Silent Bird (9 page)

We headed away from the city, shedding it almost instantly.

Ah, the French countryside!
Poplar trees lining narrow country roads. Funky street signs that still confused me after three months of looking at them. Villas with red-tiled roofs and private vineyards. As Jeannot drove I peppered him with questions about his family’s business, how long they’d had it, what the difference was between “
vin de table
”—plain wine that the Courbois clan made a lot of—and the quality kind, which they made less of. He explained how each variety of wine is as individual as a fingerprint and something about the timing of the grapes and the dirt and who knew what else. I did not mention that to me, all wine was stinky and yucky-tasking and reminiscent of things far better forgotten. Jeannot knew about my distaste for alcohol. It perplexed him. At least I liked vineyards; they were lovely to look at and walk through. I also knew that a glass of red wine per day was good for one’s heart.

Just not
my
heart.

Thirty minutes after
we left Montpellier a village appeared before us, piled on top of the dry Mediterranean foothills like toffee-colored ice cream on cake. And the “moat,” dried and cracked like old mud pies, presented a sort of decaying decoration around the cake—or cakes, since this village was really a collection of old castles.

A
lso according to Jeannot, in the 11
th
century the powerful de Lavergne castle had dominated the area, housing two smaller castles. These three strongholds of medieval society remained as an intriguing hodgepodge of scraps: a couple of castle windows here, modern stretches of concrete there, with maybe a balcony thrown into the mix, fresh flowers in a pot, and lines of laundry airing in the sun.

Villefranche sur Lez
: the same village I’d visited that first night, when we consulted his family doctor about my poor swollen toe. Jeannot’s hometown. Why in the world hadn’t he invited me back here to meet the family before now?

“
Are you worried?” I found myself asking.

Jeannot glanced away from the road.
“About what,
Chérie
?”

“Introducing me to your family.”

“What? No, not at all. I look forward to it.”

“Oh.” I paused. “Then w
hy didn’t you bring me sooner?”

He glanced back at me. “I am not sure. I thought about it, of course. I wanted to bring you. I did have the impression
you preferred to wait. But you are right. I should have introduced you as soon as you moved in. Forgive me,
Chérie
. Yes?”

I nodded. Yes.

He changed the subject by pointing to a curve of castle wall. “After the Revolution,” he explained in a lighter tone, “everyone grabbed whatever they could to make their home. That is the reason for all these changes to the original structure.”

“
Impressive,” I said, eyeing the crumbling, slapdash jumble of architecture.

We entered through a Roman arch, turned at an ornate fountain visited by thirsty dogs and once more by a set of stone stairs that
bolted to the left as if fearing they would be followed. A young girl, her arms and legs poked between slats of a railing, waved. Jeannot waved back. Up the hill, the vista grew magnificent again: rows of vines unfurled in a carpet of abundance to the
Pyrénées
, the ribbon of the river Lez shimmering in the distance.

Jeannot laughed.
“You are like a dog hanging out the window,” he said as I snapped a picture.

“
Woof,” I said. It needed no translation.

The tow
n’s huge old belfry burst into life. Noon. Time for France to retreat into its very un-American ritual of a long, hot lunch, even on a muggy day. Jeannot parked his nugget of a car in a cobbled alley under ramparts that were part stone, part cement. Windows peeked everywhere, shutters drawn against heat. Voices rose in laughter, dishes clattered, a baby cried.

“My uncle’s vineyard is back there”—pointing toward the brown hills—“but m
y parents live closer, just on the other side of these ruins,” he said.

He guided
me under more arches,
not
golden. I pointed at a strange, overhanging stone fixture with a hole in it.

“
What’s that?”

“
We would have been hit with hot oil through that hole if the century were right.
If
we were invaders.”

A few yards away we paused at an ancient-looking slab covered with indecipherable scribble
s. Roman writing from two thousand years ago, Jeannot explained—a slave commemorating his master. I snapped another picture.

“There i
s an even older plaque with Roman writing by the church,” Jeannot added. “It says, 'Lightning Strikes Here.'”

“
Referring to…real lightning?”

“
No one knows. Presumably.”

I thought of something.
“In French you
say 'coup de foudr
e'—'lightning bolt'—to mean 'love at first sight.' Maybe those plaques point out the places where lovers met and fell in love.”

“
You are secretly very romantic,
Chérie
.”

Click.
Click
. This time I captured him grinning down at me, the sun forming halos on his hair.

He asked,
“Have you ever heard the myth about Jupiter and the lightning bolt?” We’d reached the plaza, a neat square of unkempt summer-worn grass edged by an empty café. “The god Jupiter wanted a head sacrificed with every bolt that hit the ground. So the Romans, feeling clever and trying to trick Jupiter, put an onion head on the designated spot.

“
But Jupiter objected. He said the head should have at least one human hair. The Romans responded by offering one human hair and an onion head. Except Jupiter expected the head with the human hair to also have a body. So what did the Romans do? Every time lightning struck, they put down an onion head, a single human hair, and the body of an anchovy. This way, Jupiter was finally appeased.”

“
Ah. Clever.”

“My father
traces his lineage almost as far back as the Romans,” Jeannot added soberly. “He is almost fanatical about it, I’m afraid. Our noble history. Though much of what he believes is myth. Like Jupiter.”

I glanced at him.
“Are you warning me?”

“No.
Of course not. Pilar, we turn here.”

“
Wait. I love that street with the poppies against the fence—give me a few minutes,” I said, walking faster to take more pictures.

A fieldstone wal
l…blood red poppies against stone the color of bleached bone…and pigeons homing back to the belfry.
Click click
. I snapped all of it: the cobblestones; an aged wall of a house with bright blue trim around the window. I was getting into “the zone” now, not unlike what happened when I drew pictures. I moved around another corner and spied a little Arab-looking girl with covered hair. She looked about seven; I probably shouldn’t be photographing her without permission. I was just about to turn away when I heard a voice, young and male, on the same side of the street. A French-looking teenager approached, T-shirt, denim jacket. Two young boys, roughly junior high age, followed.

The older kid said something.
Slut.
Through my viewfinder I saw the older one reach out and tug the girl’s kerchief. She yelped, swatting him away. The boys hooted, and the big kid tried again. This time he yanked the cloth down far enough to reveal the child’s mass of rich dark hair.

“
Non
!” she cried, her eyes round and terrified: a bird caught in a cat’s mouth.

“Ooooh, guess you don’t need this now, do you?” the boy taunted, and he tossed the kerchief on the ground.

Still paralyzed behind my viewfinder, I thought,
No!

I put the camera down and looked at the girl with my own eyes. Dear God, she was just a wispy little thing. What did they want?

I could only imagine too well what they wanted. I began to run.

“Leave her!” I cried in French
. They didn’t listen—the boys still hooted and pointed and kicked the kerchief with their dirty feet. “Hey!
You!
I said:
Leave her alone
!”

The group looked
at me, startled. Then the older kid’s face darkened and he stepped slightly aside, his foot still wiping the ground with the kerchief. The girl dropped to her knees, crying in protest. I got close enough to see the shaking of her hands, and the small fist that finally grasped her kerchief, snatching it away from the monster’s boot.

“Are you all right?”
I called to her. “Don’t worry; I’m coming!”

The teenager
muttered something slangy and laughed; he pushed one of the younger boys, and the bullies darted off, the third boy blank-faced and bug-eyed as if following the Pied Piper.

T
he girl—dark eyes filled with tears—balled up the kerchief in her hand and ran too, in the opposite direction. A moment later, she entered a courtyard and disappeared. A courtyard not far from the window with the bright blue trim.

Da
mn, I should have done besides yell! Why didn’t I?
I couldn’t believe I had just stood there behind my viewfinder, staring uselessly, not even taking pictures, while that little girl was…abused.

The idea made me sick. How could I?

Footsteps sounded behind me. “Pilar? Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you?”

Jeannot, breathing a little hard, as if he’d been running too.

I grabbed his arm. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…but something happened. Just a minute ago. I was taking pictures…and I saw a child getting”—
Translation for abused?
—”bothered by an older boy. He was awful to her, and he wasn’t alone. She was only about seven years old.”

Jeannot stared at me a moment then nodded.
“Is she all right?”

“
Yes, I think so. The boys went that way.” I pointed. “The girl went home, I think. Down there. She was crying her eyes out.”

He shook his head. “Terrible.
I am sorry you saw that.”

“Me too.”
You have no idea.

“This is n
ot a nice welcome to my village. But I am glad she is home safe now. Children can be mean, yes?”

Yes
, I thought. That’s why adults have to pay attention!

“Are you all right?” Jeannot asked.

I said I was and he told me were almost at his parents’ house. So I shook away my mood and gave him my hand. And he led me to a very old building baking in the sun where we climbed a long dim stairway scented of cooked chicken, toward my first meeting with his mysterious, very old-fashioned family.

The stone of this house might have been built to forestall heat—a good thing since the French didn’t believe in air conditioning their homes even if you melted and stuck like gumdrops to your seat—but I was sweating before I was said my first hello.

“This is Pilar Russell, my little friend,” Jeannot told his mother. I knew that
little friend
meant
girlfriend
, so clearly he was saving the news of our engagement for later, after we’d broken the ice.

“
It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Mademoiselle,” Madame said, glancing down at my dress before air-kissing my cheeks. Finally her eyes settled back on the sight of her son, and her face found its true shape. “And a kiss for you, my little thumb,” she said—or something like that.

Behind her the kitchen seemed to spin brightness from all directions.
It reminded me of a child’s pinwheel: yellow hand towels and place mats, yellow fruit designs on wallpaper, yellow plastic bananas in a bowl, yellow light sneaking in windows with no blinds.

“
Mademoiselle,” said a ruddy-faced overweight man who’d appeared from the balcony. Jeannot’s father? Uncle? He stopped close to me and stared, and I recognized Jeannot’s eyes; the color the same, the soul behind the curtain much different. More hidden.

“This is my father,” Jeannot said. “Papa, my girlfriend, Pilar Russell.”

The older Courbois glanced down at my dress, too. Approving? He kissed me, murmuring, “Ah, no wonder Jeannot kept this one a secret!” and my cheeks grew hot at the comment.

Jeannot
must have overheard, because he frowned.

Great, I thought. Nice start.

Next, Jeannot’s youthful Aunt Carole emerged from a back room to greet me. Neatly dressed in capris and cotton sweater, she offered kisses as light and fast as hummingbirds. Her beanpole, towheaded, and freckled children—twins, about eleven—kissed me politely, as if following instructions. Then Carole’s boyfriend Henri, a muscular bald-headed male in a soccer jersey, kissed me so hard his lips stuck to my skin like Velcro.

“
I see that Americans are indeed beautiful,” he shouted, as if limited French skills might make me deaf, too.

“
Here, come sit.” Carole beckoned to the kitchen table. “Shall I get you a glass of water?”

“
What are you doing, offering her water?” Jeannot’s father barked in oddly garbled French as if he had toothpicks hiding in his mouth, holding up his smile. “I am sure the lovely Mademoiselle wants to drink like the French. Let her try pastis,” he said.

Bottles were pulled from the cabinet, and I sat sipping the liqueur as everyone watched
me for reactions. It smelled like licorice, not cough medicine. Thank goodness. “Mm, good,” I said.

“
You have olives like this in America?” Monsieur Courbois pointed at the small dish of spiced olives.

“
Yes, of course. Mmm.
Délicieux.”

“
And Americans drink pastis sometimes, yes?”

“Uh,
I’m not sure. No one in my family does,” I said, chugging down the stuff—if my face had to burn, why not with a little help?

“Y
our father—
he
does not drink it?” His bushy eyebrows lifted at the absurdity of such a notion.

Jeannot saved me by saying,
“Papa, I'm sure they have all kinds of vices available in New York. Just not this one,
d’accord
?”

Monsieur Courbois threw his son a cryptic look
, pulled out a cigar and lumbered to the balcony. Behind him, the room seemed to exhale in relief. The twins continued to stare at me as if I were a platypus at the zoo. So I winked. And when they giggled outright, I felt like I’d accomplished something.