Mwah-Mwah

by Chloe Rayban

  With a sigh, Michel swung himself down beside me.

  ‘Où est-il?’ he asked.

  ‘Dans la maison.’ I led the way back.

  The minute Monsieur de Lafitte caught sight of Michel he took him into his study and closed the door.

  Matthilde and I continued laying the table. We had to pass the study door as we went back and forth. I could see Matthilde lingering, trying to eavesdrop, but you couldn’t hear words only the sound of voices from inside. Michel and Monsieur de Lafitte weren’t talking angrily, their voices were low and serious.

  Once the table was laid, we were banned from the kitchen as Florence fussed over her pots and pans. We had been told to dress up for dinner as it was a special occasion. I put on my one skirt and the strappy top I’d bought for Angie’s party. I met Matthilde on the stairs. She had on a simple white dress that showed off her tan and she’d put her hair up and allowed little tendrils to escape. She looked really grown-up.

  At eight o’clock sharp we were all assembled at the table. All of us that is apart from Michel. I felt a bit selfconscious in my top. Everyone else was pretty covered up. I could feel Madame de Lafitte’s eyes resting on me uncomfortably. A semicircle of presents was arranged around Monsieur de Lafitte’s place. He came in still wearing the smart suit he wore for work. He kissed Madame de Lafitte and Matthilde and me and slapped old Oncle Charles on the back.

  Then he started fussing about the wine. Florence was sent to bring some special bottles up from the cellar. They were covered in dust and he opened these himself with a lot of ceremony. He placed a bottle on the table and sat down looking around expectantly.

  ‘Où est Michel?’ he asked.

  No one seemed to know.

  Monsieur de Lafitte then saw his presents and made a big show of looking surprised. He opened them one by one and made a lot of fuss. He even made some falsely appreciative noises over my box of tea bags. I mean, it wasn’t much of a present really. I couldn’t help noticing there was no present from Michel.

  By this time it was eight-thirty. Florence kept glancing in from the kitchen to see if we were ready. She’d put on a fresh white apron, in place of her floral overall. She came and whispered something to Madame de Lafitte who raised an eyebrow at her husband.

  ‘Non,’ said Monsieur de Lafitte. He glanced around the table with a fierce expression on his face. ‘Nous attendons.’

  We sat and waited in silence. I could sense tension in the air. It was so quiet in the room you could hear the clock in the hall ticking. Ten or fifteen minutes went by.

  Madame de Lafitte got to her feet and said she would go and look for him. But Monsieur de Lafitte wouldn’t hear of it, he sent Matthilde instead. I had a pretty good idea Michel would be back in the orchard, so I offered to look too. I ran down the path and pushed open the door and made my way over to the tree. He wasn’t there.

  As I walked back to the house, I noticed something odd. There was only one horse in the meadow. I came face to face with Matthilde. We immediately went to check the harness room. One of the bridles was missing and a saddle had been taken from the saddle stand.

  Matthilde frowned. ‘Michel, ’ee will be in bad trouble,’ she said.

  There was a general murmur of disapproval as we reported back what we’d seen.

  ‘Alors,’ said Monsieur de Lafitte, flicking out his napkin angrily. ‘On commence.’

  There was dead silence at the table as he poured some wine into his glass, swilled it round and held it up to the light. Then he sniffed it and took a big mouthful and made slurping noises. We watched as he put the glass down and said, ‘Bon.’

  He poured some into old Oncle Charles’s glass, who sipped it and put his head on one side and raised an eyebrow thoughtfully and then nodded to Monsieur de Lafitte who half filled his glass. Matthilde and I were given a spoonful to taste. Nobody drank their wine, I noticed. It just sat on the table while we waited for our food.

  I felt really miserable seeing Michel’s chair empty. At an eye-flick from Madame de Lafitte, Florence came and took away his plate and serviette and knives and forks. She returned with tiny plates that looked like the palettes you mix watercolours on. They gave off a strong smell of hot butter and garlic. A little plate was placed before me and I recognised six of those snails I’d promised to liberate. They were foot up, hot and steaming in butter and parsley. Seeing them like that somehow summed up the misery of that meal.

  Everyone apart from me started tucking in, behaving as if everything was perfectly normal. I fiddled with my bread and nibbled at a crust. The others were too busy talking but Oncle Charles noticed I wasn’t eating. ‘You don’t want?’ he whispered. I shook my head. And his hand stretched out and he deftly switched his plate of empty shells for mine.

  After this there was something called ‘kennels’. They were long and white and flabby in a pink sauce that tasted of mud. I had a little nibble at one and got a mouthful of what felt like semolina, which I loathe. It really makes me gag. Old Oncle Charles noticed this too and, while nobody was looking, these mysteriously shifted from my plate to his.

  The others ate and chatted as if Michel didn’t exist. But my mind kept swerving back to him. How could they all be so unfeeling? I was worried about him. He’d galloped off in a mood. Maybe he’d had an accident, been thrown or something and was lying in a ditch somewhere with a broken leg or arm or neck.

  The next dish was tiny birds still with their heads on. Mine were positively staring at me. I put my knife and fork down and said I wasn’t hungry. Which was true – having your food watching you is enough to put anyone off.

  I couldn’t even fill up on dessert. There was a bowl of cherries to round off the meal. So all I had of this grand celebration meal was some salad, a small piece of cheese and a handful of cherries.

  But I didn’t feel like food anyway. I felt utterly wretched about Michel. He was only making things worse for himself.

  Eventually Matthilde signalled to me to start clearing away the dishes.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked when we were alone together.

  Matthilde glanced towards Florence who was in the back kitchen.

  ‘Grandpère eez angry because Michel ’as ’ad a big quarrel with eez father,’ she said.

  ‘What about?’

  She shrugged. ‘About lycée. ’Eez father make ’im study classics, ’e no want.’

  ‘Oh? Can’t he decide for himself?’

  ‘I do not know,’ she said. ‘Eez ve-ry important. Eez his future.’

  That evening no further comment was made about Michel. We had coffee in the salon in tiny china cups and Monsieur de Lafitte passed his special box of chocolates around. I didn’t even have the heart to eat chocolate, so you can see how I was suffering.

  I was passing Oncle Charles his coffee when we heard a door slam and footsteps in the hallway. Matthilde got to her feet and was about to go to the door when Monsieur de Lafitte told her abruptly to sit down and stay where she was.

  He said to me, ‘Toi aussi, ’Annah.’

  Matthilde and I exchanged glances as her grandfather strode out into the hall. He said something brusquely to Michel and then we heard Michel’s footsteps continuing up the stairs.

  Monsieur de Lafitte came back into the room and closed the door firmly behind him. He called Matthilde over and had a quiet word with her.

  She explained to me later that Michel was in disgrace and had been sent to his room and we were not allowed to speak to him.

  The row had spread a gloomy atmosphere so I went to bed early. I lay staring up at the ceiling. There was no sound from above. Michel was evidently too angry or miserable to play his guitar. It all seemed pretty heavy to me. I mean, what precisely had Michel done? He’d missed a meal – admittedly on Monsieur de Lafitte’s birthday. But they seemed to be making a real drama over it.

  How I wished I could creep up and comfort him. But there was no way I could risk disobeying Monsieur de Lafitte.

  Some time
in the middle of the night I woke up absolutely ravenous. I checked my watch. It was three a.m. Hours and hours to go till breakfast time. I lay there tossing and turning and trying to ignore my hunger pangs. But at last I had to admit that I simply wouldn’t get back to sleep unless I ate something. I dragged my jeans and a sweater over my pyjamas and ventured out into the corridor. I hurried past the empty rooms and crept down the main staircase. Just as I was crossing the hallway, I noticed a light coming from under the door of Monsieur de Lafitte’s study. I could hear voices on the other side. Who could be up at this hour? I crept closer to listen.

  A voice distinctly said, ‘In all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine …’ Whoever was in there was speaking English! I turned the handle very, very quietly, intending to take a tiny peek. It was the television I could hear. There was an old black and white movie on, and Michel was sprawled on the sofa in front of it.

  He caught sight of me and put the film on ‘hold’.

  ‘Rosbif!’ he whispered. ‘Come in.’

  I crept in and closed the door behind me.

  ‘Where did you go? Why didn’t you come to dinner?’ I whispered.

  He shrugged. ‘I did not want to celebrate wiz my grandfather. It was better not to be ’ow you say – ’ypocrite?’

  ‘But he was really angry.’

  ‘What did ’ee do?’

  ‘Nothing. They just ate dinner, like you didn’t exist.’ Michel shrugged again. ‘That is what ’ee is like.’

  He turned back to the film moodily and flicked the remote control on to ‘play’.

  I hovered, watching the flickering images on the screen. Then I made to leave. As I turned the doorknob, Michel said, ‘Wait. Can you ’elp? They speak too fast. I do not understand.’

  I paused. It was risky. To be caught up in the middle of the night with Michel, when we’d been strictly instructed not to speak to him, was defying Monsieur de Lafitte. However, the temptation to stay when Michel had actually asked me to help was pretty irresistible. And they were all being so mean to him. He patted a seat on the sofa. I went and joined him. But I didn’t sit right next to him. I sat a good way off, near the other arm.

  The film he was watching was an old VHS, and there was a pile of cassettes beside him. He put the film on rewind.

  ‘Where did you get all these movies?’ I asked.

  ‘They belong to Charlie. ’Ee ’as many. Old movies. Vintage American. A big collection.’

  The film he was watching was called Casablanca. By the grainy texture of the print, you could tell it was really old. He explained that it was about all these people running away during the Second World War. They wanted to get to America but were stranded in Casablanca which is a town in North Africa. Everyone was trying to buy visas illegally. There was this really beautiful woman who was trying to leave with her husband. She didn’t seem to care much about her husband. She was in love with another man called Rick, who was being horrid to her. But you could tell it was because he loved her really and he was trying not to show it. It was really emotional. I could feel tears stinging in my eyes. Michel wanted me to explain the dialogue, which was difficult with the big lump I had in my throat.

  The bits he didn’t understand came mainly from the character called Rick. He talked in a deadpan way out of the side of his mouth, never giving so much as a twitch of expression to show if he was joking or not.

  It was about four a.m. when the film came to an end. I’d been so wrapped up in it, I’d quite forgotten I was hungry.

  As Michel rewound the video, I admitted I’d come on a pantry raid. He said he was ravenous too, so we crept like burglars through the house to the kitchen. We didn’t dare put the light on and had to find our way by touch. Every time we made the slightest sound we froze.

  The pantry door opened with an alarming creak but Michel fumbled round and located a baguette. There was a bowl of strawberries too.

  ‘Et voilà,’ said Michel. ‘Tartines aux fraises!’ ‘

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Regarde,’ he said.

  He poured some strawberries on to a plate and kind of mashed them with some sugar. Then he took a piece of bread and split and buttered it. He spread on the strawberry mixture and made a big squidgy sandwich. He passed it to me. I took a bite. My mouth filled with the delicious sensation of bread and butter and strawberries.

  ‘Yummy,’ I whispered.

  Michel nodded, his mouth was too full to say anything. He did a little drum roll on the plate with the knife by way of accepting the praise. It made me think of one of the songs I’d heard him singing.

  ‘That song you were playing the other night. It reminded me a bit of a British band – Naff.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Michel. ‘I do not know. They are good?’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’ve got three of their CDs with me.’

  ‘I can ’ear?’

  ‘I’ll lend them to you.’

  We went upstairs after that. Feeling our way on tiptoe through the hall in the darkness. We kept bumping into things and I got a fit of the giggles from the tension of it all. I could tell Michel was trying to suppress the urge to laugh too. I was glad Matthilde wasn’t around, she would have given us one of her haughty looks and told us we were being childish.

  The trip up the stairs in silence was even more difficult. We took off our shoes and crept up barefoot. Michel went first, and I padded up behind him trying to avoid the squeaky boards.

  When we reached my bedroom door, I whispered, ‘Wait a minute, I’ll get the CDs.’

  I fumbled for them in my holdall, then crept back to the door.

  I could just make out Michel’s silhouette in the gloom. I handed over the CDs and as I did so he caught me by the hand.

  He whispered, ‘Bonne nuit, H-annah.’

  It was pitch-dark in the corridor and as I turned my face towards him for the usual mwah-mwah on both cheeks, I must’ve turned the wrong side or something because the kiss sort of landed in the middle, right on the lips. I mean, it was probably a mistake and if so really embarrassing. But on the other hand maybe it wasn’t a mistake.

  At any rate I kind of floated into my room and closed the door behind me. I leaned on the door with my heart thumping in my chest, trying to work out what had happened. And I realised he hadn’t called me Rosbif, he’d actually called me Hannah and made a big effort over the ‘H’. That must mean something, mustn’t it?

  I lay awake in bed for ages after that, going over everything that had happened that evening. My mind kept returning to the film. It made me think of Marie-Christine and the stranger in the café. Maybe I’d been rather hard on them. I mean, love is such a powerful thing.

  * * *

  Update of my checklist:

  Positives:

  1) French boys who are able to recognise life beyond football, like vintage films and fringe bands and things.

  Negatives:

  1) Snails.

  2) ‘Kennels’ in pink yuck sauce.

  3) Food that looks you in the eye.

  Chapter Eleven

  When I woke the next day, I had the memory of the night before still fresh in my mind. That kiss – had it or hadn’t it been for real? Everything that was positive and optimistic and confident in me said it had. All that was mean and negative and self-critical said it was a totally embarrassing mistake. Eventually, I hauled myself out of bed to check the weather.

  The sky was once again a clear unbroken blue, it was going to be a perfect day. I threw open my window and leaned out. Some bird was making an odd wild cry. I rested on the sill and watched as it rose effortlessly, climbing higher and higher in the sky. It was a huge bird with tattered ends to its wings, it looked like an eagle. Abruptly it paused and hovered with its wings outstretched. It seemed to hang there, held weightlessly on the up-draughts. Then, taking slow and easy circles, it spiralled down. It made me think of flying dreams, that fabulous feeling of finding you c
an fly and being up high, miles above everything and everyone, held safely by the wind.

  I dragged myself from the window and forced myself to get dressed after that. Downstairs, the heavy front doors of the house had been left open to allow the sun in. The sunshine slanted across the hallway lighting up the dark corners and turning the stone a creamy golden colour. Even the stags’ heads looked cheerful in the sunlight. The moose actually had an optimistic gleam in its eye.

  Florence came out of the kitchen humming to herself and told me my breakfast was on the table. I could see from an empty yogurt pot that Matthilde had already had hers and disappeared somewhere. But a bowl and knife and spoon was still waiting for Michel.

  I was on my third ‘tartine’ when Michel arrived. I didn’t dare look at him after that kiss. I could feel the start of a mega-blush spreading up from my neck. He sat down at the table with a brief: ‘Bonjour, Rosbif.’

  I sneaked a glance, trying to gauge some reaction. He reached for the bread as if nothing had happened. His sole communication consisted of grunts about passing the jam or sugar or more slices of bread.

  Matthilde appeared in the kitchen doorway carrying a bunch of wild flowers. She took one look at Michel and snapped something about ‘hier soir’, which meant yesterday evening. What with ‘the kiss’ and everything I’d totally forgotten about the row. I wondered what would happen next between him and Monsieur de Lafitte. Knowing my luck, Michel would probably be sent home.

  Michel didn’t reply. He just reached for another piece of bread and continued eating. Matthilde plonked her flowers in a jug and started arranging them delicately one by one, talking in a rather prim fashion as she did so. The word ‘grandpère’ came up several times. But Michel didn’t react. Eventually he got up from his seat and took his empty bowl to the sink, saying abruptly to Matthilde, ‘C’est mon affair. Toontekoop.’

  She turned and caught me watching her. Then she frowned, swept up the jug of flowers and went off to her room.

  Michel watched her go with a raised eyebrow. Then he came back to the table and sat down. He reached into his pocket and brought out the three CDs I’d lent him.