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The embroiderers
The needles scurry from one side to the other of the work piece they weave. Each of the women exercises the embroidery in her own rhythm. This rhythm reflects at the same time her dexterity, her experience, the difficulty of the work piece but also her mood in that moment. It remains, however, regular in all circumstances. In the same way as the violinists of a Full orchestra, they square at the beginning of the concert. Cautiously, they arrange next to them the different elements necessary for their embroidery while taking care to align them in a specific order of use. Once finished, they adjust the cushion of their seat and install themselves comfortably in their place which is always the same. There comes the moment of choice how difficult the work piece to be realized will be. The tissue and its quality need to be defined at first place, followed by the colour of the thread and finally the size of the eye of the needle that they consider as suitable. Henceforward, the piece can be played. In the way of royal archers, they thread the twist that stretches out to the top of the needle, while then plunging into the fabric with a sure movement. The gesture’s graceful precision, guided without words, without superfluous gesture, gives the entirety the semblance of an orchestra. Obviously there is no need for a conductor ; the movement is out of a rare assurance, of an extreme precision. The posture that is itself worked out for years, can be maintained for hours without fatigue tackling the concentration.
In process of time they all retrieved round Martha, their maternal granny, in the magnificent garden in the shadow of centennial oaks. The first was Ismène, her first-born daughter who naturally found her mother in Sunday activities. Afterwards, Sandra, her sister, surely attracted by curiosity, joined the game and installed herself, some years later, in front of them. Finally Chloé, Ismène’s daughter, at that time almost eight years old, arrived strengthening the troupe. They have learned their art in observing Martha attentively, in imitating her with meticulousness, in soaking her gestures, her posture: The head slightly sloped towards the work piece, the back strut against the backrest, the eyes enchained by the point to realize, just the hand allowed to move. At that Sunday afternoon the score seems to be perfectly executed. But still… An alerted eye would for sure remark some unusual imperfections, imperceptive differences with regard to the original piece. An attentive ear might have been hit by some false emitted notes during that nice summer afternoon.
It is on Sandra’s face where one might divine the moment’s unexpected tension. In reality her gesture appears slightly febrile. Each time when her needle attacks the piece, she bits her lips, then she pinches them in emitting a whistle almost not audible. She might not like it, but all of them could give the meaning of this whistle. In that case it is a little bit harsher than normally. To say consequently that she is upset would be an euphemism. For those who know her and that is the case for her mother, her sister, her niece, all three of them sat in the obvious silence of the terrace sun-drenched bordering the flower bed; for these women with whom she shares quite often her intimacy, there is no doubt that she is upset, that she huffs!
At the same morning, Martha who regards the facts and gestures quite attentively, had heard Sandra’s husband throwing the door with violence. Surely it wasn’t the first time, but this time the violence cringed her. So Sandra hurried out of the room, run down the stairs, following her husband while screaming his first name. Her voice vibrated by her despair’s force. Too late, he had already gone! Alone on the step there was no other ending than returning to her room. Precisely in that moment she would have given everything for avoiding to walk along the hallway passing by the kitchen. Impossible! While she straightened up her head, her glance crossed Martha’s. For a short moment, they observed each other. This time was sufficient for her for feeling the force of her mother’s accusatory look pervading her in pieces like a flash. Humiliated, wounded, she continued her way, in a haggard way.
The oak’s shadows definitely arrived at the terrace. Sandra, no longer sitting in front of the canvas that seems to resist her too strongly, stands up. The tears have swelled her eyes; she lets the work piece fall down and hurries into the family’s building. For all this time, Martha’s gesture stayed immutably. The one of the other two women who by surprise had stopped for a moment, restarted straightaway.
Franck Rosier Translation S. Gruber
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