The Gypsy Madonna

by Santa Montefiore

  We arrived at the boulangerie pâtisserie. I handed her the fish. She took it and slipped it up her sleeve. My stomach churned with nerves. I didn’t know what frightened me more: the thought of stepping into that shop, or the thought of not being able to. My fear must have been obvious, for she touched my shoulder and smiled sympathetically. “You stay here out of sight. If he sees you, he’ll know we’re up to something.” I was faint with gratitude. “Keep watch.” For what, she didn’t say. I wasn’t sure what she wanted me to do if someone did come. I didn’t have time to reach for my pad and pencil, for she had already opened the door. I saw her thick brown hair bounce with her step and then the door closed behind her. There was silence except for the distant ringing of church bells.

  I waited. She had said she was going to place the fish somewhere in the shop where he wouldn’t find it: that way it would slowly rot until the smell would get so bad he would have to sell up and leave Maurilliac forever. That sounded like a good plan to me. Perhaps then someone nice might set up shop and I could feast on as many chocolatines as I wanted.

  Claudine was in the shop for what seemed a very long time. I waited outside, toying with the little rubber ball in my pocket. The other pocket was all slimy. I wondered whether my mother would notice when she did the washing. Suddenly I saw a group of people wandering up the street, and I panicked. What was taking her so long? She hadn’t told me what to do if people came. At that moment the door flew open and Claudine tumbled out shouting “Run!” I pressed my back against the wall as Monsieur Cezade emerged in a fury, chasing her as fast as his big belly would allow. She didn’t call out my name. She was too loyal to betray me. I watched, stunned, as they disappeared down the street. What would he do once he caught her? I heard at the very back of my mind the cries of an angry mob and felt cold fear creep over my skin. Terrified that she was now in grave danger, I reacted contrary to my nature and ran after them.

  I didn’t act rationally but instinctively, as the memory of that dreadful day returned to coagulate my blood. I was seized by the same horror, the same panic, and yet this time I felt strangely empowered because I was big enough to fight back. The air I sucked into my lungs was burning hot, but on I ran. It wasn’t long before I had them both in my sights. He was gaining on her. This great big man bounding after such a small, skinny child. I saw her look over her shoulder and her eyes were crazed like those of a rabbit on the point of being eaten by a dog. I wanted to shout out to her so that she would know I was behind her, but all I could do was keep running.

  Finally, as the distance between Cezade and myself grew shorter, he caught her in his large hands and she fell to the ground with a yelp. The still air was shattered with his abusive bellowing. I saw him raise his hand and then the townspeople gathered in a circle around them so that I could no longer see.

  Maddened by fear and anger I hurled myself at them and fought my way to where Cezade was towering over Claudine. When she saw me, her eyes warned me to leave as quickly as I could but I threw myself between them so that he was forced to let go of her wrist. “What are you doing here?” he growled.

  “You shouldn’t have come, Mischa!” Claudine hissed. I wanted to ask her if she was all right, but I could only gaze at her helplessly. I knew she was injured: her skin was white, her eyes shining. She lay panting on the ground but no one tried to help her: they simply stared, their mouths agape. My head was dizzy with the parallel. Surely he wouldn’t hurt her?

  Just then the crowd parted as Claudine’s mother arrived and hurried to her side. “What the devil is going on?” she demanded furiously, gathering her child into her arms. I noticed Claudine’s knee was grazed. A trickle of blood was running down her leg. She began to cry.

  “That little scoundrel tried to hide a dead fish in a pastry, but I caught her at it!” replied Cezade. His face was bloated and sweating. Claudine did not reply.

  “Claudine?” Her mother’s voice now had a sharp edge to it that I didn’t like. I took out my pad and scribbled hurriedly. “Tell me, Claudine. Did you do it?” Claudine was about to reply when I thrust the piece of paper at her mother. Madame Lamont looked at me in horror, as if I were worse than the dead fish. “You!” she burst out, then hastily read the note which she knew would absolve her daughter. “It was your idea?” When she raised her eyes they were filled with disgust. “I might have guessed as much. Where would my Claudine get her hands on a dead fish?”

  “It’s not true!” Claudine replied. “Mischa had nothing to do with it.” No one wanted to hear her. They had their criminal and they were all delighted.

  “So, it was the little Boche bastard,” said Cezade, nodding his head thoughtfully. “You’re the thorn in the side of this town.” His eyes bore into me, but I stood defiant. “Do you know how one treats a thorn?” I felt all eyes upon me and yet, for the first time in my life, I felt an inner strength. I had never stood up for myself and now, I was standing up for someone else and I felt proud. “By pulling it out,” he continued, and his spit splashed on my face. “By pulling it out and getting rid of it!”

  “How dare you try and corrupt my daughter!” exclaimed Madame Lamont, getting up and dragging Claudine to her feet.

  “He didn’t!” Claudine attempted to defend me, but it was useless. Her mother just shook her head, as if relieved to discover the root of her daughter’s disobedience. “Stay away from us,” she said to me. “Come, Claudine.”

  I watched the crowd part again and close behind them. As she was pulled away Claudine threw me a heavy look. It was a look that carried both gratitude and regret. She considered me brave and loyal. Perhaps I was, that day. But deep down I knew that I had taken the blame because I was the natural scapegoat. I was, and always would be, an outcast, so what difference did it make? I would return to the château and yet she would always walk among them. Unlike me, she had to fit in. However, the game that had begun as wicked fun had cost us our friendship. I was heartbroken.

  When Cezade shouted at me, I didn’t hear, and when the back of his hand met the side of my head, I barely felt it. I walked away with dignity because I wouldn’t let him see me cry.

  Oh, what I would have done with a voice! How different it would have been.

  12

  I got up in the middle of the night and sat on the window seat where my mother so often sat, staring up at the stars. She always said that if I saw a shooting star I should make a wish. Well, I saw one that night. It was as fast as a rocket. It soared through the black sky in a large arc, one moment so clear, the next swallowed up into space. I closed my eyes tightly and made a wish from the bottom of my heart. There was no use asking for my father back; I was old enough to know that those kinds of wishes were not granted. I asked for my voice back instead.

  Since Coyote had arrived, everything had changed. I was no longer satisfied with my pad and pencil, and the frustration of having to carry around a head full of thoughts was beginning to wear me out. At times my chest was so full I thought my heart might break through my rib cage like a jailbird. There was so much I wanted to say and yet I couldn’t.

  So, I stared up at the sky and prayed that I’d wake up in the morning and find my voice returned. I’d open my mouth and hear the sweet tone of communication. It would come back as quickly as it had gone, and soon I wouldn’t even remember what it had been like to have lost it.

  My mother slept, unaware of my midnight wish. She looked content as if pleasant dreams had wrapped their arms around her and carried her off to a better place. I cast my thoughts to Claudine, pictured her sad eyes and toothy smile, and felt my chest ache with longing. For the first time since I could remember, I had had a friend everyone else could see. Now I had lost her.

  When I awoke in the morning, I was disappointed to find that my wish had not been granted. I opened my mouth to speak but all that came out was air. My mother hummed as usual, brushing her hair in the mirror, applying lipstick with care, smiling at her reflection, not noticing my despair.

  To
add to my misery, it was Sunday. We had missed Mass the week before; there was no possibility my mother would miss two in a row, wind or no wind. I locked myself in the bathroom, sat on the lavatory seat, and put my head in my hands. A penguin that couldn’t fly had a place in the world, I didn’t. Coyote and Claudine had taken trouble to communicate, but they were unusual. Others wouldn’t bother. I’d exist forever behind a pane of glass, watching from my place of silence, always excluded.

  Before the wind came I had been content playing among the vines with Pistou. I had accepted without complaint the fact that I couldn’t speak. I had grown used to it. Besides, before, I had had no friends other than Pistou and my mother. Now, Coyote had opened my heart and Claudine had reached out to me. I wanted to break the pane of glass with song and touch them with words they could hear. I didn’t want to be an outsider anymore.

  I felt hot tears sting my eyes and wiped them away in a fury. There was a knock on the door. “Mischa? Are you all right?” The anger formed a ball in my throat so that I found it difficult to breathe. Unable to reply I picked up the soap dish and threw it into the bath. It landed with a satisfactory clatter. My mother’s voice was now urgent. “Mischa? What are you doing?” She rattled the doorknob. “Let me in, Mischa!” I stood up and kicked the tub with my foot, again and again. I began to sob. My mother must have heard my rasping breaths for she banged the door in an attempt to force the lock. I took anything I could find and threw it around the small room. I caught sight of a face in the mirror. I didn’t recognize it as my own.

  I was so busy raging about like a bull in a pen that I didn’t notice my mother had gone, until the door suddenly flew open and Coyote fell in. Behind him my mother looked anxious, wringing her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. Coyote didn’t ask me what was wrong; he simply drew me into his arms and hugged me tightly. “It’s okay, Junior,” he said, his voice soothing. “It’s okay.” I felt his bristles against my face and the heat of his body penetrating mine and the anger faded away, like dirty water down a drain.

  I was sobbing like a baby, but I wasn’t ashamed. Not in front of Coyote. It didn’t matter. It felt good to be in the arms of a man. It felt familiar, like home.

  We went into the kitchen and sat down at the table. My mother placed the pad and pencil in front of me. “What is it, Mischa?” she asked, her sad eyes beseeching.

  I don’t want to be different anymore, I scribbled. I couldn’t tell them about the wish I had made. It had been childish and silly. She caught eyes with Coyote. He held her gaze for a long while before looking down at me.

  “We’re all different, son,” he said gently. “Every one of us is unique.” I tapped the words impatiently with the end of my pencil. That wasn’t what I meant. I was more different than anyone else. I saw my mother struggling for words, her eyebrows knitted, her features contorted. She knew it was all her fault. The guilt gave her face a battle-weary look. She clasped my wrist with her hand.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  Coyote smiled, but I could tell that he empathized because his eyes didn’t smile; they were filled with sorrow. “You’re a chevalier, Junior. Chevaliers don’t desert the battlefield. They fight on until they win.”

  I want my voice back! I wrote. My writing was now almost illegible. He looked at it for a moment before replying.

  “It will come back,” he reassured me. His certainty surprised me. Could I dare hope? “One day it will come back. You just have to be patient.” A fat tear plopped onto the page, smudging my words. He didn’t know that I had wished for it and that my wish hadn’t been granted.

  I don’t want to go to Mass, I wrote instead.

  “We’ll go together,” he suggested with a grin. “All three of us. Right, Anouk?” My mother stared at him for a while, her eyes heavy with implication beyond my comprehension. Then her face flowered into a beautiful smile that drew me out of myself.

  “Yes, we’ll all go together,” she replied. “That’ll surprise everyone, won’t it?” I dropped my shoulders and put down my pencil. I no longer believed in wishes.

  We walked down the dusty track towards the town. The sky was gray and heavy, a light drizzle floating on the breeze like sea spray. I walked ahead of them, isolated on my own silent island, my thoughts aimless and dark. I kicked a stone, my hands in my pockets, turning my father’s ball around and around in my fingers. They talked quietly. When I wasn’t tuned in, their English was as meaningless as Japanese. I concentrated on the stone, feeling sorry for myself. Then suddenly I caught a few words, like a dozing fisherman whose trap rattles with an unexpected catch. Perhaps it was the change in their tone that made my ears prick up. Their low voices were heavy with intimacy. They must have believed I couldn’t hear them for they were careless, their voices just loud enough for me to pick them up. “I’m going to take you both away from here,” said Coyote. A rush of excitement careered through my veins. My dark thoughts were flooded with light and my mood lifted out of the miserable quagmire that had been pulling me under. I pretended I hadn’t heard and continued to kick the stone, my hands in my pockets, my face, now burning with hope, turned towards the town.

  We arrived in Maurilliac. I hung back to walk with my mother, the stone left in the middle of the track for the walk home. People were coming out of their houses dressed in their best, the women in dresses and hats, the men in suits and berets, the children scrubbed clean, their hair brushed until it shone. I noticed at once a change in the air; it no longer vibrated with disgust, but with curiosity. They shifted their eyes from my mother to Coyote. Coyote raised his hat, greeting everyone with a wave and a smile. His confidence was irresistible, his charm compelling. The women blushed and lowered their eyes, a small smile tickling their lips; the men returned his greeting, for it would have been rude not to. The children I had played with in the square waved at me cheerfully. I could tell from their keen expressions that they were impressed by Coyote. His presence there beside me gave me status. I pulled my shoulders back and changed my stiff walk to a casual saunter, like his. With my hands in my pockets I grinned back at them. They didn’t know how much their gestures of friendship meant to me. There was only one person, however, whom I wanted to see. I wondered whether she’d come.

  Coyote knew some of the townspeople by name. In his uncertain French he had a word to say to them all: a comment on a pretty dress, the week’s business; inquiring after a sick nephew, an aging mother. His limited knowledge of the language had in no way impeded his ability to befriend. He even commented on Monsieur Cezade’s chocolatines and, to my surprise, Monsieur Cezade smiled. I noticed, however, that no one greeted my mother.

  As we walked across the Place de l’Eglise I saw Claudine. My heart stumbled with happiness. I quickened my step. I knew she wasn’t allowed to see me, but her mother couldn’t stop me coming to Mass. I noticed the plaster on Claudine’s knee and her bandaged elbow. I was behind her, but she must have sensed me, for she turned. A moment’s hesitation passed across her face as she wrestled between her desire and the rule imposed upon her by her mother. What her mother couldn’t have known, though, was that Claudine and I shared a bond. Often the deepest bonds of all are those forged in childhood. So it was with us. Claudine knew, too, because once again she defied her mother. She broke away from her brothers and sisters to run up to me. It was a very public display of friendship. No one had ever done that before, but Claudine was now more determined than ever to flaunt it. I caught my breath in surprise.

  “Thank you, Mischa,” she said, her toothy smile affectionate. “I won’t ever forget what you did.” I could not reply. The frustration was enormous. “Bonjour, Madame,” she said to my mother, her tone cheerful and innocent. My mother was as surprised as I, for she forgot to smile back. Claudine’s mother called to her, but she didn’t listen. She winked at me as if to say, Remember what I promised? I wanted to tell her that I had kept the note where she had crossed out “secret” and written “yes” in bold letters.

&nbs
p; “Claudine!” her mother called. “Come here at once.” The woman’s voice was furious. She looked around nervously, afraid of what the community would think of her daughter’s friendship with the “Boche bastard.”

  “We will meet later,” Claudine hissed, before returning to her family. Her mother berated her in a low voice, but Claudine continued to smile regardless.

  The church was abuzz with gossip. All eyes were fixed on my mother and Coyote; whispers passed along the pews behind hands and black veils. I didn’t understand it then, but their presence at Mass that morning exposed their relationship for everyone to see. Coyote had decided to make it official. He was in love and he wanted everyone to love my mother as he did.

  My chest was full enough to burst: with pride, with excitement, with love. I sat between my mother and Coyote. I could feel the tension between them as if it were a rubber band stretched to its limit. My mother was anxious but defiant. She sat with her chin up and her shoulders back, and I noticed she didn’t drop to her knees to pray. I imagined that Coyote gave her confidence, as he did me. We were a formidable trio. Coyote seemed not to notice the gossipmongers and returned their gazes with a gleaming white smile and a gentlemanly nod of the head. When Père Abel-Louis strode up the aisle, his robes swirling about him like demons in a fever of dance, I shrank back in fear, terrified of what he would make of my mother’s friendship with Coyote.

  Père Abel-Louis’ impassive face would be forever etched on my memory. He had stood back and let the mob take me and abuse my mother when he could so easily have prevented it. He was a dark and frightening force, larger and more powerful than any other human being. When my mother had taught me about God and the devil, Père Abel-Louis had automatically taken the part of the devil, so that now I believed it as fact that he was the devil. He had chased God out of his own home as he had set the mob against us. In my childish imagination I feared he would chase Him out of Heaven, too, so that when I died I would have nowhere to go.