Silent Bird (8 page)

Jeannot’s snoring startled me out of a deep morning slumber.
Again.

What time was it?
Five? Six? I felt hot and sweaty and disoriented, like I’d been tossed about by some sumo wrestler to the wrong side of the mattress. Had I sleepwalked again? Night Terrors? How in the world was a person supposed to sleep soundly while cuddled next to the Chain Saw of Doom?

Poor Jeannot; he did
n’t
want
to snore. He didn’t want anything to mar the ongoing romance of our living together.

I sighed.
The French doors to the balcony had been left open all night. As I watched, a delicious breeze nudged the doors, and they moved gently, as if inviting me to leave this bed, these damp twisted sheets and stuffy room.

And Jeannot?

What a disturbing thought. Taking care not to wake him, I unearthed our communal, sausage shaped pillow from under his head and wrapped it around mine like a big, puffy set of earmuffs. But that just cut off my air supply. I could still hear the tickle in the back of his throat; the snort and
wheeee
of congested sinuses.

I pushed away the pillow and sat up.

Jeannot’s sunburned nose peeked from under cotton shee
ts. His sun-bleached hair was a-tangle; his finely sculpted musician’s hand open on the top of the covers. He presented a study in contentment and trust. And why not? Yesterday we’d shared another great Saturday in the endless playtime of summer in the Midi. My French was improving markedly. I even caught myself thinking in French—at least the kindergarten-level version. And so each day had eased into the next: just one more translucent morning with its smells of stone walls and old wood floors and mimosa growing outside.

And snoring. What’s a little noise compared to all th
is good stuff?

Jeannot finally stirred.
He rubbed one socked foot against my leg—he always slept naked but, oddly enough, with socks—and opened his eyes. Brown: that dear, clear chocolate brown.

“
Bonjour, mon amour
,” he said in his Languedoc accent, music flowing over words.

“
Bonjour, mon amour
,” I said back, my accent still like a truck bumping over cobblestones. Then I grinned, remembering. “
Bon anniversaire
.”

Happy anniversary
. Happy three
months
, not three years—yet last night we had decided we would commemorate it.

“
A 15-story building, Chinese, I think, was built in less than a week,” Jeannot had said as we were getting ready for bed. “Why not the best relationship in the world?”

“
Forget buildings. What about people?”

“
There are Napoléon Bonaparte and Josephine. He loved her instantly, and that love endured.”

“
Except they got divorced. Didn’t she die of a broken heart while he was in exile?” I said—or something along those lines. Even with my increasing competence in French, I might have said, “They had divorce and she was sad.”

“
Next example?” I asked.

“
Perhaps you prefer the Czar Nicholas II of Russia and Alexandra. He fell in love instantly. They had a happy, passionate marriage. At least until they were executed. There will be no executions or exiles for us,
Chérie.
We are one of the great ones, without the tragedy.”

“
The Frenchman and the American.
Ooh-la-la
.”

We shut the lights after that
and lay on our sides, spooning in the direction of the open doors. Now, morning. Three months! I had never been with anyone longer than six.

“
Chérie
?” Jeannot’s lips were against my neck, his hand gently twisting the locks of messy, curly hair. “You going back to sleep?”

Yes
, I thought, but knew it was too late for that. In the fresh new light, our eyes met.

“
Kiss?” he asked.

With one finger I traced the curve of his eyebrows.
“I have bad breath. Like everybody in Manhattan has been walking inside my mouth.”

He laughed.
“I have always wanted to visit New York.” Another slow, tender kiss, and he playfully tugged at what I was wearing—what I had insisted on wearing to bed. “Your
pyjama
is ready for the trash, but you look beautiful in this blue.”

“
This blue” belonged to an old rag in T-shirt form, with a picture of the Pillsbury Dough Boy on the front.
Love me, squeeze me, take me home
, it announced in faded orange letters.

I said,
“Think of it as socks for my body.”

“
D'accord.
Now come here. I like these socks better on the floor.”

The Pillsbury Dough Boy flew off.
I watched it land in a fluffy heap.

“
Let me look at you.” Jeannot kissed my breasts as I ran my fingers through his hair. Fine light hair, like a child’s.

So sweet.

He rolled on top without crushing me by doing some trick with his elbows; and so our skin touched but I felt almost no weight—at least on the outside. On the inside I felt a dragging in my solar plexus.

So sweet.

On my left, the doors wagged. I closed my eyes as we twined ourselves.

Ninety days of impulsive and powerful love despite a language barrier…

Sixty days inside this bubble of joyful companionship…

Thirty days of knowing for
sure that
this is real.
This was The Love I had never expected to find, not even in the heavily romanticized South of France…

“
I have a couple of surprises,” Jeannot said afterward, tossing off the covers. “For our anniversary.”

“Sur
prises?” Oh. How could I feel so exhausted so early in the morning, on such a beautiful day? I didn’t like surprises; didn’t trust them. “What kind?”

“
Good ones,
Chérie
, only good ones.” He grabbed my hand and squeezed it, almost as if he were nervous too. “First, my parents. I want you to meet them—today.”

“
Quoi?”
I scrambled to a sitting position. “What? Did you say today?”

“
Yes, why not? It is Sunday, and I have been thinking about introducing you. It is more than time, yes?”

“Well, yes.
But…where? Will they come here?” They had never come before.

“
No, we will go to their house and eat at midday. To my village, near that doctor who treated your toe.” A flash of amusement. “Does that sound good?”

“
Bie
n
sû
r
. Of course. But…why now?”

He hesitated as if unsure how to explain
. Then he smiled again and grabbed his jeans from the back of a chair. “Because as I said: we have waited too long. I want my family to know you. I want you to know them.”

He opened the doors even f
arther to let in the light. I stayed in bed, covers to my chin. “And the other surprise? You said there were two.”

“
You stay here,” he said. “I will bring it to you right now.”

I watched his socks as he half-walked, half-jogged, past our shared desk into the hallway. His footsteps continued into the living room; his fingers darted across the piano keys that he couldn’t resist touching.

The last time Jeannot had given me a
surprise, it turned out to be a dress with more missing parts than an apron; I didn’t even know how to put it on. Maybe this new surprise would be the French equivalent of a Victoria’s Secret rubber band with lace that he’d expect me to model for him.

I almost hoped it was
that. Somehow, though, I didn’t think so.

I still lay in
bed but dressed again in the comfy T-shirt when Jeannot returned. He held a small brightly wrapped package.

“
You look like ‘the cat that ate the canary,’” I said, attempting a tease.

Kneeling at my side, he presented his gift with two open hands.
“Very perceptive. This is for you, Mademoiselle. I hope you like it.”

Even French lingerie would not fit into a box this small.
I accepted the box, measuring its lightness. “Oh, Jeannot…"

He waited
, watching me closely.

Carefully I unstuck the wrapping and peered underneath.
A brown velvet box, understated but expensive. I clutched the paper, fighting an impulse to shove it back on.

“
Open it, please,
Chérie.”

Heart pounding, I lifted the cover.
And though I'd already known what I would find, the sight astounded me. It was as if I had been thinking in black and white and opened a box crammed with color. Sapphire winked blue and rich in a setting of deep gold. One small diamond glittered from the center like a star to wish on.

“
My God,” I said in English. Then: “I mean,
mon Dieu
.”

He lifted my chin.
“Does it fit?”

“
Oh, Jeannot. This is—”

“I know.”
Smiling so hard now, new lines spread around his eyes.

I felt a flutter in my throat
, like the dam was going to break. I didn’t want to cry. Didn’t want to experience anything but unfiltered joy. “Jeannot…this is so perfect. So beautiful. But…I didn’t know…we never discussed…"

“
Marriage?
Chérie,
we have been living in a time warp, loving each other and not thinking about the future. That will end now, yes? I want you to be my wife. You can stay with me here in France.”

A deep silence fell around my ears.
I found myself remembering my suitcase in the huge armoire that squatted in the corner of Jeannot's bedroom.
Our
bedroom.

Imagine living in Montpellier forever!
I would shop for fresh baguettes and homegrown vegetables twice a day, and come back here every night. I would take permanent refuge in this life,
his
life that had no villain: that beat calmly. Jeannot’s world seemed so sensual, simple, and soothing—an old TV show with music instead of a laugh track.

I could stay
here safe and loved forever. Right? With Jeannot I could do that.

“
But…what about visas?” I asked.
Fiancé visa? French green card? Marriage license?
“Don’t I have to apply for permission?”

Jeannot said:
“I know: we will begin the long process with immigration. But I have heard that when you marry a citizen”—a shrug—”these things get resolved.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“Nothing worthwhile is easy. But as you like to say about my music, all things are possible, yes?”

He doesn’t know me
, I thought out of the blue. How can he love what he doesn’t know?

“
Stay in France,” I murmured, trying it on: not the ring, but the idea.

“
When we marry, you can have a full life here.
We
can have a full life. You will get your license and drive. You can work, if you wish, or study. Or you can concentrate on your art. I know you want that,
Chérie
, more than you say. We will plan everything together, your dreams as well as mine.”

He glanced at the light blue wall
over the desk where we’d hung a flyer for his upcoming piano performance. The debut concert that Jeannot finally, finally received permission to put on at the Brazilian restaurant. The concert that he diligently practiced for day and night, as if this single event would make or break his future. Yet here he was thinking about
my
dreams too,
my
art. God, I loved this man. I respected him. Who could ask for more than that?

Jeannot whispered,
“
Chérie
, will you marry me?”

“
Oui,
” I blurted—and then repeated my answer in English. “Yes!”

Nodding solemnly th
ough his eyes were shining, he placed the ring where it belonged. “
Voilà. C’est parfait
.”

This is real
, I thought with another skip in my heart. The ring felt surprisingly heavy.

“
Are you scared?” he asked. “Me, too. This is normal, I think. But you came to this country by yourself, without knowing anyone or speaking a word of French. You are brave, yes?”

I nodded: yes, yes, so brave.
Why not? I preferred to think
brave
than
crazy.

Then my stomach let out a ferocious growl as if voicing
its own opinion.

Jeannot laughed.
“Excuse me?”

“
Sorry, I am hungry.” In French, that translates to “I have hunger.” I wondered whether that would go on forever too, all the translating, so that “I love you” always hinted of “I you love.”

“
I'm going to eat a
petite fromage
,” I said, giving Jeannot a kiss hard on the mouth. “Do you want one?”

“
Bien sûr. Merci
.”

And he’s
polite
, I thought, as I browsed in our refrigerator past the available flavors of yogurt-like cheese, hoping to find an opened banana. Out of luck. Jeannot disliked it when I opened a new eight-pack before finishing the old one, so I carried two cups of strawberry to the bedroom.

After eating, he reached over to brush something off my face.
“You are beautiful even with
petite fromage
on your head,” he said, grinning crookedly.

We laughed
about that. Then we discussed how I would meet the rest of his family too: his aunt and her kids and maybe even his Uncle Charles, who ran a vineyard on the outskirts of the village. “My uncle is a strong personality,” Jeannot said lightly, “but you will love his sister, my Aunt Carole, I promise. She is relaxed and comfortable with everyone.” He paused. “Please be patient with my parents,
Chérie.
They are more…traditional than you might expect.”

“Traditional i
n what way?”

“
Oh, customs, beliefs. The wine business is a kind of religion to the family. So they are a little old-fashioned. If you do not mind, do you think you could dress up for our visit,
Chérie
?”

Jeannot had never made a fuss about my clothing. In fact, he’d spent the last three
months kindly
not
making a fuss, though he did always compliment my hair and my smile and my skin and…well, everything else.

“
Forgive me for asking,” he went on now, obviously embarrassed. “But this is Sunday and your first meeting. You do not mind?”

Without answering
I went to the closet and held up a blue sundress I’d worn only once. It was formal enough if a bit short.

“
Er...too sexy, I think,” he said. “On you, anyway.”

I dropped it and snatched a different dress: un-ironed silk, pink, three-quarter sleeves.
Monique had given this particular item of fancy-wear her ultimate French insult: “The color is lovely, but the dress is not beautiful! It does not show your shape.”

“
Ah yes, this works,” Jeannot said to my surprise. “
Merci.
I will dress more formally too, and they will appreciate it. You understand, I hope?”

Yes—kinda sorta
. I waited till he had disappeared into the bathroom. Then I looked in the mirror.

I disliked looking in mirrors—always had. Didn’t even like to see the good things: my shiny dark hair, the large blue eyes, the naturally arched eyebrows and cleft chin that everyone told me was so stunning. Maybe it’s hard to believe, but I disliked seeing my body too: the high
overlarge breasts, my flat stomach and long legs that I did nothing to deserve. Looking at myself felt strangely dirty and a little off, somehow. I usually avoided it.

Yet today I stood there, thinking.
I draped the pink dress around my head and tied it under my chin: a big flopping babushka. Now I looked like an unlined, overly optimistic version of Grandma.

“
How about if I meet them looking more like this?” I asked the mirror in my family’s old Spanish—in Grandma’s Ladino.

The disused
words tasted like betrayal in my mouth. Grandma was, after all, still sequestered in that Sephardic Home for the Aged in New York. Dying, while I wore silly dresses and visited Jeannot’s family in France.

Maybe I should
call Grandma too. Even if she couldn’t say much or wasn’t sure who I was, she might remember that I existed and cared. She might not recall that I’d abandoned her. And I needed to call Mom again. I’d been telling myself I was conserving money by avoiding the phone, but that was bullshit
(merde de toro
?). If I could open my heart to Jeannot’s family then I could certainly open it to my own.

An e
ngagement is a serious thing. Mom would be thrilled with the news though she might get a little mopey that Jeannot wasn’t Jewish.

I
turned away from the mirror, adjusted my ring, put on and smoothed out the dress, knotted up my hair as primly as humanly possible, and applied enough makeup to look like no makeup at all.

Time to meet the in-laws.
I felt like I was facing a firing squad.