Captain Crumble’s Curiosity Store was a warehouse on the outskirts of Jupiter, New Jersey. On the outside it was nothing spectacular, just a white clapboard building sheltered by towering trees, with nothing to distinguish it except for the sign over the door. However, inside it was like Aladdin’s cave. Every inch of the building contained something extraordinary that Coyote and Matias had managed to acquire, from furniture to trinkets. There were wooden cages containing stuffed birds, drum-bashing toy monkeys, antique desks from England exquisitely inlaid in walnut with secret drawers and cupboards. Ornate gilt mirrors from Italy, stuffed leather pigs from Germany, rich tapestries from France, vibrant silk lanterns from China, rugs from Turkey, gigantic carved doors from Morocco, glass from Prague, wooden toys from Bulgaria, leather and suede from Argentina, lapis lazuli from Chile, and silver from Peru. Daylight flooded in through windows high up on the walls, making everything glitter like gems. It was a wonderland for a young boy. I had never seen anything like it in Maurilliac. I stood transfixed, my eyes as wide as moons. Then, when I grew used to the dazzling sight, I spent hours clambering over tables and chests, chairs and dressers, to play with the cymbal-bashing mice, to open the secret drawers, to search behind things where there was always more treasure, hidden out of sight, often forgotten.
Everyone knew about Captain Crumble’s Curiosity Store and they flocked to it from far and wide. Jupiter, being a seaside resort, was full of people in the summertime, but quiet during the winter months. However, Coyote’s shop was always busy. Some days there weren’t enough staff to look after all the visitors, so, when I wasn’t at school, I was down at the warehouse, helping Coyote and Matias, proud of my growing sense of belonging. It wasn’t long before I learned the trade and I discovered, to my surprise, that I was a natural salesman.
We lived like any normal family, Coyote, my mother, and I. We arrived like a pair of new butterflies, the emotional baggage we had carried about Maurilliac left on the quayside in Bordeaux like chrysalises. Our presence in Jupiter was celebrated. No one knew that my father had been German. They were interested not in my parentage, but in my pretty face and impish antics, and they encouraged me to show off. I was only too happy to oblige, having tasted admiration that day at school. I soaked up their appreciation like Matias’ Atacama desert soaking up rain, unused as I was to friendly people. The hostility of Maurilliac withdrew into the recesses of my mind and only resurfaced with humor when I told stories of Pierre and Armand, Yvette and Madame Duval, and our dear old friend Jacques Reynard.
Coyote returned from France like a conquering chevalier. There were small parties for him everywhere. The people of Jupiter all wanted to meet us and hear over and over again how Coyote had won my mother’s heart with his voice and his guitar. We enjoyed late-autumn barbecues on the beach, the sun still hot, the wind turned cold, the leaves a spectacular palette of reds and golds, yellows and browns. We had tea in their gardens among apple trees laden with fruit, where dogs were treated like people and we were treated like royalty and every time we walked down Main Street the townspeople smiled and waved as if proud to know us. In time, I thought less often of Jacques Reynard and Daphne Halifax. I wrote once to Claudine — my mother posted the letter for me — but soon even she retreated to the recesses of my mind, to reappear later in times of unhappiness. I dwelt little on the château and Maurilliac and I fell in love all over again; with America. America, land of milk and honey and Joy Springtoe.
I grew up in those early Jupiter days. I no longer shared my mother’s bed. In our small white house on Beachcomber Drive I had my own room. In France I hadn’t had much to call my very own, just my rubber ball and the Citroën Joy Springtoe had given me, along with a few wooden toys I had had as a small child. My mother hadn’t had much money and what she did have was mostly spent on food and clothes. I wasn’t used to excess. When we arrived in America, however, I was astounded by the quantity of luxurious things. They hadn’t suffered from the war as we had, and now that it was over, rationing had ended too. Butter and eggs and sugar were in huge supply. The shop windows on Main Street were bursting with goodies: toys, clothes, items for the home. It was a feast for the eyes, that short walk. Coyote wasted no time in spending on my behalf. My room was soon filled with toy cars, a train set, a smart red and blue quilt, a writing desk full of paper and pens and my very own box of paints. At night I didn’t miss my mother’s presence beside me; I relished my newfound independence. I had left my nightmare behind on the quayside with my old skin. I had left Pistou there too, and I hadn’t even said good-bye.
Coyote indulged my mother with the extravagance of a very wealthy man. I knew we weren’t rich. I had heard them discussing our flight from the château on the Phoenix bound for America, laughing because Coyote hadn’t settled his hotel bill. They imagined Madame Duval’s fury and roared with laughter. My mother felt sorry for the others, who would suffer horribly because of us, but Coyote just blew smoke rings into the air and chuckled. On the liner we hadn’t enjoyed the luxury of first class — that was a level of the ship I could only gaze up at — and our house on Beachcomber Drive was very modest. But Coyote showed no restraint in buying my mother dresses, hats, and gloves, new shoes and silk stockings. He said, “I want my girl to be the best-dressed girl in Jupiter.” And she was, there was no doubt about it.
In France my mother had done her own hair, rubbing it furiously with a towel to dry it. Now, she had her hair done once a week at Priscilla’s Salon. Priscilla Rubie was a small red-haired woman who existed in a pink cloud of perfume and dreams and barely drew breath, so that one had to choose one’s moment to speak with great precision, as if crossing a busy road. Sometimes Margaret, the young beautician, painted my mother’s nails while she sat with her head in a dryer, her hair curled up into rollers. She swung her hips more than ever when she walked down Main Street, glancing appreciatively at herself in shop windows, smiling softly, her cheeks inflamed with love and gratitude.
I had never seen my mother so happy, and her happiness was infectious. I might have regained my voice but I was still a spy — and a good spy at that. It was a habit I hadn’t managed to shake off. I was curious about people, what they were like when I was present, and what they became when they thought I was gone. My mother and Coyote were a perfect example of the differences. In my company they touched only occasionally. They sang together to his guitar, laughed at each other’s jokes, and kissed very rarely. When I lingered behind doors, peeped between cracks, listened through the walls, they were altogether more tactile. I watched them slow dancing to the gramophone in the parlor, kissing in the corridor. I even saw Coyote slide his hand up under my mother’s blouse — at which point I returned to my room like a scalded cat. In those moments, my mother became less of a woman and more of a girl. She giggled and tossed her hair, looked up coyly from beneath her eyelashes, teased him by chewing on his earlobe. They were playful, laughing about the silliest things, and they even had their own special language that I did not understand.
I was only just seven, but I wanted to be in love too. I went to school now like other children and no one knew my past. I could invent anything I wanted to. I was like a blank sheet of paper just waiting to be painted. So I told my fellow pupils that we had lived in the château, which was almost true. I described the fields of vines, the harvest, the river, and the old stone bridge. I pretended I had walked tall in Maurilliac, sat eating brioches in cafés, chatting to the locals who were all my friends. Daphne Halifax was my grandmother, Jacques Reynard my grandfather — and my father? I told them he had been killed in the war. They didn’t need to know any more than that.
I made friends quickly. There was no Laurent with his dark eyes and black hair to intimidate me, but there was no Claudine either. The girls were pretty and smiley. They seemed more outgoing than French girls, more confident and grown-up. But I missed Claudine with her toothy smile and mischievous twinkle. I wished I had been able to say good-bye. I wished I had had time to explain wh
y I was leaving. Sometimes I caught myself wondering whether I would ever see her again.
In Bordeaux I had been stigmatized from birth. In Jupiter people took me as I was. I wasn’t a sinner’s spawn and I wasn’t a saint either. I wasn’t deformed and I wasn’t a walking miracle. I was simply Mischa. For the first time in my life people reacted to my face and my spirit. I was instantly popular. The cool boy in the school. I was exotic, coming from France and speaking English with a foreign accent, but I was handsome, too. I realized, very quickly, what an advantage that was.
The first Sunday, we went to church. The one church in Jupiter wasn’t Catholic, but it didn’t matter: Coyote said it was the same God, just a different house. The night before, my stomach was scrambled with apprehension. I remembered all too well the walks to Mass on a Sunday morning, anticipating the hatred, cowering against my mother’s legs, my hand trembling in hers. Père Abel-Louis rose up in my mind like a hideous gargoyle, questioning our sudden disappearance and my shameful lies. “I’ll find you wherever you are,” he was saying, his voice hard as granite. I drew the sheet up to my neck and remained awake for as long as possible with my eyes open, afraid to close them in case I dreamed my nightmare again. I didn’t dream at all that night, but awoke with my belly turned to liquid.
Coyote looked raffishly handsome in a suit and hat, and my mother had on a new pale blue dress imprinted with small flowers. Her hair was shiny and curled over at the ends like a movie star’s, her face adorned with makeup. She wore a tidy hat and gloves that almost reached her elbows. When she saw my face her expression darkened with that old, stomach-clawing anxiety that would never quite leave her. “Darling, are you all right?” It hadn’t occurred to her that I might be nervous.
“I don’t want to go to Mass,” I said.
“It isn’t Mass, my love,” she said, sinking to her knees and taking my arms in her soft gloved hands. “It’s different here.” When I didn’t look convinced, she continued: “The pastor is a very kind man, Mischa. He’s not at all like Père Abel-Louis, I promise.”
“He can’t find us here, can he?” I asked. My mother’s face relaxed into a smile.
“No, he can’t. You’ll never see him, ever again.”
“I didn’t really see Heaven, or Papa, or Jesus or an angel. I didn’t have a vision. God had nothing to do with my voice coming back, it was Coyote,” I blurted, unburdening myself of a terrible secret.
My mother frowned. “Coyote?” She looked up at him. He looked as surprised as she did. “How did he do that?”
“Because he’s magic. He saw Pistou…”
“Is that why you don’t want to go to church?” she said, ignoring what must have sounded to her like childish prattle. “Because you’re afraid God will punish you for lying?”
“Yes.” It was a relief to share my worry.
“Well, it’s not a good thing to lie, on the whole. But in this case, I don’t think God will mind. After all, He gave you back your voice, whether it was with Coyote’s help or not. That kind of miracle is God-sent, whichever way you look at it.”
“So it’ll be all right?”
“Everything’s different now.” She touched my nose with her finger like she used to do when I was very small. “You’re my chevalier, aren’t you? Chevaliers aren’t afraid of anything.”
I had expected the church to be a dark and imposing stone building with a spire rising up into the cloud. But it was a white clapboard building like our house and situated on the sea front, beside the little cafés and boardinghouses that swarmed with people during the summer months. Now it was quiet, the vacation over, the tourists gone back to their homes and their lives. The locals all knew each other. They wore large smiles and their Sunday best and the minister, Reverend Cole, stood at the door in his black and white robes, greeting them all warmly, shaking their hands, sharing the odd joke.
Priscilla Rubie bustled over to comment on my mother’s new dress and hat, her husband looking apologetic as she chattered on like one of Coyote’s clockwork mice. “It really is a lovely dress. What a smart pick for you! The color goes so well with your skin. You have that gorgeous olive-brown skin we Americans envy the French for. Why, I feel all pasty and gray beside you and it wasn’t so long ago that we were sitting in our garden, bathing in the sun, isn’t that right, Paul?” Paul took her by the arm and ushered her into the church before she began her next sentence.
Reverend Cole raised his eyebrows when he saw us approach and smiled, revealing a perfect set of ivory teeth. “Welcome to Jupiter,” he said to my mother, taking her hand and squeezing it between his. He had a large face with small blue eyes rather too close together and a big, aquiline nose. His hair was gray and shiny like feathers. I imagined it repelled the rain like a duck’s back.
“Thank you,” my mother replied graciously. “We’re very happy to have settled here.”
“Coyote has made a good marriage,” he continued. My mother lost her tongue. She was mute with shock. “I hear you tied the knot in Paris.” He turned to Coyote. “Very romantic.”
“Well, I don’t like to do things by halves,” Coyote replied smoothly. “Junior, this is Reverend Cole.”
“My son, Mischa,” my mother croaked and I extended my hand. I knew Coyote was lying. I wasn’t shocked; after all, I had a made a friend of lying back in Bordeaux and we had become the very best of buddies. I was thrilled to enter into the spirit of it all with Coyote. I knew he’d be pleased if I did.
“I loved Paris,” I said enthusiastically. “It was a big wedding with lots of friends. They would have got married in Maurilliac if it hadn’t been for Père Abel-Louis. He’s really the devil, you see. Maman wanted God at her wedding. God isn’t in Maurilliac.” Reverend Cole frowned down at me as if I were a curiosity in Coyote’s store.
Coyote chuckled and ruffled my hair. “Kids,” he said, shaking his head. As we moved off, he leaned down to me and said, “You talk a load of shit, Junior, but you’re my ally.” I walked ahead with my chin high. I could hear my mother hissing angrily at him behind me, her voice rising until it was in danger of becoming a squawk.
I enjoyed Reverend Cole’s service. For a start, there were songs. A round-faced, bespectacled woman played the piano with aplomb and everyone sang heartily. My mother didn’t sing and she ignored Coyote. He sang regardless, his voice deep and gravelly, but even that failed to soften the hard expression on my mother’s face.
Afterwards we had coffee and cakes at Mrs. Slade’s house. As we had accepted her invitation we couldn’t back out now, even though my mother made it quite clear that she wanted to go home. “She’s feeling a little tired,” said Coyote when we arrived.
“You do look pale, dear,” said Mrs. Slade, hurrying over to get her a cup of coffee. “This will put the color back into your cheeks.” She laughed, then, to my amusement, made a little snorting noise like a pig. I ignored my mother’s ill humor, and tried to make Mrs. Slade laugh again.
“I prefer wine,” I announced.
“Aren’t you a little young for alcohol?” she exclaimed.
“I was raised on it,” I said, then listened.
“Oh, you little devil…oink!” I laughed with her, glancing up at Coyote. But Coyote wasn’t laughing, he was watching my mother apprehensively.
“Let’s raise our coffee cups to you both,” continued Mrs. Slade. “Newlyweds.” She squeezed my mother’s arm. “You’re quite the blushing bride.”
“I hardly think so,” replied my mother coolly. “It’s not the first time.”
“No, of course not,” said Mrs. Slade, grinning down at me.
“After all, Mischa wasn’t conceived by immaculate conception.” My mother’s tone was dry, but Mrs. Slade took the remark as a joke.
“Immaculate conception. How very funny…oink! How are you settling in, dear?” she asked my mother.
“Very well, thank you.”
“I imagine it’s a little overwhelming. So many people to meet. Everyone wanting a piece
of you. Only today I was at Priscilla’s and I heard Gray Thistlewaite talk of getting you both on the radio. Coyote probably hasn’t told you that Gray runs the local radio from her living room on Main Street. She has an hour devoted to people’s stories. Nothing exotic, of course. Nothing much happens around here at this time of year. Your story would be wonderful to listen to. I butted in and told her it was a splendid idea. Everybody in Jupiter is talking about you. You see” — she leaned in closer — “we haven’t seen anyone as pretty as you except at the movies.” My mother was flattered. She smiled, although I could tell she was reluctant to do so. “Now, you go along in and get to know everyone. Don’t be shy, we’re all friends here.”
On the way home in the car my mother and Coyote had their first argument. “Why have you told everyone we’re married?” she exclaimed furiously. “Everyone’s asking about our wedding in Paris. What wedding in Paris?”
“Calm down, sweetheart,” he began.
“I’m not going to calm down. How dare you not consult me? I feel degraded.” Her French accent cut into the words with fury. “Do you have so little respect for me? Do you?”
“I have enormous respect for you, Anouk. I love you,” he said. I sat in the back trying to be invisible.
“Do you love me?”
“Yes, I do.”
Her voice shrank and she sounded like a little girl. “Then why not marry me for real?”
The Gypsy Madonna Page 15