And suddenly Martina knew where Fritz had hidden Matteo.
Quickly, she said.
Tugging at the invisible hands of Pfeffer and Chrétien, she headed for the Nice Côte d’Azur Airport.
The Nice Parc-Phoenix zoo was located just behind the airport they might have flown into, had they been willing to wait three hours in Paris. Now, the three chameleons flew arrow-straight to the zoo, to where Martina hoped to find Matteo.
Martina knew her heart wasn’t actually pounding; it wasn’t even beating at the moment, but she felt an imagined pulse racing inside. Don’t-be-too-late, don’t-be-too-late, don’t-be-too-late.
She had visited the zoo with Friedrich and Günter when they first settled in Nice. They hadn’t lingered in the maison des singes where the gorillas and chimpanzees were housed. Without speaking of it, all three had felt too much similarity between their childhood living arrangements and those in the maison des singes. But the visit meant Martina knew where to start the search.
One or two of the chimps turned their gaze upon the three invisible humans as they swept through, searching for some sign Matteo was there. He’d fallen silent. Was he drowsing, as non-caméléons sometimes did when invisible, or was he gone?
Mademoiselle, said Chrétien, I have heard him not since he finished his prayers. I know not what to think. If Fritz had taken him, would not we have heard a cry of alarm?
We would have heard Fritz, replied Martina.
Ah. Very true.
I think Matteo might be … asleep. Ish. He used to get drowsy when I left him invisible by himself.
Indeed, replied Chrétien. I have never placed anyone invisible and left them alone.
I used to do it to Matteo when we were kids. He hated it.
They continued searching, but with no success.
Martina cried out, Matteo!
He does not have the ability to hear us, Mademoiselle, said Chrétien.
I know, Martina snapped back, irritated that she’d tried something she knew wouldn’t work.
Pfeffer had gone silent the last several minutes, which could only mean he had no suggestions.
It was all down to her. What were they looking for?
Bars, said Martina. We’re looking for some part of this maison des singes that has a barred-in appearance.
Yes, replied Chrétien. Fritz spoke of bars.
And then she heard it.
Martina.
Not Chrétien’s voice. Not Pfeffer’s.
Matteo’s.
It was almost less than a thought—more the phantom of a thought.
Again: Martina.
This way, she cried to Chrétien, certain of the direction in some way she couldn’t explain. Behind the exhibit, with its tasteful shrubs, trees, and pools of water, they discovered an animal barn. A place for les singes to retreat to when they were tired of staring at humans or tired of being stared at by humans. A place for veterinary care, or private feeding. Unadorned concrete walls and high, barred windows; tidy but plain.
We search separately, called Martina, letting Chrétien’s hand go, letting Pfeffer’s go, too. She knew where she would find Matteo. She remembered dozens of Uncle Fritz’s petty cruelties. Fritz would have thought it amusing to give Matteo the ability to look upon freedom without, ever, being able to obtain it.
Matteo, she thought. Oh, Matteo.
And then she ascended the wall beneath the first barred window. He wasn’t there. She checked the wall under the second window. And found her best friend sagging so that he faced the bars, looking outward, his freedom perpetually denied.
Matteo was safe!
Matteo was safe and she would be able to apologize and start over and tell him what a fool she’d been and how sorry she was for how she’d run away from him on Sint Maarten—
Mademoiselle! Chrétien’s tone was sharp.
I found him! Martina cried. I found Matteo.
Mademoiselle, Fritz approaches. I judge him to be more than fifty kilometers distant, but he approaches with swiftness.
He must be coming by plane, replied Martina. By plane, which would land him just a stone’s throw from the zoo.
Martina cursed.
I shall attend to my cousin’s approach, said Chrétien. Take a moment to bring your petit-ami solid so as to communicate with him our success.
Gently she eased him from the wall and back to the ground, murmuring his name to herself: Matteo, Matteo, Matteo. He seemed completely unaware of what was happening. Not a thought to throw out that she could catch at.
Pfeffer materialized. “Martina?” he called softly. A lone chimp, disturbed by the sound of Pfeffer’s voice, walked uncertainly toward him. “What are we doing? Why did you drop my hand?”
She’d forgotten Pfeffer wouldn’t hear anything after she’d dropped his hand.
To Martina’s great relief, Chrétien came solid beside Pfeffer, explaining things so Martina wouldn’t have to. Instead, Martina materialized along with Matteo. And turned all her attention to the drowsing boy at her side, the one she loved and hated and believed in and mistrusted, the one she could not live without.
She kissed the side of his face. “Matteo,” she murmured. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
His eyes fluttered open. The bruises around his eyes looked fresh and it took Martina a moment to remember this was because he’d been “suspended” from healing (or feeling) ever since Fritz had hidden him in the wall.
“Mmm,” sighed Matteo. “I was thinking I’d like to see you.”
“Me, too,” she whispered back. Her throat had a lump she couldn’t swallow.
“Let’s go swimming,” said Matteo. “I’d like to go swimming.”
Martina felt a tiny laugh escape. “Swimming?”
“You have to do whatever I say. It’s my dream. So: swimming.”
“Oh, Matteo, you’re not dreaming.”
He pushed himself into a more upright position. And brushed his hands together. Cracked his knuckles, one after the other. “Mon Dieu,” he whispered. His eyes flew to meet Martina’s. He took in his surroundings. “Mon Dieu!” And then he grabbed Martina’s face with both hands, kissing her hard.
And then he moaned. “The pain’s real. This must be real.”
Chrétien interrupted their reunion. “I can see with my eyes the approach of the craft bringing Fritz to the ground,” he said. “We must depart. And swiftly.”
Martina smiled. “Let’s fly,” she said to Matteo.
47
LIKE A FAMILY
Saint-Paul-de-Vence, France
It was Gwyn’s birthday that brought them all back to Las Abuelitas, California. Chrétien had been greatly distressed, not willing to leave Martina’s side, but equally unprepared to miss Gwyn’s seventeenth birthday.
“Of course we have to go,” said Martina, once she understood the dilemma.
She’d nursed Matteo for almost forty-eight hours in the hillside village of Saint-Paul-de-Vence, re-hydrating him, wrapping his chest for a pair of cracked ribs, soothing his bruises with arnica and cool cloths and, frequently, gentle kisses.
Pfeffer had returned to Montpellier “to destroy a few things” and then to Nice to check in on Friedrich and Günter. Who had then surprised Martina with a visit.
“We had to see Matteo again,” Friedrich explained.
The visit had been brief and bittersweet. Martina’s brothers had new lives, and she had lost the trick of speaking to them. Almost, they seemed like strangers. But she found she could bear this quite well with Matteo at her side. Chrétien, she was growing to appreciate more and more with each passing hour. His moods she could catch at, plucking them from the air that hummed with the promise of a Côte d’Azur summer.
I could be happy here, she told herself. We could be happy here, she added, gazing at Matteo’s face as he slept on the couch beside her chair.
They hadn’t spoken of that last day on Sint Maarten. She didn’t know the words to use. Or the language, even. She didn’t
want to think about it.
Later, maybe.
Later, certainly.
But not now.
It was when she had decided this that she noticed the pinched look on Chrétien’s face.
“Chrétien? What is it?” she asked.
“I am greatly troubled,” he said. His face flushed slightly.
“Fritz again?” she asked, her heart skipping beats.
“No, no. Forgive me for alarming you. My cousin I have not heard since I caught his thoughts as he departed la France.”
Martina frowned. “So … what? Do you feel like talking about it?”
“I made a vow to dance at Mademoiselle Gwyn’s birthday party.”
“Okay….”
“From which vow she declares me released, if it is my wish.” Here he pressed his hands together.
Obviously, it wasn’t his wish.
“So, Gwyn’s having a birthday and a party and you want to be there to dance. Do I have everything right?”
Chrétien nodded.
“You should go,” said Martina. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized she wanted to go back to Las Abuelitas. To that place where she’d seen caméléons and non-caméléons offering one another encouragement, hope, reassurance. The place where she’d observed friends functioning like a family. She remembered the ache it had caused her, knowing it wasn’t her family. But she yearned to be where she could observe it again, even as an outsider. Las Abuelitas seemed to her like a much better place from which to figure out where she wanted to live and what she wanted to do with her life. She looked over to Chrétien.
“We should go. All of us. Together.”
Chrétien frowned. “You are certain this is what you wish? Your friend recovers slowly. He has suffered a great deal.”
Martina shrugged. “If we take him back invisibly, he’ll get a little break from the pain, right?”
“Indeed, Mademoiselle. But Monsieur Pfeffer informs me it is your intention to remain in Europe and to assist the other anges—your brothers and sisters—in their transition to a new life.”
Martina sighed. “I think, my friend, that before I go trying to help others, I’d better get a few things figured out for myself.”
Chrétien made a deep bow.
That evening, the three chameleons and Matteo ventured invisibly over fields of lavender to the sea, and from there, they crossed the Atlantic one more time.
48
WHAT SHE COULDN’T LIVE WITHOUT
Las Abuelitas, California
Between them, Sam and her step-mother Sylvia transformed Sir Walter’s odd domicile into a French fairytale-land. Strings of globe-lights ornamented the blue oaks out front. Indoors, fairy-lights hung from ceilings in deep loops, radiating from the center of each room out to the corners, the high ceilings lending an air of elegance to the celebration.
Bridget Li sighed as she wandered from room to room: It’s magical. Plus, I don’t have to clean up after, she added.
Sylvia had created one hundred and seventeen elaborate paper peonies in shades of cream and cocoa and pale blue—It’s incredible what you can learn on Pinterest!
The peonies were suspended from the ceilings as well, spinning lazily overhead whenever a warm afternoon breeze wafted past. Sir Walter had found linens and decorations to match, in robin’s egg blue and chocolate brown, going so far as to replace several pairs of red velvet drapes with chocolate brown ones. I confess I am enchanted with IKEA, he murmured when Will asked about the new drapes.
The whole town was invited for coffee, tea, chocolate chip cookies, and pie-crust roll-ups. (Which Gwyn declared darkly she never wished to see again.) And then at five o’clock, the whole town departed, leaving only a select group of friends: We few, we happy few, Will murmured.
As the evening wore on, Martina kept to the sidelines and corners, watchful over Matteo, whose bruises had been artfully concealed by the birthday girl herself. I’ve got experience with this—trust me, Gwyn murmured, which led to questions and answers and ended in Martina believing Gwyn was someone whose friendship would be worth earning.
For her part, Gwyn decided Martina would make an excellent “next project,” something Gwyn had no qualms stating to Matteo in Martina’s presence.
“Generally speaking, I’m not on friendly terms with anything spawned by Girard Helmann,” Gwyn said, “but I’ve already made an exception for Pfeffer, and I think I can see my way to making an exception for you.” The statement was delivered with hands on hips and eyes narrowed and a quick nod of the head.
Martina murmured an awkward thank you.
“I shouldn’t really talk,” Gwyn said, rolling her eyes. “I don’t even know who my dad is.” Then, looking quickly left and right, she leaned in to whisper, “But Ma has to tell me tonight. She signed a piece of paper when I was seven, promising if I would stop asking, she would tell me when I turned seventeen. Although, I’m pretty sure she’s forgotten.”
“Did you keep the piece of paper?” asked Matteo.
Gwyn’s eyes grew wide and solemn and she nodded, slowly, three times.
“It’s an important birthday for you, then,” said Martina.
Gwyn chewed on one of her fingernails, staring at a chocolate colored peony as it spun slowly overhead. “Yeah. You can say that again.”
Sir Walter approached, stroking his goatee and smiling in a rather self-satisfied manner. “Mademoiselle,” he said to Gwyn, “my son will now dance for us, if it pleases you.”
“Oh, it pleases me,” said Gwyn, winking at Martina.
Martina and Matteo stood together, uncertain if they were meant to follow. Sir Walter extended a hand, indicating they should precede him. They followed Gwyn down the hall connecting all the former monastic cells on the left hand side. On the right side of the corridor ran a long row of windows which looked out to a garden and patio area. Sir Walter explained the windows had once been open arches, letting in winter’s chill and summer’s heat.
“The good brothers took their discomfort seriously,” he said, half a smile tugging on one side of his mouth. “Ah, here we are.” Once again, he extended his hand, inviting Martina and Matteo to step outside through a set of French doors and down two shallow stairs to the back garden.
A small dais had been set in front of a three-tiered fountain, which spilled water in a merry babble. Sir Walter climbed the dais stairs and addressed the group.
“It is with great plaisir that I present to you my son Chrétien Fitzwaldhart de Rochefort who will now dance, at Mademoiselle Gwyneth Li’s request, a danse in the style of the court of Louis Quatorze, le roi soleil.” Sir Walter bowed and exited the stage.
Music played and Martina recognized Lully’s stately Marche pour la cérémonie des Turcs. Chrétien, dressed in what had to be an actual costume of the seventeenth century, walked with grace and purpose onto the stage, with each step extending his feet so that his calves were presented as if for the audience’s careful inspection.
Mickie, seated beside Martina, began to giggle, silently, almost as soon as Chrétien took the stage. When Chrétien began a series of bent-legged kicks, to the front and then the back, Martina was worried Mickie might be actually choking and she prepared to offer emergency aid.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” gasped Mickie.
Martina hoped the loud music kept Chrétien from noticing Mickie’s devolution into a squirming, snorting five-year-old. For her part, Martina thought the dance was elegant. Stately. The solemn drumbeats reminded her of a military tattoo they’d been taken to the year the children lived somewhere among the Faroe or Hebrides islands. All too soon (for Martina, anyway), the dance was concluded.
The small group of friends clapped politely, none louder than Mickie, who was clearly eager to make up for her earlier behavior.
Gwyn ran onstage, jumping into Chrétien’s arms and locking her legs around his waist. She didn’t even try to modulate her voice as she shouted, “That was so hot!”
Chrétien’s face flushed a deep red. He looked as if he badly wanted to leave the stage, but even after Gwyn jumped down from his arms, she held his hand tightly, preventing him from going anywhere.
“I’d like to say a few things,” she announced. “Other things, not pertaining to my boyfriend’s smoking level of hotness,” she clarified. “First of all, thank you all so much for making this the most perfect birthday a girl could ever have. Sam, I know I missed your sweet sixteen, and boy, have I got my work cut out for me planning a seventeenth for you that can measure up to this!”
Everyone clapped.
“So, thank you. All of you. There are bakery boxes in Sir Walter’s kitchen and Ma and I expect everyone to take home all the leftover food because I certainly don’t want to see it for dinner tomorrow. Ma, come up here.”
After Bridget Li made her way up on stage, Gwyn spoke again.
“Can we all please thank my mom for her stupendous effort in feeding the entire town of Las Abuelitas their afternoon milk and cookies?”
More applause.
“And now, with all of you as my witnesses,” said Gwyn, licking her lips nervously, “I’d like to present Ma with a promissory note she gave me when I was seven.”
After Gwyn handed her the signed piece of paper, Bridget gasped in shock. She had quite a few things to say, but she said them in Canton dialect, and Martina and the Angels had only been taught a smattering of Mandarin, so Martina couldn’t really be sure what was being said. However, there was no mistaking the fact that Bridget was less than pleased at having been so publically called out.
“Let’s go,” Martina murmured into Matteo’s ear.
The party did, indeed seem to be dispersing. Martina had the feeling she wasn’t the only one who’d been told about the imminent reveal of Gwyn’s parentage. As Martina led Matteo back into the house, she heard Gwyn telling her mother, Fine, fine, we can talk in private. But you owe me the truth!
“Are we taking some food with us?” asked Matteo.
Martina shrugged. They’d be coming back to Sir Walter’s to sleep.
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