The Oracle of Delphi Was High on Fumes (Finale)

ACT III

LANCE, HÉLÈNE, and MAÎTRE D’ITHAQUES sit in the dining room. HÉLÈNE regularly looks behind her and into the kitchen, where pots and pans cling to FATIMA's cooking.

MAÎTRE D’ITHAQUES: I think you are making a terrible mistake, ma’am. 

HÉLÈNE: And why is that?

MAÎTRE D’ITHAQUES: Your husband’s business, ma’am, only works with trust in his person. And this trust—well you need a solid reputation for that.

HÉLÈNE: What business? We are on the verge of bankruptcy!

MAÎTRE D’ITHAQUES: But there is always hope.

HÉLÈNE: No, I don’t want there to be hope. Not for us. And certainly not for him.

MAÎTRE D’ITHAQUES: And what about you?

HÉLÈNE: What about me?

MAÎTRE D’ITHAQUES: What of your own reputation?

HÉLÈNE: I don’t care.

LANCE: I don’t believe you. 

HÉLÈNE: You dare question my integrity when you have mismanaged our money and pushed the family out of our home.

LANCE: My home, not yours!

HÉLÈNE: I am a part of this family.

LANCE: No, you are decidedly not. And you never will be. 

HÉLÈNE: I know you hid the money. You knew it would come to this and you ensured I was left with nothing!

LANCE: That’s ridiculous. I loved you then, and I still love you today. Even as you throw unspeakable accusations my way. Did you not love me?

HÉLÈNE: …

LANCE: Why did we marry?

HÉLÈNE: …

LANCE: Answer me! You only wanted a piece of the legend we wrote. With all your talks of integrity, there is not an ounce of integrity in you, woman. 

HÉLÈNE: You’re one to talk, Lance! Where is it? Where did you hide it?

LANCE: I lost it!

MAÎTRE D’ITHAQUES & HÉLÈNE (in unison): What?

LANCE: I lost our lands in Indochina.

HÉLÈNE: No, you’re lying. I saw the waiver, Lance. You sold the land. So, where is the money?

LANCE: I gave it away… I gave it all back.

HÉLÈNE gets up and paces around the room. FATIMA hurries in with a glass of water. HÉLÈNE drinks it up and throws the glass against the wall behind LANCE. A shard of glass nicks his ear. FATIMA cleans the cut with a handkerchief and scurries back to the kitchen.

LANCE: I hoped that word would spread of my treachery and that people would stop taking interest in our daughters. Prunelle was not even a year old at the time! I wanted to save her and Mégane.

HÉLÈNE: Fool! Your treachery would have only hastened them to the river banks. And us with them. 

LANCE: It made sense in my head. But then your family offered to pay for this flat when they heard that I sold the house. 

HÉLÈNE: Why did you never say anything? And now, you are trying to place the blame on me? You had me pretend like nothing was wrong. You had me go to the same social engagements, the same parties. You had me believe—

LANCE: You don’t understand! You don’t understand the burden I carry.

MONA: My dead aunts. Every single one of them.

HÉLÈNE: Don't you dare tell me I don’t understand loss and grief. I understand it just fine! What I don’t understand is: why stop in Indochina? Why not throw the rest of the money to those terrorists and then all of Paris can throw the rest of us in the Seine!

A glass shatters in the kitchen and HÉLÈNE grumbles in discontent. She gets up and shuts the kitchen door.

LANCE: You are being ridiculous again. 

MAÎTRE D’ITHAQUES: I think we need to take a breath. Think of your children and what they must be thinking. 

HÉLÈNE: Our daughter is not here, Maître. 

LANCE: What of Nicolas and Prunelle? Or did you forget about them already? 

MÉGANE walks in.

HÉLÈNE: My! How unkempt you look.

MÉGANE: I was on the courts, Maman.

HÉLÈNE: That is not an excuse. I always tell you not to play too hard.

MÉGANE walks towards the corridor.

MÉGANE: What are you doing here?

A pair of footsteps scuffle and two doors shut one after the other. 

MAÎTRE D’ITHAQUES: I think it would be best if we end it here, for now.

LANCE: A sound decision, indeed.

HÉLÈNE: Absolutely not! I want my own lawyer, not this good-for-nothing. 

MAÎTRE D’ITHAQUES: If I may—

LANCE: No one is stopping you, darling. You have more money than I, now. I am sure you can figure out an arrangement that suits you more. Just like you always have. 

HÉLÈNE: …

LANCE: You must be happy there is less of the money to share when all I have done was try to protect my children.

HÉLÈNE: You did nothing, Lance. Harmonie is dead and it’s your fault!

ACT IV

I died on 16 September 1959.

I had scarcely slept, unnerved by the rising sun and the growing masses on the quays of the Seine. I could hear their buzzing from my unlatched window, having prayed all night to Helios for a strong star, the kind that would have the populace scrambling towards the nearest slices of shade like in the past few uncharacteristically hot days. But I had encountered the early morning breeze instead. 

The procession had reached the Pont Mirabeau by midday, where the mass had seemingly turned into a national rally. Meg had asked people where they came from, turning the dreadful walk into a guessing game. Nelle had held onto my hand, her nails clawing into my palm. The crescents she had carved remained even after I had stepped over the guardrail and even after my body had joined its sisters on the riverbed. When my soul had detached from its mortal vessel, I realized the extent to which my life had been a lie. It was not about the waters and their cruelty, nor was it the Fates sparing me from a life half-lived. My skirt had simply been too heavy, having opted for a tufted one instead because Maman had said it looked more ‘virginal’.

“How could you say that?” Papa whispered, failing to stifle the sob burgeoning in the back of his throat. “After everything I tried to achieve.”

Maman averted her gaze, deciding that the parquet was a sight more beautiful to behold than the picture of her broken family. 

“I believe it is time for me to take my leave,” Maître d’Ithaques cut through the silence. He retrieved the documents scattered on the dining table and shoved them into his briefcase. 

“I believe so, too,” I murmured, though I remained tethered to the couch. 

Meg, Nico, and Nelle appeared in the room at the sound of the door slamming shut. I had never been one to believe in miracles. But upon the sight of Meg’s hand firmly clasped into Nelle’s, I could have believed in my own immortality. Because it was not Nelle who held onto her sister for dear life; it was Meg.

“Please, stop fighting,” Nico pleaded, the abundance of his tears quickly matching Papa’s.

Ignoring him, Maman turned towards the kitchen. “Fatima, dear, could you pack my clothes? I need to leave.”

“I am sorry, ma’am,” Fatima emerged. 

“For what?” Maman’s voice was severe.

“I can no longer work for this family,” she replied, unfazed. 

“But we have employed you for decades!”

“I understand, ma’am. But upon you and your husband's revelations, I feel like I can no longer carry on my duties in good conscience.”

“Have we ever made you feel like we were hostile to you and your like?” Papa quietly asked.

Fatima could not reply, the warmth in her face had dissipated completely. Indeed, Papa’s choice of words had told her everything she needed to know about the family she had served for years. Her eyes drifted from my father to my mother, to the years of paranoia that had inhabited Maman’s soul. Fatima lowered her head in retreat and left the flat for good without adding another word.

Nico trudged to the end of the corridor, forcing open the door to Fatima’s old chambers. She had packed what little belongings she owned into her canvas bag, leaving the tiny room barren save for a battered Algerian flag and a picture frame. 

Nelle, who had followed her brother inside, picked up the photograph. I hover above her shoulder, carefully scanning the faces. Not one of them was smiling. 

“Look! There is Mona!” Nelle exclaimed.

Maman, Papa, and Meg all crammed inside, huddling around the frame and their solemn faces from the past.

“I miss her,” she muttered.

Maman’s sudden gesture caused her to recoil, expecting to be punished for her sentimentality. But Maman reached her arms out instead, scooping her into a short but tight embrace. “I am sorry, Prunelle,” she whispered, breathing in the scent of her hair. She glanced at Papa for a minute, before cupping Nelle’s cheeks. “You can be your own person, now.”

Tears started falling down my face, their stream as steady as the murderous Seine. All I had ever wanted was to hear these words and to feel from Maman anything but her indifference. 

And, the day had come when I would finally know peace.

ACT V

“The Pont Mirabeau… that’s where I go,” Papa confessed like the weight of his secret had not been of his own making.

Perplexed, Maman pressed, “What are you talking about?”

“Every Wednesday morning, when you are all asleep… I like to walk to and from the bridge.”

“Whatever for?”

Papa shrugged. “It’s a moment of greeting or parting—I haven’t quite decided.”

“You never say anything,” I added, closing my eyes. “Please, say it now.”

“To express my remorse” Papa spoke as if those words could absolve the years of silence as if they could dry his tears. And they did. 

“Why don’t we make the journey together?” She blotted her single tear into a handkerchief. “As a family.”

“That sounds wonderful, Maman,” Meg echoed.

The ritual retreat to our bedrooms ensued, a symphony of doors closing in practiced cadence—all except for Prunelle. With a sigh of relief, she liberated the bouquet of peonies from their vase, indifferent to the water droplets spilling onto the floor like a trail of beads towards the front door. 

I placed my hand on my sister’s shoulder, bending down to her ear.

“Dry your tears, Nelle. We are but a day away from Spring.”