The Gypsy Madonna

by Santa Montefiore

I braced myself and walked in with the other children. No one spoke to me but they all stared at me in the shameless way children do. I felt conspicuous, like a fish that finds itself beyond the safety of the coral reef, in the wide open sea with nowhere to hide. Suddenly a teacher pointed at me and hurried over.

  “Mischa,” she said kindly. “Come with me.” She had straight brown hair and rich golden eyes and her smile was wide and sincere. “This is your first day, dear. You must be very nervous. You don’t need to be. My name is Mademoiselle Rosnay and I’m your teacher.” She put her hand on my back and guided me through the noisy swarm of children into a classroom. There were rows of wooden desks, a blackboard, pictures the pupils had painted pinned to the walls, and the strong smell of disinfectant. A group of boys lingered around a desk, playing with a yo-yo. When I entered they stopped their game and turned to me. A hush fell over the room.

  “Mischa!” I recognized her voice immediately and felt a surge of relief.

  “Claudine!”

  “Ah, you have a friend. That’s good,” said Mademoiselle Rosnay.

  “You’re in my class!” she exclaimed happily. “I’ll look after him, Mademoiselle Rosnay. Can I?”

  “Well, of course you may,” replied Mademoiselle Rosnay, showing me to my desk. “This is yours,” she said. It was scuffed and covered in ink stains and carvings scratched into the wood by previous generations of children, but it was mine. I felt a wave of pride. This was my very own desk. I had my place in the school, just like everyone else. I put the pencil case my mother had given me neatly inside and closed the lid.

  “I’m so pleased you got your voice back,” Claudine said, touching my arm. “I knew you would.”

  “It feels a bit strange,” I replied, which wasn’t true, but the whole situation was overwhelming. I didn’t know quite what to say.

  “I bet it does. Le curéton was shocked. He went white, then blue, then gray, and finally pink. That horrid sweaty pink that smells of alcohol. Everyone’s talking about it. You’re a saint, Mischa. You know, my mother says that if I touch you, you’ll bring me good luck — turncoat.”

  “You mean, she doesn’t mind us being friends?”

  “Not at all. In fact, she’s encouraging me. I’m to touch you as often as possible, and wonderful things will happen.”

  I looked at her conspiratorially. “I don’t think they will,” I whispered. “I’m not really a saint.”

  “That’s okay,” she said with a grin. “I prefer you as you are. Saints are dull.”

  “Let me introduce you to the others,” she suggested, waving at the group of boys. Warily they sidled over, watching me from behind long fringes, hands in pockets.

  “So you’re a miracle?” said one.

  “God gave him back his voice,” said Claudine. “He saw a vision, didn’t you, Mischa?”

  “A vision?” repeated another.

  “Really?” they exclaimed.

  “What did you see?”

  They took their hands out of their pockets, pushed their hair off their faces, and blinked at me with admiration. I sat on the desk with my feet on a chair and told them what I had told Madame Duval. I exaggerated a little more for effect, encouraged by their wide eyes and dropped jaws. Claudine went along with my lie like a good accomplice, prompting me with suggestions. We were a double act, and a good one at that. I savored the sense of friendship and the warm swell of my heart that went with it.

  A few girls hurried over, keen not to miss the inside story. Their families had been talking of nothing else since Mass the previous morning and they were eager to hear it from the horse’s mouth. I repeated the story for the second time. By now, I almost believed it myself. They badgered me with questions: What did Jesus look like? Had I seen God? Was my father in uniform? What did Heaven look like? I did my best to answer them, relying heavily on what my mother had told me and the religious pictures I had seen in church. My answers must have satisfied them for, when Mademoiselle Rosnay clapped her hands, signaling everyone to return to their desks, they all patted me on the back.

  “Bonjour, tout le monde,” she said, standing in front of her desk.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Rosnay,” we all chanted in unison. I followed the other children and sat down. Claudine, who sat at the desk beside me, smiled at me toothily. I noticed the desk on her other side was empty.

  “I would like to welcome the newest member of our class, Mischa Fontaine. I ask you all to be as helpful as you can so that he settles in as quickly as possible.” I felt deliriously happy. Claudine was proud to be my friend and I had already won over the rest of the class. This sainthood business had done me a huge favor. I didn’t feel in the least bit guilty lying about my vision; after all, who was to say that God hadn’t had a hand in the miracle? Perhaps God was responsible for the wind and hence for Coyote. Besides, I was doing Him a favor, strengthening the people’s faith, and that, surely, was a good thing.

  I was keen to learn, too. My mother had taught me as well as she could, but there was no substitute for real schooling, and the excitement of having proper books and a teacher scribbling on a blackboard was intoxicating. I was just getting into the lesson when the door opened. A scruffy-looking boy with dark hair and heavy eyes sauntered into the room. Mademoiselle Rosnay wasn’t pleased. She placed her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. “Laurent, I have had enough of you turning up late in the morning. Either you are here on time for my class, or you will be punished.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said with a shrug. “Trouble at home.”

  Mademoiselle shook her head and sighed. “That’s no excuse and you know it. Now settle down as quickly as possible.”

  As he walked past my desk, he did a double take. I recognized him from the time we had all played in the square. He had patted me on the back and said, “Well run.” He sat down and whispered to Claudine. After that, I noticed him out of the corner of my eye. I could feel his attention. But, unlike that of the rest of the class, it wasn’t sympathetic.

  In the break, the class dispersed into the playground. Claudine was by my side, my loyal conspirator, whispering more suggestions into my ear to embellish my story. I noticed Laurent linger. He watched us go outside, his brow low and brooding. I soon forgot about him, though, for I was at once surrounded by those who had not heard my story and those who wanted to hear it again. I found myself holding forth with the ease of an actor confident of his role. I knew the script by heart and had now learned when to pause for optimal effect.

  Claudine became my manager, sensing when the interview was beginning to tire me out and demanding a break. We ran off to some steps that led up to a classroom and sat huddled together, laughing at our success. “You’re brilliant!” she enthused. “They’re eating out of your hand.”

  “It’s not all untrue,” I said, not wanting her to think me a total liar.

  “I know it isn’t. There’s no harm in coloring it a little for entertainment. Never let the truth interfere with a good story, I always say.”

  “I did feel something,” I said, turning serious. “I didn’t see God or Jesus, but I felt them, and I felt my father too. The church was flooded with light and I got a tingling all over my body. That’s the truth. I haven’t told anyone but you.”

  She smiled tenderly. “I believe you, Mischa. We can laugh as much as we like, but the fact is, you got your voice back. That kind of miracle only comes from God, vision or no vision. It doesn’t matter. You can speak.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter how.”

  “I don’t think Laurent likes me,” I said, thinking of him smoldering in the classroom.

  “He’s only jealous. We’ve always done everything together, Laurent and me. He’s cross. His parents fight all the time because his father has affairs.”

  “Affairs?” She knew an awful lot for a seven-year-old.

  “He’s in love with Madame Bonchance, you know, the lady at the kiosk.”

  “The one with red hair?”

  She gig
gled. “Ever since she’s been screwing Laurent’s dad she’s taken trouble with herself. She wears bright red lipstick, her hair all curled, green shadow above her eyes. What a sight! It obviously pleases Laurent’s dad, though.” I thought of Yvette and Jacques Reynard, another unlikely pairing.

  When we returned to the classroom, Laurent’s face had darkened, as if he had spent the whole break brooding on Claudine’s new friendship. I ignored him and answered more questions about Heaven and God. Suddenly, he squared up in front of me. “You might have been touched by God,” he sneered. “But your father’s still a Nazi pig.”

  The room fell silent. Claudine made to intervene. It was her white face that gave me the confidence to draw my sword. I squared my shoulders too, and stood tall, though not as tall as Laurent.

  “You know why my father wasn’t a real Nazi? Because Nazi is a state of mind, not a nationality,” I replied with as much arrogance as I could muster. “You, Laurent, might be French, but you’re more of a Nazi than he was.”

  I felt my cheeks flush with the brilliance of my retort. I didn’t know where those words had come from, or what they really meant, but they sounded good. From his reaction he thought so too. He backed off, his eyes black with rage. Claudine turned on him.

  “How dare you speak to Mischa like that, Laurent! I thought you were a decent person, but you’re just as prejudiced as your parents!” When Mademoiselle Rosnay came in, we all returned to our desks, I flushed with victory, Laurent with his head bowed in shame.

  That afternoon the wind picked up. The leaves were torn from the branches, tossed about in the air, and thrown to the ground where they swirled about helplessly. I did not speak to Laurent again, and Claudine ignored him, which cost her, for she grew quiet and sad. I returned home at the end of the day, the taste of victory now bitter on my tongue. I told my mother about Mademoiselle Rosnay and Claudine, but not of my boasting or of my fight with Laurent.

  By evening the wind had turned into a storm. Rain fell in a torrent, splashing on the ground, forming large puddles in the mud. My mother thought of Jacques Reynard and the harvest that was only a week away. I thought of Coyote. Wasn’t it a storm like this that had brought him to Château Lecrusse? If my grandmother was right, surely the wind would take him away. I was uneasy, not wanting to believe the folklore but too afraid not to. I lay awake in bed, my mother’s breathing regular and gentle against the rattling windows and clattering glass. The wind howled like one of Jacques Reynard’s wolves. I snuggled further beneath the blanket, drawing it over my head. I fell into a restless sleep. Images of Laurent rose in my thoughts, clashing with those of Claudine, Madame Duval, and Yvette. Then those images cleared and I was living my nightmare again, so familiar to me now that I knew, in my dreamy state, that it was not real. However, it was none the less frightening. The same faces, the same hatred, the same fear, except this time it ended differently…

  Suddenly a man appears and the crowd disperses. He is wearing a uniform I have not seen before. It is green, like an olive. He takes off his shirt and places it around my mother’s shoulders. “You should be disgusted with yourselves. To turn against your own people!” he shouts, but they do not hear him. Then he places his hand on my head. “You’re gonna be all right, son.” I look up into his face. He smiles kindly, his eyes turquoise against the dark tan of his skin, and he ruffles my hair. “It’s okay, Junior,” he repeats. “You’re going to be okay.”

  I opened my eyes with a gasp. My mother was still asleep beside me, her face flushed, a small smile betraying the nature of her dreams. I slid out of bed and searched for my clothes. The light was on in the hall, but I couldn’t find anything. When I opened a drawer, I was baffled to find it empty. I scratched my head and tried to think. I didn’t believe I was still dreaming. I was confused. Finally, I was left no option but to put on my coat and boots over my pajamas. Still dazed and disoriented, drunk on sleep, I staggered down the steps and made my way through the storm to the château. I didn’t know how I was going to find him. But I had to tell him not to leave without us. I drew my coat about my shoulders and buried my chin in my chest. The rain drenched my head in a second and began to drip down my back like the tracing of cold fingers. I shivered, blinked the drops off my eyelashes, and hurried on. My thoughts were erratic, my feelings numb. What had become of my clothes? I still wasn’t sure whether or not I was dreaming.

  I reached the stone walls of the château and cowered for a while against them, my back turned towards the wind. Had Coyote been there in 1944 when the Americans liberated Maurilliac? Had he rescued us from the mob? Was he responsible for our salvation? Was that why my mother and he shared a bond? Was that why he could see Pistou when no one else could — because he really was magic? I shuddered as another drip careered down my spine. I had to get into the hotel. I had to find him. He must not leave without us.

  The front doors were locked and the shutters all closed. It was very dark. Occasionally the clouds separated to give a glimpse of the full moon, far above the storm, way beyond the influence of the wind. I knew that if there was a way to get into the château it would be through the conservatory. When the clouds parted I dashed around to the back, through the box garden that Joy Springtoe’s room had overlooked. By the time I reached the conservatory I was soaked to the skin and cold to my bones. Frozen into sobriety, I crouched against the glass, my head in my hands, wondering what to do, when I heard the sound of a shovel being forced repeatedly into the ground. At first I thought it was the wind rattling a loose shutter, but the more I listened the more I realized that it was someone digging in the garden. I stared out into the blackness but saw only the darkest night and driving rain. I held my breath and listened again. My heart beat so loudly it was hard to hear above it. The sound reached me, hard and violent. Then the clouds divided and, for an instant, the moon shone a spotlight on the far border at the end of the garden, against the wall, where a man was on his knees, digging up the earth. I caught my breath in horror, imagining nothing less than the disposal of a body after a murder. The moment the clouds came together again I hurried away as fast as my shaking legs could carry me. I was terrified. Thoughts of Coyote stealing away in the middle of the night disintegrated in the furnace of my fear. I no longer cared for anything other than being as far away from the château as possible in case the murderer saw me spying and had to kill me too.

  I reached the safety of the stable block. It was warm in there and smelled of my mother’s lemon cologne mingled with the scent of pine. I undressed and hung my pajamas in the bathroom to dry. Then I wriggled down the bed naked, as close to my mother as I could get without touching her. It was warm beside her, and it wasn’t long before I drifted off, too tired even to worry about the murderer in the garden.

  It was still dark, but it had stopped raining when my mother woke me. “Shhh,” she instructed. She was already dressed, her hair pinned back, her eyes sparkling with intent. If she had noticed my pajamas in the bathroom she didn’t let on. “Your clothes are on the chair. Hurry.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “To America,” she replied with a smile.

  “America?” I repeated in disbelief. The night couldn’t get any weirder.

  “Coyote is waiting in the car. Let’s not talk now, my darling. We haven’t got time.” In her hand she held a brown envelope. I saw the name Jacques Reynard written on it in her looped handwriting before she slipped it into her coat pocket.

  I did as I was told. I now realized why the drawers were empty. I looked around: the room was bare, as if we had never been there. I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow. Maurilliac was all I had ever known. My father’s spirit walked the corridors of the Château Lecrusse. I sometimes heard his boots on the wooden floorboards, the sound of orchestral music from the gramophone, my mother’s rippling laughter as he danced with her around the room. My heart lurched at the thought of leaving everything I loved about my home: the green rows of vines, harvest time, the su
nset that turned the river golden, the view from the folly, Daphne Halifax, Jacques Reynard…Claudine. A large tear welled in my eye and rolled down my cheek. “It’s all right to be sad, my love,” said my mother, her own eyes glittering with tears. “We’re embarking on an adventure,” she reassured me. “We’re going to another country. We have an opportunity to start again.”

  “But what about Papa?” I croaked. I didn’t need to explain. She took me in her arms and held me tightly.

  “Papa isn’t here, Mischa. He’s in Heaven.” She held me in front of her so that I could see her face. “We carry him around here, in our hearts. He’ll always be with us, you see. I haven’t stopped loving him. I love Coyote in a different way. There are many ways of loving, Mischa. Our hearts have an enormous capacity for love. We’ll come back one day. But we’ll never be free of the past if we remain here.” She laughed sadly. “You’re a saint now, Mischa. That’s a very hard thing to live up to. I don’t think it’s fair to burden you with that as well. Come, we must hurry. Trust me, this is for the best. The chevalier has fought and won. There’s nothing left for us here.”

  Part II

  My friends and relations,

  They live in the nation

  They know not where

  Their boy has gone.

  First came to Texas

  And hired to a ranchman —

  I’m only a poor cowboy

  And I know I’ve done wrong.

  Someone write me a letter

  To my gray-headed mother,

  Then to my sister, My sister so dear.

  But there’s another

  far dearer than Mother

  who’d bitterly weep

  If she knew I was here.

  16

  New York, 1985

  I stood in the snow feeling helpless, as if I were a little boy again. I scratched my chin, bristly from neglect, and stared bleakly at the gray coats that hurried along the sidewalks. I felt I had lost Coyote all over again and my stomach lurched with regret. What had he come back for? Where had he been for the last thirty years? I was angry with myself for letting him walk away without giving him the chance to explain. I seemed to be angry all the time these days; even Stanley was wary of me, I could tell. Esther, on the other hand, was afraid of no one. I shook my head, feeling despair wind itself around me like a boa constrictor until I found it hard to breathe. I shoved my hands in my pockets and strode back to the office, stifling sobs that were long overdue.