I pressed my face to the window to get a better look. I had seen the mating of animals. After all, I had grown up in the country and there were pigs, cows, and goats on the estate. I knew what they were doing and anyway, they didn’t look all that different. The same thrusting, the same primitive urgency that negates all around it, the same mindlessness; only the enjoyment set them apart from the animals: the inane smile breaking through the dough of Yvette’s face and the distorted grimace on Jacques’, more akin to pain than pleasure. They reminded me of Monsieur Duval and Lucie. They remained like that for a long while, stuck together like magnets: Yvette bouncing up and down, Jacques holding her bottom with his hands as if to guide her, an impossible task due to her bulk. Pistou and I giggled into our hands and winked at each other. When it all ended rather suddenly, Yvette deflated like one of her soufflés. She collapsed into his arms and he encircled her in a hug. It was a surprisingly tender moment, I thought, from a couple who, only moments before, had behaved like wild beasts.
Not wanting to be caught spying, I scampered off into the trees to wait for them to emerge. We lay on our stomachs like soldiers, excited by what we had just witnessed, by the fact that we knew something no one else knew. After a long while I began to pick blades of grass, distracted by the tiny creatures I found there. I wondered whether they had fallen asleep and what Madame Duval would think if she were to stumble upon them. I had always hated Yvette, she had been so mean. However, since I had become her “grabber” she had mellowed and I had feared her less. Then, all of a sudden, a smile had replaced the scowl. Now that I knew the reason for her transformation, I realized I did not hate her any longer. After all, there must have been something good about her for Jacques to love her. Just as Claudine had said about my father. Perhaps she had been unkind because of her own unhappiness. Jacques had made her happy. Was life really as simple as that? Unhappy people are nasty, happy people are nice?
Finally they emerged. Yvette had tied her hair back into the familiar bun, her dress was buttoned up at the front, and Jacques had pulled up and belted his trousers. They looked radiant, as if they had been for a swim in the cold river or for a brisk walk. They held hands and kissed. Jacques’ red mustache must have tickled but Yvette didn’t seem to mind. I liked his face; it was open and kind. He looked at her with tenderness, savoring her features. “You’re delicious,” he said, running his fingers down her cheek. “Like a juicy grape.” When they parted, he heading back down the hill to the vineyard, she the other way to the château, I heard her voice break into song. It wobbled as before and grated all the more because I had heard Coyote sing so beautifully, but I minded less now that I knew the cause.
Later, in the afternoon, I found the Pheasants painting in one of the gardens of the château. Instructing them was the inimitable Monsieur Autruche. I knew that Monsieur and Madame Duval had gone to Paris for the day, leaving Etiennette to look after the guests, which is why Yvette had managed to sneak off to the folly. I knew that I would be safe in the garden with the Pheasants, as long as I didn’t draw attention to myself.
Daphne was especially pleased to see me. “My dear Mischa, we haven’t seen you since Sunday. Where have you been?” I shrugged and grinned, having so much I could tell her. “Rex has missed you, too,” she added, scooping him off her lap and into my arms. I sat down on the grass to pet him. “We’re very lucky to have found Monsieur Autruche. Apparently he’s the best Paris has to offer and he’s here, with us. What a privilege. Imagine!”
Autruche (which means “ostrich” in French) was a very silly name for a man, I thought. He couldn’t have looked less like an ostrich. He had shiny black hair, a brooding, handsome face, and dark brown eyes that gazed at me with such intensity I had to turn away. Having come from Paris, he didn’t know my parentage. For all he knew, I could have been Daphne’s grandson. So, it wasn’t with disgust that he stared at me, but with something else I couldn’t fathom. His nose was aquiline, giving him a hawkish look, and his cheekbones stood out and caught the light. He wore pleated trousers high on his waist and a silk scarf around his neck, the yellow of which matched his yellow sleeveless V-necked sweater to perfection. I imagined he was very hot beneath all those clothes. “Bonjour,” he said, bowing to me slightly in an old-fashioned manner. He did not smile, though his expression was pompous rather than unkind.
“He’s called Mischa,” said Daphne helpfully. “He doesn’t speak, but he’s very intelligent.”
“Ah, Mischa,” he said, and his voice was soft and nasal. “Do you like to paint?” I shrugged. I couldn’t remember ever having painted. “Bon. I have another pupil,” he said, looking pleased. He placed a sheet of paper and a small box of paints in front of me and handed me a brush. I pushed Rex off my knee. Monsieur Autruche sat beside me. I could smell his perfume. It was heavy and sweet, rather like the perfume a woman might wear. I didn’t think Coyote would wear such a scent. “I want you to experiment with color,” he said. “Don’t worry about what you draw or indeed what it looks like. Just use the colors as you desire.”
“Monsieur Autruche,” Debo called out. “This damned sky, it’s so dreadfully dull. I simply can’t make it interesting. It looks like a boring lake in Switzerland. Blue.” Monsieur Autruche sighed impatiently. I imagine Debo and Gertie were rather demanding.
Debo sat behind her easel smoking into the breeze, a brightly colored silk scarf wrapped around her head and falling over her left shoulder. She and Gertie both looked sulky and barely spoke, as if they were annoyed with each other. This didn’t surprise me, for they seemed to spend much of their time bickering. Monsieur Autruche wandered over to Debo. He didn’t walk, but glided, as if he had little wheels on the soles of his shoes.
“The problem is you drank too much last night,” said Gertie to Debo. “If you didn’t have such a headache you’d paint the sky with more sensitivity.”
“Utter tosh. I drank a couple of glasses, that’s all. What should I do, Mr. Ostrich?” Gertie pulled a horrified face and Debo muttered: “Really, I can’t call him Monsieur Autruche!”
Gertie clicked her tongue and shook her head in exasperation. Daphne continued as if she hadn’t noticed their bickering.
“I thought Jack most charming. He’s an old-fashioned gentleman. You can tell a lot about someone by the way they talk to the staff,” she said thoughtfully.
“He was certainly polite to the little people,” Debo agreed, watching as Monsieur Autruche repainted the sky for her.
“They’re not dwarves,” snapped Gertie. Debo ignored her.
“You have to look at the colors within the colors,” Monsieur Autruche said, and Debo screwed up her nose. “I see pink and yellow in the blue, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” Debo replied, though she clearly didn’t. “Did you notice, he told us precious little about himself?” she continued.
“You’re right,” Daphne agreed. “Every time one asked, he fired the question straight back.”
“What’s he hiding?” Debo took a long drag of her cigarette and sat back in her chair.
Monsieur Autruche returned the paintbrush and glided away. No doubt he sensed her waning interest.
“For goodness’ sake, he’s entitled to his privacy!” Gertie snapped.
“And we’re entitled to pry into it!” retorted Debo with equal vigor.
“He’s a fascinating man. He should join us, after all, he’s quite an expert,” said Daphne.
“He’s an expert on everything,” Gertie agreed.
“Or knew just a little more than we did,” said Debo. “That’s not too difficult. I wouldn’t say my knowledge of Old Master paintings is very profound.”
“Well, I know very little about the Dead Sea Scrolls,” admitted Daphne.
“Or Peter the Great, Elgin, Chinese medicine, or the fact that a ladybird starts off as a caterpillar.” Debo laughed. “He seemed to know just enough about everything to impress us.”
Gertie was indignant. “Oh, but what he doesn’t kn
ow about antiques is nobody’s business! His knowledge of that was very detailed,” she said.
“Well, it’s his business. He should know about antiques,” said Debo matter-of-factly.
Gertie turned to her. “Go on, admit it. You don’t trust him, do you?”
She shrugged. “He’s too good to be true, only a character in a novel is that enchanting.”
“You’re a terrible old cynic!” Gertie accused, clicking her tongue.
“Perhaps, but I have a good nose for people. I like him. Oh, yes, I like him enormously. He’s funny, intelligent, shrewd and kind, he’s just…” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “He’s just impenetrable. Like an actor in a play. I wonder who the real Jack Magellan is, beneath the smile.”
“I think you’d be very disappointed, Debo,” said Daphne.
Debo’s crimson lips spread into a self-satisfied smile. “Oh no, I think I’d be absolutely fascinated,” she said. “I think the real Jack Magellan would be really something.”
I was enjoying brushing paint on to the paper. I dragged my brush left and right, using red and blue, yellow and green. I liked to draw at home, but we didn’t have paint. When we had lived in the château I had enjoyed drawing with crayons. I used to beg my father to draw planes and tanks, which he did with endless patience. He even made German bombers out of paper and taught me to throw them across the room. I loved to watch them glide down, landing lightly on the rug in the sitting room. My mother said that he had always carried one of my pictures around in his uniform. It can’t have been good; I was only small. My mother told me that that wasn’t the point; it was because I had done it that he liked it. I wondered what he’d think of my creation now.
Monsieur Autruche bent over my picture. It was of a boat in the sea. I had painted a large yellow ball for the sun and a few fish beneath the hull. I was quite proud of it. He sniffed his approval. “For a little boy, you have a good sense of color,” he said. I didn’t want to continue with him looking over my shoulder but, as he didn’t move, I had no choice.
“Wasn’t it magical when he played his guitar?” Daphne continued. Rex had found his way back onto her lap and she stroked him while she painted.
“He sang beautifully,” Gertie added, perking up. “It was very romantic to sing like that outside, beneath the stars.” For a moment she looked wistful, tilting her head on her long white neck.
“Don’t talk of romance, dear,” said Daphne softly. “We’re all too old for that.”
“Nonsense,” Debo disagreed. “You’re only as old as you feel.”
“I feel old,” said Daphne.
“Or as old as the man you feel!” Debo added with a chuckle.
“Really, Debo, you’re certainly too old for that sort of comment,” said Daphne, but she was smiling.
“Harold died so long ago, I’ve forgotten what a man feels like,” said Gertie, a little sadly. Debo nodded towards Monsieur Autruche and raised her eyebrows suggestively.
“Oh, do wake up, Debo!” Daphne hissed. “I think his interests lie more in our little friend than in our younger sister!” Gertie put her hand to her mouth and Debo smirked and flicked ash onto the grass.
“Oh dear. Do keep an eye, Daphne. He’s only little, and he is extremely pretty,” she said, sucking in her cheeks.
Monsieur Autruche now completely ignored the three women and concentrated on my burgeoning talent. His perfume was intoxicating, his presence beside me repellent. There was something in his eyes that caused me great unease. I didn’t recognize it, having never seen such a look before, but I knew I didn’t like it. After a while, I put down my paintbrush. “Going so soon?” he said in surprise. I nodded, relieved for once that I didn’t have a voice with which to explain.
11
I had loved Joy Springtoe with all my heart. It was a love bright with awe and admiration, such as one might feel towards a rainbow or a golden sunset: a distant, unattainable, idealized love. And I missed her terribly. But now I discovered another kind of love to fill the hole that Joy had left. A love born out of gratitude and an understanding beyond words: Claudine. We were only children and yet I thought of her every hour of the day as a man would. I lingered by the bridge in the hope that she would seek me out, and she did seek me out, as often as she could. When I wasn’t with Coyote or my mother, I was with her, and when I went to bed at night, it was she who chased my nightmare away and filled my head with her gurgling laughter and invincible spirit.
At first I couldn’t believe that out of all the children in Maurilliac she had chosen to befriend me. She was a popular girl, as I had noticed watching her play catch with Coyote’s hat in the square. She was attractive too, because, although she wasn’t pretty, she was fearless. While I fought my own private demons every day, she seemed to have none at all. In fact, she almost appeared to lament the absence of drama in her life. Perhaps that was why she was drawn to me in the first place, because she knew a friendship with the “Boche boy” was forbidden. Her mother had told her not to play with me and I knew she enjoyed flouting her endless rules. “Maman worries more about how things look than how they really are,” she once said. “We all have to smile in public with clean hands and faces and no whispering. She hates whispering because it’s beyond her control. Wouldn’t she die if she knew we were friends.” But later, as our friendship deepened, I knew she liked me for me. I could see it in her eyes and read it beneath her words.
Claudine did so much for me, more than she could ever know. We met in secret in the afternoons and played. Her father had given her an English games compendium for her birthday. It contained draughts, chess, Ludo, Snakes and Ladders, dominoes, and cards, all in a beautiful handmade box. We liked Snakes and Ladders best and got quite competitive over it. In her company my spirit soared. Her presence injected me with such energy and light that my whole body fizzed inside. Often we sat and talked, me with my pencil and paper, she chattering in her uniquely erratic way, changing subjects without warning and laughing at the silliest things. Other times we just sat. During those quiet moments we gazed over the river, at the little flies that hovered just above the water, and grinned at each other knowingly because she loved nature, too. Oh, we dug up worms and discovered the odd anthill, watched rabbits and tried to catch the crickets, but we liked best of all to observe it all in silence while it buzzed and hummed around us as if we weren’t there.
I was grateful for her friendship. I never thought I’d be able to show her how much. But then one day I had my chance. I’d never thought I was brave. I’d never believed I could really draw my sword. But that day, when it really mattered, I did more than that. I know now that my small gesture made an imprint inside her that would never go away.
It all began with a game. We found some old fishing nets downstream in a disused shed, and set about trying to catch something. We were good at finding worms, but hopeless at ensnaring a fish. They scudded about so quickly, their shiny scales giving a flash of light before they darted into the shadows beneath the trees. We laughed at our own ineptitude and I teased her once by pretending to push her in, grabbing her just before she toppled into the water. She thought it hilarious. It could have been disastrous, neither of us being able to swim, but she just threw her head back and roared with laughter.
Suddenly, she stopped laughing and stared down at the water without moving. There, in her net, was a fish. It wasn’t large, but it was alive and wriggling. I leaned across and we lifted it out together, settling the net on the ground, where the fish continued to wriggle for some time. When it lay inert, its bulbous eyes wide open and glistening with slime, we ran our fingers over it to see what it felt like. Claudine put her fingers to her nose and sniffed them. “Yuck, smells revolting!” she exclaimed. “Perhaps I’ll wear it as perfume to Mass. Give Maman something else to complain about!” I pulled out my pad and pencil and scribbled.
Madame Duval’s knickers!
“Disgusting!” She clearly loved the idea, for she giggled. Then h
er eyes lit up and she added gleefully. “Let’s plant it among Monsieur Cezade’s croissants and cakes. In this heat the place will smell repellent in a matter of minutes!” I chuckled and nodded enthusiastically, but I never thought she’d really do it.
It wasn’t long before we were walking into town with the fish hidden in my spare pocket. The other pocket contained my little rubber ball and I certainly wasn’t going to contaminate that with fish slime. I had warned her that people would see us together and tell her mother, but she said she didn’t mind. I think she wanted her mother to know. She relished the idea of being in trouble. “I hate fat Cezade,” she complained. “He’s rude and unfriendly and drinks with le curéton. You know I told you I saw le curéton drunk in the chancel? Well, I’ve also seen him weaving his way down our street at dawn with fat Cezade hanging on to him for support. They’re friends, and a nasty pair of sharks they make too! Now Cezade will smell like one!”
I followed her anxiously. I was afraid of Monsieur Cezade and wished Coyote were with us. I had seen that Monsieur Cezade was respectful of Coyote. Perhaps since he now knew that Coyote and my mother were friends, he would show me some respect too. I knew the chance of that was slim. He’d just assume that he could kick me like a dog, while my mother’s back was turned. They all assumed that because I had no voice, I couldn’t tell. They assumed too much.
Our presence together aroused people’s interest. Old men dozing on benches awoke, lace curtains twitched in the windows, and huddles of gossiping wives dropped their voices to whisper over baskets of food, all relieved no doubt that Claudine was not their daughter. My confidence shrank. Even there, beside Claudine, I felt isolated and alone. However strong their disapproval, she was one of them; I would always be an outcast.
On we marched. Claudine’s head was held high, her chin jutting out in defiance, her eyes staring straight ahead, a wide smile slicing the pallor of her face. She took my hand and squeezed it hard. “We’re going to teach old Cezade a lesson, you and I,” she said. Then she added, “Aren’t they a stupid lot, gawping at us like that? Do you think if I shout ‘Shoo!’ they’ll all turn and gallop off in fright?” I smiled weakly. Inside I didn’t share her relish at all.
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