Silent Bird (16 page)

“Did Thérèse call back yet?” Jeannot asked the next evening.

“Yes,” I said. “Twice.”

We were reading in the living room after dinner, which neither of us had eaten—hard to have an appetite in this humidity. Even the curtains seemed to be sticking to the wall. Montpellier wasn’t supposed to be the tropics…

Jeannot frowned. “You didn’t tell me. What did she say?”

“She wants to know how you are. I’m sorry, I should have mentioned it.”

“All right, I will call her. When we spoke earlier, she explained how worried she is. She believes that if I have my hopes up too high, I may be heading for a train wreck of disappointment.”

Of course she did. For today Jeannot had experienced another unpleasant conversation with his boss, who also worried about a French wa
i
ter playing Brazilian music at his restaurant. When Jeannot called me to talk about it and I wasn’t home, he vented his frustrations to Thérèse instead.

I was glad she had been there to comfort him. I was
not
glad she referred to his dreams as “a train wreck.” Talk about jinxing someone!

“This is not the first time you have forgotten to give me a message from her,” Jeannot said after a moment. “You are not jealous, are you, Pilar?”

“No.” Never jealous. Just…uncomfortable…

“But you do not like her. True?”

I hesitated. “She’s your friend.”

“But not yours.”

Exactly.

He tossed his magazine aside: more music stuff, a concert pianist on the glossy cover. “You said you had a tense day too. Are you going to tell me about it?”

“Nothing to tell,” I hedged. I’d spent much of the day running errands, waiting in lines to be served by unsmiling public servants who visibly disliked their jobs but no doubt enjoyed the benefits. “I’m sorry I missed your call.”

“Not your fault,” he said, and then he glanced at a sheet of newspaper on the floor. He picked it up. “This yours?”

“Yes, it has an article—” I reached for it, but he was already reading.

“—about that child.” He finished my sentence while staring fixedly at the page, reading it, scowling…

The other articles I’d also been trying to read were piled in a folder next to me on the other side of the couch. I carefully tucked the pile into my backpack.

Suddenly Jeannot slapped down the newssheet. “
Chérie
.
Why
are you thinking so much about this little girl?”

The article had described the search effort underway in Villefranche sur Lez for an unnamed child; her family’s anguished worry; the ongoing tensions that historically popped up now and again between different ethnic and religious groups.

“They haven’t found her yet,” I said wearily. “I just want to know. Is there anything wrong with that?”

He sighed. There
was
something wrong with that.

“To be honest, I prefer that you think about something else. Every time I turn around you are analyzing the newspapers.” He gestured at my backpack—okay, he knew what was in there.

So what?

“If you prefer, I could watch the news instead,” I said angrily.

“Pilar, it is
not
what I prefer. I prefer to not see you upset so much about this child you do not know. I do not understand your sudden obsession.”

“It’s
not
an obsession. I just want to stay informed. This is your village, Jeannot. Your home. If something happened to her…if she was assaulted…don’t you want to know?”

“Well, of course! Not that I can do anything about it. I hope she just ran away. Anyway…why this one child, why now? You do not even know her.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Listen, it has been a difficult day, yes? Let’s do something pleasurable. Let’s go out.”

“Did you ask your parents about her? Do
they
know what is happening?”

“
Mon Dieu
!” More infuriated than I’d ever seen him, he stalked away to the piano bench. He sat down, straightened some sheet music and then just sat staring at me.

I felt like hiding my backpack under the couch.

He asked, “Did you develop your photos yet?”

“No, I…I probably didn’t get any pictures of her or those…boys, anyway. I was”—
like a deer in the headlights?
—
“
Never mind. You’re right; I’ll bring them to a shop tomorrow.”

“Good. Maybe that will help.”

Help with what? My
obsession
?

“
Tell me,
Chérie,”
Jeannot said more gently. “I have one question, and I want you to answer truthfully.”

I waited with a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“I was thinking about all of this. You know: what you said about my father the other day…his comments about foreigners, and now this child and whatever has happened to her. I know you do not mean to offend me. I am not offended so easily. But I have to ask you…Is this sabotage?”

I flinched.
“Is
what
sabotage?”

“
This. All of it. The problem you are having with my parents and my village and maybe even with Thérèse. What is happening to us? To you?”

I opened my mouth.
Then shut it. Surprisingly, he hadn’t mentioned my panic attacks or my late period or me not taking the damn test or me not really wanting to have sex. And I wasn’t going to remind him.

“
Because think about it,” he went on. “We are fine, we are happy, everything is wonderful, and then I ask you to marry me and you start acting…different. You seem distant”—His voice trailed off—“and you have a panic attack. Now you are worrying about this ‘hate crime,’ as you call it. As if it is personal or my family’s fault, as if the police are not capable of making that determination all on their own.” He ran his fingers through his sweaty blond hair. “Are you unhappy with
me
?” he finished plaintively.

I shook my head: of course I was
n’t unhappy with him.

He
got up, went to the kitchen for a bottle of sparkling water, and handed me one too. When he returned to the couch, our legs touched and he put his arm around me. I leaned my cheek against his shoulder, wishing I knew how to stop the slipping away.
Was
this sabotage? Did I secretly want Jeannot’s love to disappear?

He said
into my hair. “I want to understand,
Chérie
. But—”

“
—you don’t.”

“
No. I am sorry.”

“
I don’t mean to cause problems,” I whispered, lifting my head from the embrace.

Jeannot touched my chin until I faced him; then he cupped my face
in his palms. He kissed each falling teardrop as if tasting the rich and forbidden. “
Je t’aime. Je t’aime à la folie
,” he said.

I love you like crazy
.

For a long time we con
tinued to kiss, eyes open. And what we were doing was good, right: inevitable and healthy. We lay on the couch, and I felt myself melt and mold into his long, angular body.

Then
his hands began to wander.

They found my breasts and squeezed gently before easing the way past the wire fence of my bra.
He breathed into my ear, his hands crawling toward the crotch of my shorts; and he murmured, “Nice shorts—but they belong on the floor”—and before I knew it, I was thinking of bathtubs again.

“
Jeannot.
Stop
!” I shoved him away. Hard.

H
e just about fell off the couch—from his surprise, not my strength.

Oh God
, I thought. “Please, I don’t want to do anything right now. I’m sorry.”

“
Ah, bon
,” he said. Meaning “
Oh
.”

He sat up, alert, as if hearing something I had
n’t said.

“
You could have asked me to stop. Why did you need to—”

“I know.”

“
Chérie.
What is wrong?”

“
It’s difficult to explain. I don’t feel…”

“What?
Sexual? Is
sex
the problem?”

“
No! I
do
feel sexy…with you. You’re a wonderful, sexy man, and I love you.”

“
But?”

“
But I don’t”—
Why can’t I look at him
— “desire it so much lately. I have become”—
What? Blank? Afraid? Confused?

Jeannot let out a loose chuckle.
Then the amusement drained from his face.

“
Since when? Can you tell me that, at least? How long have you
not desired it much
? A week? Two weeks? Three? Since I gave you the ring?”

Shocked by his words—or mine
—I couldn’t answer.

He
folded his arms over his chest as if trying to protect himself from a blow. “What a stupid fucking idiot I am.”

“
Don’t say that. It's
not
you!”

But how convoluted and lame all of this sounded
—even to me. Of course “it” was him! We were engaged; he was my lover. Who else could it be?

“
I cannot believe I have been trying to make love to you without your interest. All this time.”

I had gone too far: this was
not what I wanted or even meant. “Jeannot, this is
my
problem; I would have it with anyone. I’ve always had problems with…desire, or with relationships. That’s why I never thought of marriage.
Something is wrong with me
.”

He inhaled sharply.

I forced myself to continue.
I was concentrating so hard on the truth, it made my eyes burn.

“
I feel—free to express myself physically when...a relationship is new. Not serious. But later…it changes. I remember when things went wrong with my college boyfriend, Tommy. It was the same as now: panic attacks. I thought that was just with him. I didn’t expect it to ever happen again, not with you.”

When my speech was over, the man I loved sat there like another arm on the couch.
Wooden.

“
I want us to work,” I pleaded. “I love you. Doesn’t that count?”

A miracle, please.

Jeannot simply stared at me, eyes wide. “
Mon Dieu
. I had no idea.”

I nodded.
That was fair enough.

“
Have you ever seen a psychologist? Like the doctor in the hospital recommended?”

“
No.” It was only a small lie: I barely remembered the psychologist I had seen as a little girl and the one in high school had been as confused as I was. “But I
will
see somebody now, if it helps.”

“
Then I will locate someone for us.”

“
Us?”

“
We are a couple now, yes?”

“
Yes. Thank you,” I said, and I meant it more than I’d meant anything before in my life.

“
Are you scared, Pilar? To see someone about this problem?”

“
Yes, a little.”

“
Me too.” He smiled faintly. “So why don’t we try to relax for a while? We can enjoy each other without worrying about sex.”

Hearing the word “
sex” said so bluntly should not have shocked me—or any young woman, much less one with my history. But it did.

I
am frigid, I thought, keeping my face blank. But how can I be both a slut and frigid?

Jeannot continued:
“What do you say we do massages for a while to help you relax? We won’t Allow sex until you feel better?”

“
I think…that is a good idea.” I paused, fighting the lump in my throat. “Jeannot?”

“
Oui
?”

“
I want you to know that—I lied. I
have
seen a psychologist before. A couple of times, in fact.”

He nodded.

“You are not angry?”

He shook his head.
“You will trust me, eventually. That I do believe. We will trust each other.”

I was still staring at him when he did an amazing thing.
He pulled off his socks.

“
Too hot,” he said, wiggling his toes.