“He’s just a boy,” he said softly. “So his father’s a German. The war is over. It’s time to forgive.”
“Was a German,” my mother added. “My husband was killed.”
The waiter came with the tray of drinks and Coyote opened the brown paper bag. He handed me my chocolatine. “We need to feed you up to be big and strong,” he said with a chuckle. “Does he write?” he asked, turning to my mother.
“Yes, he does.” She smiled at me tenderly. She hated it when people talked around me as if I couldn’t understand. “He’s lost his speech, not his mind,” she always said in rebuke. Coyote asked the waiter for a pad of paper and a pencil, then took a bite of his chocolatine.
“This tastes as good as it looks, how’s it for you?” I nodded emphatically, my mouth full of chocolate. “Food tastes much better in France,” he said. My mother sipped her coffee.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“Down south. Virginia. I’m staying at the château.”
My mother nodded. “I work there,” she said.
“Beautiful place. Mind you, it’s a shame it’s been turned into a hotel. I bet it was quite something as a private house.”
“You cannot imagine. It was beautiful, elegant, and decorated in the best taste. They were a distinguished family. It was an honor to work for them.”
The waiter returned with the pencil and paper and Coyote placed them in front of me. “Now, I hate to leave anybody out,” he said. “Especially such a spirited young man as yourself. If you have anything to say, Junior, go ahead and write it down, ’cause I want to read it.” Excited by the challenge, I began to write. I wanted to show him that I could.
Thank you for my chocolatine, I wrote in French. He read it and smiled broadly.
“No, thank you for joining me. It’s not much fun on your own.” He ruffled my hair.
I scribbled again. We live in the stable block.
“Are there horses?”
I put up two fingers and shrugged. Workhorses, I wrote. Then impulsively I added, How long are you staying?
“As long as it takes,” he replied. Then he sat back and grinned, looking steadily at my mother. “I like it here. For the time being, Junior, I’m not going anywhere.”
6
We walked back to the château together. The sun was high in a cloudless sky; birds hopped about in the branches and crickets chirped in the undergrowth. The air sweet with the scent of thyme. My spirits soared. I walked with a bounce in my step, feeling weightless, breaking into a run every now and then to chase butterflies, knowing he was watching me. I wanted to impress him. My mother ambled slowly beside him, as if, by taking her time, she could make the moment last. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled, and she laughed softly, her voice low and languid. She played with a flower, twirling it around and around in her fingers. Then she began to break the petals off one by one, throwing them to the ground.
I had never seen my mother like that; at least, not that I could remember. Her hips swayed from side to side as she walked so that her dress danced about her body as if it had a life of its own. She looked beautiful. She looked happy. When we reached the stable block they lingered, talking on the cobbles. The horses were out with Jacques Reynard but the place smelled of their sweat, hay, and manure, a smell that would cause my heart to stumble with nostalgia years later when I crossed the Atlantic to set my roots down in a foreign soil.
I climbed the fence and sat there watching them with the curiosity of a monkey in a cage staring at another species. I had observed people for as long as I could remember; being unable to speak, I was rarely acknowledged. I had never encountered a man like Coyote. He had included me. He had regarded my condition as something colorful, something to make a feature of. He hadn’t looked on me as a freak, as Madame Duval did, or as the devil’s spawn, as the townspeople did. To him I was a boy who couldn’t speak, as normal as a penguin — a bird that cannot fly. He had delighted in giving me the pencil and paper and seemed to have relished our “conversation.” I was elated. I had only ever communicated like that with my mother. Coyote didn’t know it, or perhaps he did, but he had made a lifelong friend in me.
He left and strode back towards the château. My mother watched him go, an incredulous smile on her face. She traced her fingers across her lips, for a moment lost in thought. Then she sighed and her shoulders dropped. “Come on, Mischa,” she said. “Let’s go inside.” She looked at me. I was unable to restrain the smile that broke across my own face. “Right now, Mischa, I’m very pleased you can’t speak!” she teased, walking into the shadows. I skipped to her side and pulled her arm so that she looked at me again. My expression spoke the words I was unable to articulate. “Yes, I like him. He’s very charming,” she replied. “He was kind to us, that’s all.” But I knew it was more than kindness. He liked us. He liked us both.
That evening my mother sat at her dressing table for a very long time, staring at her face in the mirror. Her hair fell about her shoulders and down her back in chocolate-brown curls. She had pushed it off her face so that the widow’s peak was clearly visible on her hairline. Her skin was bronzed by the sun, her cheeks pink like plums. I sat up in bed, watching her. To me she had always been my mother, neither young nor old. Now I looked on her as a woman. A young woman, for she was only thirty-one. I tried to see her as Coyote did. Perhaps they’d marry and I’d have a father again. No one would disapprove of him; he was American.
“I’ll never stop loving your father, Mischa,” she said, catching my eye in the mirror. Her expression was solemn, her eyes glittering in the dim light of the bulb that hung naked from the ceiling. “Perhaps it was wrong to fall in love with the enemy, but he wasn’t the enemy to me. He was kind. He was always a gentleman and I don’t believe he ever hurt anyone. It doesn’t matter where a person comes from. What color he is, what uniform he wears, which side he fights on; he’s just a human being and we’re all the same. What makes a person different is what’s on the inside. Your father was a good man, Mischa. Don’t ever forget that. Don’t let them tell you anything different. He was a man of honor. If they could see him as I did, as he was, they’d understand.”
She opened the dressing table drawer and lifted out the frame that contained his photograph. “He was handsome,” she said softly, running her fingers over the glass. I had seen it many times, taken it out myself, studied it carefully, trying to extract pictures from the inner core of my memory, a memory then too young to remember well. I had only a few and they were precious — as precious as the rubber ball he had given me. “You resemble him, Mischa,” she continued. “Every time I look at you I think of him. The same light hair, the same blue eyes, the same sensitive mouth. He was so proud of you, his boy. My heart breaks when I think he will never see you grow up.” Her voice faltered, then hardened. “You will grow up to be a fine, honorable man like him, Mischa. He is dead but he lives on in you.” She put the frame back in the drawer and began to brush her hair.
When she came to bed I was already half asleep. Her body was cold and I suspected that she had been sitting on the window seat with the shutters open, gazing up at the stars, hoping to find my father there. Or perhaps reflecting on the change the wind had brought. It had been a strong gale that had swept in Coyote Magellan. I hoped he’d stay. I feared he’d leave like Joy Springtoe. I feared I’d be left behind. Alone again, my mother and I. Always just the two of us.
That night I suffered my nightmare again. I am in the town square. My mother is carrying me in her arms. I’m clinging to her very tightly. I am frightened. There are shouts from the townspeople. Some are singing, their voices rising in celebration into the thick air, others are baying like dogs, their faces purple with anger, impatient for revenge. I see Monsieur Cezade, his fish eyes crazed and unfamiliar. I see Père Abel-Louis. His expression is impassive, the face of a stranger. He stands back and lets them take me. He does nothing to prevent the horror unfolding before him. His fingers fidget with the crucifix
that hangs against his chest. But the man of God is unmoved.
They prize me from my mother like a limpet from its rock. I scream for her, my arms outstretched, my fingers spread in terror. A strong arm holds me across the stomach and although I kick and thump him with my fists, I am too small. I am two and a half years old. I don’t understand what’s happening or why it’s happening. They shout “Traitor!” and “Whore!” Fingers grab at my mother’s clothes, tearing them from her body so that she stands naked and pale like a skinned rabbit. They force her to her knees and the women, there are three of them, begin to hack off her hair with knives. My mother does not cry. She is silent, defiant, watching me all the time, trying to reassure me with her eyes. But I feel her terror and my secure world spins rapidly away from me. “Maman!” I scream. My voice is lost in the cries of the people who want to punish her. I watch her hair fall like feathers to the ground, layer upon layer, until her scalp is tender and bleeding.
“Don’t hurt my son,” she pleads over and over. Her voice is steady, determined, alien to me. The crowd is in a frenzy of hatred. They are capable of anything.
“Boche baby!” they shout and I am held in the air for all to see.
“He is only a child. Please don’t hurt him.” Now her shoulders begin to shake and her eyes overflow with tears. “Not my son. Please, not my son. Take me, but save my son.” The arms that held me now throw me to the ground. Dazed with fear, I begin to crawl to my mother. My life depends on reaching her. She seems so far away and the stones beneath me are hard on my bruised knees. At last I am safe. She scoops me up and I feel her body shaking with sobs, rocking me back and forth, kissing my temple, her breath loud and staggered in my ear. “I’ll never leave you,” she whispers. “I’ll never leave you, my little chevalier.”
Suddenly a man appears and the crowd disperses. He is wearing a uniform I have not seen before. It is green, like an olive. He takes off his shirt and places it around my mother’s shoulders. “You should be disgusted with yourselves. To turn against your own people!” he shouts, but they do not hear him. Then he places his hand on my head. “You’re gonna be all right, son.”
I try to reply. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. They have taken my voice.
I woke up to my mother stroking my hair and kissing my forehead. “That dream again?” she murmured. I nodded and buried my face in her neck. “No one can hurt you, my love. You’re safe now.” I was just falling back to sleep when she said. “We won’t go to Mass tomorrow, Mischa. It’s time we stood up to le curéton.” Curéton was a childish word for “priest.” I barely believed my ears. Forgetting my nightmare I snuggled up against her, planting a kiss on her neck to show my gratitude. She pressed her lips to my forehead and whispered, “He’s a weak and frightened man, my love. A wolf without teeth. Trust me, I know.”
The following morning I awoke with a warm feeling of anticipation in my belly. Coyote Magellan was in the hotel and everything was going to change. I knew so because I believed in the wind. I think my mother knew too, because she hummed as she dressed. I don’t think I had ever heard her hum. She played with her hair in front of the mirror and when she stood up, her body swayed from side to side in a distracted manner, as if her mind were somewhere else. She applied makeup and splashed her chest with cologne. Then she crouched down and kissed my nose. I was enveloped in a cloud of lemon. “Be good today, Mischa. Don’t rush around. You’re still on the mend.” I ran my hand down her hair. You look pretty, I said with my eyes and she smiled at me, touched my nose with her finger and left.
I found Pistou in the courtyard. For the first time since Joy Springtoe had departed, I felt happy. With the rubber ball and yellow Citroën in my pocket we headed for the garden. There were loads of places to hide there: big balls of topiary, highly scented gardenia, viburnum in great heaps and thick sprays of yellow genêts. There were eucalyptus trees and weeping willow and terra-cotta pots of tall arum lilies. On the south side of the château there was a terrace where guests could sit in the sun and read, or drink coffee and chat at small round tables beneath a trellis of white roses. Pistou didn’t need to hide, no one could see him but me. I, however, had to crouch on the dewy grass, and watch from the shadows. To my delight, Coyote was at one of the tables, reading a newspaper, a guitar leaning against a spare chair. He wore a short-sleeved linen shirt with pale trousers and brown leather loafers. He sat back with his ankle resting on his knee, his face partly obscured by a straw hat, a smoking Gauloise between his fingers. His face was in repose, but he still looked as if he was smiling, for his mouth curled in amusement, like a contented cat. Beside him sat the Pheasants, deep in discussion over cups of tea, Daphne’s little dog Rex chewing on a biscuit at her feet. Pistou was in a playful mood and dropped another spoonful of sugar in Gertie’s tea when she wasn’t looking. We sat and giggled into our hands as she took a sip, swallowed with a gulp, then stared in bewilderment into her cup. She didn’t comment, for what was there to say? She knew neither Daphne nor Debo was to blame for the extra-sweet taste. Gertie hated sweet things.
After a while, Coyote got up, folded his paper, and tipped his hat at the Pheasants. They were instantly charmed by him and they chuckled and nodded. They forgot their age and batted their eyelashes with the coyness of young girls. I noticed a sudden lightness to their movements as if Coyote’s presence had filled them all with bubbles. They became animated, their laughter ringing out across the lawn like the tinkling of merry bells. The wind had brought change for them, too. The air felt different, charged with a kind of magic I didn’t understand. The château was at once lifted out of a stolid gloom and seemed to glow from the inside like a hot-air balloon.
To my dismay, Coyote retreated indoors. The Pheasants watched him go, then broke into commentary. “What a charming man,” said Gertie, forgetting all about her sweet tea and taking another gulp.
“If I were ten years younger,” said Daphne with a sigh.
“More like fifty, old girl,” retorted Gertie.
“I never imagined I was that old. I don’t feel it, you know. I feel young inside.”
“Vecchio pollo fa buon brodo,” said Debo, placing her cigarette holder between her crimson lips and striking a match. “Old chicken makes good broth,” she repeated in English. They all squawked with laughter.
I emerged from the shadows and approached their table. “Mischa,” said Daphne, her laughter settling into a gentle chuckle. “My dear boy, you look so pale!” I crouched down to stroke Rex. His little stump of a tail moved from side to side, so I could tell which end was his bottom. “He’s missed you. So have we. We haven’t seen you for days.”
“Mrs. Danvers has probably kept him locked away in the cellars,” said Debo. “Hence the pallor.”
“He hasn’t been well,” interrupted Gertie, pushing her half-finished tea into the center of the table. “I saw his mother and took the liberty of inquiring. She looked gray with worry, poor girl. So sad to have to raise a child alone. All the more so because he’s deformed.”
“He’s not deformed.” Daphne leaped to my defense. She was so angry, her mouth turned down. “The child can’t speak, you silly woman. That’s not a deformity. He’s not a hunchback, he hasn’t got a club foot or one eye or…or…or a bent leg. There’s nothing wrong with his form, therefore he can’t be de-formed. Do you see? He’s a very smart boy, I tell you. Shame on you for your ignorance.” Gertie remained silent for a long while, her jaw slack, her skin suddenly ashen. It was most unlike Daphne to get so excited. I stopped stroking Rex and sat up in amazement. Daphne looked down at me and patted my head. “He’s a dear little boy,” she said in a quiet voice. I noticed Debo shoot a look at Gertie then touch Daphne’s hand. Daphne smiled at her with gratitude. Something passed between the two women that I didn’t understand. I wondered then whether Daphne had children of her own, or grandchildren perhaps, or whether the tears that now welled in her eyes were an expression of some silent longing. A longing beyond the comprehension of a smal
l boy.
Suddenly Coyote emerged through the French doors, followed closely by Madame Duval. Daphne forgot herself for a moment and pushed me under the table. I grabbed Rex and took him with me. Pistou was nowhere to be seen. I was obscured by the Pheasants and the pale blue tablecloth. From my hiding place I watched the pair set off up the lawn, pointing at plants, stopping every few paces to talk. He seemed very interested in the grounds, looking about in wonder, hands on hips. I had seen it all before. The château was indeed beautiful. Coyote, however, had endowed it with something else, something it hadn’t had before. Even Madame Duval was filled with bubbles and walked with a bounce in her step.
The Pheasants began to discuss him again. The way he walked, with his shoulders straight, as if he had been in the military, the way he ran his hand through his thick, sandy-colored hair. But most of all they discussed his eyes: “Forget-me-not blue,” said Daphne, and for once they all agreed.
I sat with Rex, peeping out from beneath the tablecloth. Daphne passed down a biscuit, which I shared with her dog. Then the most extraordinary thing happened. Pistou appeared in the middle of the lawn. He was kicking a white ball, grinning at me as he did so. He was foolhardy, because he knew he couldn’t be seen. He ran after the ball, pinching Madame Duval’s bottom as he hurried past. She flinched and placed her hand there, glancing at Coyote in surprise. She didn’t know what to make of it. Her lips curled into a flirtatious smile — but to me she was still ugly.
My eyes shifted to Coyote, who, to my utter disbelief, was watching Pistou. Oh yes, he could definitely see him. Of that I had no doubt. His eyes followed the little boy as he skipped across the grass. Pistou suddenly stopped in his tracks, the ball disappearing altogether. He stood quite still, staring at Coyote. Coyote stared back, seemingly oblivious of Madame Duval who continued to talk regardless. He smiled and winked. Pistou was so alarmed, he didn’t laugh as he would normally have done, but followed the ball to a place where even I couldn’t find him. Coyote turned back to the garden as if Pistou had never been there and I was left wondering whether I had imagined the whole episode — or whether Coyote and I shared something special, an ability no one else could share.
The Gypsy Madonna Page 5