My mother looked down at me and pulled a face. Yvette must have been drunk. Perhaps she had raided the cave where the wine was stored. There seemed no other explanation. We watched her weave her way to the larder, smiling at Pierre and Armand, who frowned at her with the same bewilderment as we did. In spite of the curious looks, she barely paused for breath. Pierre shook his dark head in a gesture of resignation, as one does when faced with an impossible riddle, and disappeared down the tiled corridor with a tray of silver coffee pots, the bald Armand following closely with the bread baskets.
The kitchen was warm and smelled of toast and hot milk. On the stove, eggs boiled in a large saucepan. Fresh flowers had been placed in a vase on the table where I would sit to chop vegetables. I had never seen flowers there before. I knew it was because of the wind, because of Coyote: Yvette’s singing, the flowers, the sudden change in the air that now vibrated with something pleasant and soft. When Yvette grabbed me, she swung me up with a loud trill, her voice wavering on the same note like an opera singer’s. I knew what she wanted, and stretched out to reach it. When I landed she patted me on the head, singing in time to her hand.
My mother retreated to the pantry. She had her routine and she kept to it, staying out of everyone’s way. The fact that she had worked at the château longer than anyone else, except Jacques Reynard, irritated the other staff; they couldn’t bear her to be superior to them in any way. So she was given the most menial tasks. She washed the sheets and ironed, polished the silver and mended. My mother was a good dressmaker, but that skill was never put to use, out of spite, I think, which frustrated her as she loved to sew. The few dresses she wore she had made herself, out of old curtains and sheets — once, during the war, she had even made a shirt from a discarded parachute she had found in the fields beyond the town. My father had given her pretty dresses when such items were impossible to come by for the occupied French, but she didn’t wear them now. That would have been too blatant a reminder of her collaboration, for which she was so cruelly punished. They remained hidden in a trunk in the stable block where no one could find them. She took them out occasionally, at night, when she thought I was asleep and unaware. She’d press them against her nose, hoping, I would imagine, to recall my father’s scent. Or perhaps longing for those better times when things had been good for us, when the shoes that strode the corridors of the château had been shiny black boots.
Yvette sang all morning. Pierre and Armand washed and dried the breakfast plates, passing them to me to put away. I scampered back and forth to the cupboard to stack them, but they barely noticed me; I was no more important to them than a dumbwaiter. “She’s in love,” said Pierre with a snort. He obviously thought it inappropriate for a beast such as Yvette to love as others did. I doubted either Pierre or Armand had loved as my mother and father had loved. They were cold, passionless men who only ever saw the negative. They could find a flaw on the wing of the prettiest butterfly if they looked for it. And they did look for it, everywhere.
“I would say she’s lost her mind,” Armand disagreed in his dull monotone. “They will lock her away in the end, you will see.”
“Someone should tell her not to sing.”
“It is her swan song, Pierre. Indulge her.” Armand gave a throaty laugh and handed me another plate.
“I stand firm. She is in love. Look at the flowers on the table, for instance.”
“They are already wilting.”
“Look at the way she dances about the kitchen. Don’t you think it’s bizarre?”
“People paid good money to watch freaks in medieval times.” Armand broke off his drying for a moment and narrowed his eyes. “Besides, who do you think she’s in love with? Jacques Reynard?”
“That American. He seems to have ensnared the heart of every woman in the château.” Pierre pursed his lips with ill-concealed jealousy. That a man had such effortless success with women was irritating enough. The fact that the man was an American infuriated him all the more.
“Monsieur Magellan,” said Armand with a nod of his small bald head. “Everyone is talking about him.” Pierre took his arms out of the soapy water and dried them on a dishcloth.
“Everything has changed since he came. Look at Yvette and Lucie; it was better when they were unhappy — at least one knew where one was.”
“Lucie smiles and Monsieur Duval struts about in a fury, like a bull denied his daily portion of oats. She’s avoiding him and it’s making him mad.” Armand shrugged. “For that I thank Monsieur Magellan.”
“I would thank him to leave. I don’t like change, especially in women. There is nothing more unsettling than a woman in love.”
Now Armand rubbed the frown on his forehead. “It is a plague, Pierre. Madame Duval has painted her face like a doll’s. They think we do not notice, the fools. How ridiculous they all look, flirting with a man young enough to be their son.”
“He is not particularly handsome.”
“His French is appalling.”
“It is simply gratitude, Armand. If the Americans hadn’t come into the war we would all be speaking German.” Their eyes settled on me. I shrank back into the shadows.
Armand’s face stretched into a cruel smile. “If the boy could talk, he’d speak German.” His eyes were cold with disdain.
“It is a blessing for him, then, that he cannot talk.”
“More like a gift.” Armand sneered. “If he could talk I’d wash his mouth out with soap.” He moved his hand towards the soap with a vicious look of intent and I scurried away as fast as I could, their mocking laughter hounding me down the corridor.
My mother was not in the pantry or the laundry room. With my heart racing, I searched for her everywhere I could think of. When I was afraid, she was my only refuge. On my search I had to hide twice. Once, when Madame Duval stalked down the tiled corridor towards the kitchen, her bony hand toying with the spectacles that hung against her chest, snapping instructions to Etiennette, her secretary. The other, when Yvette burst into the laundry room, probably looking for my mother. She paused for a moment, scanned the room with her small black eyes, then launched into another verse of song, before closing the door behind her. I dared not leave by the same way and scrambled out of the window instead.
I eventually found my mother in the kitchen garden. She was talking to Coyote. I crept through the gap in the gate and crouched down against the wall. I was well hidden by the tall rows of beans, but I could see them clearly. My mother was on her knees, pulling carrots out of the earth, shaking their roots and brushing them down with her hands. I thought it a shame that she wore a head scarf, for her hair had looked so pretty falling over her shoulders and I wanted Coyote to see it. Her dress was covered by a dirty old apron, but she didn’t seem to mind.
Coyote sat on the grass, smoking. He had taken off his hat and his sandy hair was thick and ruffled like a dog’s. I could see his blue eyes from where I hid; they were so clear and bright, as if the sun were shining out from the inside. He was laughing, his mouth wide, causing his cheeks to crease and the crow’s feet to deepen at the temples. I felt the warm thawing beneath my rib cage. It grew and it grew, filling the empty spaces in my heart until I found it difficult to breathe.
I crept closer so that I could hear what they were saying. I was used to hiding. It was something I was good at.
“I’ve worked here since I was twenty-one,” my mother said, pausing to wipe her forehead with the back of her hand. “Though things were very different before the war.”
“What happened to the family?” Coyote asked, dragging on his cigarette. He didn’t take his eyes off my mother, not for a moment.
“I don’t know. The Germans came and they were forced to leave. They had talked about going to England. They had family there. But they put it off. The château, the vineyard, Maurilliac, it was their home. They couldn’t bear to leave it. Besides, I don’t think they ever imagined Marshal Pétain would sign an armistice with Germany. It was a terrible shock. Th
ey were fighters, not quitters. They were appalled. But they were left no choice. They asked us to remain to look after the place. I don’t know whether they made it to England. I never heard from them again.”
“Perished, I should imagine.”
“How they would hate to see what the Duvals have done to their home.”
“But you remain?”
“In spite of everything, I remain.” She lowered her eyes and began digging again.
“It’s home to Junior, right?”
“And it’s home to me, too.” She placed the last bunch of carrots in the basket and stood up. “Besides, I have nowhere else to go.”
I felt a sudden tickling in my nose. Before I could muffle the sound into my hands, I sneezed. My mother turned, startled. Coyote simply smiled. “Hello, Junior,” he said laconically. “We could have done with a spy like you in the war.”
“Mischa!” said my mother, a little crossly. “You mustn’t go sneaking around like that.” I withdrew from my hiding place behind the beans. Her face softened and she smiled too. “Are you all right?” I nodded. “Is Yvette still singing?” I nodded again. “Good God,” she said, turning to Coyote. “This place is turning upside down.”
“The hotel is full of eccentrics,” he said. “Take those English-women, for example. They’re really something. They’ve asked me to join them for dinner tonight. There’s one thing it won’t be and that’s dull.” He stubbed his cigarette into the ground, pushing it into the earth with his shoe. He strode over to me and ruffled my hair. “What are you going to do, Junior?”
“He can come and help me with these,” said my mother, indicating the carrots with a nod of her head.
“I call that slave labor!” Coyote joked. “Wouldn’t you prefer to come exploring with me?”
“I really don’t think…” My face must obviously have fallen, for my mother dropped her shoulders in defeat. She was rarely able to deny me anything. “Well, perhaps this afternoon,” she conceded.
“I’ll take my guitar and we’ll sing some songs, right, Junior?” He turned to my mother and settled his eyes on her face. I noticed something tender in the way he looked at her, as if his restless eyes had found refuge there. “Would you care to join us?” My mother’s cheeks flushed. She tilted her head to one side, the way she did when she felt awkward.
“I don’t know…”
“Come on. I’m a guest of the hotel. I’m asking for your company. Hell, I’m paying a fortune to stay here, surely they can do without you for a few hours.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, but I knew from the look on her face that she meant yes. She just didn’t want to give in so easily. I think Coyote knew too, for he grinned boyishly.
“I’ll meet you on the stone bridge.” He winked at me. “That’s our special place, right, Junior?”
In the kitchen I set about washing and peeling the carrots with renewed energy. All I could think about was Coyote and the fun we were going to have that afternoon. Yvette continued to sing around the kitchen, occasionally tapping pans with her wooden spoon. Pierre and Armand suffered her dissonant song by rolling their eyes and exchanging barbed comments out of earshot. Once or twice she looked over my shoulder, resting her doughy hand there, trilling her approval as if the uncharacteristic dedication with which I worked was inspired by the same magic that inspired her good humor.
Having only ever regarded my mother with contempt, Yvette now thanked her for picking the vegetables and asked her, if she wouldn’t mind, to be so kind as to pick some raspberries for dessert. My mother didn’t know how to react to Yvette’s strange behavior. She didn’t trust her, as if she could change back into an ogre at any moment. She tried to act normally, as if she didn’t notice. If Yvette knew she was causing a scandal she didn’t show it. Though I suspect she did know, for as she paused for breath between songs, her mouth twitched mischievously at the corners.
I finished the carrots. Yvette had left the kitchen, taking her song with her. Armand and Pierre had gone to serve lunch in the dining room and my mother was probably toiling away in the laundry. I decided to sneak into the Private Side to find Coyote. I relished the challenge. Coyote had given me confidence. I really believed I would make a good spy. I crept up the corridors with catlike stealth, ducking behind the furniture whenever anyone approached.
The dining room reverberated with voices and the sharp clatter of cutlery on fine china. The room was large, with a tall ceiling and big sash windows. It was a stunning room with lots of light that spilled in from the garden, causing the polish on the wooden floorboards to shine. My mother told me that it had once been her mistress’ sitting room, leading into a conservatory and out onto the lawn. When the Germans came it was converted into a meeting room.
I crept outside and peered in through one of the windows. I found Coyote immediately. He was sitting with a couple I had not seen before. They were talking with animation and laughing in unison. At the next table sat the Pheasants. Daphne had Rex on her lap. He was chewing a piece of bread. I had noticed recently that he had grown rather fat, as had his mistress. She wore a deep purple dress with gold braid lining the V-necked front. Her earlobes were heavy with stones, matching the necklace that fell into the well between her breasts. On her feet she wore purple velvet shoes decorated with small pink feathers and shining pearls. I also noticed that they were far more interested in Coyote’s conversation than their own.
My attention was suddenly diverted by Yvette who had walked into the room. She had taken off her apron to reveal a pretty pale blue dress imprinted with daisies. She smiled graciously as she wove her way among the tables, accepting compliments from guests, stopping every now and then to engage in conversation. Her behavior was unbelievable, not to mention audacious. For a woman who rarely smiled, who took pleasure from other people’s misery, and who exploded into fury at the smallest misdemeanor, this grace was most out of character. I wished my mother had been with me to witness it, and the bewildered expression on the bloodless face of Madame Duval.
When she finally reached Coyote’s table she remained there for a long while, her hand on the back of his chair, her enormous bosom heaving with laughter. I thought Coyote would find her intrusive; after all, he had been deep in conversation with his new friends. But to my surprise he didn’t make eyes or huff in annoyance as Armand or Pierre would have done. He smiled broadly, showing all his teeth — gleaming white, they were, with those sharp eyeteeth that reminded me of a wolf’s. His eyes twinkled at her, holding hers for a long while before letting her go. He included his friends, gesticulating to them, then turning back to Yvette, throwing his head back and laughing too. I tried to find insincerity in his expression, dishonesty behind his affectionate gaze — anything to prove that, underneath, he disliked her as much as I did. In spite of my scrutiny, I found nothing but honest charm.
I then recalled his politeness to Monsieur Cezade, the way he had waved at the other customers when he had invited me out for lunch, the gentle manner in which he spoke to everyone, even, I suspected, to people he didn’t like. I wanted to know why. How was it possible to be nice to everyone?
9
My mother and I walked down the path that cut across the fields to the river. The hot afternoon air was filled with tiny flies and the musical ringing of crickets. She had taken off her head scarf and apron, and her thin summer dress flapped about her legs. She fanned herself with her sun hat and curled her hair behind her ear, which was quite useless, for a moment later a gust of wind blew it out, leaving it to bounce rebelliously about her jaw and neck. She walked with a dance in her step, swinging her hips, every now and then glancing down at me to read my thoughts.
I wanted to tell her that I knew she liked Coyote. I had known from that very first moment. I had watched her face flush and felt her hand grow hot in mine. I wanted to ask her about that morning, when I had found them talking together in the vegetable garden. But most of all I wanted to tell her about Yvette in the dining room. The wind had b
rought great change. It had taken Joy Springtoe and given me Coyote in return. I didn’t allow myself to think that Coyote would leave, as he surely would. My mother must have known, but perhaps, like me, she focused on the present, the future holding too much uncertainty and disappointment.
“What are you thinking about, Mischa?” she asked, smiling at me affectionately. I looked up at her and grinned. “Ah, so you think you can read my thoughts, now that you’re a spy?” She turned away and settled her eyes into the distance, but she was still smiling. “He’s a kind man. In fact, besides Jacques, he’s the only man who has been kind to us in a very long time. Perhaps I’m a fool. I don’t know. We have suffered so much. People have been cruel. Don’t you think we deserve a little happiness? I mean, they are wrong about your father, he was a good man. But your father is no longer around to protect us. We have to look after ourselves, each other. I never thought I would love again. When your father died, my heart froze like a ball of snow. Only a part of it remained warm and that, my love, belongs to you.” She rested her hand on my shoulder and pulled me closer so that we walked side by side. “I’m frightened, my little chevalier,” she said in a soft voice. “I’m frightened to love again.”
We heard Coyote long before we saw him. His voice and the strumming of his guitar rose out of the wood and reached us on a pine-scented breeze. My mother put on her sun hat and I rushed forward like a dog in pursuit of a rabbit. I found him sitting in the same clearing as the day before, leaning against the tree trunk, his hat placed crookedly on his head. He smiled at me, a smile as crooked as his hat, but, as before, he didn’t stop singing, not even for my mother.
The Gypsy Madonna Page 7
