The Gypsy Madonna

by Santa Montefiore

  7

  Madame Duval and Coyote disappeared down the steps that led to the water garden and beyond to the fields of vines. I emerged from my hiding place with Rex. “Monsieur Duval should keep an eye on his wife,” said Gertie, squinting into the sun as she watched them go.

  “Good gracious, Gertie, the woman’s old enough to be his mother,” Debo objected.

  “What do you think he’s here for?” said Daphne, picking up Rex and placing him on her knee. “I mean, he’s young, unmarried, as far as we know, and doesn’t appear to be here on business. He’s come all the way from America —”

  “The man’s enjoying a holiday,” Gertie interrupted. “Does he need a mission to come here?”

  “He’s probably been lured by the wine. You know the ditty? How does it go?” Debo narrowed her eyes to remember. “God made man Frail as a bubble; God made love Love made trouble, God made the vine Was it a sin That man made wine To drown trouble in?” She gave a throaty laugh. “I think he’s come for the wine.”

  “Well, of course he’s come for the wine. Why would one come here if one wasn’t interested in wine?” Gertie was indignant.

  “It just seems odd to me, that’s all.”

  “There’s nothing odd about it, Daphne,” said Gertie. “You’re far too romantic, that’s the trouble. You read too many novels. Can’t a man enjoy a holiday without you lumbering him with all sorts of intrigue?”

  “Perhaps he’s running away from someone.” Debo sipped her tea thoughtfully. Then her lips twitched at the corners and the beginnings of a smile tickled her face. “Perhaps he’s come here looking for someone,” she added darkly. “A lost love.”

  “Quite,” Daphne agreed, giving Rex another biscuit. “What do you think, Mischa?” I shrugged. I had no idea why Coyote had come and I didn’t care. I was only interested in how long he would stay.

  “Let’s invite him to join us for dinner,” suggested Debo. “Then we can get to the bottom of it.”

  “Marvelous idea, Debo,” said Daphne. “I tell you, Gertie. There’s more to all this than meets the eye. Holiday indeed! He doesn’t look the type to take a holiday. He’s far too…too…” She narrowed her eyes. “Far too busy.”

  Their conversation was diverted by the prospect of their painting expedition, so I left in search of Pistou. I found him by the river, sitting on the bank watching a butterfly that had landed on his hand. I sat down carefully so as not to frighten it and we watched it together for a while, until the colorful creature spread its wings and flew away, its movements jaunty as if it had sipped from the vine and grown drunk.

  I remained there for most of the morning. We threw stones to frighten the fish, paddled our feet in the cold water, and lay on our backs in the sun; I told him all about Coyote. “He saw you all right,” I said gravely, the warm rays spreading across my face. “Maybe I’ll let him into our secret world. Maybe,” I added. “I’ll have to see.” But I longed for him to earn such an honor. Even my mother had never met Pistou.

  I must have fallen asleep, for I awoke to the sound of a voice singing to the accompaniment of a guitar. I sat up and scratched my head. I felt groggy and hot. Pistou had gone, leaving me alone on the riverbank. I remained there for a while, listening to the song. I had never heard it before. It was sad, and the man’s voice was deep and gentle, like a low hum. I stood up and followed the sound until I came to a clearing in a little copse. There, sitting in the shade of a plane tree, sat Coyote.

  When he saw me, he didn’t stop singing. His eyes invited me over and I was glad to sit opposite him, cross-legged on the grass, and watch his fingers play the strings. He was leaning against the tree, the guitar resting on his bent knee, his face dark beneath his straw hat. I noticed his long eyelashes and the bristly skin on his cheeks and chin. Two crooked teeth stuck out a little and reminded me of a wolf. Jacques Reynard said that before the war there had been wolves in Bordeaux, but no one believed him. Coyote sang to me, for his eyes never left me, not for a moment. I felt the warmth of his affection wash over me. I felt an expansion in my chest as if my rib cage were opening up to accommodate this sudden growing. I smiled at him. I knew then that even if I hadn’t formally invited him into my secret world, he was already there. His song had penetrated deep and touched me right in my core, where it had been so frozen and still.

  Oh beat the drum slowly

  And play the pipes lowly;

  Oh play the death march

  As they carry me along.

  Carry me to the graveyard

  And throw the sod o’er me,

  For I’m only a poor cowboy

  And I know I’ve done wrong.

  We stayed there, Coyote and me, for what seemed a very long while. He sang lots of songs, one after another. I swayed to the beat, clapped my hands to the happy ones, and listened to the sad ones without moving. I wanted to join in. Inside my head I did so and perhaps he could hear me. Inside my head, my voice was clear and bright like silver.

  Finally, he rested his hands. “I’m feeling hungry, what about you, Junior?” I nodded, but I wanted him to go on singing for the rest of the day. I didn’t want to go home. There in the clearing reality was suspended. It was just the two of us in my secret world. “Want to go get a bite with me?” I nodded again, but I hadn’t anticipated him taking me into town.

  I was scared. Even beside Coyote, I was scared. I wanted to take his hand, but I didn’t want him to think me weak. I had only ever gone there with my mother, and she had always held my hand. As if sensing my discomfort Coyote patted my head. “You okay, Junior?” I looked up at him and managed a smile. He smiled right back and the look of complete confidence on his face boosted my courage. We walked down the street. I glanced warily at the houses, their shutters closed to keep out the midday heat, and imagined hundreds of pairs of eyes watching me. I could feel the hatred seeping through the cracks like smoke.

  Suddenly Coyote began to talk. He talked and talked and he didn’t stop. He told me about Virginia. “Now, it’s south, but not deep south, you understand, Junior?” His descriptions took me somewhere else, far away, to an old stone wall that surrounded a cornfield. “There was an old man who camped out there. I swear he talked to the animals for they ate from his hand as if he was an old friend. There were squirrels and hares and the odd prairie dog and of course birds, lots of birds. I was like you as a boy, I ran everywhere like a wild animal. I’d go up there to that stone wall and seek him out. We’d sit together and he’d tell me stories. He’d seen the world, you see. There wasn’t a place he hadn’t been. In fact, I bet you he’d been right here to this very château. Why, he’d probably drunk the wine they make for he wasn’t a fellow to miss out on a good thing.” While he talked, I listened. I listened so intently that when we arrived in the square it came as a total surprise for I had been unaware of the walk there.

  He strode over to the bistro, I following in his shadow, hoping to blend in so no one could see me. “Right, Junior, I think a table outside, don’t you?” He called over a waiter. The man looked from Coyote to me, then back again. Coyote placed a protective hand on my shoulder. We were shown to a table in the shade of a blue parasol. The bistro was busy. Most of the tables were taken. I looked at the large stone containers of red geraniums placed to mark out space for the tables that spilled onto the square. I had never noticed them before. We sat down and Coyote leaned his guitar against the spare chair. It wasn’t long before the waiter returned with a pad of paper and a pencil. A couple of women waved at Coyote from another table. He raised his hat and smiled. They blushed and fell into animated conversation. When the waiter gave Coyote a menu, my new friend thanked him in French and asked for another — “pour mon petite amie,” he said, and I felt myself blush like the two women because he had called me “friend.”

  I felt very grown up with my menu. I read it carefully, understanding most of the important words, but not the numbers. “Choose anything you want, Junior,” he said. “We’re going t
o enjoy a feast.” I pointed at the steak because my mother had gone into town when I was ill especially to buy me meat. She had said it would give me the strength to get better. Now I was tired of being “on the mend” and having to refrain from “rushing around.” I wanted as much strength as I could get.

  While we were waiting for the food, I wrote on the pad. Tell me more about the old man, and Coyote was happy to oblige. He sipped his wine and I drank lemonade and he embroidered the richest story I had ever heard. He said that the old man had a coat so long it reached the ground. It was made out of patches and each patch came from a different country. There was a red one from China that depicted a golden dragon; his body had shining scales and out of his mouth he breathed fire. There was an orange one from Africa with a ferocious lion and happy children with black faces. There was a blue one from Argentina with men on swift horses, and a yellow one from Brazil with a picture of the sea. Each patch told a story and each story was more fascinating than the one before. The dishes came, we ate, and they were taken away. When I looked about me, the bistro was almost empty. It felt as though we had been there for hours.

  After lunch we walked into the Place de l’Eglise to sit beside the fountain. I looked warily at the church, its doors shut in silent rebuke, the window opaque and hostile. I felt its cold presence as if Père Abel-Louis were bearing down upon me, questioning why we hadn’t gone to Mass that morning. How dared we defy him? A group of children played colin maillard, among them the little girl with brown hair who had smiled at me the day before. Their voices rang out across the square as they weaved nimbly around the trees, bursting into laughter when one of them was caught.

  Coyote sat on the edge of the fountain and began to play his guitar. “‘When I walked out on the streets of Laredo,’” he sang, and I soon forgot the church, Père Abel-Louis, and the children from whom I was always excluded. My soul stirred inside me like the warm thawing of a winter bud. My chest expanded and I felt a boundless joy and a sense that I could achieve anything.

  I suddenly noticed that the children had stopped their game and had come over to listen. They formed a circle around us, whispering to each other, watching Coyote intently, their eyes falling upon me like the eyes of curious calves. I saw the little girl with the smile.

  I hadn’t imagined it the day before, because she now smiled again. Her expression was kind, inviting. Unable to communicate myself, I had learned to speak through expression and to read the expression of others. I want to be your friend, she said with her eyes. You needn’t be afraid of me. And I smiled back shyly, incredulous at her generosity.

  Coyote sang on and the children sat down. We huddled together as if we were all friends, the music uniting us. I felt my shoulder touch that of the boy near to me, but he didn’t move away or even flinch, so I remained there, aware of our bodies, my shoulder on fire. Coyote sang a funny song, one which made us all laugh. He took off his straw hat and placed it on my head. I felt myself blush as the children’s eyes settled on me once again. Then the boy whose shoulder rested against mine grabbed the hat and put it on his own head to cries of delight from his friends. Soon they were all trying on Coyote’s hat. It was passed around and around as he sang on, his mouth a large grin, his focus always on me.

  Then the little girl with brown hair stole the hat and wriggled past the others to place it back on my head. Before I could react she whipped it off and shouted “Catch me!” I got up and ran into the square. Soon all the children were chasing her and I was among them, one of them, the sound of my feet echoing off the church walls with the rest of theirs. Coyote sang on, but I felt him watching me and I was glad. Surely he would be impressed by the number of friends I had.

  I ran fast, as fast as I ran down the avenues of vines with Pistou. To my delight, I found that I ran faster than the other boys. I was smaller but lighter, so I was able to dodge the trees with the ease of a monkey swinging from the branches. It wasn’t long before I caught up with the little girl and grabbed the hat. “Catch him!” shouted the others and they pursued me like a pack of dogs. For an instant my heart contracted with fear, as I remembered in a flash how I had crawled across the stones to my mother while the crowd bayed for my blood. But when I glanced back, their faces were full of delight, their mouths smiling widely, their voices friendly, teasing, as if I were one of them.

  We played all afternoon while Coyote strummed his guitar. Sometimes he sang, other times he just played, but all the while we raced around the square, the music he made reverberated off the walls of the church and surrounding buildings with the diminishing rays of sun.

  Finally the shadows lengthened until the formidable shape of the church fell across the square, hungrily gobbling up the last shafts of light. The children stopped their game and began to disperse. One or two patted me on the back. “Well run,” they said admiringly. I watched them go with growing disappointment. It had been an enchanted afternoon. Would they want me to play with them again? What if Coyote wasn’t there to charm them with his music?

  Coyote stopped playing and stood up. The little girl skipped over with his hat. “Thank you, Monsieur,” she said, then settled her smile on me. “My name is Claudine Lamont. I know you’re Mischa Fontaine and it doesn’t matter that you can’t talk. I don’t mind.” I felt my chest expand again and a warm feeling grow beneath it. She looked bashful for a moment and cast her eyes down to her feet. “You run fast,” she said, looking up from under long lashes. I saw that her eyes were green, like the vine in autumn. “Thank you for the music, Monsieur,” she added before skipping off and disappearing into the cluster of sandy brown buildings. “Laurent!” she cried. “Wait for me.”

  “I think she likes you, Junior,” said Coyote, placing his hat back on his head. “The language of love needs no words.” He chuckled to himself. “Come, let’s take you home to your mother. She must be wondering where you are.”

  We walked back to the château. The evening sun cast the fields in a warm amber light and birds chirped noisily in the trees, settling down for the night. The crickets rang out, hidden in the long grasses, and a lone hare hopped across our path. Coyote didn’t speak. His silence didn’t make me feel uncomfortable, I was used to it. I enjoyed silence. I liked to listen to nature and the irregular course of my own thoughts.

  I was deeply happy. I had played with the children who had always frightened me, and Claudine wanted to be my friend. I looked up at Coyote. His face was pensive beneath his hat. My grandmother had been right; the wind had brought change. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother. When we reached the stable block my mother appeared almost immediately. Coyote had been right, she had been worrying about me. “Mischa, where have you been?” she cried, pulling me into her arms. “You mustn’t disappear like that. Not all day!”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. We had lunch in town and he spent the afternoon playing with the kids in the square.”

  My mother looked incredulous. “Playing with the other children?” she repeated, dusting down my shirt with her hands.

  “They had a blast, didn’t you, Junior?” She stared at me, first with fear; then her expression softened and she smiled.

  “Did you?” I nodded. She embraced me and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Oh, Mischa, I’m so pleased.”

  She stood up and thanked Coyote. “This is all your doing,” she said, curling her hair behind her ear. “Thank you.”

  They looked at each other for a long while, until Coyote’s gaze grew too heavy and she had to turn away. “He’s a brave chevalier,” he said finally, patting me on the head. My mother smiled with gratitude and watched him walk away.

  8

  The following morning my mother was humming again. Her hair was loose and her eyes shone and I noticed that her hips swayed as she walked, the way they had when we had walked home with Coyote on Saturday. I wasn’t fooled. I knew they fancied each other. I had known from the start.

  I was excited about going across to the château to grab for Yvette because there was
a chance I might see Coyote. I would hide in the corridor and wait for him the same way I used to wait for Joy Springtoe. I dressed as quickly as I could and gobbled my breakfast while my mother drank her coffee and chattered away breathlessly. Happy that I had made friends, she had insisted I write down the events of the day before I went to bed. My writing was slow and laborious but she had waited patiently, prompting me for details, even though it took a while for me to relay them. “He’s a magician,” she had said. “There’s no other explanation.” Suddenly I wanted to confide in her about Pistou, how Coyote could see him too, but it frustrated me that I couldn’t write fast enough, so I didn’t bother.

  We walked to the château together, across the cobbled courtyard to the back of the building where the kitchen was situated. It was early. The chimneys caught the first rays of sun as the château shook off the nighttime shadows and stretched sleepily. My mother wore her working dress. It was black, imprinted with small yellow and white flowers. She looked pretty with her hair down. She smelled nice too, of lemons. I knew she was hoping to see Coyote just as I was.

  As we entered the kitchen we were met by Yvette. We were surprised to see that not only was she smiling, manically, like a woman possessed, but she was singing too. Her voice was terrible. It wobbled precariously like a bird too fat to fly. She didn’t seem in the least bit ashamed of it; on the contrary, she sang with gusto, her large bosom rising and falling as she strained to reach the notes. “Bonjour, Anouk , bonjour, Mischa,” she sang, and we both stood in the doorway, blinking in astonishment. If she had grown a beard and mustache we would not have been more surprised. For a start, she never greeted anyone. Not my mother and certainly not me. She never called me by my name, either. I was simply “Boy,” even though, since I had become her “grabber,” she had said it with some affection. Now she swayed around the kitchen in her white apron, her wide hips narrowly missing the corner of the central table where the bloody flank of a cow was laid out in preparation for lunch.