34
We sat in the corner, at a round table decorated with candles. “Oh, Mischa, it’s so good to see you!” she exclaimed. Her face was still beautiful. Although the skin was lined, like tissue paper that had been used many times, it was soft and plump. She radiated happiness, and her goodness shone through eyes that now gazed on me with tenderness. “You’re so handsome. I knew you’d grow into a handsome man.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked, astounded that our paths should cross once more. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“It’s my pink ticket.” She laughed like a girl. “Once a year I leave my husband behind and come here for a week to remember my fiancé who was killed in the war.”
“I remember. I caught you crying and you took me to your room to show me his photograph.”
“Billy Blake.” She smiled, then lowered her voice. “You see, Mischa, for me there has only ever been one love. It was a great love. Oh, I’ve been happy with David. He’s a good man. But Billy was my big love and I don’t ever want to forget him.”
“Was he killed here?”
“He liberated the town and was the first into the château. The following day he wrote me a letter. That was the last letter I ever received. He was killed in action shortly after.”
“A waste of a good man,” I said.
“The best,” she replied. “But let’s not talk about me.”
The waiter came and hovered over the table expectantly. We hastily chose food and wine, eager to continue our conversation. “What brings you here?” she asked and I felt happy to open up my life and invite her in. After all, she had stepped inside many years ago. For her, I’d always kept the door open.
“It began with my mother. She died of cancer.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“She had been in steady decline for about eighteen months. Typically, she didn’t want doctors buzzing around her. She found them intrusive. So she just let her body die slowly, putting her head under the covers, pretending nothing was happening. We’re both like that, I’m afraid. I started going through all her things. She had kept everything. I don’t suppose you knew, but my father was a German officer who requisitioned the château during the war. My mother had worked for the family who owned it and continued to do so after Gustave Rosenfeld was killed in action and his wife and children were sent off to the camps.”
“They were Jewish?”
“Yes. My mother worked here, hoping they’d come back at the end of the war.”
“Of course, they never did.”
“No. But she fell in love and married my father in secret, and I was born in ’41. At the end of the war she was severely punished for her collaboration. It was then that I lost my voice.”
“Now I understand. You poor little boy. What a terrible thing to happen. Whatever became of your father?”
“He was killed in the war.”
“Like my poor Billy.”
“I remember him a little.” I rummaged around in my pocket and pulled out my little rubber ball. “He gave me this.” She took it and looked it over carefully.
“Goodness me! You’ve kept it all these years?”
“It’s a link to him. I’m a sentimental old fool.”
“Oh, no, you’re not. I keep things too. I have a whole box of mementos from Billy. Theater programs, bus tickets, flowers he gave me that I’ve pressed, letters he sent me during the war. I read them sometimes. Like your ball, they link me to him and I feel him close. I’m not afraid of dying because I know he’ll be there waiting for me. I’m a little excited by it, to be honest.”
“I think you’ve got a long time to wait.”
“I’m getting old, Mischa.”
“You don’t look old at all.”
“That’s because you see through the lines to the way I was forty years ago. I’m pushing seventy. I never thought the years would go so fast. Life really is very short.” She sighed and took a sip of wine. “So, you’ve come back to wander down memory lane?”
“In a way, yes.”
She looked at me intently. “Are you happy, Mischa?”
“I’m happy now. It’s a long story.”
“I want to hear it. Tell me everything. You see, I have a right to know,” she teased. “Because I was your first love!”
I chuckled and took her hand. “You knew?”
“Oh yes, I knew. You blushed every time you saw me, and you followed me around like a puppy. You were always hiding behind that chair upstairs. It’s still there. You know, I always think of you when I see it — although you’ve grown a little too big to hide there now.”
“You were not only my first love but the first woman to break my heart. I was devastated when you left.”
“Oh, so was I. I hated leaving you. You were the little boy I never had.”
“Have you children of your own now?”
“Yes, I have four girls. I never had a son.” She squeezed my hand. “I always wanted a little blond boy with blue eyes. Billy was blond. I think we would have had a little boy together. But it wasn’t to be. I have grandchildren, though. I’m crazy about my grandsons.”
The waiter brought the appetizers and we began to eat. “So, tell me everything. From the moment you left France. I imagine your mother wanted to start afresh in a place where no one knew her past.”
“I think she did,” I replied, although I couldn’t help but wonder whether she had to leave because of the Titian. “She fell in love with an American who came to stay here and we went with him to New Jersey. He was my second love.” So, I told her about Coyote, Captain Crumble’s Curiosity Store, Matias and Maria Elena, the break-ins. I didn’t mention Coyote by name. I didn’t know why at the time, but instinct cautioned me. She listened to every word, fascinated and moved. I told her of my downward spiral into a dark world of gangs, fights, knives, and self-loathing.
“What made you change direction?” she asked.
“When you’re at the bottom, the only way is up.”
“You just turned it all around, all by yourself?”
I didn’t want to tell her about the fight at the parking lot, so I told her of a time a little earlier when I had begun to truly understand my mother’s predicament. “No,” I replied. “I saw how much I was hurting my mother. I had blamed her for the American’s disappearance. I thought it was all her fault. I wanted her to move on, so that I could. Then one night I came home late, drunk, a miserable sight, and I saw her dancing alone in her bedroom to the music she used to play with my father. They used to dance together to the record player. I’d watch, clap my hands and laugh. Well, that night she was dancing as if she were with him, her hand on his shoulder, the other in his hand. She gazed up adoringly at his imaginary face, her eyes overflowing with tears. I’ll never forget it. I sobered up, slumped on the floor, and cried too. For once I didn’t think of myself and what I had lost, but of her and the losses she had endured. She was alone. Abandoned by the two men she had loved. Ostracized by the town she had grown up in, disowned by her family. She had endured far more than I, and what’s more, she had never stopped loving me. In spite of my anger, the abuse I hurled at her, my rages and tantrums, she had never closed her heart to me, or the door. I awoke the following morning determined to change. I never looked back and I never used my fists again. Neither of us spoke about it, but we became friends once more.”
Then I told her about Claudine. She listened with sympathy and didn’t judge me. Instead, she encouraged me. “If she’s your big love, Mischa, then go with your instincts. Life is short. Living a half-life isn’t good enough.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
“I shall be sorry to see you go. Perhaps we could see each other back home.”
“I would like that very much.”
Again she took my hand. “So would I.”
That night I lay in bed, too excited to sleep. Joy Springtoe had walked back into my life and Claudine had agreed to come to America with me
. As soon as she obtained a divorce I’d marry her. I relished the idea of settling down together. After having been rootless all these years, I’d buy a home where we could grow old together. We had left it too late to have children and that saddened me. I couldn’t help but regret that there’d be no one to continue my name into the future. I’d die and leave nothing of myself behind.
Outside the wind moaned as it raced around the corners of the château. Rain pelted against the windowpanes, thunder roared, and every now and then a flash of lightning lit up the sky. I opened the curtains and sat on the window seat. Black clouds raged in the sky, rolling over one another like boiling porridge. I remembered my grandmother’s belief in the wind and recalled the night we had left for America. It had rained then, too, and the wind had nearly blown me across the gardens. It was during a sudden burst of lightning that I recalled the man digging in the garden. I had forgotten him. Now I saw him clearly, kneeling on the ground, soaking wet, forcing his spade into the earth. I heard the rhythmic noise of metal against stone as if it had been only yesterday. Then I had believed him to have been a murderer, burying the body. Now I didn’t know. I was inclined to dismiss it as fantasy, but I had dismissed Pistou. I had been wrong then, I could be wrong now. I resolved to ask Jean-Luc if anyone had been murdered here. He seemed to know everything about the château’s history.
I watched the storm until it passed. The rain continued to fall heavily. The wind still blew a gale. Tomorrow I’d say good-good bye to my childhood and put it away for ever. There comes a moment when one has to live in the present or one ceases to live at all. I climbed back into bed and closed my eyes. I hadn’t slept so deeply in years. I hadn’t dreamed in years either. But that night I had a dream of such vividness, I was tempted to believe it was real.
I was a little boy again. The sun was high in the sky, warm, pine-scented. The river bubbled and gurgled, flies hovered in the heat, crickets chirped in the undergrowth and the yellow-flowered genêts swayed in the breeze. I sat on the bank, throwing stones into the water. Beside me sat Pistou. He played with my little rubber ball. We sat in silence for a while, our mutual understanding rendering words unnecessary. A yellow butterfly landed on his hand and he turned to me and smiled. I remembered Jacques Reynard telling me that my mother’s code name in the war had been Papillon — butterfly. “So, you see, I’m not a figment of your imagination,” he said.
“I’m sorry. Did you mind?” I asked, throwing a stone into the water and watching it bounce along the surface.
“No. I’m used to it.”
“What’s it like in Heaven?”
“Nice. You’ll like it when you come. You can eat as many chocolatines as you want.”
“That sounds good. Will le curéton be there?”
“Abel-Louis is due any minute. They’re waiting for him.”
“Will he be punished?”
“Hell is on earth, my friend. You’ve been there, haven’t you?”
“But I want him to suffer.”
“He’ll suffer when he looks back over his life and sees what a mess he made of it. Don’t forget the law of karma, Mischa. What goes around comes around. The law of cause and effect. No one escapes it.”
“And my mother?” I watched the butterfly spread her wings and fly away.
“She’s here and so is your father.” He handed me back the rubber ball.
“Are they together?”
“Of course.”
“Can I see them?”
“They’re always with you, watching over you. Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they’re not there.” He stood up. “I must go now.”
“Will I see you again?”
“Oh, yes. You’ll see me again, if you open your eyes.” He laughed at me in that mischievous way of his. “You’re a cynical old fool!” I, too, stood up. I towered over him. I realized then that I wasn’t a little boy at all.
“Thank you for being my friend, Pistou.”
“It was fun, wasn’t it?”
“It really was.”
“It still can be. Just don’t forget how to be a child.”
“I’ll try.”
He walked into the forest. I put my ball into my pocket and turned to the sun. The light was so bright I had to squint. I put my arm across my face and woke myself with a start. The day had dawned in all its glory. The storm had passed, the sky was clear.
I packed the remaining belongings in my case, dressed, and went downstairs for breakfast. I was electrified with nerves. Claudine had promised she’d meet me in the hall at ten. We’d climb in the car and drive to Bordeaux airport. From there we’d fly to Paris, then to America, and on to the rest of our lives. I couldn’t wait. I watched the clock with frustration. Why, when one wanted the time to pass, did it go so slowly?
I buttered my croissants and ate them with jam. The coffee tasted good. I tried to read the paper but the words made no sense; all I could think about was Claudine. After breakfast I wandered into the conservatory to look out over the gardens one final time. To my surprise Joy was standing alone, cup of coffee in hand, gazing out. “What a beautiful morning,” she said, smiling at me. “I’m sorry you’re leaving today. I’d like to have taken a walk with you.”
“It’s a bit cold for that. I’d like to come back in summer.”
“I usually do. This is the first time I’ve come back in winter. Perhaps it’s Fate,” she said, looking at me fondly.
“The garden’s still lovely, though.”
“Yes, even after a storm.”
“I couldn’t sleep. I sat up and watched it. I remember doing that as a child. My mother said the wind predicted change.”
“Well, perhaps it does for you. After all, you’re starting a new life today.”
She looked out over the lawns again and sighed. “You know, rumor has it that there’s a priceless work of art buried there somewhere.” I was stunned.
“Really?” I said, trying to sound natural. I felt my cheeks burn, as if I were guilty of burying it myself.
She spoke in a whisper. “The last letter Billy wrote me, he said that he and a couple of friends had been the first to enter the château after the Germans left. One of them, Richard Quigley, knew something about art and recognized a painting by Titian that hadn’t been crated up and sent to Germany on Goering’s private train. Apparently, Goering made it his business to steal valuable works for himself. Anxious to save it from ruin or theft, they buried it in the garden. Billy said that if it hadn’t been for Richard they would have ruined it themselves by rolling it up the wrong way. You have to roll it with the paint on the outside. They found some lead piping to protect it and buried it like a body with the intention of coming back after the war to retrieve it. Sadly, Billy died shortly after, and Richard — poor Richard!”
“What happened to him?” My mouth turned dry and my tongue felt too big for it. The final pieces of the jigsaw were coming together and I didn’t think I wanted to see the picture after all.
“He was murdered.”
“Murdered? In the war?”
“No, in about 1952. I read about it in the local papers when I went to stay with my family in Staunton, Virginia. I remember the murderer was sentenced to life in Keen Mountain Correctional Center. I hope he rotted there. Richard was such a nice boy. Billy wrote of him often. I felt I knew him.” Without looking at her I asked a question to which I already knew the answer.
“What was the name of the third man who liberated the château?”
“They called him Coyote.” She frowned. “I wonder what became of him?”
The world began to spin around me. I sat down and rubbed my temples with my fingers. “Are you all right?” she asked, taking the place beside me and putting an arm around my back.
“I’m feeling a little nauseated,” I replied, picturing Coyote in my mind digging up the painting. Now I understood why he had come to Maurilliac and why we had stolen away like thieves in the night. We were thieves, or at least Coyote was
. I remembered the break-ins and Coyote’s disappearance. Did he kill Richard Quigley after Richard had come looking for the painting? Did he kill Billy too?
I looked at the clock. It was a quarter to ten. “I’m fine, really. I think it’s the excitement,” I said, sitting up. “Perhaps I’ll have a glass of water.”
“I don’t suppose anyone will ever know whether it’s buried there or not,” she continued blithely. “It’s a nice thought, though. That somewhere in the earth is a beautiful secret. I like mysteries.” She got up and drained her cup. “Come, let’s find you a glass of water. You look awfully pale.”
35
I sat in the hall and waited for Claudine. I needed time alone to digest what Joy had told me. I was desperate. I had trusted Coyote. Now I wondered whether I had ever really known him. I had my suspicions as to his whereabouts during the last thirty years, but I needed to look through my mother’s box again to confirm them. Until then I had to forget about him digging in the garden at midnight and possibly murdering the two other young men who knew about the Titian. I had to think forward, to Claudine.
After ten o’clock I grew anxious. I began walking up and down the flagstones, wandering in and out of the door every few minutes to see if she was coming. I thought back to our first meeting on the bridge. She had been late then, too. I had lost hope and begun to walk back to the château. She had finally arrived, as I was certain she would today. I just had to trust her and wait.
Joy returned, filling the hall with the scent of gardenia. I stood up and embraced her. “You’re so big now,” she said with a laugh. “To me you’re still the little boy I lost my heart to all those years ago.”
“We’ll see each other back home, I promise,” I replied, kissing her cheek. Her skin was as soft as down.
“I’m so pleased our paths have crossed again. Fate has a funny way of bringing people together, doesn’t it? I don’t believe in coincidence.” She held my hands. “I wish you luck with your girl. When you find love like that, hold on to it. It’s rare and priceless. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I? You already know.” I watched her leave, momentarily lifted out of my anxious vigil as I pictured her standing in the bathroom doorway in her pretty new dress.
The Gypsy Madonna Page 31
