted to demonstrate to Claudine what she wanted her to do, then sat down on a second pot, pushed a few towels under Claudine’s thighs and gently laid her hand on the advancing head, applying pressure to guide it. Claudine braced her feet against Marianne’s shoulders, leaving dirty marks on the skin. Jean-Rémy staggered out of the kitchen.
“What did I do wrong, Marianne?”
“Lothar! Everything. Nothing. You are who you are, I am who I am, and we don’t go together—that’s all there is to it.”
“We don’t go together? What are you talking about?”
Claudine screamed and pushed, but the baby didn’t want to come out any farther. Marianne let her hands do what they needed to do, without thinking. She steered the little head downward using both hands until a shoulder appeared. The perineum seemed to tear, and she glanced up at Lothar, who shut his eyes in shock, and Yann, who was holding the brandy with a strangely enraptured expression. Then she looked back down to the tiny body as it forced its way entirely out of the womb.
She supported the child’s chest so that its head didn’t hang upside down. The remaining amniotic fluid splashed onto the floor.
“Take off your shirt, Yann,” she said calmly.
“Victor!” cried Claudine, then again, “Vi-ic-tor!” She sank back onto the table and all her muscles slackened.
It was here. Marianne was holding the infant in her hands. She took a quick look at the clock: five past five. The baby was bloody, slippery and covered with yellow grease. She dabbed it with the sterile compresses, then took Yann’s body-warmed shirt and wrapped the baby in it.
“It’s a girl,” she whispered into Claudine’s ear, as the young woman slumped back heavily into Lothar’s arms.
“It isn’t crying,” murmured Yann.
Marianne ran her hand along the little girl’s spine and rubbed her feet. Nothing. Not a sound.
Come on. Cry! Breathe!
“What’s wrong?” She asked the baby softly. “Don’t you want to? You’ll have a wonderful life. You’ll love, be loved, laugh—”
“Am I too late?” asked Grete as she rushed into the kitchen in a negligee over which she had thrown on Simon’s fisherman’s shirt and jacket.
“The baby isn’t crying, and I don’t have a free hand to cut the umbilical cord.”
“What’s wrong with my baby? WHAT’S WRONG WITH MY BABY?” Claudine bit Lothar’s hand, and he let go of her in surprise.
“What a couple of heroes we have here!” whispered Grete, gently pinching the baby’s ear. The child didn’t cry.
Claudine looked at Marianne, wild-eyed, and reared up. Grete held the umbilical cord higher and pressed down on Claudine’s abdomen with the other hand. Marianne’s gaze fell on Sidonie’s pebble. She picked it up, prized open one of the newborn’s tiny fists and gently pushed the stone between its fingers. Marianne felt a slight discharge from the small body similar to the lightning in the sky a little earlier. Silent, but mighty.
Sidonie? she asked wordlessly. Is that you?
The baby filled her lungs, her cheeks turned red and all of a sudden she let out a cry of affirmation. There was a huge clap of thunder outside. The men laughed with relief, and Marianne laid the child on Claudine’s chest. The young mother gently embraced her daughter, her eyes full of astonishment, gratitude and shame.
Grete tore the straps off her nightdress and tied them around the umbilical cord in two places, while Marianne cut it with the sterile scissors. Tomorrow she would bury it under a rosebush, as sure as sure could be.
Claudine’s face had regained some of its color, and Marianne got up to fetch her a glass of cold water, as Grete continued to staunch the bleeding from the umbilical cord. Marianne suddenly felt exhausted. The day’s events could easily have filled a few years. The goddesses had demonstrated to her that life and death could take place within a single day, and sometimes it was impossible to distinguish between them.
—
A team of paramedics came running into the kitchen. At last!
Marianne reached for the brandy, drank half of it and passed the glass to Grete, who drained the rest. She looked at Lothar, and from him to Yann. They were both standing there as if they expected something of her.