Silent Bird (21 page)

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.

A
fter 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 with laughter and applause, he put his fingers back on the keyboard. Ag
ain 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.

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. I
n 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, j
ust 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 displea
sure. “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
.”

I did
n’t like hearing “poor Jeannot.” Thérèse may have had her diapers changed alongside him in daycare, but she didn’t know him like I did. She didn’t live with him. She didn’t know how much
this
meant to him, to his heart, no matter what his father thought.

“Mistakes happen, b
ut the show must go on,” I said coolly. “He has to learn that if he wants to be a musician.”

“But h
e is
not
a musician. Jeannot, of all people, dislikes public displays.
Especially in front of his father
!”

“H
is music is good! He just needs a chance.”

“He had a chance. Everyone laughed.”

All that perfectly good beef I’d eaten gurgled in my stomach like yesterday's
l’escargot
. “Look,” I said furiously, “I’d love to talk, but I have to find my fiancé.”

“
If you insist.” She seemed to be trying to lift her already-lifted eyebrows. “But I believe you make a serious mistake, Pilar. It is always a mistake advising people based on your own needs.”

“
My own—
what
?”

“
Why do you wish to change Jeannot? Isn’t this about what
you
wish him to be?”

“
No!"

“
Many people are not satisfied if their husband has a menial job. I would never feel this way, though I went to university.”

For a s
econd I was speechless. Then I found my tongue.

“
You are a”—in English—“
a judgmental prig
.”

“
See?” she trumpeted. “Defensive!”

“
I’m not the one who makes him dream of playing music! I only want him to be happy.”

“
Love,” Thérèse announced in her smoky voice, “is rarely simple in complicated people.”

Okay, this was truer than I cared to admit.
And being a semi-reasonable person, I might have said so—if I had gotten the chance.

Instead my stomach
lurched again, and the remains of Brazilian barbeque rose sourly into my throat. With a gasp I bent over and vomited all over Thérèse’s classy sweater and discretely slit skirt.

Crystalline notes from Jeannot’s piano wafted through the open windows of our balcony
and into the plaza, where cobblestones glistened with moisture. Standing in front of Madame Nony’s, I gazed up at our apartment, listening: “
Partout C’est L’amour
”— “Everywhere It Is Love.”

Definitely not Brazilian.

Beyond the roofline the clouds were retreating, their stormy net dwindling. Yet all I could feel was a kind of dread. Jeannot stalking out of the restaurant without me had been dramatic, out of character. But Jeannot returning home to seek solace on his piano with
this
song, an old French tune he associated with his father—well, that was unthinkable.

When I entered the living room he
glanced up, face carefully blank, like a musical page before the score is added. His dark eyes were rimmed with pink. His bow tie had been tossed aside; it hung like a question mark against a couch pillow. His sleeves were rolled up, his cheeks flushed. I didn’t see a bottle of his family wine anywhere, but from where I stood I could smell the dreaded aroma of “cough medicine.”

Like my father.

I wanted to slap
Jeannot for that. I had never seen him drunk before, and I never wanted to see it again.

“
Maurice Chevalier,” Jeannot said by way of greeting me. “You know this song?”

“You told me all about it,” I said. “
Aren’t you going to ask me how I got home? Whether I walked by myself and if I was worried sick about you?”

“
And this one is Jacques Brel,” he went on, gazing into the distance past my nose. “Some people call him the greatest singer-songwriter of all time. Frank Sinatra sang his songs. So did David Bowie.”

“
Luckily Monique had her car tonight. But you didn’t know that, did you?”

“
This is my father’s music. I could play it somewhere in my village, no problem, no stress. There I would not have to beg to play, or prove myself. The couple who owns the biggest restaurant in Villefranche sur Lez, they have known me since I was a boy. I will be appreciated there. I will be comfortable. In Villefranche sur Lez, where I grew up.”

I shook my head.
Was this really happening? Jeannot sitting in front of me stinking like a Bowery bum and talking about giving up?

“
What are you saying?” I managed to ask. “And what are you drinking?”

He pointed to a small glass on the coffee table.
Amber liquid glowed from within. I hated amber liquids in small glasses.

“
What is that? Whiskey?”

He shrugged
and looked down at the keys.

“
You should have told me you were leaving La Peña. I would have gone with you.”

“
I needed to think.”

“
I would have thought
with
you.”

“Pilar, y
ou would not understand. You do not know what it is like to spend your entire life in one place, and then in one year to change everything.
Wanting
to change your life and do something daring—only to realize it is not right after all.”

“
Are you serious? You believe I don’t know what it is like to take risks?”

“
No, I am saying the opposite. For you, taking risks is like breathing.”

I nearly choked.

“You changed countries with no problem,” he said, not noticing my reaction. “I am French, not American. My life is smaller. Even in my own country just twenty miles from my village is too far to move.
That
is the problem, Pilar. Dreams are fine, but…Montpellier and La Peña are not the right place for me.”

He
paused, cheeks flushing darker.

“
You see, my village is…my home. I had to think this through before I spoke with you. Because I know you,
Chérie
. You do not…have roots.”

“
You don’t know what I have.”

“
Maybe not, because you never speak about your past. But you are in France, yes? You came all the way here. While I cannot…
still I cannot do this.
”

“
What does that mean, Jeannot? You’re going to quit your job at La Peña? Work for some restaurant in Villefranche sur Lez playing your father’s music instead of your own?”

He gazed directly at me now
. In his eyes I glimpsed a shard of sorrow—and then nothing. The blank face looked artificial, like a mask I could stick my fingers into and toss aside.

“
I apologize,” he said at length. “It was wrong to leave you at the restaurant. I will never do that again.”

An apology is better than nothing, right?
I slumped onto the couch. “Your music is great
.
It really is. So you missed a few notes. Everyone makes mistakes!”

Instead
of commenting, he resumed playing, speaking over the music: “And this is Édith Piaf. She was called the 'Little Sparrow,' famous for this song, ‘
La vie en rose
.’”

He had never played
Édith Piaf before. Just as he hadn’t played Jacques Brel or Maurice Chevalier. At least not for me. I hadn’t even known he
could
play those old, old songs that crooned from radios all over town. Or that he would want to. Yet now, here in our living room, he recreated the same songs that his father and mother—and probably Thérèse—knew and loved.

He played the songs
well, too, familiarly, like kicking back with an old friend. Was this how he had learned piano in the first place? I wanted to ask but suspected I already knew.

“
To answer you, yes, I will leave La Peña,” Jeannot said suddenly, dropping his hands from the keyboard. His voice sounded rusty. “But I do not think I will not seek employment at a restaurant in my village. I will work with my family. That is what I am destined to do, you see? I will join the family business at Uncle Charles’ vineyard.”

“
What
?”

“
My father is correct,
Chérie
. I do not think before I act. I do not consider the future, or what is best. I have not even considered what is best for you and for us.”

“
That’s not true! Your problem is not acting without thought. Your problem is blindness!”

He flinched. “What?”

“You only see what you wish to see. You don’t see reality!”

He said nothing, but his lips tightened. White with anger. With the shock of reality?

“
Chéri,
” I said more softly. “We talk a lot about our dreams…yours to play your songs, mine to create books for children, yes?”

“
I belong in Villefranche sur Lez,” he just about shouted.

H
e stood up and walked away from the piano, taking his glass of nasty liquor with him. I watched him, mouth agape. I wanted to snatch the glass from him and throw it at the wall.

“
What do you mean you belong in Villefranche sur Lez?” I said to his back. “You left there for a reason. A good reason! It may be home to you, but I don’t trust that place. You should not abandon everything you care about because of one night, one disappointment!”

When he whirled around to face me the muscles in his face had changed once again; not
tight with anger or slackened into blankness but hardened, as if he’d grown more bones in his jawline. “What do you mean, ‘
I don’t trust that place?
’ You sound like
you
have been drinking.”

I decided to ignore that.
“Why would you want to work with your father? He didn’t even stay for the rest of your performance. He just walked out! From that he earns your loyalty?”

Jeannot flinched
again, this time as if I’d gut-punched him. “As I said, you do not understand. The vineyard is mine too. It has been in my family for generations. We do not make the most expensive wine in France, but it is respected.”

I said nothing.

“My father is right, Pilar. Any kind of future for me is there. Not…not in Brazil. Not even in music. This has nothing to do with…what you said. That he ‘walked out’ on my performance.”

“
Bullshit!” I shouted.

He stared at me.
“
Boolsheet
? What is that?”

“
Merde de toro
,” I said angrily and flopped back on the couch. “So what will you do? Move into your parents’ house? Into your old bedroom?”

He laughed
: a bitter sound. “Of course not,
Chérie
. I am not that bad.” He shook his head, shaking away the bitterness. “We will find our own place; you and I. Houses are less expensive outside the city. No more breaking my back working for strangers, paying rent, trying to be something I am not. And you love the countryside, yes? The vines, mountains, and river are lovely.”

Crap.
“What kind of work will you be doing? Jumping on grapes? Tasting the wine? What?”

“
You know nothing of the business. It is hard work but very satisfying. You will see.”

“
I won’t see. Jeannot, I
like
it here.”

“
For a while, perhaps. But tell me: how long will you be satisfied, here or anywhere? Do you even know what you want?”

My voice came out so low it
surprised me. “This is not about me. We’re talking about you.”

He nodded.
“Very well, then let me tell you about me. What you can expect. My father and uncle can be difficult, my uncle especially. Their business is not a path to riches and fame. It is a living
and
a labor of love, at least to them. But if I move back there, at least I’ll be part of something real. Maybe I will play music on weekends. That is something, yes? I can have a
life again instead of trying to be what I am not!”

Now h
e sounded like Thérèse. I felt a twist of nausea. What would she tell Jeannot once she got her claws on him again? Yes, leave Pilar and work for your bigot father! Oh and by the way, she vomited on me at La Peña. The puke did not even match my blouse.

“
Is that what you did before?” I asked in a softer voice. “Work in the vineyard?”

“
Why do you sound so surprised? I am not exactly a professional musician, didn’t you notice? I am not even a waiter. I need—no:
we
need—to act like man and wife. We can do that better in Villefranche sur Lez.”

“
No. We can’t.” My hands were shaking. I placed them in my lap. “I think your father is scaring you into this.”
Like he scares me.

Jeannot barked out another laugh.
“Papa is not perfect, but who is? You are still young, but I will be thirty years old next year. Thirty! The wine business…it is in my blood. My God, Pilar, if you
are
pregnant—we need to think of our child too, yes?”

Our child
. I shook my head.

“
If
you ever take the test,” he added. The bitterness had returned, frank and startling in such an easy-going man.

“
I’ll take it in the morning. I told you that.”

“
I know you did. Tomorrow, always tomorrow. What are you waiting for?” He studied my face, trying to sniff out the hidden truth—because by now he knew there
was
something I refused to tell him. Something big. “Maybe both of us need to grow up, Pilar. Did you ever think that?”

I tried to clear my throat and succeeded, sort of.
“Do you think you—could be happy there? Working with your family, living in that…place? Playing those songs?”

He took a moment to answer.

“
When I was a kid—a teenager—I used to have this one dream over and over. I would go to sleep and dream about a piano speeding along a set of railroad tracks. Just like a train. And I mean
speeding
.” He flashed a wistful smile. “I wanted to catch that piano. I would feel panic, thinking I would never catch it, but I always tried. Any way I could.”

“
Ah bon
,” I said. Oh. I could easily imagine that he was speeding along a set of tracks, moving so fast I couldn’t catch him.

“
So maybe Édith Piaf is not so bad,” Jeannot concluded in a whisper. “She is slower than a train.”

Abruptly he put down his glass.
Empty.

I grabbed it and marched off to the kitchen to drop it in the sink.
Except at the last moment I changed my mind, stalked over to the trash can, opened the lid, and tossed the glass down. It clunked without breaking.