by Andie Newton
He took a hard look at his wife, her face changing from pink to red, arms compressing around her chest, pushing her breasts into her fatty neck. Neither of them said a word—their eyes fighting it out. When she moved her hands to her hips, he shouted at the both of us.
‘Fine!’
The wife gently pulled the francs from my hands. ‘Get in before he changes his mind.’
I flung open the door and hopped inside, getting comfortable on the cracked leather seat. Victory, I thought. Then I saw the other passenger: that woman who’d taken the vacant seat on the train. She had been looking at her book and was unaware I had just negotiated a ride with the driver.
‘You?’ I said.
‘You!’ she said back.
Her eyebrows rose into her forehead, and I could tell she was more shocked than upset by my sudden appearance in the seat next to her. She defiantly swiped her hand over the seat to separate our dresses so they wouldn’t touch.
The driver got into the car, followed by his wife, who’d rolled up the francs and pushed them deep into the slit between her breasts. They’d barely closed their doors before the woman reminded them that she had paid for a private transport. ‘Looks like you know each other,’ the wife said.
We answered at the same time, stopped to allow the other to finish, and then talked over each other again, saying the same words.
‘No—’
‘We met on the train—’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘We didn’t exactly meet.’
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I don’t know you.’
We sat in silence, the warm air inside the cramped car rising like a blazing furnace, sweat trickling down my back. Then the engine revved from a heavy foot lying on the accelerator, and we lurched into a sudden drive with rocks spitting out from the tyres. Once the dust had settled both of them rolled down their windows and hot air raged into the back seat.
I held my hand out. ‘Adèle.’ Strands of hair blew across my face, tickling my nose as I waited for her to take my hand and shake it.
She offered me three limp fingers. ‘Marguerite.’
‘Nice to—’
She’d pulled her hand away before I could finish, and we raced down the lone country road, the back tyres fishtailing over the loose gravel. My knee kept knocking hers from being crammed in the back seat together. She’d huff, shifting this way and that, but then our hips or our forearms would touch. Until finally—after many minutes searching for a space of her own—she somehow managed to create a gap between our bodies.
‘There,’ she breathed. ‘Finally.’ She smoothed her hair to one side before gazing back out the window, looking as lifeless as a statue.
*
We drove north through the Beaujolais countryside and into the Saône Valley where the region’s Gamay grapes hung from thick green vines. Gusts of fermented oak and the earthy smell of dark topsoil filtered in through the windows.
I breathed it in.
As children, Charlotte and I would run barefoot through Papa’s vineyard in the Vichy hills of Creuzier-le-Vieux, until the evening chill had numbed our sun-soaked arms and our feet had turned black as tar from the volcanic soil that made Papa’s pinot taste so rich—but never in the Gamay vineyards. Papa forbade us from running through our neighbour’s farm, said the grapes made vin de merde. Shit wine. And that we’d come back smelling like it, worse, transplant that grape’s unique aromas into our vineyard and create something new and awful.
We were close to the convent; I could feel it in the valley air, and for the first time since leaving Vichy, I thought about what life would be like living with the sisters. Papa had me take communion as a child, but I hadn’t memorized any scripture and wondered if I’d be expected to. I’d have to remember how to hold a rosary.
‘How much longer till the convent?’ I said.
Marguerite jerked in her seat—suddenly very much alive. ‘Convent?’ She grabbed the wife from behind and pulled on her shoulder. ‘You’re not taking her to the train station?’
The wife looked to her husband, mouth in an open gasp, but all he did was grip his steering wheel tighter. There was an awkward long pause as Marguerite dug her fingertips into the woman’s fleshy shoulder.
‘Of course you’re going to the convent!’ Marguerite let go, but not without giving the wife a nasty little shove.
It didn’t occur to me until that moment that Marguerite might be headed to the convent also. Her makeup-less face, her drab clothes, and those odd silent stares out the window started to add up. I reached for the book on her lap, that same book she’d been clutching the entire two hours I’d known her, and flipped its cover back: The Holy Bible.
‘You’re going to be a nun,’ I said, ‘aren’t you?’
Marguerite snatched her Bible back. ‘This was supposed to be a special day for me, and you’ve all but ruined it with your intrusions.’
I sat still, hands recoiling into my lap, not sure what to say or where to look—a postulant’s arrival at her convent was indeed special; even I knew that—I felt bad, trying not to look at the rash still puffing on her neck.
The car skidded to a screaming stop. ‘We’re here,’ the driver said. ‘Now get out.’ He flung open his door. The wife folded her hands together and muttered something that sounded like a prayer while he went around the back and untied Marguerite’s crate from the bumper.
I got out of the car and, to my surprise, the convent was a medieval-looking castle perched on a hill. A massive stone wall enclosed the grounds and seemed to go in both directions for kilometres on end. A long drive led up from an opened iron gate to the front door, which I could barely see at such a far distance. Willow trees lined the path, weeping, swaying subtly from a breeze sweeping through the valley.
Marguerite walked slowly past me with one hand on her hip, the other on her forehead, looking somewhat disappointed.
‘It’s so beautiful—’
‘Shh,’ Marguerite said, throwing her hand in the air. A garden of yellow wildflowers cascading down the hill toward the city of Lyon seemed to only add to her disappointment.
Moments passed. The couple slammed their doors closed without so much as a goodbye and sped away. Pebbles shooting out from underneath spinning tyres hit Marguerite’s legs as she stood stoically still, her eyes set on the convent’s massive stone turrets peeking through the willow trees, her straight brown hair matching her lanky body and her long arms.
I couldn’t help but think how different we were. Brown, thick leather shoes and wide heels, scuffed ankles that grew into legs—I wondered if she’d ever tried to look pretty, or desired it. These were the type of women I’d be living with, ones with a devotion to Christ I couldn’t fathom, although admired, but also a strict aversion to fashion—and bad language. I had to watch my language. God, if it wasn’t for Mama’s mouth! Be sensitive.
I will help her, I thought, and the tension that had followed us from the train would disappear. I cleared my throat.
‘I’m sorry, Marguerite. Your journey didn’t go as planned. Neither did mine, but we’re here now. That’s what matters.’ I picked up one end of the crate, trying not to grimace from the overwhelming weight of the load inside, but it was too heavy to manage by myself. ‘Ugh! What’s in here?’ I dropped the crate, only that’s when she decided to pick her end up, its contents clinking and clanging against each other from the abrupt shift.
‘Marguerite?’
She made no mention of my apology, but rather ploughed down the path toward the convent with the crate dragging behind her, spooking a covey of quail that left pulls of breast feathers wafting in the air. I hurried after her, picking the crate up by its dragging end, and walked the rest of the way with her.
A Sister of the Order flew out of the castle’s wooden front door as we approached, her arms in a welcoming stretch. I dropped the crate, working to straighten my beret and smooth my hair.
‘Bienvenue!’ Her habit ruffled around her ankles as she made
her way through the courtyard. ‘Welcome to our convent. I’m Sister Mary-Francis.’ She threw her arms around Marguerite, whose walnut-shaped eyes peeped over the sister’s shoulders.
‘Thank you for the welcome, Sister,’ Marguerite said with a small curtsy.
The sister turned to me, her eyes rolling from my gravel-scuffed pumps all the way to the top of my head. ‘And who’s this? You brought someone with you?’ She noticed my pocketbook and seemed more curious about it than Marguerite’s wooden crate.
‘I don’t know who she is,’ Marguerite piped up.
My jaw dropped, momentarily lost for words as the sister studied me. I realized Marguerite and I had just met a few hours ago, but she made it sound like we’d never spoken, which I didn’t appreciate. I’d apologized, and as it were, just helped her carry that monstrosity of a crate up the gravel path.
‘Actually, we met on the train,’ I said. ‘I’m Adèle Ambeh.’
The sister offered me her hand to shake. ‘Very nice.’
‘I come from Vichy, seeking refuge.’ I pulled the francs Mama had given me from my pocketbook and piled the bundles into her hands. ‘Is this enough alms to let me stay?’
The sister struggled with the growing stack, dropping some to the ground. ‘Seeking refuge, you say?’
‘My father wrote a letter.’ I unfolded the note Mama had written and held it in front of her eyes since her hands were full of francs.
She read it aloud at first, but then mumbled her way through the last half. ‘Oh, I see.’ She smiled and nodded—Mama had written there would be more money the longer I stayed. ‘Well, Adèle,’ she said. ‘We do need help with the girls.’
‘Girls?’ I said.
Marguerite took a step back and watched us with folded arms.
‘Yes… rehabilitation. Girls displaced by the war…’ Marguerite huffed from her nose, and the sister suddenly seemed torn between the two of us. ‘Oh… umm…’ She motioned for me to make my way to the front doors while trying to manage the francs in her hands. ‘I’ll get you acquainted inside, Adèle, if you wouldn’t mind.’ I made a move toward the front door, but then she yelped. ‘Wait—what skills do you have?’
I winced instantly, standing with my back to her. I suppose I should’ve thought about these things on the train, but how could I with all that commotion? Truth was, I went through trades quickly, and I hadn’t done much at all since I quit setting hair, but the sister didn’t know that. I could clean a floor if I had to—the thought of Gérard waiting for me back at the altar was enough for me say anything if it meant she’d allow me to stay.
I cleared my throat before turning around. ‘I can—’
Another bundle of francs slipped from the sister’s hands. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, picking it up. ‘Go ahead inside.’ She pointed at the convent with her eyes. ‘Wait in the foyer.’ She shouted for someone to come outside and the door opened again.
A girl, someone who was not a nun, with a slick of mousy bangs pressed to her forehead and a blue smock hanging from her small frame. She clasped her hands behind her back and looked at the ground, waiting for the sister’s instructions.
Her eyes shifted once toward Marguerite, but just briefly.
‘This is Adèle,’ the sister said. ‘We’ve found our new mistress—she’ll join you with the girls. See that she gets settled.’
The girl clicked her heels and asked me to follow her, which I did, gladly. Halfway through the courtyard, I stopped and held my hand out to shake—I wasn’t going to make the same mistake I did with Marguerite; it was important for me to start off on the right foot. ‘Nice to meet you…’
‘Mavis,’ she said, just above a whisper.
Birds chirped in the trees, but even so, her voice was very soft. ‘Pardon—Mavis was it?’
She led me by the elbow toward the convent, nodding as we walked. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m a postulant.’
‘Oh!’ I said. ‘Just like…’ I turned around, pointing to Marguerite, only her and the sister were gone.
3
Rehabilitation, as Sister Mary-Francis had called it, was a place for the delinquents of France—girls between the ages of twelve and seventeen whose families thought they had strayed in God’s eyes. Just a few had been destitute from the war and placed with the convent out of desperation, until their families could reimburse the sisters monetarily or through service.
As their mistress, I escorted the girls to the sewing centre once a week in the city, inside a seventeenth-century building the sisters once used as their convent. The girls didn’t complain about the sewing. They knew the conditions at the convent were better than most. The summer heat was another matter entirely, and often on the mornings when the clouds were scarce and the sun beat down like a blister in the sky, they’d voice their displeasure in subtle ways. On these days, finding shade and staying in it was a necessity.
The bells in the tower clanged and clanged, and the girls scooted from the pews, hurrying out the side doors of the cool sanctuary into the warm outside. I clapped twice for them to make a line against the wall, but as soon as they felt the sun on their faces, they slumped against the convent as if trying to suck the last bit of morning dew from the castle’s weathered stones.
One girl picked at the crumbling mortar. ‘I’m sweating already,’ she said, pushing herself away from the wall to fan herself with her hand.
I snapped lavender sprigs off a nearby bush and handed each girl a piece big enough to rub under their armpits. ‘Pretend it’s your mother’s Chanel.’ They moaned.
Just as we were about to leave, Sister Mary-Francis burst through the door, out of breath and panting with her arms in the air. ‘Adèle!’ The rosary pinched between her fingers flung around her wrist. ‘Thank goodness! I thought I’d missed you. We got word there’s a special visitor in Lyon today and Mother Superior—’
I touched her gently, worried she was working herself into a state. ‘Sister, are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes…’ She glanced up at the convent behind me, taking a deep breath. ‘Mother Superior requests that you take the girls to the square—Place des Terreaux—to represent the rehabilitation centre.’ She took another deep breath, but this time exhaled very slowly.
The sisters counted on the money we made on orders. I couldn’t imagine who’d be important enough to interrupt our scheduled day of sewing. ‘Visiteur spéciale?’
She nodded. ‘Our beloved Pétain. He’s giving a speech—veterans for Pétain parade is to follow.’
‘Oh,’ I said with a gulp. ‘I see.’ Even I heard the snarl of disinterest in my voice.
‘The Vichy regime put God back in the schools, Adèle.’ Her face pruned, and I instantly regretted my tone. ‘We owe a debt of gratitude to Pétain.’
‘I understand, certainly, Sister—’ the girls lifted their eyes, pulling their collars from their necks ‘—I meant no disrespect. I’m merely concerned about the heat. The old convent feels like a wine cellar; it’s cool, and on a day like this…’
Her face loosened, though not completely. ‘It’s Mother’s wishes. In the main square in one hour—’ the girls groaned ‘—after the speech you are to come right back and take reflection on the convent grounds, in the cloister. No sewing at all today.’
No doubt there would be police in the square. Some may know Gérard, might even recognize me. I sighed—there was no way I could get out of it without coming across as insubordinate.
‘You’ll be there?’ she asked, though they were orders. ‘In one hour?’
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘Good.’ Her eyes flicked again to something behind me, and I swear I saw her nod. This time I turned, but looked right into the sun. She touched my shoulder and I looked away. ‘We will see you there.’
I nodded once.
As soon as she left, the girls whined and slumped against the wall as if they had just finished draining the last bit of coolness from the stones and had completely wilted from the heat.
‘Pétain,’ I said to myself. ‘A speech.’
Mavis licked her palm, running it repeatedly over her mouse-brown bangs until they were smooth and damp. ‘This must be terribly important to Mother if she’s interrupting a sister’s private prayer.’ Her voice squeaked when she talked fast. ‘Shall we leave?’ She played nervously with her fingers.
‘Leave?’ The realization of what I was about to do kept my feet from moving—I felt no glamour in supporting Pétain, standing in a crowd waving and smiling. Mavis’s concerned, little brown eyes stared up at me, waiting for an answer as I took a hard look down the path that led away from the convent, fingernails in my teeth.
‘We do what we have to,’ Mama had said before I left. ‘When we have to.’
‘Girls,’ I said using my head to point the way. ‘Looks like we have a speech to attend.’
Some of them seemed excited to do something other than sew, while others lumbered down the path, rubbing their armpits with the lavender sprigs. The last sprig went to Mavis.
‘Sorry,’ I said, realizing I’d given her the smallest one. ‘I picked the bush clean. There might be more down the way.’
She smiled, taking the sprig. Then something caught both our eyes. A shady presence set high up in the castle wall, in a narrow window with its shutters pushed wide open, right above where the sister and I were talking. A leafy vine of ivy that hung over its opening fluttered from having been moved, but there wasn’t a breeze.
‘Mavis.’ I elbowed her. ‘Did you notice anyone in that window earlier? Seemed like Sister Mary-Francis was distracted by something.’
‘I saw Marguerite.’
‘In the window?’ I looked at her once. ‘Watching me?’
She nodded. ‘I think so.’
A hand reached out from the dark middle and closed the shutters. I stood for a moment, wondering why Marguerite would do such a thing, when Mavis spoke up.
‘She asked me about you.’
‘What did she ask?’ I said, but Mavis shrugged as if she didn’t know.
The girls travelled farther and farther down the path, and now I could only hear them.
