Tender at the Bone (14 page)

The other counselors considered Danielle a pain; she was a bookworm, a goody-goody, “
pas amusant
.” But because she wasn’t interested
in boys and the boys weren’t interested in me we slowly became friends. And I discovered that she had a surprising streak of independence. When I asked if anyone wanted to hitchhike to the other end of the island and explore St. Trojan, everybody was too timid. “It’s too far,” said Georges.

“You’ll get back late and be fired,” said Suzanne.

“St. Trojan?” said Danielle looking them disdainfully up and down. “Yes. I think it would be interesting to take a look.”

“Are you crazy?” said Monique. “If he finds out, the director will send you home.”

“Do you really think he’ll send us home if he finds out?” asked Danielle as we set off. It was a hot, dry day. “What if we can’t get back in time?” We walked through Boyardville, past the
tabac
, past the one grocery store and the seafood restaurant where the tourists went.

“The director will never know we’re gone,” I said. “Monique will cover for us.” Danielle nodded, but by the time we reached the place where the sidewalk ended I could see she had lost her confidence.

There was not much traffic. Nowadays a bridge connects the Île d’Oléron to the mainland, but back then you had to take a ferry from La Rochelle. Few people bothered.

“Maybe no cars will come,” said Danielle. I thought she sounded hopeful. But just as she said it a car appeared off in the distance. We watched it come toward us, thumbs out. It went flying past, slowed, and came to a screeching halt on the side of the road, throwing up a cloud of dust.

We ran over. Inside was an older couple from Paris. They could not, they said, take us all the way to St. Trojan because they were only going halfway, to visit a local cheesemaker.

“
Ça ira
,” I said, opening the door, “we’ll come along if you
permit it.” I knew that if we didn’t go with them Danielle would chicken out.

“You will be pleased,” said the woman confidently, as if she had known us all our lives and knew what we liked. She had one of those vague, lightly puffy faces that seem like a drawing that has been erased one too many times. Her gray hair was chopped short, she had pale blue eyes, and she sighed a great deal as if some terrible sadness were bottled up inside her; probably it was just indigestion.

Her husband looked like a walking record of the good life. Built like a fire hydrant, he had a large face traced with broken blood vessels and a large stomach that jiggled softly against the steering wheel. The car was filled with a mysteriously low rattling sound; looking down I saw that it came from the jars of jam and cans of confit that covered the floor.

Their name was Deveau and when they discovered that I was American they lost all interest in me. “The Americans,” said Madame firmly, “do not know how to eat.” But when Danielle said she was from Reims they gasped happily. “
Oh, la belle Champagne,”
breathed Madame, peppering Danielle with questions about this restaurant and that winery.

“My family does not go to restaurants,” Danielle said simply.

The Deveaus looked sad, as if she were missing out on a great life experience. “Have you been to Troyes?” Madame ventured.

“Bien sûr,”
she said, “my aunt and uncle live near there. Just outside, in the village of Chaource.”

“Ah, Chaource,” she said reverently, “one of the great cheeses of the world. Have you tasted it?”

“My uncle makes it,” Danielle replied.

At that Monsieur Deveau turned to look at her, swiveling so completely that I was grateful the road was empty. He ignored the swerve of the car and stared worshipfully at her, as if he had just discovered a movie star in his backseat. “Do you know it has been
made since the fourteenth century?” he said, in the tone of voice most people reserve for great works of art.

“Yes,” said Danielle. “It is a venerable cheese.” As he returned his eyes to the road she whispered, “I can’t stand it. Disgusting! So rich!”

A deep sigh came from the front and then Madame Deveau’s face rose over the back of her seat. “It is so hard to get good farm cheeses today,” she said plaintively. She was happy to inform us that when we reached our destination we would be privileged to taste a rare cheese called Oléron. “Made, it is understood, as it should be! It is a sad story when the good cheese of France is being made in factories!” Another sigh.

I was beginning to regret this little jaunt; we were in the middle of nowhere and we had not passed a single car. Danielle was looking nervous.

“At least we won’t starve,” I whispered, giving myself up to the adventure as Monsieur turned into a small driveway. Sheep looked up sleepily as the car passed, and then went back to munching grass. The air hardly stirred. The car stopped in front of a small wooden house and we all got out. It was odd; sniffing deeply I could still smell the sea.

A woman emerged, wearing a pink dress with white polka dots and a pair of sneakers. Her flyaway blonde hair was pulled off her face into a sort of chignon. She had big teeth and a beautiful smile.
“Vous désirez?”
she asked, opening the door and motioning us in.

Danielle looked at her watch. “We have to be back in an hour,” she said urgently. “We should not have come!”

“Don’t worry,” I said.

“But we aren’t near anywhere,” she said unhappily. “We can’t leave until they do.”

“How long can it take to look at a little cheese?” I asked.

I had underestimated Madame. Before the cheese, the sheep. Only after we had examined them, and discussed what they ate,
could we go to the cheese-making room and watch the woman demonstrate how she washed the curd, pressed it into little rounds, and put it on mats to drain. She let us taste yesterday’s cheese, which was as fresh and mild as cream cheese, and then one that was a week old. It was soft in the mouth, with the distinct tang of sheep’s milk. “Now this,” said Madame Deveau approvingly, “has real character!” She scooped up a second piece and popped it in her mouth. “We have nothing like this in Paris,” she said happily. She was beginning the negotiations when she spied something else on the shelf. It looked like a lump of coal, completely covered in black mold.

“We do not sell that,” said the woman. “It is for us. We age it a few months.”

Madame Deveau’s eyes gleamed; she had discovered a rarity. She had to have it. She began pulling bills out of her pocketbook, offering more and more money for one of the family cheeses.

“But, Madame,” said the woman, “you have not yet tasted it.” She looked at us and made a fast moue with her mouth.

“I know it will be excellent!” said Madame flirtatiously. “Your sheep are fed on the healthy island grass and the cheese ages here in this clean air. I know that there will be nothing like this at home. My friends will be so envious.”

The woman made a grand display of giving in. “But first,” she insisted, “let me show you my other products.” She led us back into the house and offered us a cool drink. “Some of my lemonade perhaps?”

Madame fanned herself and plopped down into a chair. She thought some lemonade would be perfect. “We have to go,” said Danielle pointing to her watch. It was three o’clock and she was looking pale and scared. The siesta ended in half an hour.

If we left right that instant we might just get back in time. But Madame Deveau was not going anywhere. The cheesemaker had brought a tray of lemonade and now the real show began.

Four kinds of jam. Honey. A duck confit that she made herself. Madame tasted everything and greedily bought it all. “Oh,” she kept saying, “it is so delicious! My friends will be so pleased. Isn’t it so, Henri?”

Monsieur was in a corner chair, dozing a little.
“Oui, ma chèrie,”
he said, dutifully rousing himself. “It is just as you say.”

The cheesemaker appeared slightly dazed, but she seemed to have come to the end of the show. She looked around for a moment and then left the room. When she returned she was carrying a beautiful blanket. “My sister-in-law spins her own wool,” she offered, holding it out. It was dark colors, purples, browns, and deep blues, with the subtlety of an Amish quilt. I reached out to touch it, but Madame Deveau said dismissively, “You can’t eat blankets.”

“I don’t suppose,” asked Madame wistfully, “that you make foie gras?”

We were in luck; she didn’t. We would be late, but not late enough to be fired. Color returned to Danielle’s cheeks.

But the cheesemaker had another thought. “Do let me bring you a taste of my tarte aux framboises,” she said. “My tartes are famous all over this island.”

“I
am
a little hungry,” conceded Madame. “Shopping is such exhausting work.”

Monsieur Deveau woke up with a snort. “A little snack might be nice,” he agreed.

Danielle looked as if she were going to cry. “What are we going to do?” she said, chewing her nails.

“Have a piece of tart?” I suggested. “We are prisoners.”

Danielle took her finger out of her mouth and took a bite. I watched her. She took another. And another. I took a bite myself.

It was magnificent. The fruit was intoxicatingly fragrant and each berry released its juice only in the mouth, where it met the sweet, crumbly crust. “Why is this so much better than other tarts?” I asked.

Madame Deveau looked at me with something like interest. “The American wakes up,” she commented. “It is that the products here are so good,” she said. “Good butter from fat cows and wild berries grown in the island air.”

If the cheesemaker took offense at this slight to her talent she did not show it. But Danielle did. “Madame,” she said coldly, “my aunt makes her own butter and I assure you it is very fine. And when she makes a tart I myself gather the berries. She is said to be a very good cook. But never have I tasted a tart that could equal this one.”

Monsieur Deveau looked at her with a certain respect.
“Bravo, ma fille,”
he said. “Credit must be given. We are in the presence of real talent.”

The cheesemaker blushed but she did not deny it. “I have a good hand with a tart,” she said simply. She began to clear the plates and Danielle and I jumped up to help her. When we walked into the kitchen Danielle pointed to her watch: it was four o’clock. We were sunk. As the kitchen door closed on Madame Deveau, who was slicing herself another piece of tart, Danielle began to cry.

I was startled to see her lose her composure so completely and I did not know what to do. “I’m sorry,” I said helplessly, “it’s all my fault.”

The cheesemaker put her arms around Danielle and produced one of her beautiful smiles. “What is it,
mon chou?”
she asked. “What is the trouble?”

“I should never have been so stupid as to come,” sobbed Danielle. “We will be so late getting back to camp that I will be put at the door. I will be sent home and my parents will be furious with me. I have ruined my life!”

“No such thing,” soothed the cheesemaker. “You will tell Monsieur le directeur that you were with Marie. And you will present to him, with my compliments, a raspberry tart. He will not fire you, I promise.”

She was so certain of the power of her tart that we believed her. Danielle looked happpier. Then a cloud crossed her face.

“I have no money,” she said.

“Do not trouble yourself about that,” said Marie. “You have already brought me good luck. I have never had anybody buy so much in one afternoon. And at such prices! I charged them double. And they will send their friends and I will double the prices again.”

Danielle murmured her thanks. She looked as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. I watched her struggle with herself as Madame Deveau called from the front room,
“Alors les filles! On y va?”
Danielle headed for the door, then turned back again.

“Madame,” she began shyly, “can I ask you a question?”

“Oui, ma fille.”

“Will you teach me to make the tart?”

“When is your day off?”

“In four days.”

“Come back. I will teach you. And bring your friend.” For the first time all day Danielle looked truly happy.

As we got into the car, Madame Deveau stared jealously at the tart. As we drove off, she began trying to buy it. Danielle looked shocked. “It was a gift!” she said, so earnestly that Madame Deveau let the matter drop.

The trip back seemed to take forever. Madame Deveau prattled on about her great good luck in finding such a talented woman, seemingly oblivious to the nervous silence in the backseat. By the time we reached the gates of Maison Heureuse the siesta had been over for two hours. We had no idea what to expect. We said good-bye and climbed out of the car. Madame cast one last, longing look at the tart and then they were gone.

“What an awful woman!” said Danielle as we walked stealthily through the woods to the beach. There was one anxious moment
when she tripped on the root of a tree, but she clung steadfastly to the tart and it was still intact when we reached the top of the bluff.

“I can’t look,” said Danielle. “Are they there?” I peeked over the edge, looking down. Nikili was banging Roland over the head with a shovel and Monique was lying with her head on George’s stomach.