18
My mother stayed in their bedroom for three days, refusing to let Coyote in. When he knocked, she shouted at him in French, throwing things at the door so that they smashed loudly against the wood. I knew she’d let me in, but I didn’t want to see her. I feared she’d decide to move back to Maurilliac and I was just beginning to settle into Jupiter. So I pretended everything was okay. Coyote and I had breakfast together. I got myself ready for school and took the big yellow bus with the other kids. After school I hung out with my friends a little before walking home beneath the coppery trees. Coyote and I didn’t discuss my mother’s self-imposed incarceration. We sang songs to the guitar and played cards. But I could tell that Coyote was anxious. His face looked drawn and tired, his eyes hollow; his mouth fought the impulse to turn downwards like an unhappy clown’s.
I didn’t understand their fight. It didn’t bother me that they weren’t married. No one knew the truth. Besides, surely it was romantic to have got married in Paris. I had never been to Paris, but I had seen pictures and knew the history. It was the cultural center of Europe and the most beautiful city in the world. Why on earth would my mother mind so much that people thought she had married there?
On the morning of the third day she emerged. She looked thin and pale. Her eyes were dull with resignation. Coyote leaped up from the table, but she raised her hand to keep him at a distance. “I will go along with the charade, God help me,” she said in a quiet voice. “I am a fool, but what can I do?” She bent down and planted a kiss on my temple. “I have one condition.”
“Anything,” Coyote said, the color burning his cheeks.
“I want a ring.”
“You can have any ring you want.”
“It’s a question of morality, Coyote. Not for me, but for my son. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“Now, let’s not talk about it anymore. I want to go back to how we were before.” Coyote pulled out a chair and she sat down. She took my hand in hers.
“How are you, my love?”
“Fine,” I replied, chewing on a piece of toast.
“Have you had fun at school?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Coyote poured her a cup of coffee, which she drank, savoring the taste, closing her eyes and sighing contentedly.
I was delighted that they had made up, not only because Coyote looked happy again. I was relieved I didn’t have to go back to Madame Duval and Père Abel-Louis. I walked to the bus stop with a spring in my step, humming Coyote’s songs, the sun streaming through the drying leaves in shafts. I felt the whole world opening up for me, presenting endless possibilities and opportunities. I loved Jupiter, my new friends at school, the small seaside community, but mostly I loved who I was. For the first time I was happy in my own skin.
After school my mother drove me out to Captain Crumble’s Curiosity Store. On the third finger of her left hand sparkled a small diamond ring against a plain gold marriage band. She looked different about the eyes. There was something hard in them that hadn’t been there before. In spite of all that she had been through in the aftermath of the war, she had retained her innocence. That had now gone. In its place was an unfamiliar look of worldliness.
“Your ring looks pretty,” I said. We had now begun to speak English, even when we were alone together. Only when my mother was angry, hurt, or overwhelmed with excitement did she revert to speaking French.
“It does, doesn’t it,” she replied, turning her hand and glancing at it with a sigh.
“Is everything going to be all right now?”
“Everything is going to be just fine, Mischa.”
“I like it here.”
“I know you do.”
“I like the Curiosity Store.”
“So do I.”
“I’m going to help out after school. Can I?”
“Of course you can. I’m going to help out too.”
“You are?” It shouldn’t have seemed odd that my mother wanted to work. After all, she had worked at the château. But it did seem odd somehow — in her new dresses she no longer looked the working type. Perhaps because determination had replaced the resigned look that had softened her features in France, as if she knew in her heart that although Coyote had rescued us from Madame Duval we were still on our own: Maman and her little chevalier. Just the two of us. Always just the two of us.
At the warehouse, Matias greeted us in his deep, resonant voice. “Extra hands! Coyote, the relief force has arrived!” I pulled out of my pocket the green feather he had given me and stuck it behind my ear. He smiled down at me, his large face aglow with enthusiasm. “Now you look like you were raised here with the Indians,” he said, laughing heartily.
“Where’s Coyote?” my mother asked, striding past him.
“Out back, in the office, working on some papers for a change.”
Coyote hated paperwork. It was a struggle for him to sit still at his desk. He was a free spirit, happier when his wings were spread. Paperwork was like a lead weight hanging from his big toe. But my mother was going to relieve him of this burden. She wanted a job in the store. She wanted to take part in his operation. She needed to know how things were done.
While my mother went to talk to Coyote, I followed Matias around the warehouse like an adoring puppy. He told me how they acquired the goods. “From all over the world, Mischa. From Chile to Russia, and all the countries in between.”
“You must travel a lot,” I said, picking up a large ivory tusk.
“I don’t travel as much as I used to.” He placed his hands on his stomach. “It’s not so easy getting around these days. I was thin as a child. You might find it hard to believe, but I was nicknamed Flaco — Skinny. Coyote is the one who travels the world. He returns with the goods.”
“Are they valuable?”
“Some are, some aren’t.” He bent down and whispered in my ear. “But I can assure you that to the customer everything is precious, hard to come by, rare. You understand?” I nodded. “The first thing you need to learn in order to work in the store is that everything is priceless. The customer is exchanging money for something that is unique. This elephant foot, for example. A one-off. Mrs. Slade won’t find it in Mrs. Gardner’s parlor, or in any parlor in New Jersey. There is only one.”
“Is there a three-legged elephant hobbling about somewhere?”
He chuckled. “I don’t think so. The elephant would have been dead first.”
“What’s it for?”
He shrugged his big shoulders. “A wastebasket, perhaps. An umbrella stand.”
“And this?” I picked up the tusk.
He took it from me and held it up. “This once belonged to a rhino. Sharp, isn’t it? An ornament. As I said, no one else will have one. It’s an exhibit.”
“How does Coyote find them?” I imagined him with a gun, shooting animals in Africa, and felt my admiration for him swell.
“He has his ways and means. The thing is not to ask too many questions. Coyote is an enigma. He’s very secretive. He doesn’t like people to know too much about him.” He lowered his voice. “He’s a shadow, Mischa. I don’t think anyone knows the real Coyote.” Except me, I thought proudly. I know him better than anyone else, even my mother.
Matias took me around the warehouse, telling me about the origins of some of the items. I was curious about each one. There was a “magic carpet” from Turkey that Matias said had once possessed the power to fly; a set of miniature chairs from England, supposedly the ones at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party; and a whole suit of armor almost as small as me. “In medieval times, Mischa, men were as small as you. Look, here’s the shield and sword. For a chevalier you don’t look too familiar with them!” He laughed, patting me on the back, nearly sending me flying into the heap of wares. There was a beautiful tapestry of Bacchus, the god of wine, surrounded by wood nymphs and a unicorn in a lustrous green forest. The colors were rich, though faded. Matias unfolded it proudly
. “This,” he said, “was found in France at the beginning of the war.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said truthfully. There was a similar one at the château, hanging in the hall.
He rolled it up again. “Do you know what this is?” He held up a long patchwork quilt. My eyes opened wide with disbelief.
“The Old Man of Virginia’s patchwork coat!” I said breathlessly.
Matias frowned. “It’s the Coat of Many Colors, and older than America!”
Matias was distracted by a woman and her son. “Can I help?” he said, opening his arms like a father welcoming his family home.
“Yes, you can,” she replied. “I’m looking for a present for my daughter-in-law.” She didn’t seem very happy about it.
“What is she like?” asked Matias.
“Ask him, he married her,” she replied with a shrug. The young man sighed. He was tall, like Matias, but lean, dwarfing his mother like a tree. “They’re coming for Thanksgiving and we’re celebrating her birthday,” she continued. Her face was large, with big spongy features that sagged down into her neck. “Go on, Antonio, tell him what she’s like.”
“She’s very feminine,” he began. His mother snorted. He pushed on. “She likes pretty things. For the house?”
“I have just the thing,” said Matias, setting off towards the back of the warehouse. Mother and son didn’t notice me loitering behind the elephant foot.
She turned to him and started to hiss. “You don’t call, you don’t write, you barely come around. Anyone would think you lived in a different country. You’re in the same state, for God’s sake. What would your grandmother say if she were alive? I brought you up to put your family first.” Antonio tried to appease her but she shrugged him off. “That’s okay. I’ll die alone. I’ll be fine.”
“But…”
“Your father? He’s never home. Don’t even ask about your father, Antonio. He says it’s work but it’s probably another woman. I can take it. What else can I do?” She lifted her chin and breathed deeply through her nose.
Matias returned with an antique box of beautiful cut glass dressing-table bottles with round silver lids. “She’d love that,” said Antonio, eyes brightening.
“That’s too good for her!” said his mother.
“Mama…”
“What’s she going to do with them? Hasn’t she enough lotions already?”
Matias turned to me. “Mischa, come and have a look at this.” I emerged from behind the elephant foot, my hands in my pockets, pretending I had been busy.
“What is it?” I asked, peering into the case.
“This used to belong to a Victorian lady. You see the initial ‘W’? That stands for ‘Wellington.’ It used to belong to the Duchess of Wellington. This, my good lady, is a genuine antique of great value all the way from England.”
“It’s gorgeous,” said Antonio. “How much is it?”
“It’ll be too expensive, Antonio. It belonged to a duchess,” his mother argued.
“You can have it for twelve dollars, if you give me a smile.” Matias grinned down at the ill-humored woman.
“What is there to smile about?” she asked gloomily. “I never see my son anymore. If I had known I would die alone I would never have gone through those twenty-four hours of labor.”
“Mama…”
“Do you love your mother?” she asked me.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Don’t forget her like Antonio when you fall in love, will you? Don’t forget your old mother. She’s given her life for you.” Antonio gave me an apologetic smile. “You’ll give that to me for twelve bucks?” She turned to Matias.
“Twelve bucks for you,” he said.
“Twelve bucks it is, then,” she said, her face lifting into a smile. “That’s as close to a duchess as I’ll get.” She laughed with pleasure. “You can tell her it belonged to royalty, Antonio. She’d like that, for sure.”
“And she’ll like you for giving it,” said Matias.
“If she comes in here, small woman with a sharp, pointed face and blond hair, tell her I’d like the boy.”
Matias laughed heartily. I was shocked. “If she gives me a good price he might be for sale.” He patted my back.
“You’re too good for me,” she said, pinching my cheek until it hurt. “And too expensive. You’re worth your weight in gold. Handsome too. Antonio was never blessed with good looks. What can you do but survive with what God gave you?” She let go of my cheek. An hour after she had gone, it was still tender.
“Your first customers,” said Matias with a chuckle. “We get a lot of those in here.”
“Her son hardly said anything.”
“They never do. They’re dominated by their mothers, pobrecitos! Those Italian matriarchs see their daughters-in-law as competition. I’d like to be a fly on the wall for their Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Did that case of bottles really belong to a duchess in England?”
“Of course,” Matias responded, but he had a twinkle in his eye.
“Why was it not more expensive?”
“Everything is relative. What is expensive for one person is a bargain for another.”
“She smiled though, when you told her the price.”
“Si, señor, she did. She’s probably got a whole lot of cash hidden under the mattress in her bedroom. I know the type.”
“Do you think her daughter-in-law will come in?” Matias laughed at my anxious face.
“You have to learn to take a joke, Miguelito,” he said. But he couldn’t have known that those kinds of threats were never jokes at the château.
I left Matias to go and find my mother and Coyote. I walked through the warehouse like a panther, my feet silent on the wooden floor. I reached the office but, instead of going straight in, I stood on tiptoe and peered through the window. My mother was sitting on Coyote’s knee and they were kissing. I remained there for some time, just staring. I had a strong sense of déjà vu, recalling the time Pistou and I had spied on Jacques Reynard and Yvette in the folly. Coyote’s hand was on my mother’s leg, having slipped up her skirt, and they were laughing between kisses. They had obviously made up. My mother’s ring glittered on her finger, catching the light in the dim room. Her small hat was still on her head, her green cardigan buttoned up, her pearls hanging down her front. Coyote’s hand toyed with the fastening on her stocking. She looked small on his knee, like a little girl, though there was nothing innocent about their kissing. I stayed a long while, fascinated by these secrets of the adult world, then, for fear of being caught spying by Matias — or worse, my mother — I retreated into the warehouse to help with the sudden arrival of a large group of customers.
My life in Jupiter flourished. I grew into my skin and for the first time it fitted to perfection. I was happy to be me. We celebrated Thanksgiving with Matias and his wife, Maria Elena, with a great big turkey Coyote claimed he had killed himself. I sat at the table, my plate piled high with food, and delighted in the feeling of being part of a family, a proper family.
“You want to know about Thanksgiving, Junior?” said Coyote, taking a swig of warm red wine. I nodded, eager to learn as much as I could about this bright new country I now claimed as my own. “Northeast America was home to the native peoples, who made their living for thousands of years by farming and fishing. Then the settlers came out from Europe in the sixteenth century and killed most of them off, poor chumps. If they weren’t killed in warfare they died of disease. Many of the first settlers were Puritans, some of whom sailed to Cape Cod on board the famous Mayflower. They were English, mostly persecuted for their religion, determined to found a brave new world in America. They called the newly discovered territory New England. Thanksgiving is celebrated by all Americans and commemorates the end of the Mayflower voyagers’ first year and their successful harvest.” He paused a moment and settled his eyes on my mother. They were heavy with drink and affection. “I raise my glass to the most recent arrivals to this br
ave new world. I celebrate their flight from France and their safe crossing and wish them a future that is both healthy and happy, but also full of opportunity. Because that is what America is to me: the land of endless possibility.”
19
There was no avoiding Gray Thistlewaite’s “Another True Story” hour on local radio. My mother refused to do it. She felt it was beneath her dignity to speak about her life to a whole community of strangers. She relished her privacy, the fact that people in Jupiter knew hardly anything about her. She was loving her anonymity, having been unable to enjoy such a luxury in Maurilliac. But Gray Thistlewaite was not the sort of woman to whom one said no. At first sight she appeared a mild-natured grandmother. She was small and slight, with neat gray hair tied into a soft bun at the back of her head. Her face was wide and pretty with bright blue eyes, the color of the clear autumn sky above Jupiter. Her lips were full and pink, her skin pale and powdered, her scent lily of the valley. What gave away the rod of steel hidden down her back was her determined jaw. It jutted forward a little too much, the bone too stern for such a gentle face. It didn’t do any good to offend her. That jaw would jut out even further and she would stiffen, reducing you to pulp with those blue eyes turned to winter. Once she got an idea into her head, there was no avoiding it. It was early December; we had been in Jupiter almost three months and were very much in her sights. We couldn’t decline her request without being rude.
Coyote understood my mother’s position and was wise enough not to push her. He had witnessed her temper and wasn’t keen to repeat the experience. He had managed, so far, to avoid going on the show himself, so there was only one other option: me. I was delighted. Yvette had always listened to the wireless in France. I was thrilled that I was going to be on it and overwhelmed by the thought that hundreds of people would hear me. “She only wants to know how you enjoy Jupiter, Mischa. You can tell them about the château, the harvest, the wine. You can tell them about Jacques Reynard and Joy Springtoe if you like,” said my mother, smoothing the creases out of my shirt.
The Gypsy Madonna Page 16
