Waiting for Bojangles

by Olivier Bourdeaut

  Shortly before midnight, the crowd opened up a small space before the stairs, so the dancers could take their place in pairs. One by one, the couples danced an homage to the singer and her entourage. First came the elderly ones, with fragile bones and years of experience. Old as they were, they showed no weariness. Their movements were smooth and practiced, the decades had taught them certain tactics, they danced and spun as everyone applauded, and when they were done, by the crowd they were lauded.

  Then younger couples stepped up to show off their high spirits and ardor. They whirled and twirled harder and harder, until you might have thought their colorful clothes were about to burst into flames, as the crowd clapped and chanted their names. As they danced, the gals and the guys stared into each other’s eyes with a strange blend of domination and admiration, topped off with smoldering passion.

  There were also couples that spanned generations, which was just so sweet: little boys treading on grandmas’ feet, little girls twirling in their fathers’ arms, knowing they wouldn’t come to any harm. They were clumsy, approximate and affectionate, and though none of them danced imperiously, they all took their turn quite seriously. Like anything done with attention and application, it deserved our appreciation, so everyone clapped quite loud when they bowed.

  Then out of the blue, I saw Mom heading for the dance floor, one hand on her hip and the other upturned toward Dad. Although she seemed to be in good cheer, I was instantly filled with fear. With so much at stake, I knew they couldn’t make a mistake. Dad entered the arena with chin held high, and through the crowd ran a sigh. Though they said nothing out loud, the atmosphere was electric, as the townspeople settled in to watch the eccentrics—the only people for miles around who hadn’t grown up near this little town. For me, it was both exciting and stressful.

  After what felt like ages, the orchestra began to play, and my parents, like felines released from their cages, started circling each other, eyes locked, my mother’s movements light as a feather. My father’s eyes couldn’t tame her, but his love and support became her. I could have sworn I heard him say, “Come, my beloved, let’s fly away.”

  Then the lady in red began to sing, the guitars woke up, the cymbals started to ring, the castanets clattered and chattered, and my head felt light as my parents began to soar through the night. They spun and twirled higher and higher, leaping like flames in a bonfire. Their feet off the ground and their heads in the air, they’d touch down for an instant, then fly back up on a dare. Like impatient whirlwinds they spun ecstatically, their incandescent passion lighting up the scene dramatically.

  I had never seen them dance so fiercely, it was like a first dance, and a last one, too, but they weren’t done; it was a beginning, a middle and an end all in one. That dance was like an insane prayer, as though no one else were there.

  They danced without breathing, and yet they went on, and I hardly exhaled for the length of the song. I didn’t want to miss an instant of this bliss, nor to forget a single wild step. They poured their whole lives into that performance—the bad and the good, huge torrents of passion, folly and love—and the townspeople clearly understood. When it was over, they clapped like crazy for the foreigners who were anything but lazy. As my parents bowed, to the singer, the orchestra and then the crowd, applause for their grand finale echoed throughout the valley. Proud of them and hugely relieved, I finally felt like I could breathe. As on my feet I did sway, I was almost as exhausted as they.

  After the applause, which was deafening, everyone to them was beckoning, so my parents did the rounds, drinking sangria with half the town. I let them revel in their newfound glory, an unexpected new chapter in their love story. I stayed out of the limelight, sipping a soft drink, wanting only to think about my Spanish doll, my belle of the ball, who through it all, still had me in her thrall. Since all the girls wore the same dress, I searched for her without success. Or rather, I saw her everywhere, in a smile, a lock of hair. In the end, it was she who came up to me, her face hidden by her fan, the hem of her billowy dress in one hand.

  She spoke without looking at me directly, in a Spanish that I couldn’t really understand correctly. She talked and talked, the words rising from the back of her throat, the R’s rolling off of her tongue, while I looked as dumb as a goat: my jaw hung, and I gaped like a fish out of water. Yet she sat down next to me and kept on talking for both of us, because she could see that I was utterly useless. She didn’t ask a single question, I could tell from her intonation—she carried both sides of the conversation, occasionally glancing at my face, still like a fish’s. If I’d had three wishes, one of them would have been for our chat to go on like that forever. She shared her thoughts and the breeze from her fan; occasionally she’d pause, and then, with a smile, launch in again.

  In the midst of all that bliss, she stopped midsentence to give me a kiss—on the lips, as though she were my wife. I’d never been so happy in my life. So what did I do? I was immobile, a real imbecile. I’m kind of ashamed to have been so lame. She laughed and left, and then, with a swish of her petticoat, turned back to see the face of her freshly hooked fish, still dumb as a goat.

  As soon as we got home, I went to bed, but soon after I had turned out the light, while I was still lying awake rerunning the film of that incredible night in my head, I heard the door open gently, and saw Mom’s silhouette come soundlessly toward my bed. She lay down beside me, and curled me in her arms, as if to guide me. Believing I slept, she briefly wept, then started to speak, low and slow. Eyes closed, I listened, feeling her warm breath in my hair, just enjoying her being there.

  In a hushed whisper, she told me the story of a family that was ordinary, and of a charming and intelligent little boy who was his parents’ pride and joy. The story of a family that, like any family, had its ups and downs, but overall, more smiles than frowns. Most importantly, they loved each other and lived in harmony. Of a wonderful, generous dad, who rolled his bulging blue eyes and rarely got mad, and did everything in his power to make every hour as merry as could be.

  But sadly, a crazy disease had wormed its way to the heart of that jolly tale, and begun to assail their carefree life. Choking back sobs, Mom murmured that she had figured out a way to lift that curse before it got any worse. In a hoarse whisper, she said that it would be better, I’d see, and I believed her instinctively. It was a relief for me to know that we would soon get back to how it used to be, before her madness brought us so much sadness. She traced the sign of the cross on my forehead, then kissed me before she rose from my bed. As soon as Mom closed the door, I drifted off, confident that things would soon go back to how they’d been before.

  11.

  The next morning, on the table on the terrace, a magnificent bouquet—mimosa and lavender, rosemary, poppies, and oleander—towered over the breakfast tray. Leaning over the guardrail to look at the lake, I saw Mom floating on her back like she did every morning, her white tunic fanned out around her, her eyes toward the blue yonder, her ears tuned to the sounds from deep under, because as she liked to say, there was no better way to start the day.

  Turning around, I saw Dad, fresh from the shower, grinning at all the flowers. But sitting down, his grin quickly turned into a frown when he spied a pile of emptied-out sleeping pills. He glanced at me, his eyes filled with fright, then leapt up and ran down to the lake at the speed of light. I froze, sensing I had to beware, but unwilling to understand what was going on down there. I watched Dad run, watched Mom float in the sun, her arms forming a cross, her dress as white as an albatross as she drifted away from the shore. I watched Dad dive in and swim out, then I didn’t want to watch anymore.

  Once he’d carried Mom out of the lake, Dad laid her on the beach. He tried to revive her, touching her everywhere, pounding her chest like a madman, kissing her to share his air, show her his love and feelings. I don’t remember going down and yet somehow I was next to him, looking grim, holding Mom’s icy hand as he kissed her and whispered. He spoke as if she coul
d hear him, as if she were alive, as if she would survive. He told her he understood, that he would do what he could, that everything would be okay, it was just a bad day, that maybe not this afternoon, but they would be together again soon. And Mom just let him talk, looking very wise, she knew that what he said was lies, that everything was over and done, that there would be no more fun. Mom’s eyes stayed open so as not to add to his misery, because sometimes lies are gentler than reality.

  But I knew that this was the end, I had lost my best friend, because echoing in my head were the words she had murmured last night in my bed. And I cried, I cried like never before, I cried because I was so mad at myself for not having opened my eyes last night, for not having made things all right. I cried from regret—why hadn’t I grasped any sooner that her awful solution was to bid us farewell, to disappear, so we wouldn’t have to hear the screams in the attic anymore, or the static in her mind when she couldn’t find a way to be kind?

  I was crying because I had understood too late, that’s all. If only I had opened my eyes, if only I had replied, if I had asked her to stay with me, told her that, crazy or no, we loved her so, she might have been brave and not floated to her grave. But I hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even stirred, and now here she was, her body already cold, impossible to hold, her eyes far away, not seeing our fears, her ears already deaf to our tears.

  The three of us stayed by the lake for a long time, so long that Mom’s hair and her long white gown had time to dry. With the wind, her hair swayed; with the wind, her face seemed less dismayed, more alive. She was staring up at the sky to which she had flown. Her eyes were veiled by her long lashes, her lips parted. Her hair dancing in the wind made us feel less chagrined. The three of us stayed by the lake for a long time, because that was the best place for us to be, all three, looking at the sky together. Dad and I sat there without speaking, trying to forgive her for the torment she was wreaking. It couldn’t be undone, so we were seeking to imagine life without her while she was still there, nestled in our arms, her face turned to the sun.

  When we went back up, Dad laid Mom on a deck chair and closed her eyes, because they didn’t do her any good anymore. He called the doctor in the village, but just for the formalities; he already knew there was nothing anyone could do. They spoke for a long time, but I couldn’t hear them; I was watching Mom lying there, her eyes closed, un-weeping, looking like she was peacefully sleeping. Then Dad came to tell me that Mom had drowned because she’d hit her head on a rock, or caught her dress on a log, or some far-fetched thing like that. But I knew perfectly well that you don’t swallow a whole bottle of pills to go back to sleep, and then go swim in the deep. I understood: she wanted to go to sleep for good, because sleep was the only zone where her demons left her alone. And she wanted to be at peace all the time, which is no crime. She took those pills of her own free will, and even if I thought it was wrong, I had to go along. I didn’t doubt it. Besides, I had no choice about it.

  The doctor left Mom with us for one last night, so that we could say good-bye, farewell, adieu, and talk to her a little more. He could see very well that we still had a lot to tell her, that we weren’t ready to let her go. So he left instead, after helping Dad lay her on their bed. That was the longest and saddest night of my life, because I didn’t know what to tell her, all I knew was that I didn’t want to say good-bye. But I stayed anyway, for Dad’s sake.

  Slumped in my chair, I sat there, watching him talk to her, comb her hair and lay his head on her belly to cry. He scolded her and thanked her, chastised, apologized and criticized, sometimes all in the same sentence. But it made sense, because in just one night, he didn’t have time to say things right. He had to cram a lifetime’s confabulation into a single conversation.

  He was mad at her and at himself, and sad for all three of us. He talked about how our life used to be, and about all the things we wouldn’t do, the dances that were through, and even if it sounded confusing, I understood everything he said because I felt the same way, without being able to express it. My words bumped against my closed lips and got stuck in my tightened throat. All I had were morsels of memories jostling each other; nothing could stay long enough to feel whole, because you can’t remember an entire life in one night; it’s impossible. It’s mathematical, as Dad would have said in different circumstances.

  And then the sun rose, chasing away the night, and Dad closed the shutters against the light. We both liked being there in the dark with Mom, and wanted it to go on. Neither one of us wanted to greet this new, motherless day, so we closed the shutters to keep it at bay.

  In the afternoon, well-dressed men in suits came to pick up Mom’s mortal remains. Dad told me they were called undertakers, and their job was to look sad when they came to take dead people away, and to pretend to be in mourning, too. And although I thought that sounded like a strange job, I was still glad to share my sorrow with someone, even for just a moment. There could never be enough people to carry such a heavy load of grief.

  They took Mom away, without coffin or bouquet, to wait for the funeral in a special place just for that purpose. Dad explained that you can’t keep the dead at home in places that are hot, but I didn’t really understand why not. It wasn’t as though she could escape, so why all the red tape? We had already kidnapped her once from the loony birds’ pen; we weren’t going to do it again. I knew there were rules for the living, but it turned out there were rules for the dead, too. Who knew? It was strange, but that’s how it was.

  To share our sorrow, Dad asked the Creep to take an unscheduled vacation. He got there the very next day, with a cold cigar and clammy skin. He fell into Dad’s arms and started sobbing; I’d never seen his shoulders shake like that. He was crying so hard his moustache was covered in snot, and his eyes were a red that was well “beyond reason.” He came to share our sorrow, but he brought his own, too, which made a lot of sorrow for one house. To drown it, Dad opened a bottle of a liquid so strong I wouldn’t even have poured it on the roots of the tree. Dad let me sniff it, and it burned the hairs in my nose, but they took big swigs of it all day long. I watched them drink and talk and then drink and sing. They only brought up happy memories, so they laughed a lot, and I wound up laughing, too, because you can’t be miserable all the time.

  Then the Creep fell off his chair like a sack, and Dad fell, too, trying to help him up, because the Creep was a big package that was hard to lift. They laughed out loud, crawling around; Dad was half shaking with belly laughs, half crying real tears, and the Creep was rummaging around with his nose to the floor, like a wild boar, searching for his glasses, which had fallen from his shrimpy ears. I’d never seen anything like it, and when I went to bed, I couldn’t help wondering what Mom would have said. Glancing around, I thought I saw her ghost, for a second at the most, sitting on the guardrail and laughing and clapping like crazy.

  For the week before the funeral, Dad left me with the Creep all day and watched over me himself at night. During the day, he locked himself inside his study to work on a new book, and at night, he kept me company. He never slept, though he may have wept. He drank cocktails straight from the bottle, smoked his pipe to stay awake, and kept away from the lake. For someone who never went to bed, he seemed neither tired nor unhappy, but focused and joyous instead. He hummed as badly as ever, but like anything that’s done cheerfully, it was bearable.

  During the day, the Creep and I tried to keep ourselves busy. He took me for walks around the lake, and we had rock-skipping competitions. He spoke humorously about his work at Luxembourg Palace. We played Russian Droolette, but our hearts weren’t in it, and everything seemed sad. The walks were always too far, and the rocks didn’t skip far enough. The humor wasn’t really all that funny, he mostly joked about money, and the almonds and olives always missed their target, or hit us in the face, without laughter as a saving grace. When Dad watched over me at night, he mumbled stories that brought us no delight. Every morning, before the sun was fully up, I’d see him s
itting there, on his chair, looking at me with that peculiar gaze that had accompanied all my days.

  Spanish cemeteries aren’t like regular ones. Instead of suffocating the dead under a huge stone and a ton of dirt, they arrange them neatly in giant cubbyholes with drawers. In the village cemetery, there were rows and rows of cubbyholes, and pine trees to shade them from the summer heat. The dead were put into drawers to make it easier for people to come and see them.

  The town priest was there to officiate the ceremony. He looked kind and elegant in his white-and-gold vestments. He had just one long strand of hair that he had wrapped all the way around his head, to try to make it look like he wasn’t bald. The strand was so long that it started in the middle of his forehead and went all the way around, winding up tucked behind one ear. Neither the Creep nor Dad nor I had ever seen anything like it.

  The men in suits had come with their professional sadness and their big dark car with Mom in her coffin in the trunk. Mademoiselle was there, too; I had draped some black lace around her face. She behaved well and never fell into shrieking or squawking; she kept her beak shut and let the priest do the talking.

  When they took Mom out of the hearse to place her in front of her future drawer, it seemed like things couldn’t get any worse. But then there was a sudden gust of wind. Above our heads, the pine branches danced and pranced. At first, the priest prayed in Spanish, and we answered in French. But with the wind, his strand of hair kept coming undone, whipping all over the place, looking for fun. Trying to snatch it away from the wind and stick it back behind his ear made him lose his train of thought. He would pray a little, then stop to save his hair from the air, but the strand kept getting stranded. His prayers were all choppy and his skull was blotchy, and we got completely lost in the Mass. Dad leaned toward the Creep and me to whisper that the priest’s hair antenna must be tuned toward God usually, but with all that wind, he’d lost his reception and couldn’t hear the divine message.