The Gypsy Madonna

by Santa Montefiore

  I tried to make myself as small as possible so that Père Abel-Louis would not see me. But his stone eyes alighted on us at once, probably because we hadn’t shown up the week before. To my surprise, he didn’t look angry, as I had expected, but disturbed. His thin white lips twitched nervously as his eyes swept over the three of us. They settled on Coyote. There was a long moment of silence while the two men stared at each other. Père Abel-Louis was like a rat mesmerized by a snake. He looked petrified. I knew Coyote’s expression without seeing it. He was expectant, devout, respectful, but totally self-assured. Le curéton was weakened and I didn’t know why. I simply knew that we had won a small victory that day.

  Père Abel-Louis shook himself out of his trance and welcomed the congregation to Mass. He did not look at us again, but acted as if we weren’t there. However, he appeared shrunken, as if Coyote knew him for what he really was: a usurper in God’s house, and that knowledge robbed him of his power.

  I knew then that Heaven would be safe. I knew that when I died I’d not only have somewhere to go, but that my father would be there waiting for me.

  I thought of God that morning more than I had ever before thought of Him. For the first time, I felt Him there in that church. His light was greater than the darkness Père Abel-Louis brought with him, and his love absorbed my fear until I had none left.

  I thought of my father. I remembered his face, his cool blue eyes and his kind and gentle smile. I remembered the tender way he had danced with me in his arms, around and around the room, holding me tightly, my cheek pressed against his, the music of the gramophone ringing out and carrying us on the strings of an orchestra of violins. I could almost feel his laughter vibrating in his chest. I wanted to laugh, too, as I had then. Loudly and clearly, with the abandon of a bell.

  I watched Père Abel-Louis with the same inner strength I had found the day before in the face of Monsieur Cezade and the hostile crowd of onlookers. I didn’t shrink into my seat any longer. With Coyote by my side I felt I could conquer anyone. I glanced to my right at Claudine. She was gazing at me, her eyes shining with pride. I knew she hated le curéton as much as I did. She must have seen him falter, because she grinned at me, acknowledging our triumph with a wink. My chest expanded and grew warmer still, the nugget now opening at last, filling me up inside, making it hard to breathe.

  The Lord’s Prayer was said and then Père Abel-Louis sang the responses, his voice thin and wavering: “Pax domini sit semper vobiscum.” A strange tingling rippled over my body as if I were shedding a skin. I felt weightless, dizzy with happiness, although I didn’t know why. The clouds must have cleared outside, for the sun burst through the windows, filling the church with a glorious radiance. Then, in the midst of that celestial light, I heard a voice. It was beautiful, as clear as a flute. The rest of the congregation heard it too. They stopped singing, trailing off one by one as the voice rose above theirs in glorious song: “Et cum spiritu tuo.”

  It was a few moments before I realized that the angelic voice was my own.

  13

  The horrified expression on Père Abel-Louis’ face made me catch my breath. I stopped singing. Suddenly there was silence. Not a single person stirred in the midst of what could only be described as a miracle. I felt a hundred pairs of eyes upon me and buckled beneath the weight. Even my mother and Coyote remained speechless.

  Père Abel-Louis stood in the cascade of sunlight that poured in through the church windows. He had drained of blood like one of the slaughtered pigs that hung in the boucherie and his thin lips twitched in bewilderment. For a moment he floundered. God had spoken, and his voice was infinitely more powerful than the priest’s. There was no denying it. Anxious to claim the miracle as his own, Père Abel-Louis strode down the aisle towards me, his features strained. I was so shocked by the sound of my own voice that I didn’t flinch, but remained standing, afraid to speak in case I no longer could. The priest towered over me. I could smell the stench that clung to his robes, a mixture of alcohol and body odor, and I recoiled. He slowly reached out his hand. I hesitated, for my hatred of him was so deeply branded on my soul that I was frightened to touch him. However, his black eyes bored into me, finally overpowering me. To my shame, in the kernel of my soul a tiny, secret part yearned for his acceptance. I felt my hand tentatively stretch out to rest in his. I expected him to scorch me, but all I felt was the sweat on his spongy palm.

  “God has blessed this house today with a miracle. The boy speaks. We must now find it in our hearts to follow the Lord’s example and forgive.” His voice was loud and commanding as once again he took control of his church and its people. A smug smile played about his lips as if to say: “I am the conduit between you simple people and the Lord — let no one believe he can reach God without me.” My cheeks throbbed and my heart pounded. I was reminded of the baying crowd and wanted to cry out in terror. But there was Claudine, her eyes wide with amazement, grinning at me in encouragement.

  “Mischa!” My mother ignored the priest and sank to her seat, her voice a whisper. She held my upper arms and stared fiercely into my eyes. “Mischa!” I could see doubt in her eyes and the fear behind them. She dared not believe the miracle, in case it had been an illusion or a trick of sound. “Is it true, Mischa? Can you speak?” I swallowed hard. My throat was tight with anxiety. The whole community now waited for confirmation. As surprised as they, I knew that if I failed now I would be further ostracized and accused of fraud. I thought of the shooting star, of my heartfelt wish, and I wondered whether it had indeed been granted, or whether, as I was more inclined to believe, the return of my voice was Coyote’s doing, brought about by the wind.

  I took a deep breath. “Maman,” I croaked. She drooped in relief. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Can we go home now?” She drew me into a strong embrace.

  “My son, my son,” she breathed into my neck. I felt Coyote’s hand ruffle my hair and with it a warm sensation crept over my body. “Of course we can go home,” she said, rising to her feet.

  “I invite you to partake in communion,” said the priest, reaching out to my mother. But she wasn’t weak like me. There was no part of her that longed for acceptance. As far as she was concerned, she had done nothing wrong. She would never find it in her heart to forgive or to forget.

  Coyote led the way, my mother and I following closely. Such is the power of religion, the people of Maurilliac truly believed that God had spoken that morning. They stretched out their hands to touch me as I passed, hoping that God’s grace, which now rested in me, would bring them luck. They smiled, crossed themselves, bent their heads, while Père Abel-Louis raised his hand in blessing, determined to be part of the miracle, in spite of my mother’s rebuff. And Claudine just grinned at me in triumph — hadn’t she said that my voice would come back one day?

  Once we were in the square, the church bells began to peal in celebration. My mother wanted nothing to do with Père Abel-Louis and hurried me away. “He wants to hijack us,” she muttered angrily. “After all he has done. Well, I won’t let him. As God is my witness, I won’t let him.” Coyote strode along with us, his hands in his pockets, his hat placed at an angle on his head. While my mother fumed, we walked in silence. After years of not speaking, of carrying around a head heavy with thoughts, I was at a loss for words. Finally Coyote spoke.

  “Now we can sing together,” he said. His casual tone confirmed to me his part in the miracle. He was nonchalant, as if he had expected as much. While the rest of the community was left dazed with wonder, Coyote simply shrugged it off. “I’m glad you haven’t forgotten how to sing.” My spirits rose.

  “I never stopped singing,” I replied. “No one could hear me, that’s all.” The vibration of my voice rising up from my chest felt alien to me. I was used to the sound of my thoughts. “We surprised them all, didn’t we?” I said with a laugh. “Claudine said that I would get my voice back one day. She was right.”

  “Claudine?” my mother repeated, her anger evaporating
in the light of my recovered speech.

  “She’s my friend,” I told her proudly.

  “The little girl with big teeth,” Coyote informed her. My mother smiled.

  “What have you two been up to?”

  “Me and Junior?” he joked. “We have a whole secret life, don’t we, Junior?”

  “Will you teach me how to sing those cowboy songs?” I asked, finding the stone I had left in the track and kicking it hard. “I want to learn how to play the guitar.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said, watching me rush off in chase of my stone. “The boy’s a tough nut,” I heard him say to my mother. “Tougher than you imagine.”

  It wasn’t long before everyone was talking of the miracle. The château buzzed with the news like a hive full of bees and the Queen Bee herself, having not gone to Mass that morning, was more intrigued than anyone. Lucie was waiting for us at the stable block when we returned. “Madame Duval wants to see you both,” she informed us, her eyes not leaving me for a moment. “Is it true, can you speak, Mischa?” She looked decidedly nervous, as well she might, considering the illicit goings-on between herself and Monsieur Duval that I had witnessed.

  “It is true,” I replied, slowly becoming aware of the power my restored voice gave me. I lifted my chin and watched her steadily. She seemed to shrink, not that she had been tall to begin with.

  “She is in the library,” she added, before turning on her heel and hurrying back across the courtyard to the kitchen. I smiled to myself. I began to wonder how many other people might be afraid of me, now that I had supposedly been touched by God.

  “You had better go,” said Coyote, tenderly touching my mother’s arm. She didn’t flinch but leaned towards him. Her mouth curled into a shy smile that held too many implications for a boy of my age to understand. I had spent the last few years living within the subtext of life, unable to communicate. Yet, the messages Coyote and my mother passed between them in looks and smiles were beyond my powers of interpretation. “Let’s spend the afternoon at the beach,” he suggested.

  “We’d love to,” my mother replied. “You’d like that, my love, wouldn’t you?” she said to me.

  “You’ll have to escape the pilgrims,” said Coyote with a smirk. “They’ll soon be coming from all over France to touch you. The sick, the dying, the lonely, the poor…God forbid.” He laughed cynically. “We’d better smuggle you both out before they build a shrine in the stable block.” My mother laughed too, but only because she found him funny, not because she doubted the miracle. She didn’t know it was Coyote who had given me back my voice. I think she really believed, like the rest of the community, that it had been a gift from God. Coyote and I knew different. I decided not to shatter her belief, but to keep the secret. I knew Coyote would want me to.

  “I’ll get Yvette to make baguettes,” Coyote continued. “She can pack us a picnic.” He rested his laughing eyes on me and added, with a gentle pat on my shoulder, “She’ll make it extra special now that you’re a saint.”

  My mother and I waited for Madame Duval in the library. I imagined she enjoyed making us wait. It emphasized her power over us. My mother didn’t sit down, and when I slumped in a chair she chastised me gently. I was rather keen to see what I could get away with. After all, I was a saint now; I could do what I liked. My mother looked so pained, however, that, reluctantly, I did as I was told.

  Madame Duval entered with Etiennette in her wake. “Bonjour,” she said curtly. “Sit down,” she added to my mother. I didn’t wait to be included in the invitation and sat on the sofa next to my mother. “Is it true what I hear? That the boy can speak?” She did not smile, but looked at me down her nose as if the smell of me was bad.

  “It is true,” I replied confidently. She stiffened and her jaw slackened, falling as if on a loose hinge.

  “Good God,” she gasped, crossing herself. “So it is a miracle.”

  “God has been kind, Madame,” said my mother. Her deferential tone irritated me so I decided to have some fun.

  “I saw a light, Madame Duval,” I began. “It was brighter than the sun. Le curéton’s voice grew distant, as if I was in another place, far away.” I felt my mother’s gaze bore into me, as she willed me to behave, but I ignored her. In fact, her fear spurred me on. How could we ever have allowed this woman to frighten us?

  “Go on,” she said, her voice low with curiosity. Etiennette sat in the armchair beside her, blinking at me as if I still blazed with heavenly light.

  “I heard voices.”

  “What voices?”

  “They could only have been the voices of angels,” I said, making my face as pious as possible. “They were beautiful. These voices surrounded me and then…then, I saw Him.”

  “Him?”

  “Jesus.” I whispered now, for effect. Madame Duval was perched on the edge of her seat, craning towards me, afraid of missing anything.

  “Jesus?” she repeated, clearly in awe of me. “You saw a vision?”

  “He stood there, in this dazzling light, his arms outstretched, his face full of love.” I blinked out a few crocodile tears.

  “What did He say?”

  “He said…” I hesitated and took a deep breath.

  “He said…‘Speak, my son, so that I can speak through you to the people of Maurilliac. Sing, so that through you they hear my voice for miles around. Spread the word of Christ and you shall sit on my right hand for eternity.’ So I opened my mouth and sang for Him.”

  “My God,” she exclaimed. “It is indeed a miracle.” Suddenly her eyes welled with tears. She took my hand and pressed it between her bony, cold fingers. “Forgive me, Mischa. I have been a fool. God forgive me. I only did what I thought was right. I should never…” Her voice trailed off. My mother intervened, embarrassed by my brilliant performance into comforting her.

  “You have been good to us, Madame. Please don’t cry. You allowed us to continue living here when no one else would have opened a door for us. You employed me when no one else would. You have been good and kind. We have only thanks, Madame.”

  Madame Duval let go of my hand and pulled out a hanky. She sniffed and dabbed her eyes dry. Her mouth had twisted into an ugly grimace that ill became her.

  “I will talk to Madame Balmain and ask her to take Mischa. He really should go to school now that he can speak.”

  “Thank you, Madame,” my mother gushed. I felt nothing but loathing for the woman who had always treated me with disdain.

  “God has blessed you, Mischa,” she said. I noticed her hands were trembling, as well they might, for the only road ahead for her was the one to Hell. “Now leave me, please. You too, Etiennette. I want to be alone.” She didn’t look at me again. I knew she was afraid of me: I had seen it in her eyes. I sauntered out after my mother, feeling very pleased with myself.

  As we walked down the corridor my mother bent down and hissed in my ear, “Christ’s right hand for eternity, for goodness’ sake! If you’re not careful you’ll be damned along with her!” I glanced up at her. She was unable to hide the pride that shone in her eyes or the little smile that danced upon her lips. “It was better when you couldn’t speak!”

  We walked through the kitchen on our way out, passing Yvette, Armand, and Pierre, who stopped gossiping and stared at us with ill-concealed fascination. My mother lifted her chin and greeted them politely. Intoxicated by my newfound power, I sauntered up to Yvette. “Is it true?” she asked. “Can my little grabber speak?” Her hair had come away from her bun and her face burned scarlet. She had obviously been rolling in the folly with Jacques Reynard.

  “It is true.” Then I couldn’t resist. “You look well, Madame. Like a juicy grape.” The blood in her cheeks drained away and she stared at me in amazement. I blinked back innocently.

  “I feel faint,” she stammered. “Armand, get me a chair.” Armand hurriedly placed a chair beneath her bottom. She sank into it. Interpreting her sudden wilting as confirmation of the miracle Armand and
Pierre gazed at me with fear in their eyes.

  “As you can hear, I speak French,” I announced. “If anyone needs their mouths washed out with soap, it’s you.” Armand parted his lips to speak, but nothing came out but a hiss of air. “My father was a good man. He sits on the right hand of God. I know because I saw him there, in my vision of light.” I knew I was going too far, but I was unable to stop. I enjoyed watching them squirm. Such was their devotion to God they didn’t doubt me, not for a moment. Triumphant, I strode out into the sunshine where my mother was waiting for me.

  Coyote’s shiny convertible drew up outside the stable block. As he had promised she would, Yvette had prepared a picnic of cold meat and cheese, baguettes and plums and a bottle of white wine. He ruffled my hair and grinned at me knowingly, as if he was aware of my game and found it amusing. We motored down the long driveway, beneath the avenue of leafy plane trees, the wheels of the car gliding over the small pools of sunlight that shimmered on the gravel. Then we were out on the open road. With the wind in my hair, the scent of pine and damp earth in my nostrils, I felt happier than I had in a long time. I sat back and closed my eyes. The sun was warm on my skin, although the wind was fringed with an autumn chill. Already, I barely remembered what it was like to be mute. My voice now sounded so natural. The wind had brought me Coyote. How could I ever thank it?

  When I opened my eyes I noticed Coyote’s hand resting on my mother’s leg. She didn’t push it away. To my surprise she placed hers on top of his and curled her fingers around it. They were talking but, because of the wind in my ears, I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Every now and then my mother threw back her head and laughed, holding on to her hat so that it didn’t fly away. They looked like any couple in love. I wondered whether my mother had sat like that beside my father, his hand on hers, her laughter rising above the wind like the ringing of bells. If he could see us now, from Heaven, what would he think? Would he be sad that she loved another, or would he be pleased for her happiness? I knew she had struggled with it, for I had seen her late at night when she thought I slept, staring into the immobile features of my father’s photo. She had told me herself that she had been afraid of loving again. Perhaps she meant she had been afraid of betraying my father’s memory. Well, I understood there were many different ways of loving someone. I didn’t think it wrong that my mother should love more than one man and I didn’t think that my father would mind in the least; after all, he wasn’t here to look after her.