The House at Belle Fontaine

by Lily Tuck

  THE HOUSE AT

  STORIES

  Also by Lily Tuck

  Fiction

  I Married You for Happiness

  The News from Paraguay

  Limbo, and Other Places I Have Lived

  Siam, or the Woman Who Shot a Man

  The Woman Who Walked on Water

  Interviewing Matisse, or the Woman

  Who Died Standing Up

  Biography

  Woman of Rome: A Life of Elsa Morante

  THE HOUSE AT

  STORIES

  LILY TUCK

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  New York

  Copyright © 2013 by Lily Tuck

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003 or permissions@groveatlantic.com.

  Jacket Design by Abby Weintraub

  Jacket photo courtesy of the author

  These stories originally appeared in the following publications:

  “The House at Belle Fontaine” in The American Scholar; “Lucky” in

  The Kenyon Review; “St. Guilhem-le-Désert” in a different form in

  Ploughshares; “My Flame” in The Yale Review; “Bloomsday in Bangkok”

  in a different form in Fiction; “My Music” in Alaska Quarterly Review;

  “Ice” in The American Scholar and in The PEN/O. Henry Prize Stories

  2011; “The Riding Teacher” in Epoch; “Pérou” in Epoch and in

  the PEN/O. Henry Prize Stories 2013; and “Sure and Gentle Words”

  in The Yale Review

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-9361-2

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

  841 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  www.groveatlantic.com

  To Frances Kiernan

  Contents

  The House at Belle Fontaine

  Ice

  Lucky

  My Flame

  Bloomsday in Bangkok

  St. Guilhem-le-Désert

  My Music

  The Riding Teacher

  Pérou

  Sure and Gentle Words

  THE HOUSE AT

  STORIES

  The House at

  Belle Fontaine

  Monsieur Rossier has asked Ella to dinner at a quarter past seven on a Saturday night in late February. Monsieur Rossier, her landlord, is very old and very rich—one of the richest men in France, she has heard people say. He is also alone. He lives in a large château, which he built in the Norman style, with broad, dark, exterior beams that are ugly and out of place in that part of the country, while the stucco house that Ella rents from him is old; a portion of it dates back to the eighteenth century, with ivy growing up its lopsided but graceful yellow walls. Ella’s house is set in a garden with a pretty fountain—belle fontaine—and there are tall chestnut trees that form an allée and bloom white in the spring. Her house is lovelier than Monsieur Rossier’s château but, like him, she feels lonely in it, particularly that winter in the north of France, when it rains a lot and is cold.

  During the time that Ella and her children live in the house called Belle Fontaine—a time when little occurs and her life seems at a standstill—Ella is a bit frightened of Monsieur Rossier, even though he is old and frail, and she is always afraid that he will find fault with her as a tenant. She wants him to approve of her, to like her even, although it is quite clear to Ella that they can never be friends. The age and, more important, the social barrier is too large. Still, Ella admires what she calls Monsieur Rossier’s old-world standards and his outmoded courtliness and she also worries about him—for instance, when, for several weeks, he does not come out to his château and, instead, stays in Paris on account of the weather or, worse, his health. And each time this happens and she asks after him, the men who work for him—the maître d’hôtel, the gardener, the gatekeeper—shake their heads and tell Ella that it is a miracle he is alive at all.

  On the first Friday of each month, his health and the weather permitting, Monsieur Rossier pays Ella a call. He comes to collect the rent and read the electric meter—or, rather, she reads it for him because he cannot see the little numbers jumping in the box. And, since he arrives in the late afternoon, Ella builds a fire in the living room and makes tea and they sit together while he figures out in his shaky, spidery handwriting how much Ella owes him and then she, in turn, writes him out a check, careful not to make a mistake or to misspell the numbers in French, for she does not want him to think her careless or irresponsible. Once Ella gives him the check, Monsieur Rossier relaxes visibly and settles himself more comfortably in his chair. He drinks the weak, sweetened tea Ella gives him and talks to her in his correct but accented English about the bad weather, the difficulty of finding good men to work on his property now that times have changed so, and, invariably, he talks about the past. And Ella sits and listens and tries to show genuine interest in his problems and in his memories. She nods and shakes her head and says yes and no at the appropriate moments, although she knows it really does not matter what she says, because Monsieur Rossier is not listening or paying attention to her.

  One event only stands out during the first months she lived at Belle Fontaine—although it had nothing to do with Ella personally and it happened when she and the children had just arrived and were barely settled in the house—and it is terrible. On a clear Sunday morning in September, several minutes after take-off, a DC-10 carrying 315 passengers crashed a few kilometers south of the château into the forest of Ermenonville, killing everyone on board. According to reports, one of the cargo doors had not shut properly, and this led to a sudden loss of cabin pressure, which also caused part of the flooring to collapse, and this in turn damaged the controls of the plane. All day, from her house, Ella heard the wail of sirens. The roads were closed to traffic and in the village the pretty thirteenth-century Romanesque church was turned into a makeshift morgue. For days, the people in the village talked of nothing else; Ella’s children, too, spoke of it nonstop, the youngest child swearing tearfully that he would never fly again. Morbid stories circulated. The plane had burned a mile-long trail through the forest, leaving blackened tree stumps. Monsieur Rossier’s maître d’hôtel claimed he had seen the smoke from the wrecked plane on his way back from Mass, and he told Ella that people found limbs stuck in trees, a child’s tiny foot inside a milk pail.

  Then, since many passengers on that flight had been Japanese, the village was suddenly filled with Asian mourners. They arrived the following day in a caravan of minibuses, holding bouquets of flowers and looking vacant-eyed as they stumbled on the cobblestone streets on their way to the church. Ella noticed a young woman holding a child by the hand, who, despite yet another clear, sunny day
, was wearing a yellow slicker similar to the ones her own children wore in the rain. The wife and child of a passenger, Ella guessed. At the sight of them, her eyes had filled with sudden hot tears and for a moment, standing there watching them, Ella imagined that she, too, had lost a loved one.

  Twice, Monsieur Rossier has called to say he is expecting her at a quarter past seven and Ella is determined to arrive for dinner exactly on time. She will be punctual no matter what, she has told herself sternly and tonight she has no excuse—the children are away for the weekend, visiting their father, and the babysitter is off as well. Also, to avoid last-minute indecisions, she has already chosen what she will wear: a pleated skirt and silk blouse with her good pearl necklace, so that if Monsieur Rossier notices he will approve, for Ella will look like countless French ladies he has met, talked to and perhaps flirted with. The thought of Monsieur Rossier flirting makes Ella smile. Only he would never have flirted with her—of that Ella is quite sure—for she is an American, a foreigner and, worse, she is divorced. But now, of course, it no longer matters. And, also, Ella is so shy and constrained with him, she never makes a demand or complains about the house she rents, its inefficient single toilet, the leaky faucets, the lack of heat and the impractical, old-fashioned kitchen where, for instance, the sink is so low, she gets a backache from doing the dishes.

  At seven o’clock sharp, dressed in the skirt and silk blouse and wearing her pearls and her city coat, Ella goes out the back door and opens the heavy iron gate, which is usually kept shut, as it separates Ella’s garden from Monsieur Rossier’s château and land. Outside, it is dark and cold; a ground fog has set in so that, after only a few steps, Ella can no longer see her house or the drawing room light she has deliberately left on, regardless of the electric bill. The château is not far—less than half a mile along a track that skirts a field—yet suddenly she is afraid and she is tempted to turn back to Belle Fontaine. She can go by car down the allée bordered by chestnut trees, then out to the main road and back around through Monsieur Rossier’s gates and driveway. But she had thought it more sporty and neighborly to walk. Now, only her fear of being late makes her continue quickly in the dark until, at last, she can see the château silhouetted in front of her. The fog has blurred the outlines and the château looks like a part of the night sky, suspended on a bank of clouds, and almost beautiful.

  As Ella’s heels crunch in the driveway, a dog comes rushing out at her and starts to bark. She knows the dog—he belongs to the gatekeeper—and she speaks sternly to him in French to show that she is not frightened, but the dog continues to run around her and bark. When Ella reaches the château, she runs up the steps while the dog remains below in the driveway, barking. In the dark, Ella feels the wall with her hand for the doorbell, and it occurs to her that maybe she has made a mistake and the dinner is the following week. When no one comes to the door, she starts to panic and wants to go back, but she knows that the dog will not let her. She is about to shout when, miraculously, the door opens and she sees light and Monsieur Rossier.

  “Good evening,” he says. “I thought I heard someone coming up the steps but it’s only ten past seven.”

  Is he reproaching her? “Good evening, monsieur,” she says meekly as she slips off her coat. The maître d’hôtel takes the coat from her. Seeing him in his white serving jacket and white gloves, she does not recognize him right away; he is more familiar to her in his blue apron washing Monsieur Rossier’s car and exchanging gossip over the gate that divides their property. Tonight, when she says, “Bonsoir,” he merely nods.

  Ella follows Monsieur Rossier as he opens the door into a room that is brightly lit and where a fire is blazing. Except for the dark television cabinet standing in a corner, the room is mainly red, not just on account of the fire but on account of the furniture, which is upholstered in red leather. The curtains, too, are a red print fabric and, altogether, Ella likes the effect.

  “Sit down, sit down, make yourself comfortable,” Monsieur Rossier says.

  Ella sits in a red leather armchair to one side of the fireplace. She wants the evening to be a success, and she will make an effort to be good company for the old man.

  Monsieur Rossier offers Ella an aperitif. “A whiskey?” he asks.

  “Unlike most Americans, I don’t drink whiskey,” Ella says, trying to make a joke.

  “A glass of sherry then?” Frowning, Monsieur Rossier goes to a tray that has been set up with bottles, glasses and a bowl of ice and pours her the sherry.

  Ella thanks him and half-raises her glass. “To your health,” she says, but since Monsieur Rossier does not acknowledge her gesture, she lowers her glass.

  Slowly, Monsieur Rossier settles himself into the red leather armchair facing hers by the fire and says, “This is my favorite room, especially on long, cold winter nights when I tend to feel a bit lonely.”

  Ella nods.

  “But I really cannot complain,” Monsieur Rossier continues, “my son who lives in London is very attentive.”

  “Your son lives in London?” Ella says. She has already been told that Monsieur Rossier’s son lives in London, but she is determined to keep the conversation going.

  “Yes, my only son. He married an Englishwoman, and they have four boys. They come and spend Christmas here, it’s a tradition, but otherwise they have their own lives. Their own friends. And they are too busy to visit an old man.” Monsieur Rossier shrugs and smiles and Ella smiles back. “Here, let me show you their picture.” With an effort, Monsieur Rossier gets up from his chair and goes to a table where he takes a silver-framed photograph of four young men—who look to be in their twenties, not much younger than she is—and he hands the photograph to Ella.

  “They are very handsome,” Ella says. She says it in such a way that it sounds as if she does not think so, but in fact she does. Embarrassed, she asks, “What are their names?”

  “Yves, Didier, James and William,” Monsieur Rossier recites, taking the photograph back from her. “You see, the parents compromised—half French, half English.”

  Ella says, “My children too—” but Monsieur Rossier interrupts her. “My son is really very good to me. He telephones every Sunday from London and he comes to Paris quite frequently on business and then we have lunch together.”

  Ella is about to say something when the maître d’hôtel opens the door, another door, leading directly into the dining room, and announces that dinner is served. Instead, she puts her half-empty glass of sherry on the table and takes another quick look at Monsieur Rossier’s grandsons in the photograph.

  Many years ago, Monsieur Rossier must have been tall and good-looking; now he is so shrunken and bent, he is not much taller than Ella; his hand shakes as he guides her into the next room where the maître d’hôtel stands, impassive, holding the door open for them. The dining room is vast and empty. The long table is covered with a blue linen cloth and has too many chairs around it. A bright overhead electric candelabra illuminates the bareness, and it makes Ella sad to think of Monsieur Rossier sitting here alone three times a day. How much nicer, if he were served on a tray in the sitting room in front of the fire, but that would no doubt be going against tradition or his principles. Monsieur Rossier motions Ella to the head of the table and she starts to sit down as, behind her, the maître d’hôtel holds out her chair. The thought crosses Ella’s mind that he might pull the chair out from under her—a practical joke—and she has a hard time suppressing a giggle that unexpectedly wells up in her throat.

  Monsieur Rossier hands her a printed menu. “Our dinner,” he says.

  Ella takes the menu: paupiettes de veau and soufflé à la vanille. Without comment, she hands the menu back to Monsieur Rossier—at least, she tells herself, she can look forward to the dessert.

  The maître d’hôtel is at her side with a platter filled with white mounds—rice with a tomato sauce on the side. Carefully
, Ella serves herself a mound. “Merci,” she tells the maître d’hôtel—she does not want him to think that she has no table manners—but he does not respond. He goes over to Monsieur Rossier with the platter of rice.

  “Normally,” Monsieur Rossier says, “I eat a light supper in the evening—a bowl of soup, cheese and a bit of fruit. It is not good for my digestion to eat a great deal in the evening. I am making an exception tonight.”

  No wonder the maître d’hôtel ignores her. He has to cook and serve a big meal instead of the usual soup and cheese and he will be in the kitchen much later than usual washing up and he will no doubt complain.

  Ella eats the rice without tasting it. “Last week, when I was in Paris, I went to the theater,” she says, determined to show Monsieur Rossier that she is capable of proper conversation, and, also, that she does not just sit around the house all day but has an active social and cultural life of her own. “I saw a play by Chekhov. It was set in modern times,” she continues even after she sees that Monsieur Rossier, absorbed with his rice and eating it greedily, is not listening to her. A few grains of rice are stuck to the side of his mouth.

  The maître d’hôtel pours water into her glass and then wine into her second glass. Ella takes a sip of her wine, which is very good. Monsieur Rossier, she notices, does not take any wine, only water.

  When the old man raises his head and looks over at her, Ella can see that he is somewhere else far away. “I am so pleased you like Belle Fontaine,” he says. Her mouth full of rice, Ella nods. She is not sure what he means. The way Monsieur Rossier looks at her reminds Ella of how he looks when he adds up the rent and the electricity, and all of a sudden she worries that he wants her to pay more.

  “I have such happy memories of the house,” Monsieur Rossier is saying. His expression has softened and Ella relaxes. “I lived there as a child, you know, with my parents. My mother had what I suppose is your room, although, of course, it was quite different then. She had all her furniture from when she was a young girl and it was like a salon.” Ella cannot help picturing her bedroom transformed into a sort of storage room, crammed and crowded with antique furniture, blocking the windows and shutting out the light.