Silent Bird (7 page)

When I
finished explaining, Jeannot came over to me and kneeled on the floor. “
Je t’adore
,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

His eyes were p
leading. I knew they were asking to be let in; for me to trust him in some new way that I could hardly imagine. And I stared back, wondering if everything in life would feel as treacherous as this: a sweet summer love affair that promised to be the biggest source of warmth I could imagine, if only I stayed the winter.

How much was this man going to ask of me? Would I have to offer my soul and more?

I kissed him hard on the mouth. Then I un-wrapped the papoose and announced that I was going to get ready for our holiday at the Bastille Day celebrations at Palavas. And I went into the shower alone, more than a little relieved that he did not try to follow.

Hours later we stood with Monique and her son on the docks next to the Canal at Palavas-les-flots, awaiting the start of “
La
Fête
Nationale
,” which commemorated the storming of the Bastille in 1789 and the birth the French Republic—along with the blood-dripping death of a lot of her aristocracy.

T
he event promised to be relaxing despite the crowds. The blazing July heat had conveniently diminished. Tour boats and fishing boats and pleasure crafts, either docked or out to sea, reflected a brilliant afternoon light that winked off the water, car windows, and glass-encased porches. The awnings of cafes and restaurants vaunted red and white and yellow and blue, and under them silverware clinked and laughter rang out like that of contented children at a birthday party.

Over the canal arched a narrow bridge crawling with people: suave, tanned locals, camera-laden tourists, children hoisted on strong masculine shoulders, couples holding hands, and teens on their horrible mopeds.

Everyone was French, even if just for the day.
Like me. My Night Terrors seemed far away already—as if they had hightailed it out of here to New York where they belonged.

Monique linked her arm through mine while Jeannot looked on, smiling.
“This is your first fourteenth of July in France, Pilar,” she said. “So we celebrate the French way!”

“
Yup. I mean: ‘
Oui-oui
,” I said mockingly.

She turned to the child dangling on her hip.
“
Papa
is almost ready! You see,
ma puce?
Down there!”

The skinny
dark-haired man from her library photos waved up at us. He stood in one of six brightly painted gondolas floating like flower petals in the shimmery canal.

“
I will introduce you after the joust,” she told me. “You will love this, I promise.”

“
Funny tradition. I’m glad you don’t re-enact beheading.”

“Oh, Louis might prefer beheading. He hates jousting.
He does not wish to be collected from the water. It is dirty. He wishes to say
non
to his friends, but it is not possible. Poor Louis. So we will cheer him.”

Her husband, like the other
s on his team, dressed sharply in white, a blue band at the waist. The men in the other gondolas also wore white, but with different colored bands to differentiate their teams—and match the gondolas. Blue and red teams had already lined up parallel in the narrow inlet. Poles in hand, waiting to begin, they teased and elbowed one another in a high-spirited way that needed no translation.

I wanted to understand the game better
, though. Monique explained that the blare of trumpets from the “musical boat”—including drums and oddly shaped noise makers—would signal the first two gondolas to launch. But what was their goal? To score points or simply knock members of the other team into the brackish water? The musical boat had towels handy, I noticed. And when one of the players briefly fumbled while perching at the bow, drums began to pound. The crowd hooted and cheered; they
wanted
to see these immaculately dressed men get dunked…

Monique turned back to her little boy
, peeking under the brim of his hat at his chubby, cerise-cheeked face. “
Coucou
,” she murmured, smile brighter than her yellow sundress. Louis Junior swatted the tip of her nose with his small fingers and giggled “
Arête!
”

He was adorable, this child.
I had the impulse to reach out and touch his silky hair, his downy skin—but of course I didn’t. It was an instinct I distrusted.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and looked away.

The first two gondolas faced each other from about twenty feet apart: six men, three in each, confidently raising their long poles. Then, as trumpets blared, spilling long brightly striped streamers, the rickety boats attacked. Poles clacked and pushed; the boats rocked and tipped, and the canal jostled like water in a glass. One player on the red team staggered and—to the whoop of catcalls—fell.
Splash!

“
Allôns-y-Louis
!” Monique screamed.

Little Louis echoed
“
Looey
,” his face shiny and exuberant. And though I noticed Jeannot grinning at the child, I also noticed that he didn’t try to chuck the baby’s chin or stroke his fat little hands or silky hair or whatever else adults thought they had the right to caress just because they felt like it.

He continu
ed to surprise me, this man, though I didn’t trust it. How could we ever know what dwelled inside a man’s heart?

“
Le bleu, le bleu
,” called one section of the crowd.

“
Non…le rouge
!” cried another.

Louis Senior, the scrawniest on his team, grasp
ed his pole with smooth, cat-like movements and pushed hard. The other player had foolishly taken the time to smile at a girl—and staggered and tumbled unceremoniously down.

Splash!

The crowd screamed and hooted, especially when the guy bobbed his head out of the water and sheepishly waited for the musical boat to quit tooting and drumming and come fetch him.

The Blue Team had won the first round.

“Oh dear,” Monique said in my ear. “My husband must play nice, yes?”

“
Look, a problem. The Red Team needs a new player,” Jeannot said, pointing.

The men in white and red were huddling in a circle as a guy in black—the referee?—gesticulated wildly.

“
The captain is from my village,” Jeannot muttered. “I should help.”

Before I could respond,
Jeannot called out something across the crowd. The man heard him and nodded and beckoned, and then called something to an old guy in an idling motorboat. I didn’t know who the hell that old guy was but suspected he was from Jeannot’s village too. Friend or family?

I really knew nothing about my “boyfriend
,” did I?

“
Wait,” I said to Jeannot. “You’re playing?”

“
Yes, wish me luck, Chérie. I am not the best swimmer, but the water is not so very deep.”

“
Can you use a life…coat?”

“
For the Canal? No.” A rueful smile and he was gone.

A few minutes later, to the vigorously chee
ring onlookers, Jeannot accepted a red sash from the captain. Jeannot tied the sash around his own waist and, already appearing wary, stepped onto the team’s rocking gondola. He was not dressed in pristine white, but he would do.

As long as he did
n’t drown.

“
You haven’t to worry,” Monique said lightly in her quaint fashion. “He plays against my husband and I am fine, yes?”

“
Rouge
!” I screamed suddenly.

She
looked at me, startled, and then hollered: “
Bleu!”
We both laughed.

I switched to
blissful, comfortable English: “Go, Jeannot,
go
! You clobber that Blue Team!”

Jeannot did go. Into the water, that is.

Leaning to one side like a Carnival ride, it took only a few minutes for the Red Team’s gondola to unceremoniously dump my sweetie face-front into the Palavas Canal.

Slap!

I winced. The water couldn’t be that deep, not so close to shore. Right? Plus everyone was watching. Jeannot would be fine.

To my annoy
ance, the crowd went nuts again, yelling, whistling, stomping feet; calling for the drums, for the ongoing clamor of trumpets. They were eager for Jeannot to show his soaking face. I found myself squeezing Monique’s arm.

“
Pilar, you haven’t to worry! This is the Palavas Canal. He may catch a virus; that is all.”

I leaned forward, holding my breath, waiting for him to pop up, hair illogically shaped and dripping like a sea sponge.

Nothing.

The drums, still thumping, slowed down a bit.
Streamer-spewing trumpets continued to blare.

I moved closer.
Jeannot?

The sun was in my eyes; I could barely see past the iridescent water line.

Nothing.

“
Oh God,” I murmured.

“
He can swim, yes?” Monique asked.

I shook my head, counting the seconds.
One-two-three-four…God,
why
didn’t anyone jump in there and get him? Was everyone going to just stand there like idiots?

I did
n’t hear the drums anymore. Just my heart, beating his name. Jeannot. Jeannot. Jeannot.

Damn it,
I
can swim!
I thought, still watching the water, still expecting it to part and for his beautiful head to emerge.

The crowd had fallen
silent. I heard a baby cry. Suddenly I pushed past Monique and darted and dodged toward the docks.

Be okay, Jeannot.
Please, please
, please
be okay…

There was a ripple in the water—was he trying to get out?
Maybe he was stuck on something. He needed help and no one understood, no one knew what could happen, how quickly disaster could strike and ruin lives.

“
I’m coming!” I cried in English.

Just several people away, about six feet from the water, I heard a gasp.
The man in black raised his arms and…a glimpse of red like a bedraggled flag emerged from the water. Jeannot! The red scrap of belt was followed by his soaking dark blond hair and sputtering face. A second later I saw his arm raised high above his head, fist clenched in triumph.

The crowd roared
. Drums pounded delightedly.
Pa-da-pom-pom!
Along the bridge the melody of “La Marseillaise” spread in a riot of giddy, meaningless, patriotic joy. Jeannot, up to his shoulders in the water, fist still high, smiled at me.

He was exhausted and, I suspected, a little shaken. Yet he smiled.

For me. Only me.

Without realizing it,
I really prayed for the first time in…years? Just a rushed
Oh thank you God, thank you for saving him!
And then Jeannot was completely out of that awful water, and I leaped on top of him and kissed his dripping face in front of hundreds of onlookers.

I did
n’t care. He was mine.

Hard to say how things happened after that. Hard to spell out with marks on paper how a day at the beach can spiral into a new life.

I only know this: hours later, sand scratching at my clothes, Jeannot and I sat talking—our version of it, anyway—in the cool evening sand.
Everything already felt different. Behind him, the water looked invitingly cool and inky. Above his head the moon seemed playful, poking its face into France’s unyielding daylight. I felt as if I had gotten away with something; that, by sitting so close to my boyfriend on this moonlit beach, we had accomplished something wildly courageous.

Even the moon wanted me to change, to transform into someone new.
Which reminded me of another prayer, one I’d heard at least twenty years earlier:

If he is a man, he should not lose his name.

If she is a woman, she should not lose her knowledge.

If it is a silent bird, God will help him.

All the evil eye, all the stares, the pain, and the evil eye

All will go to the bottom of the sea...

After finishing our sandcastle, Jeannot and I stood and leaned against a stone wall framing the beach. This wall—seemingly so solid under my fingers—was really made of countless tiny niches filled with sand—a miracle too, perhaps;
everything
seemed miraculous tonight.

A foghorn blew.
It remained apart from us, hollow and desperate, whereas in Jeannot’s arms I felt safe, at last.

I can do this.

So when he asked me, lips pressed against the seashell of my ear, if I would leave my little studio and move into his apartment to live with him, I said yes. Actually, I said, “
Oui.”

“
Je t’adore aussi,” I also said. “Beaucoup.”