Whispering in French

by Sophia Nash

  “Let’s turn around.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re at a stalemate,” he said. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  “I know. We’ve already established a pattern.”

  “And what pattern is that, Doctor?”

  “The one where you try and control the situation by deflecting all my questions by turning them on me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, it’s kind of like psychological hot potato.”

  “I like potatoes.”

  “Or you try to be witty and you’re not.”

  “Americans. No sense of humor at all.”

  “Well, at least I’m not French.”

  “You’re half French,” he said dryly.

  “Lucky for you.”

  “You’re good at deflecting too, Kate. I can tell we’re going to be good friends. The best really.”

  “Men and women can’t be good friends unless they’re related.” I reaffixed the scrunchie holding my ponytail.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Says who?”

  “World history.”

  “I think you’re referring to the problem of sexual desire.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s the reason why therapists meet their clients in controlled circumstances, where the session is all about the client and I am but a pseudo figure or mirror.”

  “Don’t worry, Katie. I’m not remotely attracted to you.”

  “Well, thank God for that.”

  “I’m married and, to be fair? I’m not attracted to anyone. What’s the point? It all ends badly. We’ve nothing more than a living, breathing death sentence at the end.”

  “Are you on any medication?”

  Chapter Nine

  Whispers from the Garden . . .

  Delicious darkness fell upon the land, and I waddled from the little cove of leaves near the stone potting shed that had become my favored resting place. A cooling wind swept from the sea, up over the cliffs, and down the alleys around the stone villa to the drift of white flowers swirling and releasing their delicate scent. The annoying whine of tiny Buzzers crisscrossed overhead, ever looking for a warm body from which to extract their next red-hot meal. One of the Barkers erupted in a paroxysm of mania, my perfume obviously sending him over the edge. My world is ruled by scents and sometimes sounds; sight being the least important sense.

  Those bloody clanging noises began again for no reason— sort of like those massive metal monsters connected to each other, wending their way through the countryside in the distance with billows of smoke erupting at the place where they always seemed to pause before chugging on. Like those clanging sounds, there was no apparent schedule to the metal monsters. Unfortunate.

  I wondered what that cat called the metal monsters. She had a different name for everything. I didn’t like that I had begun to use some of her words. I was me and I liked me and I didn’t want to be like anyone else.

  I didn’t need anyone, and didn’t want to start now. But uncertainty about everything was creeping in at an alarming rate, and spending time with Yowler calmed my frayed nerves. Then again, I was almost getting used to the uncertainty of it all. Uncertainty should have been my name—not what she called me.

  But, it felt good to live on the lam, take up with wilderness. The dry food from my former little keeper was a thing of the past. And no more twice monthly baths with a toothbrush, and running on a wheel to nowhere—sort of like the clocks in the old house and how the hands kept going around with different Two-Leggeds coming and going at certain points on the clock face. Yowler had given me the name for clocks but they still didn’t make sense. And neither of us, even if she wouldn’t admit it, understood why the Two-Leggeds had them. Everything for us was about the location of the sun and the moon, day and night, high tide and low. And for me, the Call of the Slug.

  The thrill of the hunt was a maddening, beautiful thing. It was just the Barkers who could drive one to distraction. And Yowler. Yes, I liked that name for her better than cat. She was beyond annoying in her fickleness. Not at all a lass with regular hours nor a desire to plan ahead. I shouldn’t care, really I shouldn’t. As I said, I am a solitary creature through and through.

  But that scent.

  I should be over it by now—obsessed with a new perfume—yet I was not. Even the thought of that strange scent made the saliva rise in my throat.

  The Barkers snarled on the other side of the fence, and exploded, furious by . . . her. I should have known it was she. Obviously, my subconscious was ahead of my mind, sort of like how my nose was ahead of my brain.

  She leapt down from a tree in a less than elegant fashion, but the arrogant tilt of her head suggested that she was determined to pretend she had meant to take down a rash of leaves on her descent.

  She dropped to her haunches and began licking her front legs from shoulder to paw in long, fast strokes. I couldn’t understand why any creature would want to lick themselves. So unattractive. And all that hair in your mouth. Prickles were ever so much more convenient, just shake and go, and a fabulous defense system compared to animals who thought their IQ was superior to mine. I really could not be bothered to think about these things. Then again, her garden was a veritable Slugfest of delight.

  She wrinkled her nose and made a strange sound. “I see you there. Are you mocking me?”

  “No,” I lied. Maybe I was mocking her, then again, I didn’t know what mocking was, but I did know I didn’t want to give her another reason to think I was an idiot. And that infuriated me. I just shouldn’t care. This is why I liked to be alone. But that scent! I would give up a hundred Slugs a week all for a whiff of it.

  “The Boxers are getting completely out of hand. They have no respect for the hierarchy here. No idea how to accept their lot below me,” she said.

  “To be fair,” I said, “their sheer size might give them the advantage.”

  She curled a paw, exposed those vicious claws and gave a quick swipe. “They don’t like these. They’re just bullies, putting on a show to exert the canine ego. I might be willing to let them sort of think they had some kind of advantage, if they were nicer, but then again . . . No. I’m a cat, and that’s just not me.”

  “Figured out that claw thing the first time we met.”

  “Are you ever going to let that go?” She ran a paw over her face and paused. “Alors, but you’ve got that quilly ball maneuver. Course that’s just a defense. Got any offense?”

  “I don’t do offense,” I said. “Don’t need to. And why would I want to? Too much work. I’m not a fighter.”

  She flicked her tail. “Obviously. But sometimes in life you just have to stand your ground. Or go down trying. Otherwise you’re just a pathetic weakling and your self-esteem suffers, something a cat would never allow. I think—”

  The high whines from across the fence had risen to a fevered pitch, and one of the Barkers took a running leap, jumped off the back of his mate, and high kicked it over the metal-spiked fence. A ball of wildly slobbering, barking, terrifying energy careened toward us. Shockingly, beautiful Yowler stood there; the fur on her back expanded to make her look twice as big. Me? Well, I think you know exactly what I did. I shut my eyes tight. Who wants to watch a bloodbath?

  A high-pitched yip nipped the air and I opened my eyes. She was glorious. I had to admit it. There she was, hissing and swiping. Standing her ground. The Barker lunged and retreated, rendered berserk as he circled her in cowardice.

  Well. He was smarter than he looked. Oh, he tried to hold on to his pride whilst cutting her a wide birth, pretending to ignore her on his way to me.

  I flexed my drawstring tighter. Only my little snout poked out of my soft underbelly fur, curled in a ball as I was.

  “Va-t’en! Go away, you idiot,” she hissed and crossed to stand in front of me. A sardine would not melt in her mouth.

  Oh, the Barker kept up the racket for a few minutes, until Yowler gave an insipid swipe that had no real force to it as she sauntered a step closer to him. He c
learly knew her from past experience, and with his dignity in complete tatters, he hightailed it to the pea gravel and slunk beyond the gate, now unable to even go back over the fence from whence he came. His brother whined his frustration.

  I felt rather small and unimportant as I relaxed and unfolded my thin little legs.

  Yowler coughed. “Pas mal, Quilly. Not bad at all.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your defenses.”

  “What is Quilly?”

  “My name for you.”

  “I thought it was hedgehog.”

  “No, that is your kind. Your species. It’s better we have an individual name too.”

  My brain hurt. But I couldn’t disappoint her after everything she had just done to protect me. “Okay. What’s your individual name?”

  “Charlotte Edwina Leglise Jacqueline La Chatte. The old Bonjour named me.”

  “I don’t know if I can remember all that,” I said quietly. “May I just call you Yowler?”

  “ D’accord.” Okay.

  Then I said something I’ve never heard my kind say. “Thank you . . . Yowler.”

  She looked me over, her gold and black eyes giving me the up and down. “Of course. Friends help their own.”

  “Friends?” Oh, this was too much for someone like me. I desperately needed to find my comfortable, shaded bed of leaves and curl up for a long spring nap all by myself. I forced myself to stay.

  “Yes. You and me. I don’t usually form relationships, but I kind of like you. Must be because you smell just like me.”

  She inched closer and sat next to me, her fur touching my relaxed spines. I sighed deeply. “So how does this friends thing work?”

  “We look out for each other,” she purred.

  “Okay,” I replied. My brain was expanding just by knowing her. Yowler. My friend. Who knew? “May I go take a lie-down now?”

  She snickered and her whiskers trembled. “D’accord. Come on. I’ll walk you over there. And perhaps later, you can investigate la poubelle, the trash can here, to see if there are any delicacies tonight.”

  “Do you want me to save a Slug for you?” It was the nicest thing I could offer. Sharing was a hard business.

  She made a yakking noise.

  I don’t think it signaled sheer delight. This relationship was going to be more complicated than I thought.

  How is Youssef doing? My grandfather still insulting the poor man?” Rain battered the windshield of the ancient Peugeot I navigated down the narrow country lane in Arcangues, a sleepy village about fifteen kilometers from the coast.

  “Not yet,” Magdali replied. “Youssef refuses to take offence at anything he says.”

  “Excellent,” I said, glancing at the small house up ahead. “Tell me again why For Sale or Rent signs are gauche?”

  “It’s just not done,” she replied. “Unless the property is uninhabitable or someone is completely desperate.”

  “Right. Do you think it’s the one up ahead?”

  Magdali leaned forward and peered through the windshield. “Yes. But I still don’t know why we’re going.”

  “You can stay in the car if you want,” I replied. “I’m going in. It’s perfect. Four bedrooms, two baths, a living room, and study, kitchen, and no maintenance. Rent with option to buy.”

  I could feel Magdali’s gaze, but refused to meet her eyes.

  “Enough room for Jean, you, your daughter, and Youssef, or whoever replaces him one day. And Jean’s pension will cover it. The sale of Madeleine Marie will cover living expenses for many, many years. And it’s even near the golf course and the château.” We passed the beautiful ruin of the Château d’Arcangues. “Unless you’d like to, perhaps, find another position with better benefits, Magdali. We haven’t spoken of this, but have you considered it?”

  “No.” She said it so quickly and softly I barely heard it.

  “Why not? You could make three times as much, I am sure. And you deserve it.”

  “Madeleine Marie is my home and my family is in it.”

  “So you are not willing to help me help you and my grandfather?”

  “It is not my place.”

  “Dammit, Magdali. It is your place. Tell me what you think is best. Or how we can afford to keep it?”

  I pulled onto the gravel drive, parked under a massive oak tree, and turned off the engine.

  “No, Kate. It is your place. You must make the decisions. My mother always said that a family is like a forest. When you see outside it is dense, when you are inside, you see that each tree has its place.”

  “Well, I am trying to move the forest, but no one is willing to uproot themselves. Even you.”

  “Perhaps it’s not necessary then.”

  The windows were beginning to fog. I wanted to grab Magdali’s shoulders and shake her. “Of course, it’s necessary. It’s better to sell before every last painting and stick of furniture is sold. Before the damn house falls off the cliff or the walls collapse. Sometimes I think the only thing keeping those walls standing is the ivy intertwined and glued to every square inch.”

  “My mother always said—”

  “Magdali, my family, and especially my father, loved Africa too. I’ve heard all the proverbs. I have. But they are not going to help in this situation. Something’s got to give,” I said, trying to keep exasperation at bay. “No one is willing to be practical. Pragmatic. Do you think I enjoy being the person herding everyone else to the only solution?”

  “Of course not. Why did you agree to come?”

  That stopped me. “You’re changing the subject.”

  “So are you,” she replied quietly.

  “I came because I used to love this place and the people here too. And I wanted to make sure everything was taken care of properly.”

  “Of course you do. That’s because you’ve always taken care of everyone and everything—even though no one ever looked out for you.” Magdali looked away.

  I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “Alors, if no one else says it, I will. Thank you, Kate.”

  I stared straight ahead.

  “But you haven’t considered other solutions,” she said slowly.

  “I am all ears. What are you suggesting?”

  “It is not my place.”

  “If you say that one more—”

  “Don’t sell it,” she interrupted. It was the first time I’d ever heard her interrupt anyone.

  I breathed slowly in and out, resisting the urge to speak. What the hell was the point? I didn’t want to hear any more platitudes. The du Roques, the Hamiltons, and apparently Magdali’s ancestors were all about fairy tales and proverbs. “Are you coming?”

  She stared straight in front of her and briefly shook her head to say no.

  “Suit yourself. I’m going in.” And I did.

  The owner, a middle-aged man who lived in a much larger house on the hill, was delighted to show me the cottage.

  “Mme Hamilton, it is a pleasure,” he said. “My father used to play golf with your grandfather at Arcangues and Le Phare. But may I ask why you are interested in this house? Is this for you?”

  His faintly condescending and disapproving air was getting on my last nerve. “No. We are selling Madeleine Marie and I am looking for a place to either rent or buy for my grandfather.”

  He made a tsk-tsk sound that I thought was something found only in children’s tales. “But you cannot sell Madeleine Marie. It would be a tragedy.”

  “May I take a look at the house, then?”

  He appeared to consider it and I could swear he almost said no. But his avaricious nature took hold and he motioned me to follow him.

  And it was perfect.

  Perfect for any normal family in our circumstances, and we would be perfect tenants for the owner.

  But normal was not a word ever used to describe my family or, apparently, this owner’s. If I didn’t know that now, I would soon.

  Chapter Ten

&
nbsp; The second week of June swept in on a painfully bright blue day with a chill to chase away any hope of putting away sweaters. A few long days later, when the bulls of nearby Pamplona were being examined, selected, and prepared for the annual wine-infused and frenzied festival next month, my daughter was due to arrive at BIQ.

  I’d prepared my somber, old bedchamber at the end of the hall to give her more privacy. A small bookcase of children’s books covered one wall. I’d read every single one of them, from Aesop’s Fables to Auntie Mame. The toys in the chest at the foot of the bed were a jumble of board games and a collection of Madame Alexander dolls on top. They lay like a row of corpses from the League of Nations, their eyes closed, their traditional foreign country dresses perfectly pressed, albeit their aprons yellowed with age. Why hadn’t someone cleaned out this room? Keen pain hit my solar plexus when I spied my ancient Tiny Tears doll under an unfamiliar blue blanket. I thought it had been lost during one of the many moves of my childhood. I shut the top of the chest.

  The room looked out over the side garden of Pierrot and Maïte Etcheterry’s traditional Basque house next door. Ever since one of their boxers had disappeared, the barking had been considerably reduced only to be replaced by a small troupe of workers from Lyonnaise des Eaux, the regional water service. Mlle Lefebvre had appointed herself chief of traffic and street parking, performing her task like a drill sergeant on steroids.

  Conflicting thoughts ricocheted in my mind as I drove to the small airport, which buzzed with an international mix of people. A group of airport employees loitered in the small café as the passengers from the Hop! Air France flight from Paris descended the escalator. Harried Parisians in their wrinkled suits interspersed with surfers wearing Ray-Bans, and all the while I sweated next to a column, waiting for Lily to appear.

  And all at once, she was there. Taller, chestnut hair longer, and just so achingly beautiful to me that my sight became blurred. I gripped my hands until the pain of my nails digging into my palms forced my emotions to retreat.

  She gave a small side wave when her eyes met mine, and finally a shy, small smile lit her beautiful angular features. Stepping off the escalator, she slipped past the throngs. Dropping her backpack, she melted into my arms and suddenly I couldn’t stop the wave of tears flooding my face, dripping onto her navy blue school fleece. She smelled the same—the sweet scent of her favorite shampoo infused her hair, and the indefinable essence with which she had been born assaulted my senses. She was my daughter. My every last thing of importance.