Chameleon (6 page)

Upon arriving at Château de Chenonceau, our destination, we received entrance tickets and instructions to meet for the walk back to the hotel at 5:00 PM. Mickie took students to find restrooms; Will and I strolled together down an avenue of giant, leafless trees. A weak sun peered from behind thin clouds, and I wrapped my scarf once more around my neck as we crunched along the gravel drive. We moved past outbuildings and hibernating gardens, past stumps of knobby pruned trees, beside canals green with moss until at last, Chenonceau castle rose up before us.

“Hey look,” Will said, raising a gloved hand and pointing. “Our first scaffolding.” He snapped a picture. “For your step–mom.”

Sylvia had told us the French took excellent care of their historical treasures, leaving the country in a state of constant repair. As we neared the
château
, I saw a formal garden to the right. Sylvia would love the winter blooms: red and white flowers amidst carefully trimmed hedges and geometric walkways. I didn’t know what any of the flowering things were, only that they were unexpected in winter.

“Let’s go up,” I said. I pointed to leaded glass windows along the castle façade before us. “I want to take a picture of the garden from up there.”

Will nodded.

“
Billets? Vos billets, s’il vous plaît
,” said a woman at the door. I couldn’t have figured how to knot her elegant scarf if I’d had a year to attempt it.

“Tee–kets please, your tee–kets,” she repeated in English. We held ours up for inspection and proceeded into the entrance hall. Nothing grand, hardly larger than the oversized entry to my own home thousands of miles away.

Will gestured to the stairs ahead and to the right. We marched up the cold white marble. This kind of floor would be heaven in Central California in the summer, but I didn’t want to touch it in France in December.

“Imagine living here,” Will said. “You’d need a ton of space heaters.”

“Yeah.”

At the top of the staircase, we turned left into a wide hallway, with doors leading off on either side. From one end of the hall, light danced through the windows, sparkling off the hundred tiny bits of leaded glass. My shoes squeaked on the highly polished floor.

“Wish we could open these for my picture.” I brushed fingers along the window, smooth planes interrupted by ridges of ancient lead. “There’s got to be windows open somewhere. Did you feel that draft?” I pulled out my camera.

From my second–story lookout, I discovered another, larger garden to the right, across a small waterway.

“I’m going in this room,” Will said, leaving the hallway.

I could hear the rest of our group lumbering below, chattering loudly, announcing to one and all our identity as
les Americains
. I’d never felt uncomfortable with my nationality before. Okay, I’d never thought about it. But now, I couldn’t help noticing how noisy Americans were compared to the French.

“Whoa,” said Will, from the next room.

I crossed to join him.

“I just felt your breeze in here,” Will said. “Where’s it coming from?” He was walking from window to window, holding his hand out searching for the source of the cold air. “That was like—” he lowered his voice and I drew closer. “That was like touching
you
when you’re invisible.”

“Told you it was drafty,” I said. “If I were rich enough to build a place like this, I’d insulate a lot better.”

Will agreed and strolled into another room, connected to the first one.

“Hey, Sam, check this out.”

I followed his voice.

“Oh!” I sighed.

The ante–room was tiny, perfect, paneled in ancient dark oak and covered with paintings of all sizes. But the real beauty was the open window and what you could see through it. Graceful arches stood sentry over water flowing lazily beneath the massive structure. All the pictures of the
château
showed this famous section of building.

“It’s like a fairytale.” My voice came out in a sigh.

Will watched me nervously as I gazed at the water. “Careful, Sam. Don’t go blissing out.”

I steadied my gaze on the grey–green flow of river. Hidden from his eyes, my mouth formed a smirk, and I decided to tease Will. I watched the water, then felt my flesh dissolve.

“Sam!” Will moaned. “You disappeared. Quick, come back. No more looking at the river. Our group could be here any minute.”

He twisted to look over his shoulder for oncoming hordes. But I had listened carefully before vanishing, and I knew no one was coming yet. I walked towards Will and gave him an enormous icy embrace. Then, because I found the temptation irresistible, I brushed my lips along the back of his neck. Ignoring the winged creatures flapping in my stomach, I turned towards the ancient wall. At this point I felt a tickle of curiosity. What would it feel like, smell like, to pass through a wall this ancient and into the corridor?

Will called my name again. I made sure no one else was approaching and entered the wall. The wall measured perhaps eighteen inches thick. Inside I sensed cold stone and furniture polish and wood that had once been tree. Behind me, Will groaned, so I shivered back through the wall oh–so–slowly and then rippled solid.

Will sighed in relief.

I grinned and didn’t say anything.

He frowned. “Tell me you didn’t do that on purpose.”

I grinned bigger.

“That was irresponsible,” he said, glaring.

“This, from the guy who likes to break into evil laboratories for fun?” I asked.

“Hmmph,” he grunted. “Let’s go check out the other rooms.” We returned to the central hall.

I picked a room on the opposite side and Will followed me.

“Brr! How could anyone stay warm enough to sleep here?” I asked, walking towards an ancient carved bed.

I snapped a quick picture of Will framed by the doorway, freezing in pixels a furrow deepening along his forehead.

“What’s with the frown?” I asked. “You mad at me? Will, I checked to make sure no one was around. I’m not stupid.”

“No, no—not that.”

We heard our fellow–students thumping up the marble staircase.

“Later,” he said.

Madame Evans arrived in the hall, describing a love affair between a French king and the woman to whom he had presented this
château
.

“Nice gift,” Will said, as he gravitated towards the sound of a history lesson he might miss. In Las Abs, I smiled indulgently at his obsession. Here in France, history crooked her finger at Will around every corner.

As Madame left, Will whispered into my ear. “A minute ago, I felt that chill you were talking about. Do you think the cold spots are, well, moving around a lot?”

I shivered from the warmth of his breath on my neck and ear—so close, so intimate.

“You mean, someone like us? Here?” I asked.

Will nodded, curt. He mouthed two words:
a rippler.

I shook my head. “We’re getting as paranoid as your sister.”

I circled the room once more, my fingers trailing wide to detect any change of temperature, but I felt nothing. Madame Evans led us through two additional rooms on the second floor before herding us up one level. I heard Gwyn’s laughter echoing through the high–ceilinged stairwell. I tried not to miss her friendship.

“Maybe it’s ghosts,” whispered Will. “
Madame, s’il vous plaît
?” He was addressing our French teacher.

She turned. “
Oui
?”

“
Sont–ils des histories des fantômes du château
?”

“
Mais non
,” she replied. “
Ce château, c’est un château des dames, et de l’amour, pas des fantômes.
”

“A ‘castle of women and of love,’” I said to Will.

He looked disappointed. “Guess we have to rule out ghosts.”

We continued with Madame and our classmates until we’d seen the entire castle. Mickie joined us as we explored the kitchens below ground.

“Where’ve you been, Mick?” Will asked.

“The kitchen gardens,” she said enthusiastically. “Back by the entrance to the grounds. I had a very cool composting lesson. Using hand gestures. God, I wish I’d taken French. That was some gorgeous dirt.”

Will and I gagged back laughter, Will turning his into a evil–sounding cough.

“We’re heading to the formal garden with the fountain in the middle,” I said. “I think that’s where they take the pictures looking back upriver at the castle.”

Mickie joined us and we set off across a graveled walk. The ground stone dusted my black boots in pale powder. We had just descended a set of stairs into the garden when I heard Will’s sudden intake of breath.

“What?” I asked.

“Did you feel that?”

“What?” I asked.

“That wash of cold,” he whispered.

“No,” Mickie and I said together.

“I’d swear someone like us just passed through me. Like an icy blast”

“A friendly blast? Or, you know …” I broke off.

Will rolled his eyes at me. “
Friendly
? How am I supposed to tell?”

“Keep your voice down,” said Mickie. “How sure are you, Will?”

“What I felt was just like when Sam walked through me a minute ago,” he replied.

Not hard to guess how Mickie was going to view my behavior.

She groaned, cursed, and pressed her thumb and forefinger to her eyes. “Please tell me you were alone.”

“Of course,” I said, flushing.

“Oh, great, now someone’s staring at us,” Mickie said, eyeing a gentleman who
did
seem to be looking at us with curiosity. “Get your picture and we’re moving on,” she whispered.

I took some quick snapshots, matching the view of the castle I’d seen on guidebooks and postcards.

Will and his sister marched back to the stairs. I followed, but twisted to capture one last shot of the formal garden. I nearly bumped into staring–man, walking just behind me.

“
Je suis désolé, Mademoiselle
,” he apologized.

“
De rien.”
I told him it was nothing and dashed to Mickie and Will. My heart pounded and I tried to convince myself it was a coincidence that someone would choose to stare at us. We were six–thousand miles from UC Merced and this guy looked genteel French, not
übermensch
–y.

Leaving the staring man behind, we retraced our way to the entrance, beside the knobby–bald trees and winter–dead vegetable gardens. As we approached the grand avenue, a path joined ours from the side, and the same gentleman strolled towards us, gazing at us as if to memorize each of our faces. Or discover our weaknesses.

This time, Will stepped out to confront him, placing himself between us and the stranger. “
Que voulez–vous, Monsieur
?”

“Will asked him what he wants,” I whispered to Mickie.

The grey–haired man smiled and replied in crisp English. “A great many things, young man, none of which pose any threat to you or your … companions.” He inclined his head to Mickie and myself, a polite, antiquated gesture.

Mickie bristled. “Our conversation is private, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly,” he said, a hint of a smile pulling at one side of his mouth. “I beg your pardon.” He looked intently in several directions and then nodding once again, he began walking down the avenue of silent trees and disappeared into thin air.

“Holy shit!” Mickie whispered.

“Monsieur de Rochefort?” Will called softly after him.

“No, Will!” Mickie looked in exasperation at her brother. “We don’t know who that was.”

“He looked
friendly
, alright? Who else could he be?” asked Will.

As if in response, a spot before one of the great mottled trunks shimmered and resolved itself into the old man.

“
Bonjour, Mesdemoiselles, Monsieur
. Allow me to present myself. I am called Waldhart Jean–Baptiste de Rochefort, and I am entirely at your service.” He made a seriously old–fashioned bow before crunching along the drive toward us.

“You speak English really good,” Will said.

“I speak English very
well,
” corrected the grey–haired gentleman. He then pulled himself up to his full height somewhere just below my own five–foot–seven and drew in a breath through his nose, so exaggeratedly that his nostrils almost pinched shut. “We French invented English, as a means of communicating to the miserable peasants inhabiting that forsaken island known as Greater Bretagne.”

His hauteur suggested we might belong to the miserable peasant contingency.

“Ten–sixty–six,” said Will.

The old gentleman tilted his head to one side and down, an understated nod.

I looked at Will, lost.

“The French conquered England in 1066,” Will murmured in explanation. “The English language came into being as the conquerors and the defeated figured out how to talk to each other.”

The Frenchman regarded Will with something like approval. “You evidently share the Conqueror’s name, Guillaume.”

“No, I was named after a river in Oregon,” Will said.

“You know my brother’s name?” Mickie asked. “Pfeffer kept that secret.”

“There’s a Guillaume River in Oregon?” I asked.

“Willamette River,” Will replied.

“So that’s your real name,
Willamette
?” I asked.

“My real name is Will,” he replied tersely.

“How do you know my brother’s name?” Mickie repeated, an edge to her voice.

The ghostly Frenchman, ignoring Mickie’s question, continued dismissively, “Of course, you are Americans, with your own bastardization of the island dialect.”

“I flew six thousand miles to meet you and
now
you’re telling me you have a problem with Americans?” Mickie asked, eyes narrowing.

“Of course not. The French
love
Americans. We gave your country to you two times over as a gesture of our goodwill. First was the Marquis de Lafayette, and later our own Napoleon sold half your nation to you for pennies. Without France there would be no America.”

“Napoleon wasn’t French,” Will muttered.