Silent Bird

  First, the fieldstone fence. A row of quaint houses, and that crazy blurred shot of a house and a kid’s denim-clad leg in the corner. Damn, I thought. I didn’t get the girl.

  Then, a photo later, I saw it.

  Her.

  The little girl with the kerchief crying out as a thin, smirking, teenage boy with the smirk grabbed at her. And—to my shock—another fairly clear shot of the kerchief sailing to the ground and the three boys laughing.

  Bastards. The creeps!

  Unfortunately, the older boy’s face remained hidden, shadowed by his cap. A baseball cap. My chest tightened. The cap displayed a familiar orange, interlocked NY: New York Mets.

  The hairs ruffled on the back of my neck. How had I missed that detail in real life?

  Just then, Jeannot walked into the living room rubbing cologne onto his neck. “I am as ready as I will ever be,” he said, collecting sheet music from the piano.

  “Good, let’s go,” I said, and shoved the pile of photos and unopened pregnancy test behind a couch pillow. Then, umbrella clutched in one hand, I hooked my fiancé’s arm with the other, and like a dispirited old married couple we left our warm home into the chilling rain.

  X

  It didn’t take long for one of my sexy high heels to break off.

  Halfway across the magnificent—and magnificently slippery—main plaza of Montpellier, I tripped over a crack in the tile. The heel snapped like the tip of an ice cream cone, and I lost three inches of height. Swearing, I took off my other shoe, stood barefoot in all that dirty water looking at it, and then asked Jeannot if he could break off the second heel with his hand. He did, without much effort. I slipped both broken shoes on, and we carried on, Jeannot and I, in that wet blanket of a night toward the biggest moment of his life.

  Within sight of the restaurant, our umbrella broke too, blowing upward. Rain continued to pour from the sky; wind nipped at our heels. My hair drooped like wet feathers on an overdressed bird. Finally, we struggled to open the door to La Peña and stepped into a bar wallpapered in wide leaves, flashy parrots, and a forest of shocking yellow, red, and pink. Cigarette smoke hovered like mist from the humidity.

  “I think,” Jeannot said, with his face a familiar mix of excitement and dread, “that your flyers worked."

  Folks were out tonight; lots of them. In the bar, in the dining room.

  I squeezed his arm. “Do you recognize anyone?”

  “Just the employees.”

  “Maybe they’ll sneak us a towel.”

  “No, then I will have to clean tables.” He glanced around some more.

  “Expecting your family?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Carole is out of town and my mother dislikes coming into town alone. Perhaps she will be here if she can convince my father.”

  The maître’d appeared, twirling an oversized mustache and smirking like the villain in a train robbery. “Jeannot! What is this I hear about you trying to play the piano? I am very impressed!"

  “I can see that,” Jeannot said dryly. “Pilar, this is Andre, a co-worker. Pilar is my fiancée.”

  “Fiancée? Congratulations!”

  Andre kissed me, glancing at my wet mop. I tried to smooth it as he led us past people eating fragrant-smelling meat and yakking in a bouquet of languages. We chose a table in the corner. A white baby grand piano gleamed from under faux palm tree and parrots.

  “The Amazon inside and out,” I remarked, sitting with a squish.

  Jeannot laughed. He looked around again, stopping at a young couple with their heads bent together. His face froze. “That’s Thérèse! Who is she with?”

  I hadn’t even recognized her. Thérèse had done something weird with her eyebrows; they seemed permanently arched, as if nothing could surprise her ever again. The man next to her was young, slender, with a beard that put the “goat” in “goatee.”

  Jeannot muttered, “I am glad she came. But doesn’t she see me?”

  No, she was too absorbed in her date. I liked that.

  Then someone called Jeannot's name, and he said, “Merde, Didier is our waiter. Brace yourself, ma Chérie, this should be good.”

  Didier turned out to be another smartass who did indeed delight in teasing the wannabe musician. “Hey Jeannot, what is this news that you are a famous musician? It is my deepest honor to serve such a celebrity! May I have your autograph, s'il te plaît?”

  Jeannot retorted with something cheerful about shoving Didier's face into the piano. At last we gave our orders: chorros, a barbequed beef. My fiancé, however, had not forgotten Thérèse. The second Didier left, Jeannot leaped out of his chair to say hello, beckoning me to follow.

  “Whatever happened to your shoes, Pilar?” Thérèse asked while greeting me, a smug little smile stapled onto her face. “Do you realize you are walking barefoot in a restaurant?”

  Yes, well, fuck you very much, I thought, but bit my tongue.

  Her date’s name was Cyril—a mouthful of French if ever there was one. Thérèse cooed about Jeannot’s music and her date nodded at appropriate intervals while Jeannot seemed…well, out of sorts. Uneasy and nervous and unhappy. Did Thérèse having a date bother him? I couldn’t be sure…

  Cyril told Jeannot to break his head—the French version of “break a leg.” Then we returned to our table where we were immediately visited by Antonio Artiga, the wiry Spaniard from Madrid who owned the place and had granted Jeannot permission to play in the first place. He had the biggest head I’d ever seen on a slim body, with a head shaped like a coconut.

  “We have a lot of people coming in tonight—the tourists are going a little mad in the rain,” Antonio said in heavily accented French, clapping Jeannot’s shoulder. “I do hope you know what you are doing.”

  “I will try not to scare anyone away,” Jeannot said back, just as hearty.

  “We like to keep our customers happy.”

  “Despite the prices?”

  Antonio's turn. He laughed.

  “If this does not go well, I may need a new job,” Jeannot whispered when his boss had gone.

  “Don’t worry. He’ll hear how wonderful you are for himself.”

  “Right. And twenty-nine is not old.”

  He had used the same expression earlier while on the phone with Thérèse. Mocking himself? Or me?

  The beef was cooked to perfection, served with rice and beans on a plain white plate—no parrots anywhere. We’d barely dug into our meal when Jeannot did another double take.

  “Mon Dieu, Pilar, I cannot believe it. Look, my father! Without Maman.”

  XI

  True enough, the distinctly teardrop-shaped figure of Monsieur Courbois shuffled un-chaperoned toward us through the sea of tables. His sopping wet windbreaker strained at the stomach, and his face was blank like the good poker player I suspected he was.

  Jeannot rose so fast he almost knocked over his chair. “Papa, you made it! Where is Maman?”

  “She could not join me. She gives her regrets.”

  Father and son shook hands awkwardly, like old school friends who had trouble recalling each other’s names. It was almost embarrassing to witness.

  “Is she feeling all right?”

  “Another migraine, I am afraid.” Monsieur Courbois’ right eye gave a small twitch; a nerve pulsing under the skin. “So I…agreed to come. For her.”

  “I am glad. And Aunt Carole or Uncle Charles?”

  “Not this time,” Monsieur Courbois nodded vaguely in my direction. “Mademoiselle. Good evening.”

  We pulled up a chair for him, but he angled away from us as if he didn’t want to be mistaken as part of our group. He didn’t speak either; just rolled a cigar and smoked it, ruining the taste of my food.

  And Jeannot definitely does not look right, I thought. The muscle in his jaw jumped, like he was grinding his teeth. A faint sheen of sweat lay on his forehead. I tried to catch his eye; tried to smile encouragingly, but he didn’t notice. He was tapping his foot, staring across t
he empty dance floor. And at the piano, as if at an alligator everyone expected him to wrestle.

  You can do this, I told him silently.

  “May I join you, please?” a melodic yet nasal female voice suddenly said in English.

  Monique. She had sneaked in, yellow raincoat as cheerful as a kid’s rubber ducky, umbrella hanging from a strap on her shoulder. Tonight her long, wheat-colored hair looked frizzy yet somehow chic, as if she had artfully arranged it that way. Her nose was pink and raw.

  When I jumped up to hug her, she, too, noticed my feet. “Your shoes…they are not lovely anymore. What happened?”

  “Don’t worry, water dries and I’ll glue the heels back on. I thought you were sick?”

  “I am better now,” she said, obviously lying. “We are warm and dry here. I will be fine. I will not kiss you. This way I will not give it.”

  I introduced her to Jeannot’s father, and to my surprise, his face became different, more pliable, more natural…more French. Because she’s French, I realized. Poor Jeannot. He doesn’t notice these things.

  What does he notice?

  “Jeannot, have you ever visited Brazil?” Monique asked in a friendly, conversational tone.

  Before Jeannot could respond, his father took over, his tone as disdainful as ever. “No, he has not. I never understood why my son is so fixated on a country halfway around the world. There are plenty of good French tunes for inspiration, yes?”

  “Perhaps we are all curious about other countries,” Monique suggested gently. “Especially here. Montpellier is, after all, an international university town.”

  “A fact that has caused us enough troubles, one might say.”

  “Many different kinds of people living together is challenging.” Monique.

  “Yet we all have to live by the same rules, do we not? French laws and common decency.” Him.

  “Of course. And hopefully laws and decency coincide, for the good of everyone.”

  Monsieur Courbois mumbled assent. I suppressed the urge to duck under the table and yank out his chair.

  Jeannot said, “When is this going to begin?”—but no one answered.

  “Pilar tells me that your family is from Villefranche sur Lez,” Monique remarked to Monsieur Courbois. “A lovely village, I have heard.”

  “Yes, thank you. We like it.”

  She nodded. “It is a coincidence, but I did hear your village mentioned in the news about an hour ago. That little Arab girl who disappeared? Perhaps you have heard, but good news: she has been found alive.”

  “Really?” I blurted in English. “I’m so glad! Is she okay?”

  “She is in hospital.”

  “Oh. What happened?”

  “They do not say.”

  “She was gone a long time. Was she stolen?”

  Monique tossed me a curious look and said in French: “She was found in a churchyard. The village churchyard. In her underwear, I believe.”

  I grabbed the salt shaker and held onto it. “She was…raped?”

  The word clunked down onto the table like a thousand pieces of flatware.

  Jeannot closed his eyes. Monique glanced at me again as if transmitting a message. What are you doing?

  Monsieur Courbois’ face had darkened. A vein in his forehead seemed to pulsate under the skin. He’s not well, I thought—maybe in the body as well as the mind. So don’t cause problems for the family. In a few minutes Jeannot has to get up and play that piano. Stop the drama, for him…

  “This girl is from one of the newer families,” Monsieur Courbois said, staring at me for some reason. “I am not particularly surprised at this kind of thing. Though any violence is not pleasant there are always problems when part of the community isolates, does not follow the culture.”

  “They are calling it a hate crime,” Monique said.

  He waved a hand. “How can they know such a thing? This is speculation. Gossip, like in a Hollywood magazine.” Very pointedly he raised his eyebrows at me, as if I were the producer of those Hollywood magazines.

  I slammed down the salt shaker. Jeannot actually jumped. Monique gave me a swift kick underneath the table.

  “To liberals like my son,” Monsieur Courbois said, “everything foreign is good. As long as it is different. As long as it is not French, yes, Jeannot?”

  Jeannot shoved his chair back. He glanced at his boss standing in the doorway. A spotlight flicked on, illuminating the piano.

  “Jeannot knows his place,” Monsieur Courbois went on blithely, “and it is with us. In our business, our family business that he knows and that matters to his whole family. That is his future. In Villefranche sur Lez, not here in this”—a disparaging glance at the faux parrots—“restaurant.”

  “But he loves this,” I said slowly. My mouth felt dry. I wet my lips. “Jeannot wants this. What’s wrong with that?”

  “We cannot all get what we want, Mademoiselle. As I said before, this is not your Hollywood.”

  Jeannot slammed something down—the pepper shaker, to match my salt?

  Conversation in the room seemed to stop.

  He stood and said coldly: “Here I go. What fun this is so far.”—and he headed away, toward the light.

  “Wait, Jeannot.” I hurried after him and kissed his mouth right in front of his damn father and damn Thérèse and whoever else might be watching. “Break a leg, Cheri,” I whispered into his flushed, surprised face. “You can do this!”

  XII

  Perhaps he believed me and took heart. For Jeannot seemed taller somehow, or filled out with determination, as he headed for piano, head up. And women watched him go. Oh boy: did they! Female heads swiveled to admire my fiancé in his silk shirt and elegant bow tie and creased black pants.

  “He is good for our eyes to watch,” Monique said in English as I sat back down.

  “Jeannot might be nice for women to watch, but I ironed those pants.”

  “Ah, but you haven’t to control which girl watches him because you care about his clothes!"

  I slapped her hand, and she giggled. We ignored his father, who was ignoring us.

  “Where’s Louis?” I asked.

  “Oh, he babysits. Though I tell him we do not call this babysitting when he is the father.”

  The spotlight onstage brightened. At the piano, Jeannot’s fingers touched down upon the keys. I held my breath. The whole restaurant seemed to hold its breath. But to my delight, the first notes moved gently, seductively, swelling into the familiar rhythms of South America. I could almost smell the tropical air; feel the heat and energy and mystery of jungle, city, and ruins.

  “He has charm,” Monique murmured happily.

  After finishing the first piece to a burst of applause, Jeannot began the second: a complex melody over a primitive beat. His hands danced like birds in trees. The smirk faded from Didier's face. Even Antonio Artiga, slouched in a doorway, listened carefully, tapped his foot, smiled and nodded his bulbous head.

  But Monsieur Courbois sat as motionless as the stones of his precious ancient town, his face as dead as a three thousand year old statue.

  Me? I hugged myself with excitement anyway. Jeannot was doing great!

  Onto the third song, his most recent creation. This one had a child-like quality to it, a melody both freewheeling and unpredictable—until, suddenly, Jeannot’s fingers came down on the wrong keys. Dissonance reverberated throughout the room.

  There was a long, terrible silence.

  I wanted to do something to the silence; rip it apart with my own hands or crank start Jeannot with another fit of applause.

  Instead I waited.

  Monsieur Courbois glared at me, eyes hard.

  Monique bit her lip.

  Keep going! I urged Jeannot silently. Sweat prickled my brow. Don’t give up!

  To my surprise, he turned and addressed the audience directly. “So many notes and so little time,” he said in his clear, resonant French. “I must try again.”

  Rewarded wi
th laughter and applause, he put his fingers back on the keyboard. Again the scales of birdsong filled the air.

  With the scraping sound of wood on wood, Monsieur Courbois’s chair slid back. He rose to his feet, gave me one more hard look, then turned and stalked out of the restaurant.

  XIII

  Speechless, Monique and I watched him go.

  Everyone else watched, too; the spectacle of a member of the pianist’s party walking out on his performance. In the middle of a song!

  “Someone said, “Who left?”

  Ooh-la-la,” Monique whispered. “How could he?”

  Jeannot noticed, of course. He flushed deep red. His hands faltered, lost the tempo, struck a series of wrong notes.

  I squeezed the edge of the table. Don’t stop. Don’t.

  Whispers turned to chatter. Someone else chuckled. The talking increased.

  Jeannot sat frozen over the keyboard while the dissonant cries of the birds he had created faded into the babble of surrounding human monkeys. Then, just as abruptly as his father, Jeannot stood, pushed the piano bench aside, and stalked out of the spotlight toward the back of the restaurant.

  No, I thought. Come back.

  “What, you have run out of notes?” someone called, to more laughter.

  My face felt so hot that I dipped my napkin in the glass of water and held it against my cheek. “I’ve got to…find him.”

  Monique shook her head. “Wait, Pilar, please. This is terrible, yes. But you cannot approach Jeannot looking upset like this. You will make the situation worse.”

  “It can’t get worse. I have to go!” I shoved my feet into my ruined shoes and started across the room—only to smack into Thérèse Bonnet, who was barreling her way in my direction.

  Her lips formed a pout of displeasure. “Are you looking for Jeannot? He is gone, I think, out of the restaurant. Like his father. This is terrible, what happened. He was embarrassed tonight—in front of the very person he wishes to impress! Le pauvre.”