The Hans and Franz show? Chrétien sounds puzzled. I can just picture his brows pulling together.
Oh, sorry. That’s what I called the guys who held me hostage at the castle, I explain. At different times, each of them rippled me invisible with them. Hans abducted me first, but Franz grabbed me in France, when I tried to run. And I never heard them in my head.
Not once? asks Chrétien.
Never. Not that I would have wanted to. Ick!
As to the why … we shall have to consult Sir Walter. I can only say they have no drop of de Rochefort blood within them.
Dude! I reply. Asian here. Pretty sure there’s no de Rochefort in me, either.
Chrétien laughs. As I said, we must consult mon père, my father.
At that moment, however, something occurs to me. Now I’m worried. Can Chrétien hear all my thoughts? Did you just hear me think that, um, I’m worried about something? I ask Chrétien.
I did not. If our communication is like that I have shared with others, I will hear only what you intend for me.
THANK GOODNESS, I think to myself.
This falls into a category of issues of which my father often speaks, muses Chrétien.
No clue how I know he’s musing. I just do.
When he trained me as a chameleon—a rippler— my father reported unto me that with many things, it is our intention that matters most.
Intention matters most? The heck? What is that supposed to mean? I ask.
Well, replies Chrétien, suppose you wish to keep some of your thoughts to yourself. You can do so by not intending them for me.
Right. Got it.
With motion, continues Chrétien, my father trained me early that to desire a motion is the same as achieving it. That is, have you considered how it is that we remain within the walls of this horseless carriage?
I can’t say I’ve considered it. Not remotely. No, I respond.
Well, if I wished, I could take us out through the roof of the carriage. Or plunge us down beneath the passageway upon which we speed.
Ugh! No! Don’t you dare do either of those things!
I hear Chrétien’s laughter inside my mind.
Have no fear, Mademoiselle. I do not desire to do so either, and so long as it is not part of my intent, it will not be part of our experience, either.
I think about this for a few seconds. That’s just weird.
Not at all, argues Chrétien. Think of yourself as in a stream of water. Imagine it as of a depth sufficient that you could, if you so desired, plunge yourself underwater. Now imagine instead that you are carried by the stream, that you make no effort to move of your own accord.
So, rippling is like being in a stream? I ask.
Well, it is not a perfect analogy, but there are similarities. You can choose to plunge under water or to rise out of it, can you not?
Yeah, I answer. I guess so. Although, if you were unconscious, you wouldn’t be doing much swimming. The stream would just carry you.
Chrétien is silent for a moment. I believe the analogy would still hold true. An unconscious cham—er, rippler—would not, lacking intention, have governance of his motion, either.
So don’t go unconscious on me, okay?
His laughter fills my mind. Allow not yourself to worry.
Right, I respond. Because that’s so easy when I’m freaking invisible!
Might I, asks Chrétien, tell you une histoire—a story? Would you like that?
Um, sure? A story would definitely take my mind off my disturbing lack of substance.
Such was my intention, says Chrétien. And he launches into his tale with the best four words to start any story.
Once upon a time, there was a very young prince whose father fell ill and died. The reine, the queen, loved her little boy very much. But she knew that many of the nobles of the land would like to prevent the boy from growing to an age where he could assume the crown, as they thought they might wear it better themselves.
In this environment of threat, the boy grew under the care of his mother. She taught him to love les beaux arts: drawing, music, theater, and dance. And of course she taught him as well to consign his fate into the care of Most Holy God. After all, as God had seen fit to bring the boy into his mother’s womb after a twenty years barren marriage, surely God had plans for the young king’s good.
However, often it seemed as if Most Holy God had forgotten the prince. His countrymen fought amongst themselves and attacked the minister who ran the country on the child-king’s behalf, and before he had reached ten years of age, the boy had known both poverty and starvation. But in his tenth year, peace was restored to his land, and he began to live more after the fashion of a prince.
His education, besides his religious instruction, included history, politics, some economics, and always, there was the theatre, dance, and la musique.
I interrupt. Is this a true story?
Chrétien’s laughter rings in my head. As true as truth, he says.
Is it the story of your life? I ask next.
My life? No, no, no. Again with the laughter. This is the story of Louis Quatorze, the Sun King. Upon whom you are commanded to create a composition, if I am not mistaken.
I sigh. You’re not mistaken. Any idea why Sam thinks I should do a paper on dancing?
But of course, replies Chrétien, the Sun King was a most passionate advocate of the dance, which was called at the time “le ballet.”
I interrupt. “Ballet” as in … ballet?
Do you inquire so as to determine if the word is the same in French and English?
Um, yeah.
Yes, I believe the word is the same, Chrétien replies.
Okay, so this starving king was big on ballet? I ask.
But of course, replies Chrétien. Ballet saved the kingdom.
Ballet? Saved France? I find that hard to believe.
Nevertheless, replies Chrétien, it is so. The French kings recognized the power of spectacle to assuage the passions … to calm the violence within man, and thus, to prevent its eruption between those who disputed.
Huh. I am pretty sure this wouldn’t succeed in today’s world. Did it work?
Mademoiselle, you sound as though you had doubts. Have you never observed the power of a song, of a dance, to soothe the savage nature of man?
I think for a minute. I mean, sure, I’ve heard the saying, “Music soothes the savage beast,” but I sort of thought the saying was about, I don’t know, lions and tigers and bears. On the other hand, I have had some firsthand experience with being soothed by music myself, or being moved by watching a couple dance with everything they have to give.
Is not music a reflection of the order of the universe? asks Chrétien.
I thought the universe was in a state of increasing chaos, I reply.
Given such a belief, responds Chrétien, it is no wonder the arts have no hope of bringing peace into the world you inhabit.
It sounds depressing when you put it like that, I admit.
Chrétien is silent for a full minute this time.
I am just deciding he’s done talking when, finally, I hear him again. There are aspects of living in your time which I find troublesome. Perhaps your world has, indeed, lost the ability to feel the soothing power of the arts.
We’re both quiet for a long time. I think through the things he’s said and try to imagine a world where the universe is seen as orderly. And honestly, even though I said something about the chaotic nature of the universe, I don’t really know what it means. I was just parroting something from a physics paper one of my old boyfriends had me edit for grammar.
I mean, when I think about the world, sure, crazy-mad chaos is everywhere. But when I think about the universe—like, the stars, the moon, the sun—I guess I’d have to say that from where I’m standing, I see a bunch of order. I get a full moon once a month whether I need it or not, and the Little Dipper spins around the North Star year in and year out. Orderly. Repeated. Reliable. Even the s
trange stuff like meteor showers and comets and eclipses can be predicted.
And then something comes back to me, and I want to tell Chrétien about it.
You still there? I ask Chrétien.
I have not departed, he replies.
It’s just … I thought of something. I saw a live flash mob two years ago.
Chrétien is silent for several seconds. I am unfamiliar with the words you employ.
Sorry, I say. Yeah, I think flash mobs are pretty modern. It’s when a group of people sing or play music or dance or all three together.
A concert? asks Chrétien.
Sort of. Only, the audience doesn’t know it’s going to happen.
Chrétien asks, How is it possible to assemble an audience without their knowledge?
I laugh. Or … whatever you do invisibly when something’s funny. That’s the point. Flash mobs don’t happen in theaters or on stages. People do them in shopping malls or Time Square or Red Square. Where no one’s expecting them, right in the middle of an ordinary place. First one person starts the performance and then people join in, like they’re coming out of the woodwork, you see?
An individual coerces a group to join him in performing? asks Chrétien. Without rehearsal? The performance cannot be of very high quality, in such a case.
No, no, I say. The ones who join have all rehearsed together. Lots of rehearsing together. Then they show up and surprise people with a performance.
Ah, says Chrétien. What a noble endeavor.
Um, yeah, actually, I reply.
May I ask what made you wish to explain unto me the … flash mobbing?
Flash mob, I say. Well, the year Ma and I left Los Angeles for good, there was a shooting at the mall where Ma ran one of the aunties’ bakeries. I was there helping in the back, so I missed seeing the bad stuff, but what I heard was awful enough. I pause. People died.
I am sorry Mademoiselle had to experience such a thing.
Yeah, I say. Mademoiselle’s sorry, too. But the reason I told you about it is that, maybe a week or so later, a flash mob gathered in our mall and played Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. Now, I’m not a Beethoven kind of girl, Chrétien. I didn’t even know it was Beethoven at the time. But here’s what I do know. After the shooting, our little shopping mall felt full of death and hopelessness. It was a dark place. But that orchestra or whatever they called themselves brought hope back inside our mall.
You could see it in people’s faces when they stopped shopping and just listened. A ton of people cried. Didn’t even try to hide it. Mostly people smiled. Kids danced and copied the conductor, waving their arms all over. It was like the whole mall started breathing again. I pause for a few seconds. I don’t know if that makes much sense.
It sounds to me, Chrétien replies, as though order was restored to your, how do you say? Corner of the universe?
Yeah, I say. Like that thing you said earlier about the power of spectacle … something or other.
The power of spectacle to assuage the passions, says Chrétien. Perhaps your world is not so different from mine of old.
Maybe, huh? I’m glad I told him. I haven’t even told Sam about the mall shooting. Even though that’s what made Ma decide we were moving back to Las Abuelitas for good.
So, I say, tell me more about ballet. I think I might do my paper on Louis the Fourteenth: Dancing with the Stars.
Dancing with the Stars, Mademoiselle?
Never mind, I reply. Just tell me about ballet back in the day.
Chrétien pauses. About which aspect of the dance do you wish to be informed?
Um … I don’t know. Start at the beginning, maybe. How old would I be if I were learning to dance in the … uh … whatever century we’re talking about.
You, Mademoiselle?
Yeah. Me. If I lived back then, what age would I start taking ballet lessons?
You are the female of the species.
Yeah. No kidding. I mean, about time he notice, and all, but I’m not seeing the relevance. And your point is….?
Le Ballet is for … was for men, replies Chrétien.
What? Ballet? For dudes? Since when?
Chrétien sounds confused. If we are to speak of the age of Louis Quatorze, then ballet would be the province of men, naturally. Although I am informed this has changed in the intervening centuries.
Yeah, I reply, a lot must have changed. Are you telling me guys dressed up in frilly white tutus and pointe shoes in your era?
I am not familiar with the “tutus” or the “pointe shoes,” Chrétien replies. But I assure you it is most natural that ballet was the province of men. Women went not to war in my time, and you must understand, Mademoiselle, that dance has its roots in the martial arts, along with riding horseback and the use of arms, that is, weaponry. Dance was taught to boys of noble birth from the time they could walk, ride, and hold a sword.
Ballet for boys. Weird. Although I guess they call it choreography in film whether it’s fighting or dancing.
Chrétien continues. To dance well is simply to present one’s body in the most pleasing and perfect way at all times, whether passing a superior in a hall, or engaging an enemy with the sword, or performing to the accompaniment of music.
Well, I can definitely attest to the fact that Chrétien’s body is “at all times” highly pleasing, so maybe the French had something after all. I don’t say this to Chrétien, of course.
Okay, so ballet was just for guys in the time of Louis. Got it. So, is this like where dudes go in drag as girls? Like Shakespeare?
“In drag”? asks Chrétien.
Sorry. It means, dressed as girls. Cross-dressing. That’s what they did when Shakespeare was alive. At least according to my English teacher.
Your professeur of English is correct. Both upon the English and the French stage, the parts of women were enacted by men for public performances. Troupes of actors who performed for private engagements might include girls and women. However, it was not considered seemly for a woman to appear upon a public stage, so the roles of women were undertaken by men. Louis himself was a notably attractive shepherdess upon one occasion in my recollection.
I laugh. You got to love a ruler who doesn’t take himself too seriously.
Hmm, Chrétien replies. I would not wish to imply that my king took himself less than completely seriously at all times. In fact, I recollect his saying once, “They are mistaken who believe l’etiquette is mere ceremony and la danse an entertainment.”
“Etiquette” as in “etiquette?” I ask. Where to put your napkin when you’re done with dinner?
Chrétien laughs. Etiquette is the cousin of le ballet, encompassing all action, including the proper placement of one’s napkin after dinner. It includes as well how it is proper to approach the king, how to depart from his presence, where to allow one’s glance to fall, how to turn one’s wrist when playing a game of tennis. Oh, Mademoiselle, l’etiquette formed the all-in-all of my life at court. None of this could I have mastered without training in the art of the dance.
Wow, I say. This is going to be more than a four page paper. I am so getting extra credit in French. So, in summary, boys start military dancing lessons as soon as they can walk; all movement is governed by these lessons; no girls allowed in ballet performances. Does that about sum it up?
There was a girl, says Chrétien, once there was a girl.
I wait to see if he’s going to add anything to this. His tone’s a bit ominous. Or angsty, maybe. Although, I have no idea how I’m getting ominous-slash-angsty given that this is all just voices in my head.
Ah, says Chrétien, in a very non-angsty way. We approach now the lands of my father’s famille—my father’s family.
I take a look out the windows. During our drive, the land has changed from rolling fields to these pretty intense mountain-y stretches that sort of remind me of the road from Mariposa to Yosemite. The same low ground cover, green, and the same steep slopes. Not exactly mountains, by California standards, but
pretty mountainous, anyway.
And then, on one of the hills, I spot a ruined castle. It is beautiful in a way that sort of breaks your heart. Even more than the abandoned side yard back at Château Feu-Froid.
Look! I call to Chrétien.
There are many such ruins in this region, Chrétien tells me. My father’s own castle is one such. It is … triste.
Sad, I say. I know.
Now Sir Walter is talking, waking up Ma, and pointing out some gravel road to Sam and Will. I guess I’m out of time to ask about the “once there was a girl” business.
We pull onto a side road that turns out to be the private driveway leading to Sir Walter’s little cottage in the south of France.
“Hey,” says Will. “What’s with the front door?”
I look over to the front door of the tidy white-washed farmhouse. It’s wide open.
“Someone is here,” says Sir Walter. “Chrétien, come with me. Remain in your chameleon form.” Then he turns and addresses Sam and Will. “Ree-pill to safety with Madame Li.”
And he opens the car door, steps out, and ripples invisible.
Chapter Nine
A TYLENOL OF THE HEART
Okay, so one of the weirder features of being invisible? Your heartbeat. You don’t have one. I mean, mine should be thumping like crazy in my ribcage right now.
Chrétien, are you scared? I ask.
That is a difficult state to achieve whilst incorporeal, he replies.
He’s right. I try real hard to feel afraid as we head toward the house. I’m guessing Chrétien is the one doing the heading—I’m just sort of hanging on to him like a sweater he’s wearing. Mmm. There’s something I’d like to be: the clothes he wears everyday.
Gwyn. Stop it.
I don’t get to be Chrétien’s sweater. I don’t get to be his anything. Sir Walter made that clear. And now I discover it is possible to feel heartache without a beating heart.
I will allow no ill to befall you, Mademoiselle Gwyn, says Chrétien.
Yeah. Except for the part where you make yourself irresistible as Ma’s cookies and unavailable as syllaberries in winter.
Then I realize I am hearing a convo in French between Sir Walter and his son.
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