“That’s how to know your Manet from your Monet,” miss moon shine had informed her students. “Look out for the naked lady. And then the flowers, the water lilies.”
But Manet must have liked flowers too. Chris took pictures of his Pivoines, wondering what the word was in English, and then of Monet’s Chrysanthèmes. Looking at the paintings, he thought of Lidia’s take on reincarnation: “I think that when you go, you know, Chris, the most you can ask for is to come back as a flower.” And he’d always replied: “The end is the end. There’s no coming back, Lid.”
He rushed through the rest of the collection, conscious of the time and the agreement to meet Féliciane for lunch. He paused, though, before a portrait of a woman sitting in a garden, sewing, against a backdrop of scarlet blooms which he couldn’t identify. Maybe tulips. She was wearing a white dress, naturally. The tag said: Young Woman Sewing in a Garden. It was by Mary Cassatt, the first woman artist he’d come across on this floor. Another one to mention to Féliciane.
Before he left the museum, he went back to look at the one painting he’d tried to avoid, the one he’d tried to walk past with his eyes averted: Monet’s painting of his dead wife. Camille sur son lit de mort. Her blurred face was surrounded by streaks of light emanating from her shroud. The work caused Chris’s stomach to cramp, and he rushed down the stairs, out into the fresh air and sunshine.
* * *
On the way back to the hotel, he took narrow, shaded streets and came onto a quiet garden-square dominated by an imposing neo-Gothic church, its twin towers stretching into the air. He sat on one of the benches in the garden for a short while, looking at the shapes of the church: the arches, the spires, the bas-relief figures on the façade. If Lidia had been there, they would’ve been holding hands, talking about the paintings they had just seen. He would tell her, laughing, that miss moon shine had once suggested that he might like to study architecture, and he had in fact taken a couple of elective classes, enough to enable him to recognize a building like this, built in the 1800s to resemble an earlier style.
He looked at his phone to see if he had enough time to go in and decided that he could take a quick visit. But first he logged into his email, searching for the last address he had for miss moon shine. I’ve seen the Monets, he typed. Before he got up to leave the garden, her answer came back, as if she’d been waiting to hear from him: Good. Now you can forget his ass and do your thing. She hadn’t changed.
Inside the church, he was struck by the light coming through the stained-glass windows, casting psychedelic designs on the walls, splashes of blues, reds, pinks, greens. The church was empty, and he ambled down the aisles, examining the stations of the cross, the clothing and faces of the figures in realistic detail—folds in the robes, sculpted feet in sandals, even if one foot looked like it had six toes. Some of the wall paintings, by an artist named Lenepveu, had lost swathes of their story and were being restored, he read on a panel. He admired the Conversion of St. Valerie and Her Mother Suzanne, depicted in glowing detail. He’d never heard of either.
He sat on one of the low chairs in front of the altar, realising that he now had company. He heard the child before she appeared with her young mother, both speaking Spanish. The little girl seemed about five and gave off tangible energy in her pink dress as she looked excitedly around. Chris imagined that she saw the church, with its brightly coloured windows and pictures on the walls, as a kind of funhouse, and he observed that her mother was trying to hold her back from racing through the aisles. He smiled at them as they went past; they both smiled back, the little girl looking at him in frank curiosity as if she wondered why he was alone. A few minutes later, a man who seemed to be in his late fifties trod up to the chairs, knelt, and briskly made the sign of the cross. He closed his eyes, and his lips moved in prayer. Chris looked away in embarrassment. Watching another person pray was like peeping at someone swimming in the nude or taking a piss against a tree. He got up and walked back down the aisle, trying to identify the characters in the stained-glass windows. He dropped some coins in a container and lit two candles, one for his mother and one for Lidia. Then he left the church.
He stood outside looking first at his phone, and afterwards at Cléber’s map, to orient himself. He had only twenty minutes to make it back to the hotel. He heard the door creak open behind him, and the man who had been praying joined him on the steps, facing the garden-square. He lit a cigarette, and seeing Chris glancing at him, offered him one too. Chris shook his head no, muttering “merci.”
“Vous venez souvent ici?” the man asked.
“Sorry, my French is not too good,” Chris responded.
“I haven’t seen you here before.” The man’s English was near perfect. “Are you a member of the church?”
“No, I’m just visiting.”
“You’re American?”
“Sort of. Citizen of Earth. Terrien.”
“So, you’re religious?”
“Not really,” Chris said. What was his religion? Maybe art.
“Me neither,” the man told him. “But it makes me feel better to come here. I pray to get rid of the hate.”
His words surprised Chris.
“My son. He was gay. They beat him up in a bar, just for that. He died five months ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Chris said. Did he have the kind of face that people needed to tell him these things?
“So I pray for them. And for me and my wife. She’s still very, very angry, and it’s killing her.”
“I hope they go to jail,” Chris said.
“Yes. They will spend a long time in prison. But it won’t bring my son back. And we have to go on. We have to try to understand why people do terrible things.”
“Why the fuck should we try to understand?” The words erupted before Chris could stop them.
“Pardon?” The man looked shocked.
“I’m sorry. I was thinking of . . . something else. You’re right, we have to try.”
Chris didn’t know what else to say, and the man changed the subject: “Enjoy Paris. It’s a beautiful city.” He dragged on his cigarette and blew the smoke out into the sunlight. Chris saw a bunch of roses in the puffs and closed his eyes briefly. He was tired. Tired of flowers, of seeing them everywhere.
The man trudged down the stairs, his back stiff, as if he were holding something tightly inside, and Chris followed slowly. He was going to be late meeting Féliciane and the others at the hotel.
chapter thirteen
Water Lilies
We all waiting in the tiny lobby of the Cléber hotel when Chris come back. Him look like him was rushing to get here on time, because him face full of perspiration. And him look sad too.
Sorry, everybody, him say. Then him turn to me specially, like I’m him mother. Sorry, Auntie D.
Is all right, darling, I tell him, so touched him calling me Auntie probably without even realising it. You here now.
When you reach a certain age, what is the point of rushing and getting worked up? Life too short and we all soon gone.
I tell him to take a few minutes to go up to the room and freshen up. When him come back down, we say to Mr. Cléber, See you later, and we set out, like a bunch of school-pickney going on outing. Nearly all of us hungry, and Jasmine saying that her stomach making noise like motorbike because she didn’t have a crumb to eat since our flight.
Don’t worry, Féliciane say. The restaurant is not far, and you’ll love the food.
It look like Féliciane and Leroy have big breakfast, though, because Leroy going on about all the different kind of pastry him eat—éclair and brioche and whatnot. Him surprise that I know what him talking bout, but I did do a little French in school, long-long time ago. Never did know that I would make it to this country, though. But look pon me now, thanks to Stephen.
Leroy saying, That pain-au-chocolat thing—that’s the name of it, right, Fellie? That is definitely mi new favourite food.
We laugh. Then Leroy ask Chris wher
e he went in the morning.
So Chris start telling him bout all the museum-dem, while I listening with one ear. I glad to see Chris looking more relax. I worry bout him the same way I feel for Stephen. Like we is family. And I thinking: Look at me who never have nobody. And yet all of us is here like we on some big family reunion trip.
Is a short walk to the restaurant, and we pass building that look like them been here forever and then this big-big school for military people that stretch from one street all the way over to the next. Féliciane telling us bout everything we see, and I taking in all the information and using mi new phone to snap picture. I like this phone so much, and I so happy that Stephen get it for me.
While we walking, Féliciane keep bending down to pick up things from the sidewalk. A black hair band. A gold button that musta left somebody with a spare buttonhole. A feather that is so bright-bright pink, I’m wondering what kinda bird it come from, or maybe it is from a toy. Féliciane drop all of them in her little cloth bag. Stephen already explain to me what kinda art she do, so I know this is for her work. But still, bending down and picking things up off the sidewalk like that don’t seem right, and Leroy tell her so.
Mind the dogshit, you hear, Fellie? Leroy say. You could get some on your hand.
And Jasmine say, Bwoi, looks like this place have whole heap a dog, eh? People don’t complain about the mess?
Too many other things to complain about, Féliciane tell her. Just walk like you come from here. Stare straight ahead and ignore whatever you step into.
Some people not staring straight ahead though. They looking at us, and especially at Miss Pretty and her fur coat. But Miss Pretty walking with her head up, holding on to Stephen arm, and Stephen doing like I tell him. Just act the son part. It not that hard, and it mean the world to her. I don’t know if Miss Pretty really believing now that Stephen is her son, but it don’t matter. Like I say, we not here for long and a little kindness don’t hurt anybody.
We soon reach the restaurant. It on the ground floor of a building that is bout five stories high, and the front have design like somebody old country house, with door and window paint white. Aux Créoles, the sign say. Beside the door is a big wicker basket full of fruit. Nice ripe-looking mango, three banana, two orange, a sweetsop, and one big fat pineapple that look like it just pick. I want to lift it up and smell it to see if it real, but I don’t want to embarrass anybody.
As soon as we step in, this tall man with a big-big smile rush over and give Féliciane two loud kiss, smack-smack. She say something to him in French and him bust out laughing, then him turn and shake everybody hand.
Bienvenue. Welcome. I am Jacques, him say. Friends of Féliciane are friends of mine. Your table is ready and waiting for you.
I look around the place as Jacques lead we to a long rectangle table in the middle of the restaurant. The wall-dem full of painting, of flower and beach and such thing. Is like we at home. Chis looking at the painting too. They could be something he would do. But in the corner of each one is a curly F. And all of a sudden, the thing click: must be Féliciane do them. I see Chris when he reach out and give Féliciane a pinch on her arm. She look kinda surprise, and then she notice that Chris looking at the painting-dem. She smile, like she embarrass.
You? Chris say.
Yes, Féliciane tell him. Once upon a time. I do know how to paint.
Then Stephen jump in: What, these are yours?
Is Jacques who answer for her: Yes. She did them when I started the restaurant. She was a student then. I paid her with meals for weeks.
And I really think I got the better deal, Jacques, Féliciane say.
Lovely work, Jasmine say, like she bored. Then she bust out, Lawd, I’m hungry.
Yes, all of we hungry.
* * *
Féliciane tell us that Jacques grow up in Martinique and live all over the world after that because France own country from South America to Pacific. Now Jacques serving all kinda food from places him did pass through. Red beans inna coconut milk. Fry plantain that taste like them have sugar on them. Yellow rice. Salt fish fritter. Curry lamb. And specially for Jasmine, a big-big bowl of green beans, fry up with garlic. Chris and me pass round the serving bowl-dem, and I have to smile when I see how everybody dig in. Thank goodness that Féliciane didn’t take us to some fancy place where they give you huge white plate with tiny-tiny piece of green or yellow something.
The only one not eating fast is Miss Pretty. She sitting across from me, straight up like royalty, and moving each forkful of food like she in slow-motion movie. The dreadlocks hang round her face, and they hide what happen all those years ago. Is funny, though, the longer you know her, the less you see the marks.
So, how did you like the impressionists? Féliciane asking Chris, while we all scraping our plates.
Loved them. And I was envious. Those guys could paint flowers.
You’re getting there, Féliciane tell him. Don’t worry.
Sometimes the way she look at Chris, I wonder if she have feelings for him, just like the feelings I know Stephen have for her. He can’t hide it. And Leroy also in the picture. Still, is not my business. Them going to have to work it out themself. I never believe in all this love stuff. I know people wonder bout me mi whole life, but I never been really attracted to man, or to woman for that matter. I did have one boyfriend when I was in mi twenties, and that cure me forever. I still get vex when I think bout that man and him bad ways—another story for another time.
By the way, Féliciane, Chris saying, do you know anything about this Madame Domenica Guillaume that I saw at the museum? She apparently bequeathed a lot of artwork to museums. Kinda inspiring, right?
Oh, her! You know, she was suspected of killing both husbands and attempting to murder the second husband’s son, so she had to give all the precious artwork to the state to avoid prison. Féliciane laughing as she say this.
Really? Chris say. Wow.
I don’t know who they talking bout, but I find it funny that you can give government artwork and escape going to prison. Wouldn’t work at home. Better try whole heapa cash.
All of we love the dessert Jacques serve. Is a spongy cake soaked in brown rum, and I swear that I going try this when we get back, even if baking not really my thing. As soon as we polish it off, Jacques come back to announce that we can have any cocktail we like, on the house. Féliciane tell me I might like the coconut punch, and I decide to have that. It nice so till. While I sipping, Féliciane tell us bout the plans for the next day. She going to collect us early at the hotel with a minivan, and we going to Giverny. This is where the artist Monet used to live, and it full of the water lily that inspire him painting. I don’t really care so much bout the painting-dem because mi house still full of the artwork Chris leave, but I want to see the water lily and all the other plant and flowers.
I ask Féliciane what exactly growing in the place, but she say is a surprise for tomorrow.
Now I’m imagining all kinda big-big pond with water lily. The first time I see this sorta plant was at Hope Gardens, long-long time ago, when I was on a school outing. Thirteen or fourteen years old, and I didn’t know one thing bout plant even though I grow up round them. But this lady at Hope Gardens take us round, telling us the name of everything, what kinda care they need, and where they come from. I still remember her name. Miss Fletcher. And then she bring us to the pond, with these plants just so nice and peaceful, lying there on the water, and you could see the sky, and the cloud-dem, as if the water was mirror. And is like something touch me. I couldn’t tell you what though.
* * *
Is after four p.m. by the time we finish lunch, and we the only one left in the restaurant. As we go out, Jacques kiss all of us, even the man-dem, and I can see some people uncomfortable.
Me no like man kissing me, you know, Leroy say when we walking down the street.
Lawd, just be quiet, Jasmine tell him. Féliciane raise her eyebrow, but she don’t say anything. For the next
hour, she take us on a tour round the neighbourhood, showing us a whole bunch of café and church where famous writer and artist used to hang out. I know some of the name-dem. And for the other ones, is the first time I hearing bout them.
* * *
Next morning, we drag ourself out of the bed and go downstairs for breakfast. Well, if you can call what Mr. Cléber serve breakfast. Piece of bread with too much butter and jam, and coffee or tea. I go for the mint tea because this kinda breakfast will give you gas, and is only mint or ginger that can prevent this.
Give me boil-banana and mackerel any time over this, right, Chris? I say, and he laugh.
Miss Sheila used to make such a wonderful breakfast, Uncle Alton say. Then him face get cloudy and him stop drinking and put him coffee cup down. I know that him still miss him helper, and I feel for him. It was a terrible way to go. I hope none of us have a departure like that.
We’ll buy you some mackerel over at Monet’s house, Chris say, and Uncle Alton manage a little laugh.
* * *
Féliciane and Leroy turn up right at eight thirty, and all of us get into the minivan, full up of excitement. Féliciane look like a good driver, the way she manoeuvre the van down the narrow street-dem and out of our Cléber tourist neighbourhood. She concentrating on her driving while Leroy talking up a storm, telling us bout all the nice things he had for breakfast at Féliciane mother and father house.
That croissant with almonds. You shoulda taste it. And the éclair. Bwoi, it nice. I think I want to stay in this country.
I catch Leroy looking at Stephen, but Stephen staring out the window, ignoring him.
Is a surprise to see how quick we out of the city and in what look like country. As soon as we cross a third bridge over the river, we start seeing field and what must be hay, wound up neat like giant roll of toilet paper. Then high wheat stalk. And whole heapa cow, grazing on grass, and looking twice the size them should be.
A Million Aunties Page 13
