We set our picnic rug on the sand, sheltered from the wind by rocks. The Atlantic stretched before us, swallowed up into the large mouth of the horizon. It was choppy, the waves rising and falling like knives. The wind was colder here, racing up the beach, but we were warm in the sun. We ate our baguettes, hungry after the excitement of the morning. Coyote played his guitar and we sang his cowboy songs together. My voice was just the way Pistou had said it would be, as clear as a flute. My mother joined in, for we now knew the words by heart. Then he gave me the guitar, reminded me of the chords, and watched as I played, hesitantly at first and then with more confidence. “We’ll make a cowboy out of you yet, Junior,” he said with a chuckle, taking a sip of wine.
After lunch we lay on our backs, eyes closed, while he told us more stories of the old man of Virginia. I must have slept, for when I awoke my mother and Coyote were walking hand in hand up the beach, her dress swirling about her legs, her free hand holding on to her hat. For a while I watched them. Then, I grew bored and decided to wander up the beach in search of shells. I wondered where Pistou was. I hadn’t seen him for a while. I wanted to tell him about my voice, about Madame Duval and Yvette, but he was nowhere to be seen.
I took off my shoes and let the cold waves lap against my toes. I found loads of shells and a battlefield of dead jellyfish, their transparent bodies limp as the tide idly toyed with them. I didn’t notice I had turned the corner, so busy was I searching for sea treasure. I began to sing. I liked the sound of my voice and the feel of the vibrations in my chest. I felt light-headed with happiness. I no longer felt afraid. The little chevalier had grown sure of his sword. Lost in my games, I didn’t notice the sun sink low in the sky, turning the sea to molten copper.
When I eventually returned to our cove I was greeted by a startling sight, and stopped behind the rocks to watch. Coyote was kissing my mother. They lay on the rug, their arms entwined, their faces nuzzling each other tenderly. It wasn’t like Yvette and Jacques Reynard: there was nothing bestial about it, no humping and heaving. They were simply kissing, laughing, chatting, stroking each other.
My heart swelled with joy. Now they had kissed, surely they would marry. I recalled overhearing Coyote’s remark about taking us away with him. Perhaps when the wind changed.
14
I’d always loved harvest time. Now I looked forward to it more than ever. I used to hide with Pistou and watch the pickers wander up and down between the neat avenues of vines, slowly filling the baskets with grapes. When the baskets were full they’d be taken to enormous sheds on carts drawn by oxen, to be sheltered there from the autumn winds and rain. We’d spy on the girls, their dresses lifted to their hips, pressing the grapes with their feet, their bare legs tanned and smooth. We loved watching the feasts in the barn — the pâtés, the vast tureens of soup and jugs of wine spread over red-and-white-checked tablecloths. Monsieur and Madame Duval would preside over those meals like a king and queen. There was singing and dancing, chatter and laughter. Only Jacques Reynard looked sad, like a brown autumn leaf blown into a corner all on his own. His sorrow was mistaken for grumpiness. How they misunderstood him. He loved the fields and the vines. His roots tunneled deep into that soil, having been set down there by his great-grandfather. He was as much part of the château as they were. When I asked my mother why he always looked so sad, she simply stroked my head and said tenderly, “Some people will never get over the war, my love. You’re too young to understand.”
Jacques Reynard had always been kind to my mother and me. We three had an unspoken bond. I had never heard my mother complain to him about Madame Duval’s haughtiness or about the way they all treated me like vermin. They never spoke about the war, my father, the German occupation of the château or, indeed, the family that had once lived there. Perhaps it was all too painful to remember. But the look in his eyes was tender and brimming with compassion. He never turned me away when I came asking to help, but set me tasks which I completed responsibly. Working with Jacques Reynard made me proud, whereas chores in the kitchen, watched over by Armand and Pierre, left me feeling worthless and hollow.
Since Coyote had arrived I had barely seen Jacques. We’d been too busy singing “Laredo” and he had been occupied with preparations for the harvest. I sought him out in the workshop. He was sitting on a log, mending a large wheel. His beret covered his balding head, leaving the hair on the sides and back, once red, now increasingly gray, to give the impression that he had a full head of hair. His mustache twitched as he ground his teeth, pounding the nails with a hammer. He wore the same dark brown trousers, moleskin waistcoat, and white shirt that he always wore, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong brown arms and capable hands. When he saw me standing in the doorway, his gloomy face opened into a wide smile.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Reynard,” I said, beaming back.
“So it’s true, is it?” he replied, resting his hammer on his knee. I nodded. His eyes twinkled with mischief. “So you’re a saint. Saint Mischa.” He shrugged. “It has a nice ring to it.”
I wandered in, my hands in my pockets. I couldn’t pretend to him. “It’s not a miracle, though,” I said sheepishly, letting my fringe fall over my eyes.
“If it’s not a miracle, what is it?”
“Coyote.”
“Who?”
I looked at him in surprise. Surely he’d heard of Coyote. Everyone was talking about him. “The American.”
“Is that what they call God these days?” He chuckled and picked up a nut and bolt. “I suppose it’s better than ‘Abel-Louis.’”
“Coyote’s not God. But he is magic.”
“Is he, now?”
“The wind brought him, you see. Ever since he arrived, everything has changed for the better.” I tried to explain, but I could see that he didn’t believe me. Hadn’t he noticed the change in Yvette?
“Good. Then we’ll have an abundant harvest, for sure.”
“I told Madame Duval that I had seen Jesus.” Now he looked up at me in amusement, rolling the bolt between his oily fingers.
“And what did she say?”
“She burst into tears,” I replied, grinning proudly. “She asked me to forgive her.”
“Forgiveness will not save her from damnation,” he mumbled. “Sometimes forgiveness is not enough!”
“Père Abel-Louis invited Maman to take communion.”
He shook his head. “Of course. I imagine your mother declined?”
“Yes, she did.”
“Why should she accept anything from that ungodly man? After all he has done, he should be ashamed of himself.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of grease on his skin. “I bet he embraced you like the Prodigal Son. Yes, it would be just like him to use such a miracle to strengthen his hold over that bovine lot of ignoramuses. Your mother would be well advised not to go to Mass. I told her so years ago, after, after…” He drew in a deep breath and his face turned the color of an old bruise. “But she’s stubborn, your mother. I think she goes just to torment him. Your mother isn’t afraid of anyone.” He held my eyes for a long moment, then added in a gentle voice. “Your father was a good man, Mischa. Don’t let anyone tell you any different.”
Inside my trouser pocket I turned the little rubber ball round and round in my fingers.
“Do you think it’s a miracle?” I asked.
“Perhaps.” He shrugged and twitched his mustache. “Love is a miracle. The return of your voice is a miracle too, because it was brought about by your mother’s love. You see, Mischa, you never really lost it; it just froze like a seed in winter. You give it enough sun and water and it grows.”
“They all want to touch me for luck.”
“They’re a medieval lot. Primitive. I should milk it for all it’s worth if I were you. You’ve deserved it. Shame on them all!”
“Have you ever been in love?” I asked suddenly, then blushed. I hadn’t yet got used to restraining my voice. I was thinking about Yvette; Jac
ques Reynard clearly was not.
“I once loved a girl but she didn’t love me back. I thought it didn’t matter, because I had enough love for both of us. I thought she would grow to love me. I suppose she did in her way, but it wasn’t enough.”
“What happened?”
“She fell in love with someone else. The thing about love is that you can’t turn it off like a tap.” His eyes took on a haunted look and he added in a quiet voice, “I’ll always love her. In spite of everything, I’ll never stop. Because I can’t.” He shrugged helplessly, as if aware of his own foolishness.
“Where is she now?”
“It was a long time ago,” he said with a sigh. “She is a memory now. Besides, there are many different ways of loving; I have learned that over time.” I wanted to ask him about Yvette, but felt that would be one step too far.
He stood up, holding the wheel with his hand. “Don’t just stand there, lazybones, help me put this wheel on the cart, otherwise we’ll have to carry the barrels to the sheds ourselves.”
I helped Jacques Reynard for the rest of the morning. I enjoyed being in his company. He was cozy and familiar. With him I didn’t feel the need to speak, even though I could.
After a picnic lunch with my mother and Coyote by the river, I left them alone and sought the company of the Pheasants. I found Daphne sitting alone on the terrace with Rex. She looked sad.
“Hello, Mrs. Halifax,” I said, approaching her across the lawn. Her face opened, like a sunflower turned towards the sun.
“My dear boy, it really is true what they’re all saying. You’re a walking miracle. God be praised.”
“Why are you on your own?”
“Goodness me, you speak English and we believed you never understood us. What have we been saying?” She blushed but continued to smile. “Come and sit with me and Rex. Now we can have a proper chat. However do you speak English, young man?”
“My grandfather was Irish. My parents spoke English together.” I shrugged. “I suppose I just picked it up.”
“You clever boy. I always knew you were clever. Didn’t I say so? You’re not hiding anymore, I see?”
“Madame Duval thinks I’ve been touched by God. She’s afraid of me now.”
Daphne chuckled. “I never liked her,” she hissed. “Cold woman. Not kind. Not kind at all.”
“Why aren’t you painting?”
“I don’t feel like it today.” She sighed heavily.
“Are you sad?”
“A little. Can you tell?”
“You don’t look sad now.”
“I’m not. I’ve got you to talk to, Mischa. I’ve always liked you. But you know that, don’t you?”
I nodded. “I’ve always liked you too, and Rex. I like looking at your shoes.” She stuck out one foot and wiggled it around.
“I’m particularly fond of these.” They were crimson velvet with a large pink rose on the toe. “I like red and pink together. Most unusual.”
“You can’t be sad with shoes like that.”
“You wouldn’t have thought so, would you? However…” She looked wistful again. “We’re leaving tomorrow,” she continued in a quiet voice, staring out over the lawn, her gaze lost among the vines. “I don’t want to go.”
I suddenly felt bereft. “I don’t want you to go,” I exclaimed truthfully. “Do you have to?”
“I’m afraid we can’t stay here forever, my dear. We’ve been here for weeks. Besides, it’s expensive. England’s very drab. There are still rations, London’s very gray, and part of it’s barely standing. I don’t live in the city, of course, but still, it breaks my heart. So many lost, so much mourning. While here, it’s green, sunny, fragrant — one could forget it all in this enchanting place.”
“Do you have children?” I don’t know why I asked, it just popped out.
She turned to me. That simple question had aged her by years. Her face had fallen so that her cheeks looked heavy and sallow and the pouches beneath her eyes sagged. “I had a little boy like you, Mischa,” she replied.
“What happened to him?” My voice was a whisper, for I sensed tragedy before she answered.
“He had polio, the poor little devil. He was very lame. I only had him for a short time. Then he died. You see, he was so special God wanted him back. I begged for a little more time, but it was not granted. I carry him here.” She pressed her old hand to her breast and forced a smile. Her eyes, however, remained dull with sorrow. “He’s always here.”
I reached out and touched her hand. It was trembling. She squeezed mine back. “You’re a very special little boy, Mischa. You’re not like others. You’re old beyond your years. To think you’re only six. Like you, George was an only child. Bill and I tried to have more, but it wasn’t to be. One imagines time will heal. I’m old, it all happened a long time ago. I have no children or grandchildren, but I am still a mother. Never a day goes by when I don’t think of him.”
“What was he like?” I still held her hand and she didn’t slip hers from my grasp.
“He was blond, like you, and handsome.” Her skin regained its elasticity and she looked happy again. “He had brown eyes the color of sherry. Gold they were, almost. He was a cheeky little thing. He loved kicking a ball about. Bill and George spent a lot of time in our garden playing football. They got on like a house on fire. Of course, he was lame, so he wasn’t able to play with the other children, but Bill played with him. Bill was his true friend. Once, when I asked him if he minded that he didn’t have any friends, he smiled at me brightly and replied that he did. ‘Daddy’s my friend,’ he said. That was very touching.”
“Is Bill waiting for you in England? Is that why you have to go home?” I so wanted her to stay.
“No, my dear, Bill died a few years ago. He’s with George now. That brings me a great deal of comfort. They’re playing football together and George is fit and well.” She took her hand out of mine and ran it down my face. “I have Rex and my friends. I’m not alone, God forbid. I’ll miss you, though, Mischa. I’ll miss you very much.”
“I’ll miss you too, Mrs. Halifax.”
“Good God, child, call me Daphne. ‘Mrs. Halifax’ makes me feel dreadfully old!”
15
The following morning I went to school. I walked with my mother, bursting with pride in my new blue smock. I didn’t hold her hand but strode beside her with my hands by my sides, my fingers toying with the little rubber ball that I always kept on me for comfort. My heart raced, the way it did every Sunday when we went to Mass. Now we were more of a curiosity than ever. I was a miracle. To many I was living proof that God existed. The eyes that watched me from behind lace curtains were full of gratitude, not malice. Jesus had taught them forgiveness more directly than any sermon from Père Abel-Louis could. An old man sitting on a bench in the pale liquid light of morning, puffing on a pipe, nodded at me as I passed, and a couple of old women shrouded in black crossed themselves before hobbling back into the shadows like crows, more certain than ever before that Death, when it came, would carry them off to a better place. However, schoolchildren were a different matter altogether.
Young children don’t think about death. They don’t need miracles to convince them of a higher power; instinctively, they know that it exists. They don’t follow the example set by the priest and often they ignore that of their parents. They follow each other, and the strongest of the group sets the trend. They think nothing of brutality — that’s instinctive too; the law of the jungle rules. Weakness is abhorred; the strongest survive and those, like me, who are different, are outcast and vilified. I remembered playing with them in the square and hoped that my association with Coyote would protect me from their cruelty.
My mother was anxious, I could tell. She had worn a constant frown on her forehead all morning. The skin between her eyebrows was pinched, making her look cross. I knew she wasn’t cross. Ever since my voice had returned she had been in a state of confusion. She was religious. To her, as to the rest
of the congregation, it had been a miracle from God. She had no problem with that. I had seen her on her knees beside the bed, thanking God over and over again in barely audible mumbles and silent tears. What she found hard to deal with was the change in people’s treatment of us. She had been happier before, when she knew what to expect. She was indignant. According to her, they shouldn’t have mistreated us in the first place. She would never forget what happened in that summer of 1944 and she certainly wouldn’t forgive.
We stopped at the school gate and she crouched down to smooth the creases in my smock. “You’ll be fine,” she reassured me, kissing my cheek. “You’ll learn so much and you already have a huge advantage over them because you speak English.”
“Don’t worry about me, Maman. I can look after myself.”
“I know you can,” she replied, a proud smile breaking the solemn mask of her face. “You’re my chevalier.” I noticed she had missed out the word “little.”
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