The Darkness of Wallis Simpson by Rose Tremain Read Free Book Online Page A

the curtains and get a damn good look at these strangers who believe she’s dead. See if they’re telling the truth or not.
    But how will she know? If they say, ‘Sure, you’ve been dead a while, Wally,’ how will she be certain they’re not lying? Because lies are always a part of things. Part of each and every thing. She understood that long ago. Wherever you walk, lies tread the same road. And yet he said . . . he . . . the little man . . . he said once he wanted to live his life without lying. He pleaded with her: ‘Wallis, I can’t lie to the world any more.’ But what did she reply? Perhaps she took him by the arm or put her hand in his and told him, told him like a mother would tell an innocent boy: ‘Wherever you walk, lies tread the same road.’ Perhaps it was then that she first uttered these words of wisdom?
    It’s gone quiet outside. The hag’s talking her weird French talk.
    Wallis puts her cheek close to the window and peers down.
    God, it looks cold there. Cold and white with snow. All the strangers are huddled under umbrellas, listening to the Maître . They seem good and obedient for a while, in the Maître ’s power, just like everybody else, but then, without warning, one of them, another loud American, shouts out: ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Maître Blum! Wallis Simpson had the most breathtaking story since the Resurrection! And you’ve let her forget it!’
    What?
    Did she hear right?
    Oh, boy. First it’s death they’re describing; now they’re yelling something about resurrection. What kind of crazy stuff is getting spoken on this snowy morning?
    Wallis decides she’d better ask them. She reaches up and tries to open her window, but windows in France are so damned tall and heavy, you can never get them to move. So she taps on the glass, with her nails, which are still long and painted red as rubies. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. And suddenly they turn. All the people turn, moving their umbrellas, and look up. She sees their faces, pink-cheeked in the snow. They stare at her. With their mouths hanging open. They look like they’re seeing a ghost. And then they begin to move towards her. ‘Wallis!’ they call. ‘Wallis! Wallis . . . !’
    And oh, she can remember this: people calling her name. People reaching out their hands to her, trying to touch her. ‘Wallis! Wallis!’ It was so swell for a while for a girl from Baltimore. Better than being a deb at the Bachelors’ Cotillion. Better than being a bride with orange blossom in her hair. Better than presiding over a dazzling table. It was what she’d always wanted. Always. To be loved; for people to say her name with love.
    But it never lasted. Did it? God knows why not. First they loved her, like Win had loved her, and reached for her with their hands, and then, for no reason she can recall, they began to insult her, started calling her a bitch, an American bitch, threw rotten eggs at her car. Their love had been so beautiful and then, one day, it turned to hate . . .
    Wallis lets fall the curtains and curls up on the carpet, knees tucked into her bony chest. She sees that she’s wearing a white silk nightgown with a trim of Brussels lace. She’s always been careful about her clothes. She just hopes there’s no unsightly stain on the derrière.
    The calling of her name goes on and on. ‘Wallis! Wallis!’ It’s like some familiar music, long ago faded and gone.
    Wallis. Wallis. Wallis!
    She likes it. She hopes they’ll go on calling for ever.
    And now, suddenly, there’s a flicker of memory, like a candle being lit in her mind: the one who loved her name so much was the pale little man. It was he who used to say it, over and over, like the saying of it was a kind of prayer or mantra or consoling nursery rhyme. ‘Wallis, my Wallis . . .