“‘As I walked out on the streets of Laredo…’” he sang, and my mother sat down on the grass to listen. He had a deep, gentle voice, like fudge just before the sugar has totally melted — rich, brown, and granular. He was completely at ease, as if singing in this way with his guitar was as natural for him as it is for a bird to sing from a treetop. He rested his eyes on my mother and they stared at each other. The look that passed between them was intimate, as if they had been lovers for years. Their silent communication was timeless, holding within it the past, present, and future, unspoken but understood. I did not know it then, but my mother’s very presence exposed her heart. She was in love. The swinging hips, the burning cheeks, the softening of her edges that tragedy had hardened, all indicated the way she felt, but nothing as much as this look. It said everything. It laid bare her heart.
I wondered how often they had seen each other over the last few days. When I had been grabbing for Yvette, or running through the vines with Pistou, had they been meeting in secret, as they had in the walled vegetable garden? This look indicated as much. I didn’t feel left out, I felt glad. I wanted them to marry. I wanted to live happily ever after. Coyote was the prince of a fairy tale that I could believe in.
He continued to sing. My mother picked a small blue flower and began to twirl it around in her fingers. Coyote only took his eyes off her to look at me. The effect was like that of sun on a sunflower. My face aglow with pleasure, I smiled back at him, my trust naked for him to see. The warmth that spread through my body penetrated deep, to the cold nugget of my soul. My heart lurched with nostalgia for a man who had once gazed upon me with such affection and my eyes stung with tears. Ashamed, I lowered them. When I lifted them again, he was still singing to me.
My mother was so in his thrall that for once she didn’t notice me. Her long wavy hair tumbled over her shoulders and down her back, the breeze picking it up and toying with it every now and then as she fussed with the flower. She looked less like my mother and more like a blushing young girl. Or perhaps, in that moment, I saw her through the eyes of Coyote: as tender and vulnerable as if he had peeled her skin off like a fruit’s.
When he stopped playing, my mother clapped. “That was beautiful,” she exclaimed.
“There’s nothing better to inspire a man to greatness than the presence of a lovely woman,” he replied and my mother laughed huskily. “How about you learn to sing, Junior?” For a moment I thought he must have forgotten that I had no voice. “Come and sit beside me and I’ll teach you how.”
I did as he suggested. He placed the guitar on my lap. Then with one arm around my back and the other placing my left hand under the arm of the guitar, he showed me the G major chord. My hands were small and the guitar almost overwhelming, but Coyote placed each finger on the right string and together we strummed. In that afternoon I learned three chords: C, G, and F. It’s amazing how many songs one can sing using only those three chords, and Coyote sang them all.
I wanted so badly to sing. My voice rose up from my chest like lava. It boiled and bubbled and grew so hot I felt the sweat gather on my nose in small beads. I was ready to burst with song. And yet the blockage at the top remained. I was still a penguin: a bird that can’t fly.
The sun grew mellow, falling just behind the tree line, casting us in a deeper shadow. Coyote strummed while he talked and I sat beside him, watching his fingers closely, pointing excitedly whenever he played one of the chords I had learned. He talked about his childhood in Virginia and the old man he had befriended in the cornfield. “He taught me how to play the guitar,” he said, patting it. “He told me that music is a great healer. We’d sit up there on that hill, our backs against the stone wall, watching the sun slip slowly behind the horizon, and he’d sing. He had this deep voice, like a double bass. It was so sad. It had a break in it, you see. A crack, as if his soul cried out from within. It moved me to tears. All the while those black hands of his danced across the strings with such joy, healing that crack little by little.”
My mother watched him as he spoke. I didn’t see what she saw: a neglected little boy who ran barefoot like a wild dog, in search of love. That was the mother in her. She could sense loneliness and longing as if they had a sound, like a child’s cry in the dark. There was a lot about Coyote that I didn’t understand then.
To me, Coyote was a magician. He smiled at everyone and no one could resist him. He had rescued my mother and me from a dark place and lifted us up into the light. With his music and his voice he had enchanted Yvette and Madame Duval. Even the children in town had forgotten their contempt and included me. He had come so unexpectedly, with a heart full of compassion, and everyone seemed to have been charmed by it. I didn’t question why he had come, I didn’t need to. I had no doubt that the wind had brought him to us.
My mother and Coyote began to talk and my mind slowly drifted away to Pistou and the bridge over the river. I sensed he was there waiting for me, his hands full of stones. I was bored with sitting now, itching to run around and play with my ball. I glanced at my mother; she was very definitely spellbound. Her skin was luminescent, lit up from within by an internal fire. The two of them had eyes only for each other. There were long moments of silence, during which Coyote aimlessly strummed his guitar, gazing upon her with lazy eyes. I found those moments awkward, not knowing what to do with my own eyes. I slipped away, knowing they’d be happy that I’d left them alone.
When I got to the bridge, I didn’t find Pistou as expected, but Claudine. At first I was unsure whether to approach. She was leaning on the wall, staring down into the water, her long dark hair falling over her face like curtains, a straw hat on her head. But I recalled her friendly smile and was encouraged. Stepping out of the trees, I trod on a twig and made a snapping sound that caused her to turn around suddenly, as if caught doing something she shouldn’t have been doing. When she saw me her expression softened. Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled sweetly. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. I frowned and strode over to join her on the bridge. “I shouldn’t be here,” she replied to my silent question. Then her face flowered with admiration and she added, “You weren’t at Mass.” I leaned over the bridge and looked down. I saw Père Abel-Louis’ face in the water and cringed with fear.
I didn’t want to think of Père Abel-Louis and I didn’t want to show my fear. I turned swiftly and whipped the hat off her head. She squealed in delight and took a swipe in an effort to retrieve it. I dodged her as she made another attempt and then went running off to the riverbank. She gave chase, her objections half-hearted, her laughter effervescent. “Mischa!” she cried in delight. “Come back!”
Finally, I let her catch me. She placed the hat on her head and tied her hair back into a ponytail. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining. I noticed that they sloped down at the corners, which made them look sad. Her smile, however, was large and toothy. “You beast!” she exclaimed, but I knew she didn’t mean it. I gesticulated to the riverbank where I usually sat with Pistou, throwing stones into the water. We sat down. The sun, now hanging low in the sky like a blood orange, was still warm. I took out my pad and scribbled, The American is teaching me how to play the guitar.
She was impressed. It felt good to be able to communicate with her.
“Everyone is talking about him,” she replied. I raised my eyebrows. “He’s always in town, in the café, reading the newspapers. He’s handsome.”
He’s a magician.
“He sings beautifully. The other day, in the square, even the boys stopped to listen. Perhaps he is a magician. No one seems to know anything about him. That makes him more exciting.”
All the girls are in love with him.
“Oh, yes. Madame Bonchance at the kiosk has started wearing lipstick. It’s bright red and clashes with her hair! He’s friendly with everyone, even Monsieur Cezade.”
I don’t like Monsieur Cezade, I wrote.
She giggled. “No one likes Monsieur Cezade. He’s like a big fat red pig.”
/> How old are you?
“Seven. And you?”
Six and three-quarters. I’m seven in October.
“You don’t go to school,” she said. I had never spoken to anyone about the fact that I was an outcast. Claudine’s compassionate eyes swept across my face and my stomach flipped over like a pancake. I felt I could tell her anything and she wouldn’t despise me for it.
They don’t want me, I wrote. My father…She placed her hand on mine to stop me writing.
“I know. He was German. It’s okay. I don’t mind who your father was and, anyway, he was a good German, wasn’t he? Otherwise your mother wouldn’t have loved him.” I felt my eyes begin to sting and swallowed hard in an effort to suppress the tears. The way she put it was so simple. I stared down at my half-written sentence, her hand still on mine. “Is that why you can’t speak?” she asked. How could I explain that they had taken my voice? “It’ll come back one day,” she added confidently. Now, I had never thought of that. I had gotten so used to not speaking, to hearing my inner voice, I couldn’t imagine what my speech might sound like. “People can be so cruel. The way they treated you and your mother is unjust. Le curéton preaches forgiveness and yet he can’t find it in his own heart to forgive. His words are empty and meaningless.” She sounded more like a grown-up than a seven-year-old child. She took her hand off mine.
Why are you different?
She laughed softly. “Because I have a heart and I don’t follow the crowd. I’m not afraid of le curéton like everyone else. I can tell you a secret because you can’t speak. Le curéton drinks. He drinks a lot and gets drunk. I’ve seen him weaving about in the chancel. I watched him through the window with Laurent. I told my mother, but she didn’t believe me. I got into a lot of trouble for suggesting it. Maman shut me in my room until I apologized. Which I didn’t do, because I knew I was right. She had to let me out eventually, but she said that God would punish me.” She chuckled mischievously. “I’m still waiting.”
You’re brave.
“No, Mischa. You’re brave. You and your mother go to Mass every Sunday, le curéton finds a different way to humiliate you. The people…well, you know. Yet, you remain in Maurilliac. That’s brave.”
It’s home, I wrote, having heard my mother say the same thing.
“You wouldn’t be so handsome if your father wasn’t German,” she said with a grin. I blinked at her in surprise. I had always been ashamed of the way I looked. The blue eyes and blond hair were a constant reminder of where I came from and why I was spurned. I had never considered myself handsome. Not for a moment. “You’re the only blond boy in Maurilliac, Mischa. It’ll be an advantage one day.”
We sat for a while in silence. The sun had fallen well behind the horizon, the sky a pale gray, the first star twinkling through the evening mist. It felt warm there next to Claudine. In that couple of hours, we had grown close. It was as if we had been friends for a very long time. She understood me in a way that no one else did. In spite of my German father, my mother’s collaboration, the fact that we were outcasts, worse than rats, Claudine liked me. I felt my chest expand with happiness. And then, to complete my joy, the sound of Coyote’s voice rose into the still, enchanted air. “‘As I walked out on the streets of Laredo.’”
My mother called my name. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to leave Claudine. “I’ve had fun today,” she said, smiling at me.
Can I be your secret friend? I scrawled hastily, eager to seal our friendship.
She shook her head and frowned sternly. “Secret?” she said emphatically. “I’m not ashamed to be your friend.” I heard my mother’s voice call my name again. “You’d better go,” she said. She took my pad and pencil and drew a line through the word “secret.” Then she added at the bottom, in large letters, the word YES.
I found my mother and Coyote still in the clearing. It was twilight. They assumed I had been playing on my own as I usually did. My mother was too busy smoothing down her skirt from where she had been sitting on the grass and running her hands through her hair to notice my own infatuation. Coyote stood with his guitar slung over his back, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding a smoking Gauloise.
“So, Junior, you had a good afternoon?” he asked. I nodded, hoping that he could see from my puffed-out chest the bubbles Claudine had put there.
“You must be hungry, Mischa,” my mother said. “Come, let’s go home.”
“I’m having dinner with the English ladies,” said Coyote, chuckling in amusement as we made our way out of the wood.
“I call them Les Faisans.”
“I would say Daphne Halifax is more of a colorful bird of paradise, wouldn’t you? Have you noticed she wears a different pair of shoes every day, each pair more remarkable than the pair before? They have a life of their own, those shoes!”
I half listened to their conversation as we walked up the track, back to the château. They didn’t expect me to contribute so my thoughts were at liberty to drift off. They settled on Claudine’s gentle face and later, when I went to bed, they were still there.
10
My mother had changed. The constant humming, her voice rising and falling in a lazy rhythm like a swing. The way she moved, unhurried, her mind in another place. She looked younger. The hard edges of her face had been softened in the same way that Daphne smudged with her finger the charcoal lines of her sketches. Her cheeks were the color of the apples now ripening in the orchard, her eyes dreamy, settling into the half-distance, mesmerized by something I couldn’t see. Our world was shifting around us, and yet she didn’t seem to care. The wind had changed her too, but I don’t think she was even aware of it.
It was the beginning of September. August had been long and hot. Now the heat had tempered, the light grown mellow, and the days began to recede like the tide, every day a little shorter. I left my mother to her daydreams and wandered over to the château. Pistou was waiting for me in the yard, kicking stones, hands in pockets, hair falling over his forehead like the forelock of a frisky brown pony. We set off to the bridge, throwing my rubber ball between us. I thought of Joy Springtoe every time I took it out of my pocket. Sometimes when I sneaked into the Private Side I believed I could still smell her. That unmistakable scent of gardenia that had lingered in the air in spite of the open windows and clung to my clothes after she had embraced me. I hadn’t suffered my nightmare for a while. My dreams had been pleasant. I no longer clung to my mother when I slept, but awoke to find myself in my own space, only her arm draped over my waist.
Pistou and I mucked around on the riverbank. We built a camp in the wood, near the clearing where Coyote liked to sit and play his guitar. As we stacked the sticks and stuffed grass into the cracks I heard my voice inside my head singing As I walked out on the streets of Laredo…I remembered the words, every one, and my chest expanded with the desire to sing out into the air. Pistou, who heard my inner voice, was impressed. He said it sounded as clear as a flute. I told him I was learning to play the guitar. That impressed him too. I looked over to where the little clearing stood in a pool of sunlight, half expecting to see Coyote there, his hat on his head, his mouth curled into a smile, his hands strumming the strings, and I felt warm in the knowledge that he was nearby.
We played in the vines, running through them playing cache-cache. It wouldn’t be long before harvest, when volunteers from the town would come by the dozen with large baskets in which to gather the grapes. I was never included. I would watch with Pistou and count how many times they put the grapes in their mouths instead of in the baskets.
Just before lunch we ran up to the old folly that stood neglected behind snakes of ivy and bindweed, crumbling like Hansel and Gretel’s gingerbread house. We had played there often, for it had been long abandoned. My mother told me that before the war it had been used for picnics. It was situated on the hill and had a lovely view of the vineyard right down to the river. Now it was forgotten and sad, filled with rusty machinery and sacks, overshad
owed by walnut trees. I found it compelling, though. Behind the decay I could glimpse the odd twinkle of its former splendor like embers in an old fireplace that still glow when the wind blows. I imagined people sitting beneath the veranda, between the stone pillars that went all the way around, taking coffee in china cups with silver spoons, watching the sun slowly melt into the river, turning it red. Perhaps they had played music and danced in the lengthening shadows of those walnut trees. It fascinated me that people would build such a large, elaborate building for the simple pleasure of picnicking.
We reached the folly out of breath from running. We had played catch all the way up and hadn’t once dropped the ball. As we approached, I sensed we were not alone. Pistou did too. He stopped laughing and put his hands in his pockets, sniffing the air like a dog. I put my rubber ball back into my pocket and hurried beneath the veranda to press myself up against the wall. I heard sounds coming from within. Low groans, a few grunts, then a sudden peal of laughter that tore the air. I recognized the laughter at once — that manic, high-pitched squeal that sounded more like an excited sow than a woman. I grinned at Pistou. He raised his eyebrows suggestively. We both peered in through the window.
Through the green mildew that stained the glass, I saw the most extraordinary sight. I immediately recalled the conversation I had heard between Pierre and Armand. “Who do you think she’s in love with? Jacques Reynard?” They had scoffed and sneered, and yet there was Yvette, her gray hair pulled out of its bun and falling over her face in disarray like a mop, her squat, fleshy body liberated from the buttons and clasps that incarcerated it within her dress and apron, sitting astride none other than Jacques Reynard. They were far too busy to notice us. Jacques’ trousers were at his ankles, his boots covered in dust, his skinny legs hairy, twitching at the knees as Yvette rode him like one of his horses.
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