Blackbird Fly (23 page)

Dominique’s hair is long and blond, and wet, she
sees. She has washed at last. Such a pretty girl, small freckles
across her nose, sweet lips, a high forehead that gives her a regal
look. But young, somehow younger than her fourteen years. Weston
had seen that right away, that innocence in her blue eyes, that
willingness to follow, to be led astray. As if the world could be
nothing but good. Only an innocent would see the world that way
after this war. Only an innocent, or perhaps someone not right in
the head.

Marie-Emilie takes a step out into the garden. Is
Dominique not quite right? She has rejected her own child, refusing
to nurture him. Is that a sign of derangement? Would she harm him?
A flutter of panic rises in Marie-Emilie.

Dominique sees her, grabbing the arms of the metal
chair. “Come then, where have you been?” She looks cross, waving
her hand at the baby. “Get him, now. He drives me wild with his
crying.”

And so the panic falls away. Dominique is still
herself, childishly annoyed, selfish, never to be a true mother.
Marie-Emilie rushes forward and scoops up the baby from her lap,
cuddling him against her shoulder. It is only a small miracle, a
mother quiets the son she doesn’t want. It won’t happen again.

Two days later she is gone. Marie-Emilie rises,
carrying the baby down the stairs at daybreak, moving quietly
outside to wash him. When she steps back inside a few minutes later
she feels the emptiness. Dominique’s bag, a ratty thing made of
scraps of rug, is gone.

Dominique herself, vanished.

Chapter 25

The tournament was held in the small school
gymnasium, a multi-purpose space about half the size of a
basketball court, with a small grandstand of bleachers at one end.
There weren’t many spectators, just a few parents. The opposing
team had come in on a bus from Bordeaux and looked big and rough
compared to the local boys.

Albert was busy when Merle arrived. She edged along
the side of the gym, watching the fencing matches already going. A
referee stood between two of the boys in white jackets and masks,
their baggy pants an odd choice with the sleek protective jackets.
The official spoke rapidly to the boys in a cautionary tone. Merle
couldn’t understand what he was saying. She sat down on the end of
the bleachers and searched the far side of the gym for Tristan. He
was sitting with a couple other boys on the floor, their masks and
foils next to them.

Tomorrow Tristan was scheduled to take the train back
to Paris and get on his flight. He started camp at the end of the
week. She didn’t like to think of him taking the trip alone, but
there wasn’t much choice. She’d been to see the inspector again to
plead with him to let her at least take him to Paris, but again she
was refused. She had no passport, she couldn’t flee the country.
She’d also pleaded with the American consulate in Nice but with
legal action pending, a possible murder charge, they weren’t
encouraging.

She fingered her new cell phone and looked at the
people on the bleachers. They didn’t look familiar. She had no idea
there were so many people this age in town, that is middle-aged.
Maybe they ran the shops and restaurants. The phone was sleek and
familiar, a Nokia just like her one at home. She’d been pleasantly
surprised to find the counter at the back of the stationery store —
where she’d also bought a rather bad British novel — to buy phones
and start up cell service. The nice young man at the counter
explained that with so many farmers and remote homes, cell phones,
or mobiles, were gaining in popularity. Don’t use it in a
restaurant though, he warned her with a smile.

She hoped to see Tristan fence before Annie returned
her call. The display of technique, the swooshing and cracking, was
fascinating but she had things to do. Would he be done before
dinner? Probably not.

She looked up to see Pascal, standing in front of
her. A man behind her said something and Pascal ducked down,
sliding into the bleachers.

“
Aren’t you supposed to be up on my
roof?” she whispered.

“
Albert insisted.” He glanced at
her. “I will make it up to you.”

Merle felt the heat in her face and glanced up at the
audience beyond him. Some were staring at them, talking behind
their hands. Had her English identified her? Did they all think she
was a killer?

“
What is it?” Pascal
said.

“
Nothing.” She tried to shake the
feeling that everyone had tried and convicted her of murder. “It’s
good of you. To sit with me.”

His dark eyes flicked up the bleachers. “When does
Tristan fight?”

“
Soon I hope.”

They watched two bouts, clapping politely. In one
round a small boy fenced a much bigger one who whacked him with a
side cut that was apparently illegal. The small boy began to groan
and moan and the bout was called.

“
Is he one of ours?” Merle
whispered, nodding toward the writhing fencer.

Pascal nodded. “On the drama team.”

Her phone twittered in the middle of the next bout,
causing frowns and comments from all around. “Come on,” Pascal
said. “I’ll walk you out. I have a roof to finish.”

She answered the phone on the way to the door, waving
to Pascal as he left. It was Annie. It was so good to hear a
friendly voice. Outside the gymnasium the late afternoon was warm
but not as hot and stuffy as the gymnasium. “You won’t believe
where I am. At a fencing tournament, watching Tristan.”

Merle talked about the house, the colors of paint,
the garden. How the woman, the squatter, had moved out. That was
the way she was putting it. That her roofer was good looking, all
the positive stuff. Annie told her that she had a ticket left over
from an old boyfriend’s Christmas generosity, a trip to Barbados
she declined to join him on.

“
It’s burning a hole in my money
belt. Can I come?”

“
I would love it. Just tell —
”

Inside the gym Merle heard shouting, a commotion. She
turned to the door and heard a name. “Annie? Call me tomorrow, I’ve
got to go.”

Tristan had stepped up to the table to register
before his mother arrived, her money tight in his fist and his mask
under his arm. The small gymnasium was hot and getting hotter.
Albert told him several out of town groups were coming, and the
boys standing at the far side of the gym looked foreign, all right.
They were wiry, mostly tall and dark-haired, with stubble on their
chins.

The boy in front of him, one of Albert’s students
named Francois, finished filling out his paperwork and moved away.
Tristan took a step forward and suddenly dropped his mask and foil
with a clatter, prompting chuckles. He gathered them up and bent to
sign his name on the registration forms.

The man behind the table, a wrinkly old guy who was
completely bald, said something in French. “
Pardon?
” Tristan
said. He repeated it, just as fast but louder. “
Je ne sais
pas,
” Tristan said. He for sure did not know what the old man
was saying.

The bald guy turned to a referee standing by the
table, and said something about Tristan. The referee looked at him
and waved his hand. Bald Guy — his name, Tristan found out later,
was actually Guy — took his money and rattled off directions that
were incomprehensible. Tristan went to find Albert.

“
I couldn’t understand what he was
saying at the table,” he told the old priest.

Albert patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. All you do
is start when they say
‘Commencez’
and stop when the buzzer
goes off.”

“
Where are those guys from?” He
looked toward the bearded crew.

“
Bordeaux. They look tougher than
they are.” Albert lowered his voice. “They are in some kind of
summer camp for delinquents, I heard.”

Tristan put on his borrowed jacket over his shorts
and t-shirt. He slipped on his mask and warmed up with Francois,
feeling the muscles in his right arm tense. He was nervous, feeling
butterflies in his stomach.

A voice said something over the loudspeaker.
Francois, who didn’t speak English, stopped fencing and turned to
his friends. Tristan saw his mother come in and sit by herself on
the bleachers. He watched the first bout, a fencer who was way too
quick for the other, with the referee calling off points like an
auctioneer. Albert said they were trying to get electronic scoring
for the next tournament, that it eliminated lots of arguments, and
sure enough, in the next match-up one of the Bordeaux boys erupted
after a call, arguing with the ref about where a hit occurred.

His turn finally came. He had drawn a short boy, with
reddish hair and freckles who didn’t look too tough. Good, there
was a chance that he wouldn’t totally humiliate himself. He took
his position on the line. The referee was the one who had waved him
into the tournament, but now he was saying something long and
complicated, in French.

Tristan froze, his feet in position to fence but his
foil pointed down. Did that mean ‘Begin’? The red-haired boy didn’t
seem to be paying attention. Tristan raised his foil to the ‘en
garde’ position, vertical against the face mask.

“
Non, non, non!”
The referee
was yelling and walking toward him. The boys waiting their turns
quieted, watching. Strange words flowed from the ref’s mouth. What
was he saying? Now two boys jumped into the argument, in his face,
talking loudly. They seemed excited and were poking their fingers
in his chest. Tristan felt confused and anxious.

The referee saw Albert walking over and began to
point in the old man’s face. Tristan felt helpless; the boys from
Bordeaux were pissing him off. He pulled off his mask and glared at
them.

“
Get the fuck out of here! Mind your
own business.”

The boys looked at each other and burst out laughing.
And Tristan did the only thing he could think of to shut them up.
He heard his father’s advice, dropped his foil, and punched them —
one, two — in the face.

They dropped like timber, crumpling onto the floor.
Merle’s heart sunk. Thundering shoes of the spectators in the
stands running into the fray echoed throughout the gym. A melee
ensued, boys fighting, pushing, yelling at each other, parents
holding them back and some egging them on, even swinging a few
rounds themselves. Bedlam for a few minutes, not long but long
enough to get a bunch of adolescents worked up, no matter what
their ages. Finally a voice came on the loudspeaker demanding
quiet. The fighting stopped as quickly as it started.

She clenched her jaw and stepped up to Tristan.
Albert was yelling at the referees who were doing a good job
yelling back.

“
Catch ‘em unawares, did you?” she
said to her son. He squinted angrily at her, his face red. He’d
taken a hit to the chin. He raised his hand, shaking it. “Did you
break your hand?”

His knuckles were swelling. “It was worth it,” he
grumbled.

The gendarme burst into the gym. The two boys on the
floor had picked themselves up, sitting now with friends or family
at their sides. One’s nose was bleeding. Jean-Pierre was talking
rapidly with the referees, who pointed at Tristan. Albert joined
the lively discussion, pointing fingers at the two boys. Lots of
finger-pointing. Very mature, she thought.

“
Come on, buster.” She picked up his
mask and foil. “You’re out of here.”

Jean-Pierre, the gendarme, cut them off. He said
something to Tristan, about Tristan. Merle turned back. “Albert?
Could you come here?”

The old priest shuffled over, his face rosy with heat
and anger. “I am so sorry, Merle. If I’d known they had a language
requirement I would never have brought the boy. No one has ever
said such a thing. I never thought.”

All Albert saw, after the referee stopped poking his
finger in his face and ranting about fluency tests, was a swarm of
boys from the stands and floor. They rose up
en masse
to
take sides. The friends of the boys on the floor began to swing at
Tristan, and other boys helped Tristan fight them off.

“
It’s over. Now tell the gendarme
that we are going home.”

Jean-Pierre yelled again. Albert turned to her. “He
says you can’t leave until we have a full investigation of what
happened.”

“
Tell him this. These boys were
harassing my son. My son put a stop to it. End of story.” Merle
folded her arms. She had recognized one of the boys now. He wasn’t
from out of town at all. He had been one of the boys in front of
the
tabac
who laughed at her name. “He can find us at home
if he needs anything else. He knows where we live.” She took
Tristan’s arm, walked around the gendarme, and out the gymnasium
door.

Tristan looked ashamed, appalled, his head bowed.
Merle plunged his hand in a bowl of ice to keep down the swelling.
The bruise on his chin didn’t amount to much but he held ice on it
too. She held her tongue. If ever there was a good explanation of
consequences of hitting someone, a riot was pretty definitive. He’d
never gotten to fence. So much for channeling that aggression. A
perfect ending to the rural French idyll.

At six Pascal knocked on the back door, signaling his
departure for the day. Merle opened the door. “How did it go, the
tournament?”

“
Just great.”

“
Yes?” He looked at her again. “What
is wrong?”

“
Nothing.”

Tristan hollered from the front room: “World class
fuck-up lives here!! Photographs ten cents!!”

Merle closed her eyes. “You better go see for
yourself.”