When I found her at her dressing table, demure in a black dress and cardigan, her black hat placed carefully on her head, she smelled Joy Springtoe at once. She pulled me into her arms and sniffed my neck. “You have another woman besides me?” she exclaimed in amusement. “I’m jealous.” I grinned up at her. She sniffed me again, this time exaggerating the noise. “She’s pretty. She smells of flowers. Gardenia, I think. She’s not French. She’s…” She hesitated to tease me. “She’s American. Her eyes are gray, her hair blond, and she has a very infectious laugh. I think you are in love, Mischa.” I lowered my eyes, believing that I had indeed lost my heart in the way grown men do. “Does she know?” I shrugged helplessly. “Oh, the language of love far exceeds the need for words. I think she knows.” She placed her lips on my forehead. “And I think she likes you too.”
As we walked down the path that cut through the fields to the town, my heart was so light it almost lifted me off the ground. Thoughts of Joy Springtoe vanquished my fear of going to Mass. I pictured her tear-stained face and knew that I had stopped her crying. My mother was right; she liked me too.
Small flies hovered on the hot air, their tiny wings catching the sunlight and sparkling. A light breeze blew playfully through the cypress trees, making their branches dance. I held a stick in my hand, hitting stones on the ground as I went. We walked in silence, listening to the birdsong and the rustling of the branches above us. The sky was clear, the sun bright but not yet too intense. Then I heard the doleful chiming of church bells, and the pink-tiled roofs of the town came into view. I took my mother’s hand.
The church of St. Vincent de Paul dominates the small town of Maurilliac. To me it was a fitting home for Père Abel-Louis, whose stern accusing eyes appeared in my nightmares, but not for God. If it was God’s house, He had moved out long ago, leaving it vacant for Père Abel-Louis to move in like a cuckoo. The church was built of the same pale stone as the houses, with a pinky-orange tiled roof, bleached by the sun, and a tall, needle-thin spire. Below it was a square, the Place de l’Eglise, around which the town was built. There was the boucherie, with its red and white awning and shiny tiled floor, where long saucissons hung from the ceiling with other dry carcasses upon which fat flies settled. The boulangerie pâtisserie, smelling of freshly baked bread and cakes, enticingly displayed in the window. If I had been as other children, I would have skipped into town and spent what my mother gave me on chocolatine and tourtière. But I didn’t, because I was not welcome there. Then there was the pharmacie, where my mother bought cream for my eczema, and a little café and restaurants that spilled out on to the pavement beneath awnings in the colors of the French tricolore. I’m sure the Pheasants lunched there on duck and foie gras, drinking fine wine from the château, and perhaps Joy Springtoe bought apple tarts from the baker’s; she looked like the sort of woman who liked sweet things.
We walked down the street, in the shade of the houses, as if my mother were keen not to be noticed. Her grip tightened around my hand as we entered the square. Although I kept my gaze to the ground, watching her black buckled shoes and white socks as she strode forward, I could feel the eyes of the town upon us. My throat constricted and not even thoughts of Joy Springtoe could assuage my fear. I moved closer to her and lifted my eyes to see that her chin was high, defiant, though her throat was tight and her breathing shallow.
In spite of the horror of it all, my mother had only missed one Sunday — the Sunday I had been taken ill with a fever. Otherwise, she had gone, as she had done before and during the war. She said she felt safe in the church and that nothing would stop her worshiping God. Didn’t she know He wasn’t there?
We strode over the checkerboard floor, past hostile congregants and unforgiving statues of the saints, and sat on our usual chairs at the front. My mother immediately sank to her knees, as she always did, and placed her head in her hands. I dared to look around. People were whispering, staring, the old ladies nodding their approval as if the right place for my mother was on her knees, asking forgiveness. One of them caught my eye. I looked away for their eyes stung like wasps.
Père Abel-Louis strode in and the whispering stopped. Draped in crimson robes he cast an awesome shadow. I winced for I knew that it was only a matter of time before his eyes would rest upon us and I would feel the full weight of his reproach. My mother sat down. Her movement among the still congregation would have caught his attention if it weren’t for the fact that we sat in the same chairs every Sunday, watched over by a somber statue of the Virgin Mary. Père Abel-Louis turned his burning eyes on us and spoke. I shuddered. Why couldn’t my mother see that this church was no longer God’s home?
I took my little rubber ball out of my pocket and played with it in my hands. It was the only way I could distract myself from my fear. As I rolled it around in my palm I thought of my father. If he were alive he would never permit me to be afraid. He’d have the priest strung up in the town square and punished for his evil ways. No one was more important than my father. Not even Père Abel-Louis who believed he was God. How I wished my father were there to protect us. I didn’t dare look up in case the priest read my thoughts and, besides, the disgust in his eyes was something I would never get over. The trick was to avoid looking at him. If I didn’t see him he couldn’t hurt me. If I blocked my ears to his voice, I could almost pretend that he wasn’t there. Almost.
Finally the clock chimed twelve and the priest invited the congregation to partake in communion. That was our cue to leave. I sprang up and followed my mother up the aisle. Her footsteps made loud tapping noises on the stone. I always wished she’d leave with more discretion. It was as if she wanted everyone to notice. I felt the priest’s eyes burning into my back. I could smell his anger as if it were smoke in the air. But I followed my mother and I didn’t look around. I kept my eyes on her ankles, on those white socks that made her look more like a girl than a woman.
On the way back I was like a dog let out into the fields after being locked in a dark cage. Mass was over for another week. I ran about chasing butterflies, kicking stones, jumping over the shadows cast by the towering cypress trees that lined our way. When finally, in all its magnificence, the château came into view my heart swelled with relief. Those sand-colored walls, tall shiny windows, and pale blue shutters were home to me. The imposing iron gate, upon whose pedestals sat watchful, silent lions, represented refuge from the unfriendly world outside. That house was all I had known.
3
Yvette was unpleasant to everyone. Her eyes were always clouded with fury, her wide forehead screwed into a frown and her thin, dry mouth a mean line carved into a face of dough. She was large, and dominated the kitchen with zealous determination to inflict on those who worked under her as much misery as possible. She shouted, and banged the table with her fist and huffed like an angry bull until smoke almost blew out of her nostrils. Only when Madame Duval entered her premises did she yield to the greater power. She would incline her head, wring her hands, but she never smiled. Not ever. I was her favorite target and, being small, I was easy prey.
I didn’t like to go into the kitchen, but often it was unavoidable. Madame Duval thought it inappropriate for a boy of my age to run wild about the grounds all day and ordered Yvette to find things for me to do in the kitchen. So, I was put to work. I scrubbed the flagstone floor on my hands and knees until my skin was raw and my knees bruised. I helped dry up, taking the greatest care not to break anything, for the force of Yvette’s strong hand across the back of my head was far greater than Madame Duval’s cold slap. I washed vegetables, peeled them and chopped them, collected eggs from the chickens in the yard, and milked the cows. However, that summer I became indispensable for the most unlikely of reasons — a bane which became an unexpected boon.
It was a big kitchen with copper pots and pans and utensils hanging from the ceiling and walls, and strings of onions and garlic and bunches of dried herbs. In order to reach them, Yvette had to fetch the ladder, for, in spite of her f
erocity of character, she was short. It was a wonder the thing didn’t break under her enormous weight. She was old — at least to me — and her joints creaked, and her thick ankles trembled even on the first step. She was fearful of heights and often ordered Armand or Pierre to do the job for her. But one day her eyes rested on me and suddenly glowed with a spark of inspiration. “Come here, boy,” she called. I hurried over, afraid that the floor didn’t shine enough or that I had peeled the wrong basket of carrots. With a large hand she grabbed the back of my shirt and lifted me off the ground. I was held as if I were a chicken about to have its neck wrung. I wriggled and kicked in panic. “Stop it, you silly boy!” she barked. “I want you to grab that pan.” Obediently I unhooked it from the wall, relieved when my feet touched the ground again. Then she placed her hand on my head and, in a moment of gratitude that probably took her as much by surprise as it did me, she patted me gently. From that moment, I was no longer the slave boy toiling away in the shadows, but a vital tool. She was pleased with her idea and used me all the time, more than she needed to. I, in turn, grew to enjoy those sudden lifts in the air and took pride in my new role. Yvette no longer hit me, even when I missed a bit on the floor, because I was now her special “grabber.” I was sure I sometimes heard her chuckle as she held me, feet dangling, arms outstretched, managing to reach even the highest objects.
My favorite job was helping Lucie make up the rooms. It was a small hotel. There were only fifteen rooms and some of the guests, like the Pheasants, stayed for weeks on end. I didn’t know how long Joy Springtoe was staying. I found out from my mother that she came every year to remember her fiancé, who had died in action after liberating the town at the end of the war. She thought it a dreadful shame that he should have died when it was all coming to an end, when the Germans were leaving.
Lucie wasn’t pretty like Joy. She had dark brown hair which she plaited, and her round face was plain and colorless like an undecorated cake. She didn’t speak much. As I didn’t at all, she probably assumed, like so many, that I was deaf too. I helped her make the beds and clean the bathrooms. She gave me the jobs she didn’t like, but I didn’t mind because, while I was in the Private Side, there was a chance I might bump into Joy Springtoe and, while I was with Lucie, I had a reason to be there.
Then one morning Monsieur Duval entered the room we were preparing. I shrank back into the bathroom, afraid that the sight of me might anger him. Through the crack in the door I saw the most extraordinary sight. Lucie stood in front of the bed. They didn’t speak, not even a word. He pushed her back onto the mattress and launched himself on top of her. He fumbled with his trousers, his face buried in her neck. She turned her head and seemed to stare right at me. I withdrew for a moment, ashamed to be caught watching. But curiosity pulled me back again. When I peeped once more, she was still staring at the bathroom door, her eyes half-closed, her sallow cheeks suddenly flushed pink. This time she was smiling. Monsieur Duval was thrusting his hips like the dogs did before they were kicked into separating by Yvette. He groaned and growled, murmuring something unintelligible, while she lay with her legs spread, her hand caressing his wiry hair. She didn’t care that I was in the bathroom, that I could see everything. After all, I had no voice, I couldn’t tell. What she didn’t realize was that I could write.
That evening I communicated the events of the day to my mother. When I wrote about Lucie she didn’t seem in the least surprised. She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “There are some things that shouldn’t be witnessed by a little boy like you,” she said, stroking my hair. “That is not making love, my darling. That is nothing more than a dog peeing against a tree. Lucie was the nearest tree.” She took my hands in hers. Her face softened and her brown eyes filled with tears. “When a man truly loves a woman, like I loved your father, they embrace and kiss and hold each other close in a tender way, never wanting to part, longing to remain like that forever. Making love like that is special, when your heart is so full of love it fills the whole of your chest so you can barely breathe.” Then she laughed mischievously. “Monsieur Duval is worse than a dog, he’s a pig.” And she made a few grunting noises, screwing up her nose and tickling my stomach until I wriggled with pleasure.
“Does the boy have a father?” asked Debo. Her paintbrush had been poised over a clean sheet of paper for the last fifteen minutes. In her other hand she held a cigarette in its ivory holder, bringing it to her red lips every now and then to drag smoke into her lungs. “I’ve seen his mother, she’s a natural beauty.”
“He probably died in the war. So many did,” said Daphne who was well into her landscape, coloring in trees and fields of vines.
I lay on the ground flicking through the picture book she had brought me, beside her little dog, Rex. Having found me playing with Pistou on the bridge a few days before, they had gathered me up and taken me with them to lie in the sun and share their picnic. I liked them and I adored the picture book, which had page after page of photographs of England. I had a good view of Daphne’s feet too, clad in rich green suede with little gold bells tied on the ends of the laces.
“A strange upbringing for a child,” commented Gertie, measuring distances with a paintbrush, squinting in the sunlight. She wore a straw hat and her hair, drawn into a chignon, had begun to escape in thin wisps that danced about her jaw on the breeze.
“The boy can’t speak, one can hardly send him to school,” said Debo. “And this isn’t England, is it?”
“Are you suggesting that France is backward?” Daphne asked waspishly. “I don’t think a mute child would fare any better in Devon, do you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t compare Maurilliac with Devon!” said Gertie.
“He’s hardly going to grow up to be a lawyer. He’ll probably work all his life in the vineyard. One hardly needs an education for that,” said Debo.
“And I suppose you know all about vineyards, Debo,” Daphne retorted with a sniff. “It’s not simply pressing grapes and bottling them up, you know.”
“Don’t misunderstand me. I’m talking about picking grapes, not the science of turning them into wine.”
“This is a charming place for a child to grow up,” Daphne continued. “Fields and fields of vines, a beautiful château with a stream, an enchanting little town. Then, of course, people like us, coming and going. I would say his life has more than enough color to it.”
There was silence for a moment as they all concentrated on their paintings. Finally Daphne sat back in her chair and smiled at me from beneath her green sun hat. “He’s a dear little boy, though something worries me about his eyes.” Her voice trailed off and I looked away and stroked Rex. “They’re troubled.”
“Well, he was born in the war, poor darling,” said Debo. “And France was occupied. Must have been horrid growing up with all those beastly Germans marching around all over the place shouting ‘Heil Hitler.’”
“They took the best of everything,” continued Daphne, as if she were talking to herself. “The best wine, the best art, the best of everything. They drained France dry and then, on top of that, the poor young men had to fight for Germany. This little fellow’s father was probably one of those poor sods.”
“Did you know the famous vineyards walled up their best wine?” said Gertie. “I read about it somewhere. They collected spiders and placed them in the cellars so that they’d build their webs and give the impression that the walls were as old as the rest of the château. Very cunning.”
“Didn’t stop Hitler running off with all those beautiful paintings,” added Debo. “Shame they didn’t wall those up too.”
“You know, when they reached Eagle’s Nest they found half a million bottles of the best French wine and champagne and Hitler didn’t even drink!” exclaimed Gertie. “They were taken down the mountain on stretchers. Well, you know the French, wine is almost more important than people.”
They sat painting and arguing until teatime. Then they laid out a tartan rug and opened t
he picnic basket. There were biscuits and cakes and a flask of tea. I thought of the bakery in town, the one with the delicious display in the window, and eyed everything hungrily. Daphne, sensing my desire, lifted the plate. “Help yourself, dear,” she said in French, and I reached out and chose a brioche. I could see the pleasure on Daphne’s face as I chewed. She looked at me in the same way my mother did, her expression tender, her mouth a wistful smile. My cheeks full of brioche, I grinned back.
4
Joy Springtoe was my first love. I roamed the corridors of the château like a lost dog, hoping for another glimpse of her — hoping that she’d take me by the hand and invite me into her room again. My chance came one evening when my mother had gone into town and I had sneaked in from the gardens. I was only allowed in the Private Side when helping Lucie with the rooms. At all other times I was banned and the fear of being caught was ever present. Hiding in my usual place behind the chair I watched the corridor, listening to voices and footsteps, my heart lifting every now and then when I thought it was her, only to sink when it wasn’t.
When she finally did appear with her friend Diane, I crawled out and showed myself. “Ah, my little friend!” she exclaimed happily and, to my joy, she handed her shopping bags to Diane and took me by the hand. “Come, let me show you what I’ve bought. It’ll be good to have a man’s opinion.”
Once in her room, I felt safe. Madame Duval wouldn’t find me there and, even if she did, I had been invited by a guest. Surely she wouldn’t be able to punish me for that. The bed was made, Joy’s nightdress folded neatly on the pillow by Lucie. I thought of Monsieur Duval and cringed, hoping that they hadn’t used Joy Springtoe’s bed as a tree. Diane placed the bags on the floor and sat down on a chair while I hovered by the bed. “Sit down,” said Joy, patting the bed. “I’ll go and change into my new dress.” Diane smiled at me. I got the feeling that she assumed I couldn’t hear. She looked uncomfortable, glancing at me awkwardly without speaking. I played with my rubber ball, turning it around and around in my hands.
The Gypsy Madonna Page 3
