The House at Belle Fontaine

by Lily Tuck

  “A Russian song. A Russian love song,” Chingis volunteered, putting his arms in a mock embrace around the horse’s neck and smiling.

  Annette had to ask, “Lena, is something going on with you and Chingis?”

  At first, Lena denied it. Uncharacteristically, she was blushing. “You can’t say anything. Or tell anyone,” she finally admitted.

  “I won’t,” Annette promised.

  It began, Lena told Annette, on the way back from the hospital after they had first visited Annette. “You were so doped up, you probably don’t remember,” Lena also said. “He drove me home—well, not right away, first we went and got a beer.”

  “Then?” Annette pressed. She was genuinely surprised. She also felt hurt or, more accurately, betrayed.

  “I’m in love with him,” Lena said. She looked away. “If my parents find out, they’ll kill me,” she also said.

  “You’re sleeping with him?” Annette asked.

  “Don’t,” Lena said, by way of an answer.

  Even after Annette started to ride again, things were not the same. She avoided Chingis, she avoided Lena. Her excuse was to give them time alone together but she also suddenly felt uncomfortable and disoriented in their presence. The way Chingis stood next to Lena’s horse, stroking the horse’s neck and looking up at her. The way Lena laughed down at him, flicking him lightly with her crop. The way he touched her knee. How happy and handsome he looked. It all made Annette feel diminished. Envious. Toward the end of August, she stopped riding. She had to get ready for college, she told Lena.

  Instead of coming home, Annette spent Thanksgiving in California with her roommate’s parents in nearby San Luis Obispo. She did, however, come home at Christmas. She arrived just in time as the next day, a heavy snowstorm blanketed most of New England. The power went out and it took several days before the roads were sufficiently plowed out and before Annette and Lena could safely drive to the stables and ride. On the way over, Annette asked Lena, “Are you still seeing Chingis?”

  Lena nodded. “It’s hard. He wants me to quit college and get married.”

  “Get married?” Annette echoed, shocked.

  On account of the weather, they had to ride indoors. Chingis stood in the middle of the ring shouting out instructions. Again, he had changed—a dark shadow had crossed his face—and nothing the two girls did pleased him. Impatient, he cracked his whip and made the horses tense and nervous. Outside the wind rattled the flimsy windows of the indoor ring and that, too, made the horses nervous. He picked on Lena.

  “How many times do I have to tell you not to shift your weight? Leg pressure is enough.” He sounded angry.

  Lena, too, was angry. “Give me a break, Genghis,” she muttered under her breath so he could not hear.

  “What did you say, Lena? Speak up.” Chingis taunted her.

  “Go to hell,” Lena said, getting off her horse and running out of the ring. She was crying.

  “Lena!” Grabbing her horse’s reins, Chingis ran after her.

  For close to an hour, Annette trotted and cantered by herself. Dutifully, she did figure eights, she changed leads, until Chingis and Lena came back. Chingis was holding Lena’s horse and he had his other arm around her shoulder. They both looked flushed. Neither Chingis nor Lena explained or apologized for their absence to Annette and she did not ask.

  At Easter, again Annette chose to stay in ­California —her workload, she claimed. Also, she had started dating a boy named Robin. Once or twice, she tried to call Lena. The first time the person who answered the dorm telephone could not locate her—Lena was not in her room—the second time, the person—a different one this time—left the phone dangling from the hook for such a long time that eventually Annette was the one to hang up. Annette’s parents, when she had inquired after Lena, told her that they had seen her a few times. Not surprising, her college was nearby and Lena often came home on weekends. Once Annette’s parents spoke of how they had seen Lena getting in the car—she was wearing chaps and boots, clearly she was going riding. Another time, they mentioned how Lena had been involved in a slight accident—nothing serious and she was not injured, Annette’s parents reassured her: the car had gone off the road, missing a tree and into a ditch. Perhaps, they hinted knowingly, Lena had been drinking.

  Summer came and nearly went before Annette returned home again. She had gotten a job in San Luis Obispo at a veterinary clinic, holding down dogs and cats and other small animals while they were being examined or getting their shots. She was still seeing Robin but she was also seeing Mark, one of the vets at the clinic. Mark was older and divorced and she was flattered by his attention and impressed by his expertise. She watched him put a skin-and-bones-thin whippet to sleep and was touched by how he spoke to the owner, an older woman, and, how together, they had held the dog. “Tell me when you are ready,” Mark told her as if he, Mark, had all day. Also, Mark was an excellent horseback rider. At last, in late August, Annette went back home but Lena was not there.

  As soon as she could, Annette drove out to Chingis’s stables. Looking unchanged in his polished black riding boots, khaki shirt and cap, he stood in the middle of the ring, teaching a class of children how to post. When he saw Annette, he hurried over to her.

  “Thank god, you’re back,” he said. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Who? Lena?”

  “Yes, Lena.”

  “No, I have no idea. On the phone last night, her mother said she was in New Hampshire. She got a job babysitting for the summer.”

  “Babysitting. Bullshit,” Chingis scoffed.

  The riding lesson finished, Chingis and Annette went inside the house. On the way, Annette noticed that the chicken coop was empty. “What happened to your chickens, Chingis?” she asked.

  Chingis shrugged. “I gave them away. I’ve no time for chickens.”

  “I never did like the eggs,” Annette tried to make light of the subject but Chingis did not answer her.

  Shooing away the dogs that were lying on the living room sofa and chairs and shaking out the blankets so Annette could sit down, Chingis looked at his watch and asked, “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you. Coffee would be great,” Annette answered and waited for Chingis to speak.

  Lena, Chingis said, was pregnant. He had begged her to marry him but, although she claimed to love him, she could not make up her mind. She was afraid of what her parents would say—she was nineteen, too young. Then Chingis told her she should get an abortion and after considerable discussion, arguments, tears, Lena agreed. Together, they made an appointment at the clinic—the first time, Lena canceled the appointment saying she had midterm exams, the second time she made up another excuse—and when finally they went, three weeks or so later, the doctor said it was too late. Lena was in her fourth month, she had waited too long. Chingis was sitting across from Annette on the sofa. He put his head in his hands.

  “She’s so tiny but it barely showed. No one knew she was pregnant,” he said.

  “I had no idea,” Annette said.

  “She kept on riding. I told her she was crazy.” Chin­gis looked at his watch. “I have another class in a few minutes. Anyway, her parents did find out eventually. Lena said they threatened to come and shoot me.” Again, Chingis put his head in his hands. “They sent her away. To an aunt. She is due any day now. Then she will give the baby up for adoption.”

  Annette could not think of what to say. “Do you speak to her?”

  “I did for a while. Now, she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. I don’t know.” Again, Chingis looked at his watch, then out the window as a car full of children drove up. “I’ve got to go, Annette.” Abruptly, Chingis stood up. “Maybe you could try and call her. Find out how she is and find out about the baby.”

  “I’ll try,” Annette promised.

&nb
sp; Annette finished her coffee. As usual, everything was tidy and in place in Chingis’s kitchen. Putting her cup in the sink, Annette stood up and started to leave. Out the window, she could see him walking into the stable, followed by a bunch of children. On an impulse, she went upstairs. Tiptoeing into Chingis’s bedroom, she was momentarily startled by a dog jumping off the bed. The bed was an old-fashioned four-poster, neatly made up. Lena, she thought. Lena and Chingis, naked, making love. Across from the bed, on top of the bureau, there was an old-fashioned ornate silver-backed set of hair and clothes brushes, a comb and hand mirror, which, Annette guessed, had belonged to Chingis’s mother. Also a framed photograph of Lena, which Annette recognized right away as her high school graduation picture. The photograph did not do Lena justice. The photo made Annette inexplicably sad.

  Several years went by before Annette saw Lena again. During that time, she occasionally received bits of news: Lena had gone to work on a dude ranch in Montana, Lena had joined an artist colony on the island of Ibiza in Spain, Lena was living in a commune in Kathmandu—never anything about a baby—while Annette, herself, went to medical school at Stanford, then she did a residency in a hospital in Ohio. When finally Annette came home it was to get married and Lena, then, too, was home.

  She was much changed and had Annette met her in the street, she would not have recognized her—only she would not have met her in the street as Lena could hardly get out of bed. She has lost weight, her arms and legs were like sticks. Her skin was yellow, her large dark eyes sunk in their sockets, thin dark wisps were what was left of her thick curly hair.

  “Dirty needles?” Annette had to ask.

  “I guess,” Lena nodded.

  “Oh, Lena.” Annette sat on the side of the bed. “I am so sorry.”

  “You’re getting married,” Lena tried to change the subject. “Who’s the lucky man?”

  One afternoon, as they were both looking out of Lena’s bedroom window, watching the workmen on Annette’s parents’ lawn—the lawn where Lena and Annette used to ride their make-believe horses—putting up the tent for the wedding reception, Annette said, “You should have married Chingis.”

  “I should have,” Lena answered.

  “Have you seen him since?” Annette asked.

  “Since when?”

  “Since you went away to have the baby.”

  Lena was silent for a long time before she finally said, “No.”

  Annette did not say anything either.

  “The baby was a girl,” Lena said after another long pause.

  “I asked Chingis to my wedding,” Annette said. “I went over there the other day. It’s like a time warp. Nothing has changed. He has not changed either—he wears the same shirt, the same cap. And he’s just as handsome.” Annette gave a little laugh. “Maybe he’s gone a bit gray at the temples.”

  “Did you tell him about me?”

  “No,” Annette lied.

  “Good. I think I will try to sleep now,” Lena said, closing her eyes.

  At seventeen Genghis Khan married Bortei, the daughter of a Mongol chieftain. Bortei’s dowry was a precious sable fur. Soon after they were married, Bortei was captured by an enemy tribe and given away as a wife. Genghis Khan was able to rescue her. Nine months later she gave birth to a son, Jochi, and the question of parentage became an issue. Jochi died during Genghis’s lifetime and it has been suggested that Genghis himself ordered him poisoned. Bortei bore Genghis three other sons: Chagatai, Ogedei, and Tolui. With other wives, Genghis had several more sons. There is no record of Genghis’s daughters.

  Chingis came to Annette’s wedding. He was gracious and as always he looked distinguished and handsome. He stood in the receiving line, kissing Annette on both cheeks and congratulating her husband when they were introduced. Later, Annette saw him again as he stood in line for the buffet and then as he sat by himself at a table eating a piece of wedding cake. A few times she saw him on the dance floor. Also, briefly, they danced together—before Annette’s husband cut in—and Chingis had just time enough to tell Annette, “One day, I will find her.”

  At the time, she thought he meant Lena.

  Pérou

  The year is 1940 and I lie fast asleep under a fur blanket in a Balmoral pram. The midnight navy Silver Cross pram, with its reversible folding hood and hand-sprung chassis, glides smoothly and silently down rue Raynouard. (Until recently, I thought rue Raynouard, located in the Sixteenth Arrondissement in the area of Paris known as Passy—as the names sound almost exactly alike—was named after the painter and spelled Renoir. Instead the street is named after a dull French Academician, François-Juste-Marie Raynouard.) Jeanne, my nurse, pushes the pram. Over her heavily starched white uniform, she wears a blue wool coat that is nearly the same midnight navy as the pram and that reaches unstylishly to her midcalf. She also wears thick cotton stockings, a pair of white lace-up shoes and a coif. The coif, again the same matching navy blue, is secured to her forehead by a white bandeau and entirely covers her hair. Jeanne is pale, plain and nearsighted. She wears glasses and, if ever I catch a glimpse of her without them, it takes me a moment to readjust to her face. Jeanne, whose last name I don’t remember or, worse, never knew since to me she was always simply Jeanne, comes from a village in Brittany. She is nineteen years old and will devote five years of her life to looking after me—years she will spend in Peru.

  Peru of all unimaginable places!

  Jeanne, we have to leave Paris. Leave France, is what I imagine my mother says to her.

  You’ll have to get a passport. A visa.

  Oui, madame.

  Does she have a choice?

  Could she instead say Non, madame? I have to go back to mon pays, to ma famille.

  A large family: the men fishermen, the women uncomplaining, hardworking. Mother, father, grandparents, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters and cousins.

  Peru? Since her grandparents went to Mont-Saint-Michel on their honeymoon fifty years ago, neither has traveled farther than the city of Brest. As far as they are concerned, Jeanne has disappeared off the face of the earth.

  Where in God’s name is that? Again and again Jeanne’s father, a large man with an appetite for food and life, asks his wife, Jeanne’s mother, Marie-Pauline. But, in the end, he looks it up for himself in one of the children’s school atlases and he sees how far away Peru is from Brittany. He shakes his head sadly; in his heart, he knows he will not see Jeanne again.

  Pérou, Annick, Jeanne’s sister and the prettiest, says with a huge sigh. How I envy her. I would do anything to get away from this boring, stupid place. And, in a few months time, on a warm summer morning, wearing her best dress, a sleeveless, red-and-white flower print, and, bicycling quickly, without giving the village a single backward glance, she does.

  What is Jeanne thinking? Handsome, blond Daniel and the cleverest of her brothers, thinks.

  Or, is she so attached to the child in the pram, she cannot be parted from her? Catherine, another sister and Jeanne’s favorite, who is a young schoolteacher and has started to cough up a little blood, wants to know.

  Unlikely.

  Probably, Jeanne, a simple girl, feels it is her duty.

  A Catholic, Jeanne is deeply religious.

  But Peru?

  Maybe she has simply misunderstood.

  Misunderstood the way everyone else at the time has.

  The British call it the Phoney War.

  The French, la drôle de guerre.

  For eight months, from September 1939 to May 1940, nothing much happens. Although the European powers have declared war on one another, none of them has yet launched a significant attack. Everyone is ­waiting —waiting for the German troops to march into Belgium, the Netherlands and Luxembourg. Nonetheless, the Atlantic Ocean is already mined and ships no longer cross it with an assurance of sa
fety—take, for example, HMS Courageous, sunk on September 17 with a loss of most of her crew, 518 men. A month later, on October 14, the HMS Royal Oak sunk as well, with an even greater loss, of 833 men.

  We three cross the Atlantic in July on board the SS Exeter. A ten-ton single-funnel cargo liner built by American Export Lines, the ship makes several risky round trips in 1940 and 1941 between Lisbon and New York, transporting thousands of refugees. Like, no doubt, the other refugees, we have left behind most of our ­belongings—the silver, the china, the paintings, even the elegant pram, which, in any case, I will soon outgrow. (Interesting to note, however, that during the war, the main part of the Silver Cross factory was requisitioned by the Air Ministry and, instead of making prams, it produced over sixteen million parts for Spitfire airplanes.) Photographs taken on the deck of the SS Exeter show my mother, dressed in white shorts, leaning against the ship’s rail; on her head, tilted at a jaunty angle, is the ship captain’s cap. In another, wearing an adult life preserver that covers me from head to toe, I sit on the lap of a young man who, obviously, is not my father. There are a few snapshots of smiling passengers—unknown women and children—and finally a photo of the captain himself. He, too, is smiling, because, perhaps, he has only just recovered his cap from my mother, and he is wearing it. There are no photos of Jeanne.

  No one knew how long the war would last.

  Jeanne cannot have had the faintest idea how long she will stay in Lima, Peru, a city she has never heard of and where, during that entire time, those very, very long five years, she will be completely cut off and receive no letters nor, for that matter, any news from her family and where, by the end of the war, she will not have a clue whether any of them are alive or dead—imagine! A city where it never rains, a city where it is always hot, exceedingly hot; a city where there are frequent earthquakes (a particularly devastating one—8.2 on the Richter scale—which causes massive damage to the city and nearly destroys the principal cathedral in Lima, occurs in 1940, only a few weeks before she arrives), and where most earthquakes occur in the middle of the night so that Jeanne has to quickly get out of bed with just enough time to put on her glasses but not enough time to get dressed or put on a dressing gown, and run into my room to wake and get me out of bed so that, together, we can stand in the doorway of the room, said to be the safest place in the house; a city, a country, where she does not speak the language—Spanish—a city and a country where she knows no one. Absolutely no one. Not a single other soul. A country and a city where, during those five years, she will not learn to speak much Spanish—only a few rudimentary phrases to get by—and where she will not meet anyone except for perhaps a few other foreign nannies and the Spanish servants in the house—the cook, the gardener, the maid, the part-time chauffeur, all of whom look down on her, make fun of her. Her timid ways, her pale skin and thick glasses, her starched and spotless uniform, all of which they construe as unfriendly and snobbish, her not joining in with their jokes and complaints in the kitchen, which, anyway, she has difficulty understanding, her not eating their spicy food, the fried beans, the tough roasted corn, her keeping herself to herself.