Tita

by Marie Houzelle

  Luis Mariano does this great trick with his voice: “Mexi” in his usual warm timbre and then “ee” a major sixth higher in a tiny, bright, sharp tone that seems to come from another instrument. He goes on with “Les femmes sont charmantes, ee”, and again the “ee” (this time a fifth higher), comes from another world, although it sounds easy and natural, a cry of pure delight.

  At the Châtelet, he started this song with “Ha, ha, ha-ee”, very high, in a voice like a girl whooping, with his hands spread out, palms down, as if to say, “Quiet, quiet.” Then, slowly, he lifted his arms, swinging them just a little at the same time as his hips. There he was, his arms wide and high, and his tiny hands fluttering like leaves in a strong wind. Justine was entranced: “He’s so sexy!”

  Father’s friend Marcel lives in Mexico at the moment, but he’s French. He went to a school called Sciences Po with Father, and all through these years they’ve been corresponding, it turns out. I wonder how many more secret friends Father has. Right now, they’re drinking coffee in Father’s study, just the two of them (I’m not counting myself, sitting quietly on a low stool) and they sound like they’ve been neighbors all their lives.

  “So, if you’d like to teach at the university, it’s possible,” Marcel says. “I discussed it with the head of the Business Department. You could start in September. The problem is, you’d be paid in pesos. In Mexico City, it would be about enough to live on with your wife and younger daughters. But how would you pay for all those boarding schools in France?”

  Mexico City? Are they actually talking about moving to Mexico?

  “In the present circumstances,” Father says, “anything to do with wine is practically worthless. If I sold the cellars, the trucks, La Fourcade, and what’s left of the vineyards, I could hardly manage to raise enough for a few years of school for my older children. Flying the children back and forth for vacations wouldn’t be cheap. And there’s the alimony, which will never stop. So I’d have to sell the house too. And even the house wouldn’t probably...”

  Sell our house! Is that possible? Vineyards, yes, Le Cabarrou, the cellars, the trucks, La Fourcade even... But our house? Of course, people do move. Why is it so difficult to imagine our family outside this house, or this house without us? Maybe because we’ve been here for ever. Father’s family. His father, his grandfather, his great-grandfather... I heard our great-great-great-grandmother built this house, a long time ago. She was a widow, and she came here with her children. Who told me that? I don’t remember, but every time we come home after a vacation the cool, dark smell of the entrance hall, like a deep cave, like a well, is an exhilarating surprise.

  “You also need to think about the younger girls,” Marcel says. “They’ll go to university too, and by then you’ll probably be retired. And… yes, if you no longer have your house here, where will you…”

  “Yes,” Father says. “I should have looked for a solution much earlier. There’s no way I can make any money here. In Mexico, I could. But only for a few years.” He slowly rubs his forehead with his fists. “I need to think.”

  To think? Seriously? About Mexico? Father is taking Marcel to meet our neighbor Roger Pujol, so I move to the dining room, find the “Mexico” record and put it on the turntable. I’m all alone because this is the time when Grandmother goes to the kitchen to “see about the soup”. She’s very interested in soups, and in the evening all she has is soup, salad, cheese, and fruit. She says at her age you don’t need more. Cheese aside, I wouldn’t mind this kind of meal. Soup isn’t so bad. Well, the ones with pasta in them are dire, not to mention the ones with meat, or Parmesan. But Grandmother makes hers with vegetables and nothing else. When they’re cooked she purees them. The color is different every time, and the smells are interesting.

  I listen to the song carefully, in case I’ve missed something about Mexico, but no: the women are “charmantes-ee” and one forgets everything under the sun of Mexico. That’s about it. Except for an interesting verse about Mexican aventures, love affairs.

  But Mother and Justine are back from shopping in Carcassonne. They’ve also been to the hairdresser’s: Mother’s hair is blonder than when she left, and Justine has acquired bangs, which make her look like a film star. I give them a few compliments. Mother gathers up all the shopping bags and leaves. I hear her call Loli, who I think is kissing her boyfriend outside the back door. I hope Coralie had time to warn her. Justine has been laying out, on the dining table, a bunch of earrings she brought back from Carcassonne. She plays with them, moving them around as I do with my farm animals.

  I put the needle back on the beginning of “Mexico”, to pay more attention to the aventure verse: “A Mexican affair lasts hardly a week, but what a week! What a crescendo! The first night, you go for a walk, then you dance a tender bolero; the next night you already go wild...”

  “What a song!” Justine says. “I never tire of listening to it. It’s intoxicating!”

  “Yes, the words are great,” I say. “Une aventure mexicaine, ça dure à peine une semaine, mais quelle semaine, et quel crescendo! Would you like to go to Mexico?”

  Justine looks up from her earrings. “I’d love to go to Mexico. And passion, sure. But passion should last for ever.”

  “A crescendo can’t go on for ever,” I say.

  Justine has put on a pair of flat dark-blue earrings with white stars. She looks at herself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. “You might be right,” she says. “That’s the way it seems to go with me. Crescendo, crescendo, then... all gone, I’m done. I guess that’s because I haven’t found the right man yet.”

  “The right man for what?” I ask.

  “For what? For everything! Mr Right! The love of my life!”

  “You actually think there’s a man destined for you?”

  “Don’t you?”

  This big sister of mine is so comical sometimes. “Destined?” I ask. “By God, or what? You said the other day you don’t even believe in God.”

  “I know! But everybody believes in true love, don’t they?”

  “Let them,” I say.

  “You don’t? How can you live, then? What’s the point?”

  Mother is back. She falls into one of the armchairs by the mantelpiece and sighs, Ouf! as if the shopping expedition had exhausted her. She stretches her arms and her legs, kicks off her sandals. “Don’t you girls ever tire of this wimpy Luis Mariano?”

  “Please don’t insult my future husband!” I say.

  Mother looks up at me seriously. “You don’t stand a chance,” she declares. “He’s not the kind of man who’s interested in women. He’s forty years old, and he’s never even been engaged.”

  “Then,” I say, “I’ll be an old maid. You’ll have to rely on Coralie if you want grandchildren.” Of course I’m kidding. I’m completely set on getting married as soon as I meet a reasonably agreeable man (one who doesn’t eat cheese, kidneys or liver), and having children immediately.

  “I know girls need celebrities to admire,” Mother says. “I myself used to be crazy about Maurice Chevalier. But Luis Mariano! He has an accent!”

  “Everybody has an accent,” I say. “Especially Parisians, and Lyonnais! Luis Mariano’s accent is Spanish, and very much like ours. Like Father’s. Don’t you like Father’s accent?”

  Mother is stumped for a moment. She purses her lips, while the big toe of one foot taps against her discarded sandal. “Luis Mariano is short!” she finally says.

  “Not so short,” Justine remarks, trying on a pair of dangling silver earrings. “He’s five-seven. Taller than me.”

  Mother sneers. “For a man, that’s short!”

  “Well,” Justine says, “why should that be a problem?”

  “A problem?” Mother says. “Of course it’s a problem. What woman would be seen with a short man? She’d have to be desperate.”

  Justine is still in front of the mirror, lost in thought. “Or the man,” she says after a while, “would have to be... fascin
ating?”

  For once she is practically disagreeing with Mother (who’s just bought her quite a collection of earrings). Could she be attracted to a short boy? Yes! I saw her exchange several glances last night, on the avenue, with Hervé Barral, who is definitely shorter than her even though he’s seventeen. Cute guy, and a good rugby player.

  “You’ll see,” Mother says. “As you grow taller, your life won’t be easy. Most men will be shorter than you. Yes, believe me, there will be very few men for you to choose from.”

  This makes me wonder. Did Mother choose Father because he was the only man who was tall enough for her? His height, his appearance, are traits she always mentions with wholehearted approval. Mother is five foot nine. On the one hand, she’s very proud of it. She despises short people. Justine is already pretty tall, and Mother expects her to become as tall as herself, which is, I think, one of the reasons she’s so fond of her. Coralie too is tall for her age, and our brothers are giants. I’m the only one in the family who’s about average, and Mother hopes this will change if I eat more meat and petits-suisses.

  On the other hand, being tall has always created problems for her. When she left school, she was apprenticed to a dressmaker. For a whole year, she got terrible back pain, bending over the machine, crouching to pin up hems on customers. That’s how she decided to become a beautician, which suited her much better anyway. But her main problem was with men. She often says that she had to move to Lyon because, when she went to dances in her village and nearby, the men were all too short for her.

  “I don’t think it matters much whether a boy is taller or shorter than I am,” Justine says. “That’s a minor detail. His personality is what I care about.”

  “You can’t be serious. How could a topsy-turvy couple look good? And short men have unpleasant personalities too.”

  “I haven’t noticed that,” Justine says.

  Mother is breathing hard and fast, her shoulders bunched up to her ears. The record has run its course. I go and stand in front of her. “Mexico, Mexi-ee-co-o, les femmes sont charmantes-ee!” I sing, moving my hips and hands in Luis Mariano style. “Wouldn’t you like to live in Mexico?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. But her shoulders have relaxed, and she’s almost ready for a smile.

  Dots and Stripes

  We all came to Narbonne this morning, then Father and Marcel drove on to the lagoon to sail with Bertrand. I wanted to go with them — I love the lazy smells of the lagoon, the turbulent winds — but they didn’t ask me. Instead, as Mother has been planning some new outfits, we visit Monsieur Picq in the rue Droite.

  He is from Lyon, like Mother, and as he takes out the rolls of fabric and unfolds them with his dainty fingers, he addresses her in the subdued voice of a co-conspirator. Many shades of flowered cotton sateen (for Mother’s dress) pile up on the counter, then corduroys for Justine’s jacket. The three of them discuss textures and colors for ever and ever. I’d normally stay on the bench outside and watch the busy street, but this time I’m on the lookout. What Father said about blue made me want to try something.

  The ladies are done. Now for our dresses. Mother decides on a blue chequered fabric for Coralie plus the same in pink (maybe a concession to Father’s wish). I call Coralie, in case she wants to express an opinion, but she’s too busy pursuing Monsieur Picq’s orange cat into the back of the store. Monsieur Picq has taken out only four rolls, so the other two must be for me: bright red, and white with red dots. “Can I look at something else?” I ask. I’ve never done this before.

  “Certainly,” Monsieur Picq says, and turns to take down another roll. Mother immediately looks very tired of standing in this store. She starts her blustery breathing, as if she’d been running up stairs.

  “I like these stripes,” I say. They are light green and light brown, unlike anything I’ve ever worn.

  “Very good choice,” Monsieur Picq says, stroking the fabric with one hand as he lightly pulls up my chin with the other. “This green is exactly the color of your eyes.” I hadn’t thought of that. My eyes. Greenish, like Father’s, and Justine’s. Monsieur Picq smiles at Mother. “Your daughter has excellent taste.”

  Mother, ignoring him (and me), looks down at the fabric for quite a while. She adjusts her glasses. “How much is it?” she finally asks.

  “Three hundred and thirty francs a meter.”

  It’s ten francs more than the first ones. And we only need 1.8 meters.

  “I’ll take the first ones,” Mother says. “The red and the dotted.”

  “Could I have only one dress?” I ask. “With the stripes?”

  “Nonsense,” Mother says. “You need two dresses.”

  “Maybe we could get something cheaper for the other one then? Do you have any fabric at three hundred and ten francs or less?” I ask Monsieur Picq.

  “Certainly,” he nods, and turns back toward his shelves. “Here. Light muslin, two hundred and ninety francs. In white, blue, or yellow.”

  “I’d love a yellow dress!” I say. “This fabric is so soft! And all in all, the total would be 36 francs less than with the others.”

  Monsieur Picq widens his eyes. “Exactly. Good calculation!” But when he looks up from the fabric to share his appreciation with Mother, his smile freezes.

  “I’ll take the red and the dotted,” Mother says.

  Monsieur Picq bows. “Certainly. Anything else?”

  “No, that’ll be all.” Mother has never spoken so coldly to her compatriot.

  “Why?” I ask. Asking why has never got me anywhere with Mother. I go on all the same. “Why can’t I have the stripes and the yellow? It would even save some money.”

  “Don’t be tiresome,” Mother says.

  Justine, outside the store, is studying the window display. She slid away as soon as the situation became tense. She can’t take my side, not with Mother, not openly. She needs Mother on her side. And it doesn’t matter, because it wouldn’t have helped. Nobody can change Mother’s mind, not even her darling stepdaughter.

  Now we’re going to have lunch at Les Glycines, a restaurant with a terrace above the canal and a view of the promenade. The wisteria above us is in full bloom, its heady scent seeps through my skin. The wind from the sea is humid, invigorating.

  “It will rain tomorrow,” Mother says. She studies the menu and decides on cassoulet. “They make it very well here,” she says, “with big lean pieces of goose. Justine, will you have the cutlets with cauliflower? That way, you can give me some of your cauliflower. I’m sure they’ll bring plenty.” Justine nods meekly. As usual, Coralie and I will share a bouillabaisse. I like to share with Coralie: if I don’t eat much, it doesn’t show. But I seldom have trouble eating in restaurants.

  Mother’s cassoulet appears in its earthenware pot, with its golden crust of beans, tomatoes, pieces of mutton, sausage, goose confit. Into our plates, over slices of grilled bread spread with rouille, the waitress ladles the bouillon, fragrant with garlic, basil, fennel and saffron. Between us, on a platter, boiled potatoes, bits of fish. And sea urchins, one of the few foods Coralie ignores and I like.

  Mother has ordered a bottle of côtes-du-rhône, a wine from near Lyon that we never drink at home. She and Justine clink their glasses, “To the sun!” Is it because they have lived further north? They are both obsessed with the sun. They try to get as tanned as they can, which in my opinion does nothing for their looks. We locals hide from the hot sun. We like the sea wind and its fickle showers.

  Mother is eating cauliflower directly from Justine’s plate. If someone did that to me, I wouldn’t touch what was left on my plate. It wouldn’t be my plate any longer, it would be theirs. But Justine encourages Mother: “There’s a lot, and I don’t like cauliflower particularly.”

  Mother also seems to enjoy her cassoulet. The waitress brought a plate, but she hasn’t used it. She eats directly from the pot: “It keeps hot that way.” But the pot is deep. All of a sudden Mother
stops eating and drops her fork on the table, as if she couldn’t imagine why she ever agreed to hold such a nasty object in her hand. She looks down at the cassoulet. “I am so satisfied,” she sighs, wrinkling her nose. “I couldn’t eat one more bite.” As if anybody wanted to make her. “Justine, will you have this? It’s really good.”

  Justine has just finished her lamb, and there’s still some cauliflower on her plate. “Here,” Mother says, “have a taste,” and she dishes out the rest of her pot into Justine’s plate.

  “I’m no longer very...” Justine says.

  Even if she were starving, getting the remnants of someone else’s dish, from the pot they’ve eaten it in, couldn’t be too inviting. Justine cautiously brings a forkful of beans to her mouth. I know for a fact that she doesn’t like beans. At all. She’s not like me, she can manage most foods, at least when she’s hungry, but beans are always a hardship.

  “Isn’t it lovely?” Mother asks. “The goose, especially. Here!” And with her fork, she points at a large piece of meat.

  Justine chews, and tries to smile. Laboriously, she eats up everything Mother has put on her plate, only leaving a few pieces of fat she carefully cuts from the meat. Mother pours the rest of the wine into their glasses, and sighs, “This wine is really great. These côtes-du-rhône, they’re the best. I don’t like the wines from around here so much, do you? They’re more… ordinary. Flat, I’d call them flat.”

  Justine has been silent for a while. She seems to have a hard time keeping her eyes open. There are traces of sweat along her forehead. She’s probably eaten much more than she wanted to. And there’s the wine. Two glasses. Not quite full, but Father wouldn’t let her drink that much.

  Mother orders coffee, lights a cigarette and, through her sunglasses, gazes far into the horizon. “And this whole region is so flat,” she says. “Nothing stands out. Maybe that’s why people here are so unenterprising. With the Alps in front of you, of course you have to aim for the stars.”