My mother was excited. Maria Elena had invited us for supper at her house and had insisted on baking the cake. My mother had been active in the store and hadn’t had time to think about a party. The summer had been busy. The boardwalk had been crowded with vacationers, the beach awash with bodies soaking up the sun, and they had all wanted to shop in the afternoon. I had been on vacation from school and had helped out in the store. But now it was quieter. The vacation was over, the beaches empty; there were just the locals and the old folks who didn’t have jobs to rush back to. By now I knew all the goods in the warehouse and had become a competent salesman. I enjoyed it. I exchanged banter with Matias and we laughed behind the customers’ backs. I felt like a member of the team, not like a little boy loitering on the border of the adult world, and they treated me as such. In the evenings, when we closed, Coyote picked up his guitar and we sat outside on the grass, in the shade of a maple tree, and sang old cowboy songs. Sometimes, if we’d done well, he’d open a bottle of wine and I’d be given a small glass. If I was lucky he’d tell me more stories of the Old Man of Virginia.
I had always loved my birthday. It was my special day. If I think hard enough, squint my eyes, rummage through my oldest memories, I can remember my third birthday at the château. My father wasn’t there. I don’t remember minding. I don’t recall my mother being unhappy. I was too small to notice anything except the cake my mother had managed to bake for me, in the shape of an airplane, and the expectant faces as I blew out the three candles. However, I do remember the sense of importance the festivity gave me and the smell of comfort in the vanilla.
The stone walls of the château were the walls of my security, my mother’s embrace the inner sanctum where I fled when the outer walls were penetrated by the enemy. But on my third birthday, as on my tenth, I had no sense of the enemy lurking in the shadows.
Matias loved to barbecue. He said a barbecue was called an asado in Chile and claimed that the meat was much better there. So, for my birthday, he invited friends from the neighborhood and we all sat in the garden, savoring the charcoal smell from the grill and the sweet scent of autumn. Matias had tied Maria Elena’s apron around his enormous waist, which looked ridiculous as it barely met at the back, and wiggled his big bottom to the rhythm of Coyote’s guitar. Maria Elena approached him from behind and wrapped her arms around him as much as she could, moving with him in a lazy dance. Coyote sat with his hat askew, leaning against a tree as he had done in the little clearing by the river in France. My mother was cross-legged in a pair of white trousers, a scarf holding her hair off her face, exposing the widow’s peak in her hairline. She was smiling at Coyote. The sun had brought out the freckles on her nose and her complexion was as brown as toffee.
They had invited some of my buddies from school: Joe, Frank, and Solly, and some girls brought by their parents who were friends of Maria Elena and Matias. It was only in the company of Maria Elena and Matias and their throng of friends that I realized my mother and Coyote didn’t have friends of their own. Coyote was loved by everyone, but he was an enigma, like a beam of light that is alluring but intangible. Everyone knew him. He was constantly visited in the store, especially by women, all dolled up with black eyelashes and lipstick, but he never let anyone get too close. Only my mother and I were allowed beneath his skin. But whereas I never saw beyond his smile, my mother saw so much more. She heard the silent cry that echoed from his childhood, clawing at the mother in her, demanding to be understood. She did her best, I know she did. But it wasn’t enough. There was always a part of Coyote that was impenetrable. I suppose my mother was too busy trying to understand him to have the time for friends besides Maria Elena.
I hung around the garden with my pals, showing off to the girls who giggled into their hands and whispered to each other. I no longer had the sense of being an outsider. Those days of longing to join in with the children in the square were distant, as was the memory of Claudine. I had other friends now. I possessed the power not only of my good looks but also of knowledge. My mother, herself well educated, had taught me things that now served me well. I was good at history and geography and world affairs. I knew more than my contemporaries. What’s more, I was interested in the world beyond Jupiter. I envied Coyote his travels overseas. I yearned to go with him to all the countries depicted on the Old Man of Virginia’s patchwork coat. He told me that one day, when I was older, he’d take me with him so that I’d know how to run the business once he had gone. But I never got the chance; he was gone before I grew up.
We kids ate on our knees. There were tables, neatly laid with gingham cloths and matching napkins. The grown-ups sat there, with their wine and their manners, and discussed grown-up things while we sat on the grass with Matias’ two bull terriers, eating hot dogs and burgers. However, when the cake was brought in, by my mother and Maria Elena, the garden fell silent and they all sang “Happy Birthday” to me. I was told by Matias to sit at the foot of the table, the place vacated by his wife, who now put the cake with ten candles in front of my glowing face. “Go on! Blow them out!” they all cried and I took a deep breath and blew as hard as I could.
“There will only be one woman for you!” said Coyote, referring to the single blow it had taken to snuff out the flames.
“I should hope so too,” Maria Elena replied, clapping her hands.
“One woman!” Matias gasped, his booming voice rising above the noise. “Don’t sentence the poor boy to a life of purgatory!”
“Oh, behave, mi amor,” said Maria Elena, laughing. “He’s only ten.”
“And there are many years ahead of him.” He raised his glass. “Let the future hold an abundance of wine, women, and chocolate cake!” They all raised their glasses cheerfully and my mother winked at me. She was proud, I could tell.
In the lengthening shadows of the dying day we played games on the grass. Coyote sat smoking, listening to the conversations around him, his eyes sometimes distant as if caught by a wistful dream. My mother rested her head on his shoulder. I noticed him kiss her hair, now and then nuzzling his face against her. In the midst of all that animation they appeared alone and still in their own world. An island. Always an island: my mother, Coyote, and me.
When it was time to go, the sun had sunk well below the horizon. There remained only a few hours before my birthday was officially over. I had received presents from all the guests. I hadn’t opened them all — some were still neatly wrapped in paper, tied with ribbon. My mother and Maria Elena packed them into a shopping bag from Toad Hall, Hilary Winer’s store on Main Street. The sight of all my new toys sent a shiver of delight down my body and I hopped excitedly from foot to foot. “Oh dear,” said my mother, “I don’t think Mischa is going to sleep at all tonight.”
“I wouldn’t worry. It’s once a year.”
“I’m happy that he is happy,” she said suddenly with a deep sigh, as if I wasn’t there listening. “After all he has been through, you and Matias have made us both feel right at home and given him such a strong sense of security. It’s all I ever wanted for him: to feel he has a place in the world. You give a person confidence and he can just about do anything.” For some reason my mother’s French accent was more pronounced than usual.
Maria Elena touched her arm affectionately. “You’re a wonderful mother, Anouk.”
“I do the best I can.”
“I’m glad Coyote brought you both here. You’ve enriched our lives more than you can know and been a wonderful friend to me.” Now it was Maria Elena’s turn to sigh and get emotional. “Matias and I cannot have children, as you know, so having Mischa so close is a blessing we count every day.”
“You can borrow him whenever you like.” They both laughed and looked down at me. My mother’s eyes were glassy and wet. “Come on Mischa, we’d better get you home to bed.” I thought if anyone needed putting to bed it was she.
We drove home in Coyote’s car. The night was clear and bright, the moon large and round like a buoy in a sea of s
tars. Coyote held my mother’s hand, only letting go to change gears. “What a lovely evening that was,” she said. “So kind of Maria Elena to bake the cake and everything.”
“Junior enjoyed it, didn’t you, son?”
“I’ve got so many presents,” I replied, setting the toy cars in a line on the seat. They’d go nicely with Joy Springtoe’s yellow Citroën. I often thought of Joy. After all, we were in America; surely we would bump into her.
“You can unwrap the rest tomorrow at breakfast, Mischa,” my mother said. “It’s already way past your bedtime.”
“It’s way past ours too,” said Coyote, giving my mother’s hand a squeeze.
But when we got home, none of us went to bed.
As he pulled in to the driveway, Coyote sensed there was something wrong. He lifted his nose in the air like a dog and sniffed. “Stay in the car,” he instructed. “Don’t make a sound.” He crept out, leaving the door on the latch so as not to make a noise, and walked silently up to the door. He pushed it gently and it opened on its own.
“Mon Dieu!” my mother exclaimed under her breath.
“What’s happened?” I asked, my heart pounding against my rib cage.
“Someone’s broken into the house, I think,” she replied in French. She only spoke French to me if she was agitated. “I hope they’re not still there.”
I could see the anxiety in her profile, the way her eyebrows dipped low over her eyes, and her mouth grew thin and taut. We both sat there waiting, hoping. The air in the car was suddenly charged with suspense as if electric fibers floated on it like particles of dust. We waited and waited, wondering what Coyote could possibly be doing in there, until finally, he came out.
His face was serious. More serious than I had ever seen it. He climbed into the car. “What’s happened?” my mother asked, her face eerily pale in the moonlight.
“Someone’s turned the place upside down,” he replied. His voice sounded unfamiliar.
“What have they taken?”
“Nothing, as far as I can tell.”
“Well, that’s good,” she said, her voice brightening a little. “What is broken, we can mend.”
He started the engine. “I want to go and check out the warehouse.”
“You think they’ve gone there too?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a hunch.”
“Did they go into my room?” I asked, worrying about my toys.
“They went everywhere, Junior. There’s not a drawer they haven’t rummaged through.”
Once at the warehouse, Coyote pulled out a gun. My mother gasped. “Don’t worry, angel, I’ll only use it if I have to.”
“Why don’t we call the police?”
“I’m not calling the police. I’m not calling anyone, do you understand? This is no one else’s business but ours. We have our own ways of dealing with this sort of thing, without the intervention of the law.” There was a steely edge to his voice.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Coyote. For Mischa’s sake, please.” My mother was afraid.
He kissed her. “If he’s in there, he’s going to be sorry.” With that he climbed out of the car. He locked us in, instructing us to lie down so as not to be seen. “Are you all right, Mischa?” my mother asked once he was gone.
“I’m fine,” I replied, rather enjoying the drama.
“You’re not afraid?”
“No.” She no longer called me her little chevalier. I was too big now for childish talk, but I felt like one that night — my hand on my sword, ready to draw it against the enemy.
Coyote took a long time. We lay in the shadows listening to the sound of our own breathing. “I hope he doesn’t have to use that gun,” said my mother.
“Did you know he had one?”
“No.”
“Do you think he’s ever killed anyone?”
“Don’t be silly, Mischa. Of course, he hasn’t.”
“But you don’t know for sure.”
“No, I don’t. But I know the man.”
“He must have killed people in the war.”
“That’s different.”
“What are they looking for?”
“Valuables, I imagine. They didn’t take anything because we don’t have anything worth taking.”
“We do here,” I said.
“Not much, Mischa. It’s a load of junk in there.”
“Really? There’s nothing precious there at all?”
“Oh, there are original things, some are worth a bit. But nothing’s worth a great deal. If it was we’d be rich.”
“Matias says they’re worth a fortune. Coyote collects them from all over the world.”
She laughed cynically. “But they’re not the crown jewels of England, Mischa. They’re things he finds in markets and souks. What makes them interesting is that you can’t get them here, like that silly elephant foot.”
“And the tapestry?”
“I don’t know where that is from,” she said quickly. “What he gets up to when he goes abroad is none of my business.”
The sound of the key in the lock alerted us to Coyote’s return. “You can come out,” he said. He sounded himself again.
“Is everything all right?” my mother asked.
“They’ve been through the whole place, but nothing important is gone.”
“Thank God!”
“What did they want?” I asked, clambering out of the car.
“I don’t know, Junior, but whatever it was, they didn’t find it. They made a real mess while they were at it.”
We walked inside. I was horrified to see the store in such disarray. They had been over everything like an army of ants. There was shattered glass all over the floor among splinters of wood and broken furniture. They must have climbed all over it, throwing things to the ground as they worked their way through the heaps of merchandise. “It’s going to take weeks to get this place sorted out,” said my mother in despair. “They’ve ruined us.” Suddenly the store wasn’t full of junk after all, but their livelihood. I was going to point that out, but felt it probably wasn’t the moment.
“Don’t worry, angel, they haven’t ruined us,” said Coyote, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “There’s nothing here that we can’t fix.”
“But they’ve broken so much…”
“Come on. Let’s go home. We’ll deal with it in the morning.”
“I really think we should telephone the police,” my mother insisted.
“No.” Coyote’s voice was firm. “No police, and not a word of this to anyone, do you understand?” My mother nodded slowly, a frown darkening her brow. “And you, Junior. Not a word.”
“Not a word,” I said, feeling like a spy again. “Do you know who did it, Coyote?” I sensed he did, even though he denied it.
“No, I don’t.”
“Will they come back?” my mother asked.
“Not if I can help it.”
We arrived home to the same chaos. All the rooms had been turned over thoroughly; even some of the floorboards had been ripped up. My mother covered her face with her hands and began to cry. “Our beautiful home,” she sobbed. “They’ve destroyed our beautiful home.” I was speechless with shock. For the first time that night I felt afraid. Images of Père Abel-Louis resurfaced and suddenly I felt insecure again. If they could rattle Coyote and ransack his house, they must be very powerful indeed. They had shaken the very foundations of my security.
We slept at Matias’ house that night. I lay awake in bed, surrounded by my new toys that had now lost their brilliance, and listened to the adults talking downstairs. I couldn’t make out the words, just the low hum of conversation. My imagination whirled. Perhaps it was Père Abel-Louis looking for me. If they were thieves and didn’t find what they wanted, would they be back? What if they were after Coyote? Would they come back for him? I wanted answers but got none.
The following day Maria Elena and my mother began the hefty task of putting our house back together again. Matias and C
oyote returned to the warehouse. “I don’t know why he just doesn’t call the police,” said my mother in exasperation.
“That’s Coyote. He believes he can fix it all himself,” replied her friend.
“Well, he might think he can, but he clearly can’t.”
“Don’t worry. He knows what he’s doing.” Suddenly my mother stopped tidying and sat up on her knees.
“You don’t think he knows who did it, do you?”
“What makes you say that?” Maria Elena asked. She, too, stopped working. I pretended I wasn’t listening and continued putting things back in the drawers as I had been told to.
“I don’t know. Just a feeling.”
“A hunch.”
“Yes, a hunch. I think he knows what they wanted.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He just seemed rather pleased last night when he came out of the warehouse. The whole place had been turned over, our home ruined, and yet he was smiling.”
“Matias has worked with him for years. He’d know if there was anything valuable in the place.”
“Perhaps it’s not valuable.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m being silly. I just don’t know why he doesn’t call the police, that’s all.”
“Matias wouldn’t call the police either,” Maria Elena said, back on her hands and knees again. “Men! They hate to think themselves incapable. It makes them feel unmanly if they can’t sort these things out by themselves. In Chile we call it machismo.”
“Only we weak and feeble women would turn to the law.”
“Right!” They both laughed. But to me, what my mother had said made perfect sense. Perhaps the warehouse wasn’t full of junk after all.
A week later Coyote announced that he was going away again. He explained that so much had been ruined in the break-in that he had no choice but to go off and find replacements. He kissed my mother, lingering for a long while, pressing his lips to hers with anguish. Then he embraced me. “Look after your mother for me, won’t you, Junior?” he said cheerfully, ruffling my hair. He smiled, the corners of his mouth turning upwards into his cheeks, but my mother must have seen the grim resolve behind it for she said, “Be careful, my darling. Don’t do anything stupid.”
The Gypsy Madonna Page 18
