by Hilary Reyl
She thinks she’s kidding when she says that she’s not leaving. What she doesn’t realize is that she’s not kidding. Not at all. Because I do have a super-strong bubble, and she’s not going anywhere outside it, not to Stanford, not to medical school, not anywhere.
“Are you coming back to the house?” she asked. “Want to walk together?”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to walk together,” I said. “I need to wait a little longer.”
“Wait for what?”
“Wait for what? Just wait.”
“Okay.” She smiled again.
I wanted my music back. I started fiddling with my headphones.
“Let me guess what you’re listening to.”
“Let me guess? Let you guess?” This word order always confuses me.
“I know what you’re listening to, silly. I’m teasing you, but not in a mean way, okay?” She thinks it’s a good idea to tease me gently so that I will learn about humor as a way to interact. It’s very kind of her. “Don’t look so sad. It’s a pretty sonata. It’s fine.”
It’s a pretty violin-and-piano sonata by a composer named César Franck. In Search, Proust changed it into the Sonate de Vinteuil. I find it crazy beautiful. Only I’ve learned that if I don’t control myself and I play it over and over, they will take my music away, because too much music keeps me outside reality. So I keep my listening under control.
My music fixation is as old as I am. Sixteen.
Before my parents put me in The Center, when I was in a regular preschool, I started to freak out about music. Whenever the teachers, or Mom or Papa, stopped playing a CD of my nursery songs before it was finished, or if they skipped a song or repeated one so that the order changed, I started to scream. Not an angry scream but a painful one. At first, they all thought I was super smart because I knew all these songs by heart, in French and in English, and because I seemed to care so much about them that it literally hurt to take them away.
Mom and Papa went from being delighted that I could sing so well to being very scared.
I remember hearing Mom through the bedroom wall when I was five. She was crying. “He’s Rain Man,” she sobbed. “We thought he was so cute, and he’s actually Rain Man. How could we be so blind?”
“He’s still cute,” whispered Papa, who knew I was listening, because I loved to listen to their voices while I fell asleep. Their voices were the next best thing to music. “He’s still wonderful.”
“Of course he is,” Mom tried to whisper too, but she was still screeching. “But it’s not what we assumed. It’s nothing like what we assumed.”
“No, it’s not. It’s a surprise. It’s a turn ‘ . . . je tourne une rue . . . mais . . . c’est dans mon coeur.’”
“What does that mean?” Mom doesn’t speak much French.
“It’s from Proust, about losing your way and wanting to ask directions, making a turn, realizing the turn you have made is not on the street but within your heart, and it is about to take you back to yourself.”
“Can you just speak English? This is important.”
Suddenly, I echoed loudly from my bed through the wall. “Can you just speak English? This is important.” I took a breath and kept going. “‘. . . je tourne une rue . . . mais . . . c’est dans mon coeur.’ What does that mean? What does that mean? What does that mean?” I yelled.
Mom and Papa were silent.
“He’s still cute!” I cried out. “How could we be so blind?”
When I was older, I found Papa’s sentence in Search. “. . . je tourne une rue . . . mais . . . c’est dans mon coeur.” Marcel is talking about the bell tower in Combray, which made a huge impression on him when he was a boy, and how sometimes as an adult wandering in a new city, asking directions to get where he needs to go, he’ll stumble on a bell tower, and he’ll just stare at it. He’ll forget the actual turn he was supposed to make in whatever town he’s in. That’s when he realizes the turn he’s taking is inside himself, and not on any map.
I watched Elisabeth go, and I stayed, pacing through the hawthorns, thrusting the branches aside as though I might uncover Gilberte. Even though the tug was strong, I didn’t put my headphones back on. Maeva would be proud of me for not retreating into my music.
In case she was still watching, I showed Gilberte that I don’t give up easily.
Gilberte is the proud daughter of Mr. Charles Swann. The Swanns have an estate near Marcel’s summer house in Combray.
Mr. Swann is the perfect neighbor. He charms everybody in Marcel’s family. He knows all about art and literature. He always shows up with beautiful presents. But Marcel’s family never goes to Mr. Swann’s because Mrs. Swann is the “wrong kind” of woman. Her name used to be Odette de Crécy, and she was a “high-class prostitute” before she married Mr. Swann. Marcel isn’t allowed to see Odette or her daughter, Gilberte. The Swann estate is off-limits.
The idea of the forbidden Gilberte grips Marcel. Mr. Swann talks a lot about his daughter. He tells Marcel that she’s friends with famous writers and painters. She seems like a myth. The first time Marcel sees her, it happens by accident during a country walk with his father and grandfather. She is going through the hawthorns holding up a gardening shovel. He stares at her, the taboo strawberry-blond girl from Mr. Swann’s art world. He stares until he is yanked away by the adults. Marcel is so frustrated that he wishes he had been brave enough to yell some insult at her. He should have told her she was ugly, which is the opposite of the truth. Anything to make her notice and remember him.
I feel the same. I should have yelled something into those bushes. But I’m not very good on the spot.
Sunday, May 22
8:45 p.m.
My room is in the cottage’s attic, so it has sloping walls. It’s a small space, which I like because it contains me. It has light-blue wallpaper between exposed beams. The beams run up and down the walls and along the line of the ceiling where the two walls meet. The room is a tent framed by old wood.
Swinging from one of the beams above my narrow bed are two cobwebs that I have grown friendly with.
There is a window by my bed that I leave open a crack at night. I don’t pull down the shades because I like the geraniums in my window box. The crickets sing very loudly. At first, their song was a back-and-forth seesaw in my gut. I had to put my headphones on to block the crickets out. But two nights ago their music started rocking me gently instead of making me seasick.
This evening, I Skyped Maeva’s Sunday-morning life-skills group with other kids from The Center. It’s nine hours earlier in Los Angeles. The kids were eating pancakes. Some were eating blueberry pancakes and some chocolate-chip pancakes. Maeva was eating oatmeal and drinking coffee.
Layla was there. Her pancakes were blueberry, as always. Layla is very small for her age, which is sixteen, like mine. But on my laptop, she appeared very big. She has dark hair and green eyes with black lashes that are often clumped together in groups of two or three. She clumps them on purpose with her mascara, to be distinctive. On-screen they looked especially dark and matted, like a close-up of spider legs. And her hands around her blue mug of mint tea looked even more enormous and out of proportion to her body than they are in real life. She can stretch them to play octaves on the piano.
The group was sitting in their usual booth at the Honest Bean Cafe on Beverly Boulevard in West Hollywood. It’s Maeva’s favorite place. We’ve all been meeting with her at the Honest Bean since sixth grade. The booth upholstery is dark red. There is a large framed poster of an ice-cream sundae at eye level. Seeing the cherry on top of the sundae made me feel at home. Then I noticed a tiny bright patch on the cherry, a reflection of light. I had never seen this reflection before. Noticing the bright patch made me feel slightly different from the Martin who used to sit under that poster, back at home, before I came to France.
Maeva, who has blond hair and a muscular body, was wearing black like she always does. The way the layers of her clothes all flowed into one
another was very familiar and comforting. But then I noticed that she had cut her hair from very long to shoulder length, and I felt different again.
“Hi, Martin.” Maeva smiled at me. “How are you doing? How’s France?”
I looked at Maeva, Layla, Joey, Claire, and Mitchell onscreen with their pancake plates, syrup jugs, mugs, and glasses of orange juice. I took a deep breath and said, “I feel that France is the beginning of my real life.”
“That’s fantastic,” said Maeva. “Can you explain why?”
Before I could answer, Mitchell interrupted. “Is it because you’re in a general-ed school? Layla told us you’re in a general-ed school. Is that true? Is that really the case?”
“Yes,” I answered, “that is the case. But that’s not why my life is starting for real. What I mean is that certain things are going to happen to me in France because I’ve read them in Search. Actually, things are already starting to happen.”
Next Layla chimed in her support. “Martin, you are destined to be in France right now just like Lady Grantham was destined to move to England to save Downton Abbey with her American fortune.”
“Thanks, Layla,” I said.
“Can you tell us one of the things that has happened to you so far?” asked Maeva.
“Well, I’ve met a strawberry-blond girl with freckles named Gilberte Swann, who is my love interest.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“Well, I haven’t exactly met her yet, but I’ve seen her. That’s what’s supposed to happen first. I see her and think a lot about her, and then I meet her and then we eventually get close.”
“Martin, is this girl really called Gilberte Swann or does she remind you strongly of the character?” Maeva asked.
This question made me uncomfortable. I stared at the kids in the Honest Bean Cafe. They stared back. Finally, I mumbled, “She reminds me strongly.” I knew this had to be the right answer. But it was not the answer I wanted.
“I need to say something!” Layla was suddenly yelling. Her eyes got wide and jittery. They looked like pinwheels. She slammed her mug down, and her tea sprayed out onto the table. “I want you to know that your affinity is getting in the way right now.”
Layla has warned me before that, even though she supports me, it can seem pretentious for a boy my age to talk so much about a twentieth-century French novel. She points out that I don’t even know what half the words in the book mean. She also understands, because we are similar in certain ways, that I would much rather be comfortable with my book than cool without it.
So why is she giving me a hard time? She knows better. Force of habit makes me carry Search around, because it has filled me up like an empty glass for years. This force is so strong that it’s hard to care about anything else, like everyone thinking I’m weird. Everyone thinking I’m weird has become habit too.
Layla and I are both attached to stories. I like Proust, and she likes Downton Abbey. Other Center kids are way into movies. Joey first learned to talk using Disney animation.
Kids like us watch our shows and imitate what we see and hear. We do this until it all starts to connect with something inside of us. Then we can start to express ourselves. First, we do it in echoes. Then we move on to what they call “variations.” It’s a kind of backward learning. It teaches us how to act. At The Center, they’ve given us a name to this backwardness. They call it “affinity.” They say “affinity therapy” can help us to break through to the outside.
With a book, there’s less to imitate than with movies or TV. There are only the words to go on, no images. So my brain has to work extra hard. I have to picture Marcel and Mr. Swann for myself. Layla’s Downton Abbey is full of visuals, like faces with expressions. She says I’ve made a hard choice.
She also understands that I didn’t choose Search. It chose me. You might say I walk around in a prison. But at least it’s a prison that moves, not some cage stuck in one spot. I’m surrounded by Search the way most people are surrounded by their own souls.
“Layla,” Maeva asked with a gentle voice. “When you say Martin’s affinity for his book is getting in the way, what do you mean? Getting in the way of what?”
“Just getting in the way!” Layla’s voice was too loud. She banged her mug again. Then she closed her eyes tightly while we all watched, and she did what Maeva calls “rechanneling.” When she opened her eyes, she changed the subject. “‘A lack of compassion can be as vulgar as an excess of tears.’”
“Are you quoting your show?” asked Mitchell.
“Yes. Lady Grantham said that.” Layla smiled, and I felt relieved.
“Maybe this relates to what Mitchell was saying the other day about how affinities are a portal into real life,” Maeva said. “Does anyone have any more thoughts about this or about Martin’s book now that he is actually in France?”
Instead of answering her, everyone started to talk about their shows. I said I should probably get going. So we all high-fived and fist-bumped. I noticed as I rapped on the screen that I missed the feeling of real hands. Then we said good-bye. The cherry on the sundae poster was the last thing to vanish when I switched off the group.
I’m the only kid at The Center who likes to be affectionate. Once I get to know people, that is. I enjoy the touch of familiar skin. It holds me like water. So it’s been hard for me to understand that most of my friends don’t like to be touched or hugged. Even Layla won’t get closer than a fist bump. Her fist is tight and her knuckles are very white.
Twenty minutes after I turned off my Skype, Layla texted me. It was good to see you. The brown couch in your French house looks comfortable. How’s the movie? How are the moths? Do you think our phones are instruments of communication or torture?
When she is in a philosophical mood, Layla signs off her messages with: Do you think our phones are instruments of communication or torture? This is her version of a quote from Lady Grantham, played by Maggie Smith. Mom has promised to introduce Layla to Maggie Smith someday, because Mom has good access to famous people. Layla reminds Mom of this promise every time she sees her.
Layla is interested in the star-studded aspect of Mom’s movies. She’s attracted to the idea of glamour. This is because a television show has taught her how to be.
Downton Abbey would not interest me at all if it didn’t remind me of Layla. I have only watched three episodes, including Matthew’s accident, in her basement. So most of her quoting sounds original to me. She says the same about mine, because she hasn’t read Search.
Layla makes a point of asking questions in her texts. The Center teaches us that questions are important. They are a good strategy for conversations. A person should show an interest in details, even if the interest is fake. If she acts curious enough, eventually the pretend interest will become real. Layla has reached this point in her questioning where she cares about the answers.
I answered her text right away. Mom’s movie is starting to shoot. Fuchsia is here. The big stars come next week. The moths aren’t around yet.
All good, she answered. When she writes very short texts, it means she is watching an episode and can’t focus, but she still wants to send at least a couple of words so that she doesn’t leave me hanging.
I sent her back a smiling emoji. Emojis are an autistic kid’s dream.
Monday, May 23
3:30 p.m.
Today, Simon got angry at me. We were going down one of the two orange staircases between the second and third floor of the school building. I was watching his black heels land on the steps in front of me. I blurted out, “Do you know a girl with reddish-blond hair in our class?”
He stopped walking and turned around. “What’s her name?” he asked.
“It might be Gilberte,” I said hopefully.
He shook his head. “Any other ideas?”
I shook my head.
“Listen,” he said with a darkness in his voice. “I have to go visit my dad today, so I can’t be with you this afternoon, but my frie
nd Marianne said she could hang out if you want.”
“Where’s your dad?”
“In jail.” He laughed and looked down at his shoes.
“So is mine.” I did not laugh. One of the things they teach us at The Center is to point out similarities between our experiences and other people’s. It’s a good social skill. It can also make us less lonely.
“Fuck you, idiot! I was kidding, okay?” He ran ahead of me down the steps.
I was too upset to focus on what I might have done wrong. I felt sliced up inside. I sat down and put my head between my knees in the recovery position Maeva taught me. I counted twenty breaths.
While I was counting, the bell rang for the start of my next class, which was history. When I looked up, the staircase was empty.
I did not go to history class. I walked all the way home.
11:30 p.m.
“How was school?” Mom asked this softly. We were eating tonight in a restaurant called La Poule. “Were you more comfortable?” She hopes I’ll be able to hide the fact that I don’t always communicate by acting “attentive” in class. She also hopes the way I look will help the other kids accept me.
I told her this week was not starting out well.
“Give it a few more days. If you end up miserable, you don’t have to go back. But it might be a nice way for you to meet some local kids. You’re lucky you can speak French so fluently. Most people wouldn’t have this chance.”
She sat down across from me at a long, narrow table, which was filling up with her cast and crew. There was a red-and-white-checked cloth on the table; candles in glass jars; plates decorated with chickens, roosters, and cows; and pitchers of red wine. The ceiling was low. Three small windows set in thick walls let in light. The light struck the four copper pots decorating the wall that faced me. On a buffet below the pots was a tarte Tatin, only it was made with apricots instead of apples.
Someone offered me rillettes, which is my favorite pâté.
“Oui, s’il vous plaît, je voudrais des rillettes.”
“Vous parlez français?” It was a woman’s voice.
