Bon Voyage, Connie Pickles

by Sabine Durrant

  Didier asked if there was any sight in Paris I was still longing to see and I said, darting a look at Philippe, “The Eiffel Tower! I’d love to go up the Eiffel Tower!” and Didier said, as it was a nice afternoon, maybe we should go. “All of us?” I said brightly, hardly bearing to look at Philippe.

  Who knows whether he would have come or not because it was about then that Monsieur Blanc arrived home. He was due back this evening, but there had been some problem with the hotel wardrobes that he had to sort out at this end. He seemed annoyed that lunch had been eaten without him and shouted for Thérèse. “Is there no soup?” he said to us when she didn’t come. His eyes were bloodshot and spittle had collected at the corners of his mouth.

  Pascale and Didier disappeared into the kitchen to try and rustle some up. Philippe sat down next to Monsieur B. and they engaged in a happy banter that went over my head. It’s funny—Philippe doesn’t seem to notice what a bully he is and has a much easier ride as a result. When P and D scurried back in with a plate of watercress soup they’d warmed up from a package, all they got was abuse: “It’s too cold,” he said, and shoved it to the other side of the table.

  He had to make a lot of phone calls after lunch and it wasn’t until four o’clock that he went upstairs to change out of his suit. I know that because Didier looked at his watch and said, “Is it too late for the Eiffel Tower?” And Pascale said, noticing for the first time, “I wonder where Maman is.” She didn’t have to wonder for long because there was a bellow from upstairs—the sort of sound, tortured and angry, that a sumo wrestler emits just before he lunges.

  Monsieur Blanc stormed back down the stairs, shouting and swearing. You couldn’t get much sense out of him. He was half changed—wearing his work pants, socks, and an undershirt. “In the bedroom. The bedroom!” he hollered at one point. Didier exchanged glances with Pascale and then went upstairs himself. He came back down, holding a note.

  Madame Blanc had left. She had had enough of being an unpaid servant in her own home. She was sorry to do it to the children but for the first time in her life she was putting herself before anyone else. She didn’t say where she was going and she left no forwarding address. She said she would be in touch in a few days.

  Her half of the closet was empty.

  When Monsieur Blanc began shouting, my instinct was to escape but the moment Didier read the note out loud, Pascale started sobbing so I stayed to comfort her. Philippe went into the garden. We could hear him whistling. When he came back in, he said he had some friends to meet and left the house. (Poor lamb—I think he’s covering how upset he is.) It was left to Didier to try and calm down his father. He was still raging. Where was she? Where had she gone? Who would know? Who could he call?

  The awful thing is that no one could think of anyone. If Madame Blanc had friends, none of her family knew who they were.

  It was then that Monsieur Blanc decided she’d been abducted and called the police. While we were waiting for them, he calmed down a bit. Didier went upstairs and got him a shirt and some shoes and persuaded him to sit still for a few moments on the sofa. Pascale, who had stopped crying, made some coffee, which we forced him to drink. Monsieur Blanc, seeing me, said, “So, mothers and wives, they behave like this in England, do they?”

  I said I thought, maybe, they behaved like this everywhere, which was The Wrong Answer.

  “What do you mean? Are you telling me she has a right to leave her home, her family? Are you telling me I should let her just walk out and . . .”

  “Shh, Papa.” Didier put his hand on his arm. And Monsieur Blanc went quiet again.

  The police didn’t stay long. Didier showed them the note and they made their excuses and sidled off to find a real crime elsewhere.

  Didier rang Monsieur Blanc’s sister, who lives in Nancy, and she is driving over. Eric came around and I can see him out of the window, sitting on the front wall giving Pascale a hug.

  In bed, 11 p.m.

  I’m going to write very quietly because it’s silent in the house at last.

  Valerie Blanc arrived at 9 p.m. She is tall and blonde and has much softer features than her brother—although she has the same beak nose. Didier told me she has an import business, distributing Moroccan artifacts—decorated straw bags, leather slippers, beaded belts—to boutiques in France. She’s older than Monsieur Blanc, but much more glamorous.

  She took one look at Monsieur Blanc and threw her arms around him. “My poor little brother,” she said. Poor? Little? It’s funny to think of someone having that sort of relationship with him, to think that she feels for him the same way that I feel for Cyril.

  She ran him a bath, poured him a big glass of wine, and went out to Casino to buy two ready-cooked chickens and some fresh bread. When we were all sitting around the table (I say “all” but Philippe still hadn’t come home), she said, “Right. What has been going on? Which of you has driven my sister-in-law from the house?”

  She was joking, but only sort of. Monsieur Blanc was staring down at the table. He hadn’t eaten anything. I said, trying to be lighthearted, “Maybe me? Maybe it’s the extra work, all the cooking, the cleaning, the beds . . .”

  “It’s certainly true she had to put up with four of your friends sleeping over last weekend.” Didier was joking, too, but again only sort of. It hadn’t crossed my mind until then that it might have been an imposition. I said, “Oh yes. Oh God, I’m sorry. Oh God.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Monsieur Blanc looked up and there was so much anger in his face that I wished I hadn’t said anything. “It’s not you. It’s nobody here but me. It’s me, I tell you.”

  “Calm down.” Valerie put her hand on his. “Eat. Drink. Then go to bed. Tomorrow is a new day. Jean? Pascale? Didier? Do any of you have any idea where Thérèse might have gone? Nobody has seen her? No. Well, tomorrow we will be detectives. Tomorrow we will find out.”

  Under the covers, 11:30 p.m.

  I’ve just remembered something. I saw Madame Blanc going into that apartment above the dress shop. I saw her taking her suitcase into the shoe store. And I saw her kissing the man with the pipe.

  I’m not going to tell anyone. Monsieur Blanc might kill her.

  Still under, 11:30 p.m.

  I don’t suppose I’m ever going to go up the Eiffel Tower.

  Chapter Eighteen

  New vocab: la petite copine (the girlfriend), la petite fille (a daughter)

  THURSDAY, APRIL 10 The dining room, 9 a.m.

  Monsieur Blanc is in his pajamas at the dining-room table, demanding embraces from all of his children. Pascale is sitting next to him and stroking his hand. His normally neat beard is ragged. His eyes are bloodshot. His lips are chapped. Occasionally he puts his head into his hands and sobs. “I love her,” he cries. “She is the only woman for me.” I think he is drunk.

  “There, there.” Valerie puts another shot of brandy in his tasse de café. “We’ll find her. Never you mind.”

  The living room, 10 a.m.

  Philippe, a vision of total hunkdom today in faded jeans and a white, cap-sleeved T-shirt, has news. Monique, his “little friend” (Friend? Girlfriend? Oh God. Why am I still having such thoughts at a time like this?), saw Madame Blanc going into the shoe store at 4:20 p.m. yesterday afternoon. Philippe told Didier, who told me. I pretended to look surprised. The two of them are going to sneak out and investigate. I’m going to go with them.

  The living room, 10:20 a.m.

  Monsieur Blanc is still weeping at the dining-room table.

  The garden, 12 p.m.

  When we walked into the shoe store, the clerk was serving the woman from the boulangerie—who was still in her white apron—and getting down boxes of Scholl sandals for her to try on. Didier was very polite. He just said, “Bonjour, Madame,” and stood by the cash register. But Philippe stood next to her, talking impatiently. “We are looking for our mother,” he said. “She came in here yesterday. Four twenty p.m. Tell me the truth. We have a witness.”
r />   The shoe lady looked at him and looked away again. She said she had served a lot of customers yesterday. She could not remember 4:20 p.m. but if he were to wait for a few seconds she would look up the receipts.

  Then she and the woman from the boulangerie talked quickly and angrily between themselves—I could tell from their tone that they were berating Philippe: But he is so rude! Who does he think he is, coming in here and shouting at her! She has worked in La Varenne for nine years and never before …! The young today!

  Finally the boulangerie woman paid and left, casting outraged glances at Philippe over her shoulder. The shoe lady went to the cash register and fiddled about without saying anything. Finally she looked up. “I did serve a customer yesterday at four fifteen p.m. A Monsieur de Valois. Is that who you are looking for?”

  Didier smiled. He put out his hand to shake hers. He said, “Madame. Thank you so much for your assistance. I don’t think Monsieur de Valois is who we are looking for. I’m sorry. We should have introduced ourselves earlier. I am Didier Blanc; this is my brother, Philippe Blanc, and our friend Constance Pickles from England.”

  “From England …?” Her eyes lit up.

  I smiled encouragingly.

  Didier went on: “Our mother is missing and—”

  “Let’s go!” Philippe was standing by the door, rattling the handle impatiently. “She doesn’t know anything.”

  “Our mother, Madame Blanc, is missing, and we were hoping you might be able to cast some light on this mystery. We are all—her little daughter especially—very upset by her disappearance. We believe she was here yesterday. She has light brown hair. She was wearing . . .”

  “A beige jacket,” I said.

  The shoe store lady looked away. She wouldn’t meet any of our eyes. “I’m sorry about your little sister …,” she began. “No. I’m sorry. I can tell you no more.”

  “She definitely knows something,” Didier said the moment we were on the street.

  “Let me go back. I’ll get it out of her.”

  Philippe was pushing against the door, but Didier held his arm. “No. It won’t do any good. Not now.”

  I could see the shoe clerk through the window. She was on the telephone, twisting the wire in her fingers, casting panicked looks in our direction.

  I said, “Maybe we should let your mother be? It’s what she wants.”

  But Philippe said it wasn’t fair to their father. They all needed to KNOW. Didier said he just wanted to talk to her. We had started walking down the street and as we passed the boulangerie, there was a flutter among the women behind the counter, like a line of starlings on a phone wire. And we hadn’t got much farther down the road when another woman, younger than the one who had bought the Scholls, came out. She called to Didier. She said, “Le Blanc! I know what you’re looking for! It is not for me to tell tales, but if I were you I would ask at the auto-école.”

  “Auto-école. Has she been learning to drive?” I said.

  “She’s been driving for twenty-five years,” Philippe snapped. (A saber through my heart.)

  “I’ve been learning to drive. It’s where I’ve just had my lessons,” said Didier. “It’s worth a try. Let’s go.”

  We doubled back on ourselves, up to the RER station, past the Casino supermarket, to the driving school. A young woman in a peasant blouse with tightly curled long hair was chewing the end of a Biro at the desk. “Leave it to me,” whispered Didier. He went up to the woman and smiled. He said, “Veronique, hello. Have you recovered from me, le monstre of the roads? Can you believe they passed me? Neither can I.”

  She smiled and they chattered for a bit until Didier said, “Is Michel here?” and very quickly, almost before he’d managed to ask, she said, “Non. Non. Non. Michel is out. He is out …teaching someone to drive! Yes, that’s it. He’s teaching someone to drive.”

  “Well.” Didier laughed breezily. “It is a driving school. He is a driving instructor. Teaching someone to drive is what he does. Well then, send him my regards.”

  We left. And stood outside on the pavement. Didier said that Michel, who ran the driving school, was a nice man who kept himself to himself. Shy, thoughtful …He trailed off and added that he thought Veronique had been behaving oddly.

  Philippe said she was an odd girl anyway. “Did you see the state of the Biro?” he said.

  I didn’t say anything, but I’d noticed something: on the desk was an ashtray. And on the ashtray was an upturned pipe.

  We were still standing there, lost for a moment, when a car—a red Honda—pulled up and then pulled off again, as if the driver had misread the address. Didier did a double take. “Hey! That was Michel,” he said. “What’s he . . .”

  “There’s someone in the car with him!” yelled Philippe, beginning to chase the car down the road to the light. “A woman!” The light changed. The red Honda turned the corner and disappeared. “Damn!” He limped back. “I’ve twisted my ankle.”

  I bent to rub it for him. It was probably a stupid—an obvious—thing to do, but I was on my knees before I could stop myself. He was wearing white tennis socks. “Poor you,” I said as I stood up. He was looking at me. I thought he might be about to cry. “Poor you,” I said again.

  “You’ll live,” Didier said.

  “It really hurts.” Philippe was still looking at me. He was biting the corner of his mouth. There was a smear of dirt on his neck and on his white T-shirt.

  “Come on. Let’s get a coffee.”

  Didier pushed us across the road—Philippe leaning on me, hobbling—into the pizzeria and ordered us all coffee. I’d have preferred hot chocolate, but I didn’t like to make a fuss. “It’s mysterious,” Didier said. “What’s she doing this for?”

  “Maybe she wants to give Papa a shock,” said Philippe. He’d sat down on the side of the table next to me. He was resting his foot on the seat of my chair. I had to inch away to stop my butt from squashing it.

  “Or maybe she’s just left,” I said.

  They both gave murmurs of agreement. I suddenly realized that I was enjoying myself. I was in Paris, in the middle of someone else’s crisis, managing to muddle along in French. I felt part of something. And I was with two boys whom I liked (one of them rather a lot). And if Philippe didn’t like me as much as I liked him, if he wasn’t going to kiss me again, then I wasn’t going to die. In fact, it struck me sitting there that sometimes it is almost enough just to know there is someone out there you really like—it makes the world seem full of possibilities. I realize this isn’t what Delilah, with her talk of The One, believes. But for me, for now, it will do. (Having said all that, if he doesn’t kiss me again, I think I will die.)

  “THE RED HONDA!” Didier interrupted my thoughts by jumping to his feet.

  The red Honda was pulling up outside the pizzeria. It was parked illegally and the couple inside appeared to be arguing. The passenger door opened and out got Madame Blanc.

  The three of us sat and stared.

  “Here she is,” said Didier, but nobody moved.

  She was looking at us. The red Honda drove off. She opened the door of the pizzeria and walked purposefully toward our corner. She was carrying a plastic supermarket bag. She reached us. Didier stood up and she embraced him.

  Philippe said, “I can’t get up. I’ve twisted my ankle.”

  “Poor thing,” she said. She said he needed arnica.

  There was some in the bathroom cabinet.

  “Bonjour, Constance,” she said, looking at me levelly. I asked if she wanted me to leave, but she said it was okay for me to stay where I was. She wasn’t staying long. She talked quickly so the boys wouldn’t interrupt her. She said she’d heard they were looking for her—she did not wish to be the object of a detective trail. She had not run away from her children forever. But she needed some time. “I have met someone and I am happy,” she said. “I am embarking upon a new life.”

  I couldn’t help noticing that the plastic bag she was holding contained cle
aning products.

  “Is it Michel?” asked Didier.

  “Or Veronique?” added Philippe, giggling inappropriately.

  “It is Michel,” she said, ignoring Philippe. “We met on several occasions when, Didier, you were learning to drive. I found him very kind. And he has offered me his heart.”

  We sat there digesting this fact in silence for a few seconds.

  Didier said, “Papa called in the police.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. But it’s okay. They went. Aunt Valerie is here instead.”

  “Valerie! In my house?” Madame Blanc looked annoyed for a moment. “Is he all right, your father?”

  Neither Philippe or Didier answered. She turned to me. I shrugged.

  “What do you mean?” She imitated my shrug.

  “I mean, not really.”

  “Not really? I thought he might be …relieved.”

  “Relieved?” Didier gave a hollow laugh. “He is devastated. You can start your new life, but know that he is devastated.”

  “Truly?” She glanced in anguish from one son to the other. When they didn’t answer, she tucked her hair behind her ears, smoothed her skirt, and said, “Well, I am surprised. Now—” She wrote down something on a piece of paper and handed it to Didier. “You can phone me at this number if you need me. Now, au revoir.” She stood up and kissed all six of our cheeks and then she was gone.

  The garden, 3 p.m.

  The boys made a pact on the way home that they wouldn’t tell Pascale or their father about the meeting with their mother. They don’t want to upset Pascale and they’re scared of what their father might do. They think there is more pleading they can do.

  When we got back, Pascale had made lunch—lamb cutlets and salad—and had set the table in the garden. Valerie had gone out to collect a consignment of Moroccan tea lights.

  While we were eating Monsieur Blanc kept telling Pascale how delicious the meal was and how clever a little cook she was—which was nice. “Of course, you get it from your mother,” he said. “She is a fantastic cook.” And then he launched into a long reminiscence about how they first met—how she had been going out with a friend of his and they had got together at a picnic at the Bois de Boulogne and she had made this wild-boar pâté—“the deliciousness, the freshness, oh, to meet a girl who made her own wild-boar pâté . . .”