His reply died before passing his lips when she fired him a blistering glare. He dropped to his knees and gathered the scattered peels, making faces at her once out of her line of sight.
I plucked feathers into the bucket between my feet and noticed only four of us were in the room, “Where’s Yves?”
Riri rose from the floor and threw the potato skins on the table. “He’s playing with his trottinette.”
Not surprising. My little brother loved his new scooter.
Six years earlier, Yves had become the last addition to our family. He grew up a quiet, pleasant little boy with a crooked grin and winning sense of humor. Although he rarely got in trouble, I felt guilty for not keeping track of him. I marched in near panic to the front room balcony and checked the garden below.
Yves stood at the fence, fingers hooked through the wire. He looked up and down the sloping road, but his eyes didn’t rest on the man straddling his donkey and his trailing black-veiled woman or on the passing cars and military trucks raising dust along the road.
Squinting under the blinding sun, I leaned over the balcony railing. “Yves. What’re you doing?”
He didn’t respond. His head swiveled from side to side like a mechanical toy—as if looking for something or someone to appear up or down the road. Reassured that he was safe, I shrugged and returned to my chicken.
Later, I returned to the front balcony. Yves stood at the same place, hands welded to the wire fence, peering up and down the road. Once in a while, his eyes rested on Fatima’s cows clustered across the street then resumed their scanning.
“Yves, what’re you doing?”
He did not turn around, but slowly shook his head.
I left the balcony and strode along the corridor, down the stairs to the front yard and joined him at the fence. As he didn’t acknowledge my presence, I turned him around and forced him to look at me. His usually mischievous gray eyes didn’t sparkle. “Yves, what’s wrong?”
“I am waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For my trottinette.”
“What do you mean you are waiting for your trottinette?”
He clenched his fists. “I am waiting for my trottinette!”
I straightened up. “All right, what happened to your trottinette?”
A thud from across the road checked his answer. Big, bowlegged old Fatima had stepped out of her walled-in yard and let the metal door slam behind her. We exchanged nods of greeting with her before she rounded the corner of the mud wall of her enclave. She waddled to the stone trough and her waiting cows, slapped them on the rump to open a path to the trough’s water tap.
I turned to my brother. “What did you do with your trottinette, Yves?”
Resigned that I was not going to let the matter drop, he sighed, “I lent it to a kid.”
“What do you mean you lent it to a kid? What kid?”
“An Arab kid.”
“What Arab kid?”
He bowed his head and murmured, “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
No answer.
“Are you saying you let a kid you don’t even know take your trottinette away? What is wrong with you?”
Avoiding my eyes, his skittered to Fatima, who had gone and come back with a milking pail. “Well …”
The cows at the trough slurped the water, their skinny tails swatting at clouds of flies.
“Well, what? Look at me.”
When he did, his eyes held something like resentment. “He said he did not have a trottinette and asked if he could play with mine, so, I lent it to him.”
I stared at him without a word. He defensively added, “He said he would bring it right back.”
“And how long have you been waiting here like an ass?”
He pinched his lips.
“You know you will not see him ever again, don’t you? And you can say good-bye to your trottinette.”
His shoulders sagged. He bit his lower lip, scraped the dirt with the tip of his shoe and shook his head sadly. “I know.”
“Papa’s going to kill you.”
He acknowledged my prediction with a slow fatalistic shrug and, when I attempted to coerce him upstairs, shook his hand free.
He remained in futile expectation till dark, when I forced him to come up, wash his hands, and have dinner with the four of us.
Amid the clink of silverware against china, we stole glances at Yves who, eyes downcast, played with his mashed potatoes. At last, responding to Riri’s attempts to cheer him up, he flashed a crooked grin and showed his spunky sense of humor. “I guess I should have waited for Papa’s car.”
I couldn’t help smiling as his comment brought me back to three months earlier.
* * *
The family was having its midday Friday red snapper and oven-roasted potatoes, when Yves asked with a frown, “Papa, when you die, can I have your car?”
Reading while eating, Papa didn’t hear the question.
Yves insisted, “Pa? Yo, Papa?”
Papa lifted his eyes from “Pecos Bill,” his preferred illustrated magazine. He chewed his food, staring at Yves.
“Papa, when you die, can I get your car?’’
Papa swallowed. “How soon do you want me to die, fils?”
“Non, Papa, not right now, but when you die, a long time from now, can I get your car?”
“And what makes you think you will get my car after I die?”
“Well, when Pépé Vincent died, you got his things.”
Papa glanced at his empty wine glass and, with a motion of his index finger, signaled Ma he needed a refill.
While she poured, he asked, “Why do you think I would leave my car to you? What about your brothers and sisters? They have a right to the car as well.”
“I know, Papa, but I asked first.”
The rest of us had been watching the exchange like a game of ping-pong. It was now Papa’s turn to hit the ball. He set his fork on his plate and frowned, apparently considering his son’s point and rendered his verdict, “Look, son, I don’t want to die just yet, so why don’t you take my car now and let me enjoy my life a while longer?”
“I cannot drive the car right now, Papa, my legs are too short. I guess we can wait a while before you die.”
“Thanks, mon fils, I’m glad to hear that.”
Papa returned to his meal and magazine hero. Maman finished frying the last snapper and served the remaining roast potatoes while we passed the bread around.
Not allowed to speak at the meal table, we communicated among ourselves with waggling of the eyebrows, eye squinting, twisting of the mouth—any expression that would convey our feelings about whatever the matter at hand.
We were, thus, wondering how Yves was allowed to get away with breaking the rule of “children are meant to be seen, not heard,” when he asked with a deep frown, “Papa?”
Papa turned a page and looked up without raising his head. “Oui, mon fils?”
“Since it will take a long time before I can get your car, why don’t you buy me a trottinette—now?”
The only noise came from Maman’s stacking the dirty dishes into the sink and the clanging water pipe.
Papa raised his chin, appraised Yves through half-closed green eyes, pressed his lips together, bobbed his head up and down, as if in a private dialogue, and returned to his reading. Zizou and I exchanged signs that meant, “That’s that.” But, several days later, Yves became the very proud owner of his own set of wheels—a trottinette.
Now it was gone.
* * *
After dinner, and the dishes done, I found Yves slumped on the perron’s top step.
Under the vastness of a starlit summer sky, I searched his brimming eyes. “Yves, losing your trottinette is not the end of the world, you know.”
“You tell that to Papa.”
I spoke off the cuff. “Listen, I understand you feel cheated, but the one to really feel sorry for is th
at little kid.”
“How can you say that? He’s the one who stole my trottinette,” he cried in vexation and tears of anger, “I am a stupid idiot.”
“That’s true.”
I did not have the heart to leave it at that, so, I fudged, “But think of it this way: the little thief will have to fight the other kids until another takes the trottinette away from him.”
Yves’ eyes shone grayer. And, getting the hang of it, I fudged further. “Now, tell me who will be stupid, then. Hein?”
“You think so?”
As he began to savor the sweet nectar of revenge, his face relaxed and a slow, knowing smile spread from his lips to his roguish eyes. “Yaa, but you tell that to Papa.”
As it happened, our parents came in late that night and the issue of the lost trottinette took second seat to heartbreak.
Adieu
At breakfast the next morning, Yves’ eyes drilled into mine, silently begging me not to spill the beans. I shook my head and made a rotating motion with my index finger to signal the matter of the trottinette would be addressed later. Then I gathered my schoolbooks and headed for the bus stop.
In the afternoon, on my way home from school, I planned my goûter with the relish of a child of six instead of a mature sixteen-year-old, picking and rejecting possibilities until I settled on a slice of gros pain slathered with a thick layer of churned butter sprinkled with loads of sugar. Aïe aïe aïe.
I opened the front door to my house, smacking my lips, and stopped in my tracks. White sheets shrouded the furniture.
The hair on my forearms bristled. Pépé Honninger’s dead.
The blood test the doctor had done last January had revealed lung cancer. The disease progressed steadily until he became bedridden. On weekdays, with us children at school and Papa and Maman at work, Pépé was home alone all day.
Oh, God, make it so he didn’t die alone.
“I checked on Pépé before leaving for work,” Maman said after I held her close.
“I asked if he needed anything before I left ….” Her voice faltered. “He only grabbed my hand and said something I couldn’t understand. ‘What did you say, Papa?’ I asked. He squeezed my hand and garbled a few more words ….” Blood leached from my mother’s face. Her voice weakened and she took a halting breath. “We gazed into each other’s eyes and … and he died.”
The light in her own eyes had dimmed. Feeling her pain, I hugged her tight. “I’m so glad he didn’t die alone, Ma.”
“Thank God,” she sobbed.
I nodded. This would have been so horrible for him. Imagine sharing your house with a crowd and dying without a living soul at your side. Ma’s guilt would’ve been unbearable.
People came and went for last good-byes. People I knew. People I had never met before.
During a short afternoon lull, I heard a knock on the front door. Maman and I went to open it at the same time. Oscar, Pépé’s fishing friend, stood on the perron. He hugged Maman with a fierce grip. “Mon pauvre Pierro. Mon pauvre Pierro,” he bawled. The old man’s grief sounded so melodramatic that a giggle bubbled out of me. I slapped my hands over my mouth, but the giggle spilled in between my fingers. I stepped behind Oscar and cast a mortified look at Ma. She returned the sobbing man’s hug, patted his back, and made big eyes at me over his shoulder. “Stop that,” they said.
Her face took on the tortured look of a constipated person with no hope of immediate relief. Then a bark of contained laughter slipped by her tightly pressed lips. Faking a cough, she let go of Oscar and escorted him to Pépé’s bedside.
I rushed down the stairs, to the back of the house. Bent forward to hold my aching sides, I laughed. Laughed until I bawled.
I cried for Maman who had lost her father.
I cried for Pépé who had never had much love in his lonely life.
I cried for me who had not loved him.
It had felt as if Pépé Vincent had used up all the love I would ever be able to give a Pépé.
It had also felt as if loving Ma’s father meant choosing him over my father and risking the loss of my pa’s love.
I should’ve loved Pépé Honninger anyway.
Now, it was too late.
At night, mourners took turns keeping company with Pépé. I sat on Mémé Aimée’s settee, at the side of Pépé’s bed, and watched the candlelight play hide and seek over people’s features—beautiful, ugly, mysterious, serene, sad, sealed ….
I studied Oscar’s creased face and opaque irises, his sparse gray hair flattened by the cap he doffed before entering the house. Though he and Pépé had spent lots of time together since they retired, I didn’t know whether Oscar had a wife, children, grandchildren, a dog, or even a goldfish.
I looked away when he produced a handkerchief as big as a dinner napkin and blew his nose with the sound of a trumpet swan. This time, I didn’t giggle but wondered what his thoughts were as he viewed the body of his old friend starting to rot. Do you recall the blustering fish stories and personal woes you shared while you sat on the damp beach sand, pole in hand, waiting for the catch of the century? Or do you wonder how long before you’ll set foot on the trail he is now mapping out for you?
Oscar fell asleep in his chair. I felt like sleeping also, but rose from the settee and followed the smell of coffee. Maman and Tonton Gilles sat at the kitchen table, lost in private thoughts. Papa smoked, eyes looking at nothing. Yvette refilled coffee cups. I sat beside Maman and whispered, “I’m sorry I laughed when Oscar came to the house. It’s just that I couldn’t help it when he bawled so hard.”
Maman played with her cup. “I know, ma fille. I too had a hard time not laughing.” She took a sip of coffee. “The poor man,” she added. “He and Pépé were life-long friends. He is going to miss your grandfather something awful.” She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Don’t worry. It was just nerves.”
She rose and put her empty cup in the sink. On her way out to Pépé’s bedroom she said, “Go to bed, Nanna. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
I nodded, but realizing I would not be able to see him after tomorrow, I returned to the settee and scrutinized Pépé Honninger’s face. Same wooden look as Pépé Vincent’s, but this time, I wasn’t scared or angry. Instead, an unexpected memory flashed through my mind, pinching my guts—a moment, in August of the previous year, between Pépé and me.
* * *
The kitchen windows were open, but no breeze came in through the half-closed shutters. The heat of the iron added to the heat of the day and aggravated my bad mood. Starching my percale petticoat always put me in a bad mood. The canons of fashion were adamant. One needed a starched petticoat to balloon out one’s full skirts and, like every fifteen-year-old, I submitted to the trend.
The starch’s sharp smell rose with the steam, burning my eyes, scratching my throat. Pépé walked in, holding out a shirt. “Would you iron this for me?” he asked, unsure if I would agree. I resented the imposition but put the petticoat aside and grabbed the garment. I dunked my fingers in the water bowl, sprinkled the shirt, and ran the iron back and forth without a word.
Pépé stretched his neck on one side then the other. “If you did nice things like this for me once in a while, I could do nice things for you,” he said.
I looked up and was surprised by the fleeting vulnerability skimming his features. Until that moment, I had thought my grandfather was tough and didn’t need other people. Now, I discovered a loneliness and need so intense that he was ready to barter for a bit of attention, a crumb of affection. I wanted to say, “D’accord, Pépé, just tell me when I can do something for you.” But I wouldn’t betray my father. Couldn’t bear his resentment.
To my everlasting shame, I refused the olive branch and finished the shirt without a word.
In the kitchen’s penumbra, a sad smile tugged at the corners of Pépé’s thin lips as if he had read my thoughts and was making peace with them.
* * *
Now that he was dead, the c
hance to set things right had passed. Pépé’s lips appeared to twitch under the candle flames, and a dull pain poked my guilty heart.
I didn’t know then that a sharper pain lay in wait for us all.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mouloud
July, 1960
“Pa, we need more paint.” Zizou, Mireille, and I had run out of the green mix to finish the kitchen walls. The kitchen remodel started with the addition of a sleek gas stove that booted out the old wood-burning behemoth. Maman delighted in the change. I mourned the old stove. Felt like we had exchanged a classic locomotive for a bicycle. No history. No soul.
The boys played in the yard and Maman attended to her ironing.
“I’ll mix more paint.” Whistling a light tune, Papa left the kitchen with two empty pails. He had reached the front door, when his whistling gave way to shouts. “Non, Riri. Stay.”
The pails clattered down the stairs. The squeal of brakes brought me running to the perron. I stopped, transfixed, taking a series of mental snapshots. Papa rushing through the gates. Riri lying like a broken doll on the hot macadam. Our nineteen-year-old neighbor, Mouloud, rising slowly from a prone position. Little Yves, frozen-faced, holding onto the wire of our gate. On the periphery, my eye caught a soldier jumping out of the driver’s side of a military truck.
Maman had followed on my heel to the top of the stairs. She gasped at the sight before us and bounded down the steps, sobbing, “God, Non. God, Non.”
Papa kneeled at my brother’s side and shrieked, “Mon fils. Mon fils,” like a man being skinned alive. My Riri lay inert, pale as the Holy Ghost, his beautiful blue eyes closed to the world. With a hand on his son’s chest, Papa turned to Mouloud. “Are you hurt, mon fils?”
Mouloud drew to his knees and staggered to his feet. He limped to my father. He examined the cuts and scrapes on his own arms and hands, reached up to his bleeding cheek and concluded, “I don’t think so, Monsieur Riri.”
The truck driver came running as Papa picked up Riri and carried him to his car, calling over his shoulder. “Come, Mouloud, you need to go to the hospital.”
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