The guillotine was near the front of the house, where the roof was at its highest pitch, and the tall structure was covered, as one might cover a guillotine, with sheets and blankets. It was surrounded with oil paintings and boxes of puzzles I had never been able to finish. How my parents (or sister) had acquired such a thing, I'll never know; nor how they hoisted it into the attic through the small window in the ceiling. But how is less important than why, at least until I understand. Why was it there? My father cannot speak French and my mother, highly unread and easily put to sleep, would not know such an instrument if she had built one herself. It must have been my sister then who, at three years younger was ambitious as a fox and never minced words about her displeasure at our family, encouraged her squat friends to lift the damned thing over their heads into the pink clouds of sharp/soft fiber.
Where she got the thing--assuming, of course, she did--and how and why no longer interest me. I am in the instrument now, my head in the space for heads, my hand strangely on the pull-rope. I have touched the blade and it is dull, except if one were to run a finger down its edge, as one might a car door window, and do it with a measure of speed, then it would leave a mark, perhaps draw blood. With this knowledge I have "assumed the position"; I have "stepped up to the ledge and let go of the railing." Perhaps from where you sit this seems a strange situation; dire, if you have any learning at all. For me, however--and I won't say I was lured--the seduction to such a predicament comes entirely from within.
The voice is not French, as some might assume, nor does it have a recognizable tongue. It urges, even pulls if the feet stall, until you are face down in your attic, your head like a waiting cigar; until the hand yanks the rope and you hear the blade sliding downward, guided by someone's woodwork, and you realize what a mistake you've made and how your father was wiser than you thought and your mother, however much she spoke on the phone, had bore you with few strings attached, strings cut at last by your sister.
