“Don’t you think you should tell him what not to say?” Coyote asked.
“No,” my mother replied. “He knows, don’t you, Mischa?”
She was right. I did know. There were things we never talked about, not even on our own. Things we both wanted to forget. Things I would never tell a soul. We had a silent pact, my mother and I.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” she asked with a frown, perhaps feeling guilty that I was being sent in her stead.
“I don’t mind,” I replied, shuffling my feet with excitement. She had no idea what this meant to me. “I want to go,” I said with emphasis.
“Then you shall go,” said Coyote. “But remember, you must always have your sword drawn, ready, just in case.”
Gray Thistlewaite’s house was small and tidy, just the way you would expect a grandmother’s home to be. It was warm, with a fire burning in the grate, trinkets on tables, and photographs in ornate silver frames of sons in uniform and smiling children. There were pictures on the walls of boats, and hounds racing across the English countryside in pursuit of a fox. There was not a surface that didn’t have something on it, something of sentimental value, like a little enamel box or a bunch of dried flowers, a porcelain doll or glass figurines. The place smelled of wood smoke and her perfume. There was a set of shelves against one wall, stuffed full of books. On a round table in the corner, next to two windows veiled with lace curtains, were the black box and microphones of her home-grown radio station.
It had been arranged that Maria Elena, Matias’ wife, should take me, in order to keep Gray Thistlewaite from persuading Coyote or my mother to participate in the show. Maria Elena accepted a cup of tea in a pretty china cup and saucer and sat on the blue floral sofa, while I followed Gray to the table.
“Come and sit down,” she said, pulling out a chair. “This is my modest little radio station. It doesn’t look like much, but it communicates with the good people of Jupiter and gives enormous pleasure to the old folks who can’t get out.” She obviously didn’t consider herself old. I watched her take her seat, smoothing her tweed skirt and white cotton blouse. She put on a pair of small silver glasses, which hung on a chain around her neck, gave a self-important sniff, and tapped the microphone. “Before we start, Mischa, I want to tell you one thing: just be yourself. Don’t be nervous, they’re all friends out there. They just want to hear your story and so do I. Shame they can’t see how handsome you are. Never mind, I’ll be sure to tell them. Now, put these on.” She gave me a pair of large black head-phones, which I placed on my ears, and pushed a microphone on a stand towards me so that it stood right in front of my lips. “Can you hear me, Mischa?” she asked. I nodded. “No, dear, speak into it.”
“I can hear you,” I replied obediently.
“Good.” She looked at the large clock on the table. “I’ll begin in a few minutes. I have a few announcements to make before I begin the interview, so bear with me.” My heart began to race and I felt my body tremble. Maria Elena smiled at me with encouragement, willing me to do well. We sat in silence and watched the clock. The second hand seemed to move so slowly. When, finally, it reached eleven o’clock, Gray pressed a button on the mysterious black box and began to speak in a low, whispering voice.
“Hello out there, you good folks of Jupiter. Welcome to my show. For those who don’t know, it’s “Another True Story” hour and I’m Gray Thistlewaite, in your living rooms, in your kitchens, and in your lives, making them better and brighter in my own small way. Today, I have a very interesting guest. He’s as charming as he is handsome, but before I introduce him there are a few announcements I would like to share: Hilary Winer is throwing a little pre-Christmas party at her store, Toad Hall, on Main Street on Thursday night at six; you’re all welcome to stop by. Santa Claus will be there to entertain the children, so look out for that man in red and put in your requests for Christmas Eve. Deborah and John Trichett have had a baby boy called Huckleberry. Please don’t send flowers. Deborah is allergic and we can’t have her sneezing over the new arrival, can we? Clothes and toys are most welcome and Hilary Winer says she has a new range of delightful baby blankets, hats, and mittens in baby-boy blue. Margaret Gilligan’s bitch, Hazel, is in heat so please keep all dogs away. She doesn’t want another litter of mongrels. Stanford Johnson’s Christmas trees are now on sale at Maple Farm. First come first served, so get on down there before he runs out. It’s not healthy to be disappointed at this time of joy and celebration. It wouldn’t do to forget Captain Crumble’s Curiosity Store, which has something for everyone this Christmas. Which brings me on to Coyote’s new stepson, Mischa Fontaine. He’s right here with me now and ready to talk to you good people of Jupiter. Hello, Mischa.”
“Hello, Madame,” I replied, not knowing how to address her.
“Call me Gray, they all do,” she said with a smile. “How are you liking your new town?”
“I love it,” I said enthusiastically.
“I’m so pleased. We love it too. Now, tell all those listening out there how old you are.”
“I’m just seven.”
“Seven. You’re getting on a bit. Your English is mighty good for a French boy.”
“My grandfather was Irish.”
“My great ancestor was English. He was one of the very first to settle here. He was a lord.”
“Did he come out on the Mayflower?” I asked. She raised her eyebrows, impressed with my knowledge.
“No, he sailed over a few years later.” She laughed lightly and her eyes twinkled at me behind her glasses. I warmed to her, settled into my chair and no longer felt nervous. “Tell everyone what life was like for you in France?”
“We lived in a château in the small town of Maurilliac.”
“Now, just to inform our listeners, a château is a castle, right?”
“A big house,” I corrected.
“How wonderfully grand. I’m sure we’re all proud to have a genuine French aristocrat in our midst. Tell us a little about the château, Mischa.”
“It has a vineyard and we made wine.”
“I bet it tasted good,” she said.
“I was raised on it,” I replied, recalling the laughter that comment had provoked from Mrs. Slade. Gray Thistlewaite laughed and shook her head. I felt my confidence grow.
“Do you miss France?”
“I don’t think of it much, now I’m here. When I think about it, I miss the vineyard and the river and my friend Claudine. There’s a folly which looks down the valley. It’s very pretty, especially at sunset. I once saw Jacques Reynard and Yvette kissing in there.”
“Who are Jacques Reynard and Yvette?”
“Jacques runs the vineyard and Yvette is the cook. They are in love.”
“Love is bountiful in France. Tell me, how did your mother meet Coyote?”
“He came to Maurilliac with his guitar and his magic and she fell in love with him.” I blushed, hoping my mother wouldn’t mind.
“Is he magic?”
“Oh, yes, he’s magic.”
“How so?”
“I just know,” I said, not wanting to betray him.
“Oh, you must tell. He’s one of the most beloved characters in Jupiter. But I never knew he was magic.”
“He has a special gift.”
“Really, what sort of gift?”
“Well…” I hesitated.
“Well?” Her jaw stiffened and stuck out. “We’re all longing to know.”
“He gave me back my voice.”
“Had you lost it?” She looked at me incredulously.
“I didn’t have one.”
Her forehead creased into a frown. “You were mute?”
“Yes. Coyote came and my voice returned.”
“How incredible! How did he do it?”
“He told me it would come back and it did.” She didn’t know whether or not to believe me.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. He’s magic.” I was tempted to
tell her about Pistou, but decided not to. If she didn’t believe Coyote was magic, she wouldn’t believe in Pistou. She wouldn’t believe in the wind either, even though she was a grandmother. “Everyone in Maurilliac thought it was a miracle. Perhaps it was, but I’m not a saint. Maman says God gave my voice back to me, but really it was Coyote. With his magic.”
“Tell us about the wedding,” she said, changing the subject.
“It was in Paris,” I said, knowing I was now on shaky ground. I remembered my sword and drew it a little out of its holder, just in case.
“How romantic. I bet you were best man,” she said, smiling across at me with affection.
“I don’t know,” I replied. I didn’t know what “best man” was and I had never been to a wedding. “I think I was second best. Coyote was the best, that day.” Again she laughed. I laughed too, at the pleasure of entertaining her.
“Tell me, what happened to your father?”
“He died in the war,” I replied.
“I’m so sorry.” She reached out and touched my hand.
“Me too. He would have liked Coyote,” I said in all innocence.
“I’ll bet he would, too,” she said with a chuckle. “I don’t know whether you’ve been playing with me, Mischa, but you’ve been most entertaining. Will you come on the show again?”
“Yes, please,” I replied, truthfully.
“To all you folks out there, I say, we’re none of us too old or cynical to believe in magic. It’s healthy to have a fertile imagination, and entertaining too. I’ll put Mischa back on his magic carpet now and watch him fly off to Captain Crumble’s Curiosity Store to his magic stepfather, Coyote. If any of you out there would like a little magic in your own homes, you know where to find it. You heard it here first. Gray Thistlewaite, in your living rooms, in your kitchens, and in your lives, making them better and brighter in my own small way. Thank you for listening.”
Maria Elena took me for an ice cream. I liked Maria Elena, she was warm and gentle and spoke with an accent that held within it the resonance of exotic places. “You did well,” she said and I recognized pride in her eyes and something else, almost motherly. “Gray doesn’t believe in magic, but I do. Though I believe the magic is within you. More than you know.”
“Coyote really is magic,” I insisted.
“All children are magic, and he’s just a big boy.”
“He saw Pistou, but he won’t admit it.” I had never confided that before.
“Who is Pistou?”
I felt foolish for having mentioned him, but now that I had, I couldn’t turn back. “My friend. No one else can see him but me. He lives at the château. I left without saying good-bye.” I pulled a sad face.
“And Coyote saw him?” She didn’t dismiss me with an amused look, but stared at me, her expression serious.
“Yes, Coyote saw him. I know he did.”
“I’m sure you’re right. Don’t worry that you didn’t say good-bye, he’ll understand.”
“Do you think?”
“I know.” She ran her knuckles softly down my cheek. “Spirits have a greater understanding of the world than we do.” I didn’t really know what she meant. Pistou wasn’t a spirit, he was a magic boy.
“I’ll return and see him one day, won’t I?”
“Of course you will, Mischa. France is just a plane ride away, like Chile. I miss my home country, like you miss France. But it won’t go away. It will always be there to go back to, and so will Pistou. Trust me.”
After my interview on the radio, everyone wanted to know more about the miracle of my restored voice. Coyote shrugged it off when he was asked about his magic, putting it down to “a young boy’s imagination,” but I knew the truth. He was magic, however much he denied it. He knew too, because when he smiled at me his eyes communicated his collusion in a twinkle. My mother said I had done all right, though she sat me down and told me what a best man was. She was anxious that I was being encouraged to lie. “I don’t think you should talk about our ‘marriage,’ if it means lying,” she said. After a while it no longer mattered because no one asked. As far as the people of Jupiter were concerned, my mother and Coyote had married in Paris. No one doubted it. They were far more interested in me, anyhow. I hadn’t intended to bring my own lies over from France. I had wanted to start afresh, with a clean slate. But it was now unavoidable. Unlike the people of Maurilliac, they did not consider me a saint in Jupiter. They smiled at me indulgently, shook their heads, and showed only delight in what they believed to be the fancies of a little boy who had lost his father in the war, been uprooted from his home, and been taken overseas to a strange place. They were kind, but they didn’t believe me. “He’s such a handsome boy,” they said, as if that excused everything. The children believed me, though, and I found myself holding forth in the playground about my vision.
My first year in Jupiter was the happiest of my life. Or certainly, the one I remember best. Coyote, my mother, and I went to the pictures when the store made money. As well as celebrating with imported champagne we watched a movie, had dinner in a restaurant, or spent the day on the beach. One moment Coyote was rich, the next he had nothing. “I live by the seat of my pants,” he had once said, ruffling my hair. “You’ll understand one day when you’re older.” He traveled a lot. Much of the time he wasn’t around. I missed him, but our home was so cozy and happy that it made missing him easier to cope with. I spent a lot of time at Matias and Maria Elena’s house. They became second parents to me, spoiling me with toys and games and laughter. I felt cherished and understood by them. Maria Elena read me poetry and stories of magic and mystery, which I adored. I’d snuggle up beside her, breathe in the warm, spicy smell of her skin, and bask in another woman’s affection.
I played the guitar well by now and had begun to compose songs of my own. I hung out with boys from school and we made music together. Joe Lampton played the saxophone, Frank Mullet the drums, and Solly Halpstein the piano. We’d gather at Joe’s house — his mother had a piano in her living room — and we’d play things together. Not that we sounded very good. In fact, we sounded awful, but we didn’t care. We felt we were making music and it was better than loitering outside in the cold.
My mother kept the accounts for the store and Maria Elena became her closest friend. She and Matias joined us for dinner and we went over to their house. Sometimes, I’d go to sleep in their house and Coyote would lift me into the car afterwards and drive home, carrying me up to bed while I still slept. The four of them did everything together and I tagged along. Matias and Maria Elena had no children. I wondered whether they had suffered a disappointment like Daphne Halifax, but I knew it would be impolite to ask.
In summer the tourists came. The small cafés and boardinghouses vibrated with noise, the beach teemed with sunbathers, the shops burst at the seams with customers. Couples wandered up and down the boardwalk, children played in the sand, dogs rushed in and out of the water, everyone was happy. Coyote came and went, filling us with love and merriment, returning with more extraordinary things he had found on his travels. He always had stories to tell of the people he had met and the places he had been to. But I loved the Old Man of Virginia best of all and made him tell me those tales over and over again. Sometimes Coyote returned with a beard; at other times he was clean shaven, looking dapper in shiny shoes and a newly pressed suit. Sometimes he hadn’t shaved for days and thick stubble covered his face so it looked like a cornfield after the harvest; other times he was as polished as the saddle of a prince. He brought me gifts whichever way he returned, rich or poor. He never arrived empty-handed. Sometimes there was fabric for my mother, who had started making her own clothes again, and toys for me; other times shoes, or jewelry, a little box, or a book — always something, and she was always pleased.
I noticed the affection growing between them, like the roots of a tree that burrow down deep into the soil as the tree spreads its branches to the sky. It was in the way they looked at each other, th
e little smiles they exchanged, the manner in which they brushed against each other or tenderly glided a hand over an arm or a shoulder. Coyote’s face changed completely when my mother came into the room. It lit up with joy like one of his red silk lanterns from China. His eyes followed her, their expression loving, his lips suddenly swollen with sensuality. My mother flirted with him, striking poses when she stood as if aware all the time of him watching her.
When he went off on his travels she took to laying the table for him from the day he left to the day he returned. He never gave us warning of his homecoming. She worked hard in the store in order to prevent herself pining, but in the evenings she’d sit by the window and stare up at the stars, as she had done in the stable block, as if they had the power to carry him home. She talked about him all the time, her face rosy with the glow of love. When he finally walked through the door she’d fall on him, smothering his face with kisses, her arms around his neck, forgetting that I was there, watching. Then he’d stride over and pull me into his arms. “So, how’re you doing, Junior?” he’d ask, burying his face in my neck. “Did you miss me?” They’d go to bed early and I’d hear them laughing through the wall. Oh, they fought too. Coyote could drive my mother mad. She’d scream and shout at him, her hair wild about her head like a fiend. They always made up, though. Coyote was anxious never to let her withdraw from him again, as she had done about their “wedding.” They were very happy and so was I. Until something unexpected drove a dagger into the heart of our small family.
20
It all began in the autumn of 1951. I guess it was symbolic that that decisive moment was on the evening of my tenth birthday — in effect, the end of my childhood. Looking back, I can pinpoint that evening and say: That night changed me for the rest of my life. The events of 1944 had had a monumental effect on my psyche, but I had managed to overcome it. With the help of Coyote I had broken the mold that could have constrained me. However, this time, when I needed him most, Coyote wasn’t there.
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