Tita (19 page)

Why don’t I try to call my parents? Françoise did. Maybe I’m too proud. What about Anne-Claude? I think camp is the least of her problems. There’s Assomption, which she can’t escape, waiting for her in October. Waiting for me in a year. We’re doomed. Since there’s nothing we can do, we’d better forget about it. I decide to hibernate. Mentally, which you can do even in August.

I go through the motions. Meanwhile, I stay in New York with Marjorie as much as I can. I read in the morning before the bell, I read while we’re supposed to nap, and in the evening. At mealtime, prayer time, Lourdes time, not-being-allowed-to-shower time, Marjorie keeps me company in my head even though she can be pretty silly as she grows older. At least she’s not
here
.

The summer after Camp Tamarack, she manages to go to South Wind, the adult camp: paradise. She acts in plays, and she’s in love with Noel Airman. Marjorie’s father accuses Noel of being an atheist and Marjorie says no, he believes in God. As if not believing in God would really be the limit. But how can you disapprove of someone for that? You can’t help what you believe, can you? Actually, the parents also seem to object to Noel’s left arm, which is crooked — another thing he can’t help. The parents are so upset, they’re ready to give Marjorie a lot of money so she can travel to the West Coast instead of staying at South Wind with Noel. They’re very scared that Marjorie will end up having sex with Noel.

After camp she goes on seeing Noel, and they explore the city, “ride a ferry for a nickel, hugging each other to keep warm in the icy river breeze, watching the jagged line of black skyscrapers slide past in the moonlight.” This makes me want to ride the ferry too, watch the skyscrapers, walk on those streets that have numbers instead of names.

The problem is, she no longer likes to kiss him. But she does kiss him all the same. I wonder why. Noel doesn’t seem to be her ally any longer. “You’re not an actress,” he tells her, but “a good little Jewish beauty, with a gift for amateur theatricals.” You can “direct all the temple plays in New Rochelle”. Right after these insults, Marjorie finally decides to have sex with him, at a time when she doesn’t have “the faintest desire to do it”. Why do it then? After a year Noel leaves Marjorie and goes to France. Marjorie marries a man named Schwartz, a lawyer. She ends up living in Mamaroneck, near New Rochelle!

The ending feels totally hurried, as if the author had a train to catch. Or as if he didn’t quite believe in what he finally does to his heroine. His conclusion is that Marjorie was wrong about herself from the beginning, that Noel was right (at least, about her). It’s a bit like the comtesse de Ségur’s
Quel amour d’enfant
where Giselle, when she grows up, is punished after being spoiled by her parents. Giselle’s fate is dire: lousy husband, financial ruin, social disgrace. What happens to Marjorie is that she just becomes ordinary: gives up acting, gets married, lives in the dreaded suburbs. I don’t know why this should be so awful, but for her (for the Marjorie we get to know through the bulk of the novel) it’s the worst possible fate.

I’m glad I took this book with me here: it helped me escape from the nuns, into a part of the world I didn’t even know existed, where exotic characters worry a lot about neighborhoods, receive their degrees in costumes, are afraid to eat pork, and are obsessed with what they call success. But Herman Wouk, the author of this book, is not my kind. Like the comtesse de Ségur, and unlike Stendhal or Marcel Proust, he tries to make a point: a spoiled girl like Marjorie, who wants to do what she likes instead of what she’s expected to, is misguided, and can only fail.

The camp lasts until Monday, August 19, but our parents called Mother Ho last night to tell her they’ll come for us on Saturday morning on their way to Saint-Jean-de-Luz. We’re all going to stay there for a week with Aunt Caroline, who has a villa on the ocean.

“We get to leave two days early, hurray!” Coralie cries.

“Yes, you’re lucky,” Sylvie says. “We’ll have to ride all the way back with the
patro
girls.” Not that we think ill of the
patro
girls. They could have flouted or even tortured us, and they haven’t, at all. They’ve all been so busy with their Girl Guide stuff, they’ve mostly ignored us. I remain grateful for the way they tuned us in to the plastic bag trick from the first soup. And Delphine’s description of her school gave me a lot to think about. They’re all right.

Our parents are supposed to arrive at eight, and breakfast is usually at eight thirty, so on Saturday Coralie and I are told to sit outside in front of the house, at the table where the nuns usually bring the vegetables to be peeled and scraped. There we are served an extraordinary meal. Someone has built a kind of tower with small crescents of butter. Three jars stand open in front of us, with a different kind of marmalade in each. And boiled eggs. And canned peaches. I nibble on a slice of bread, but Coralie looks stunned. She stares at the butter tower for a while, weeping quietly. That’s when I hear our parents’ car. Here they are, smiling down at us and patting us on the head, more elegant than ever, Mother in a new low-cut dress, red roses on a cream background, Father with his light-green short-sleeved shirt.

Mother Ho comes out and asks them if they want to sit down to breakfast with us. They say no thanks, they’ve had breakfast, they’ll just wait for us. Coralie has tears all over her cheeks and chin. “What is it, my pet?” Father says, taking her in his arms.

“I think she wants to go away,” I say. “We’re ready.”

Sister Gi brings our bags, we say goodbye, and we leave in the 402. Coralie goes on crying. Mother mutters, “What’s wrong with her? Isn’t she happy to see us?” Then she turns on the radio.

When we drive into Dax Father says, “Let’s stop and have something to drink, shall we?” We sit outside a café in front of the church. I say I’d like grapefruit juice, but Coralie can’t speak. “Chocolate ice cream?” Father asks, and she nods, sobbing louder. But when the waiter brings her three scoops in a beautiful blue dish, with two wafers on top, she quiets down and eats.

When she’s done with the ice cream, the wafers, and a tall glass of water, she jumps into Father’s lap and starts sucking her thumb.

“Are you all right now?” Father asks. Coralie looks up at him, then at me. She nods, closes her eyes.

Mother shrugs. “Just another fit of the sulks! And I thought camp would straighten her out.”

Father watches Coralie for a while, then looks up at me. “What happened?” he asks.

How can I explain? I’d rather forget about it all. “I’m sorry I started this,” I say. “It wasn’t a good idea. We didn’t like the camp.”

Father shakes his head. “Nuns!” he says. 

September first. We’re walking to church, Mother in her green suit with grey lapels, low-heeled grey shoes, and a green-and-white contorted hat, like a winkle, with a tiny veil in front. Grandmother: black coat, black hat adorned with a feather and a token veil. Coralie and I have the same white pillbox hats above our perfect plaits, the same dark-blue pleated skirts, the same black patent-leather shoes. Only our jackets are different, because she’s wearing my faded crimson one from last year. Mine is brick red.

Being dressed up makes me sad, and like a doll in Eléonore’s display cabinet. For Coralie, it’s worse: she needs to climb and crawl and get dirty. But she finds ways to escape. Mentally. Right now, for instance, she’s telling me what she calls “a Back When story”. She always starts these with, “Back when I was very little, before I was born…”

This time, she goes on, “I climbed to the top of the steeple, and then I flew from the steeple to the church roof, and with my spear I dug a hole in the roof to watch the people inside the church. They couldn’t see me, but they could feel the wind. When they thought of looking up, I was gone. I was flying again, into the hills.”

Because she doesn’t like school and doesn’t talk much to adults, people say that Coralie isn’t clever. They couldn’t be more wrong. Coralie is a genius at doing what she likes. She doesn’t worry about being nice and approved of. “I flew above the pine trees,” she goes on, “and I shook them. Some pine cones fell down and they hit a rabbit. The rabbit looked up, and he saw me. I said, ‘Sorry’. I didn’t mean to hurt him. The rabbit said, ‘Come and share my breakfast’. His breakfast was
pain au chocolat
and
chausson aux pommes
.”

“Stop that,” Mother says to Coralie, “you shouldn’t lie.” Coralie looks the other way and sticks out her tongue.

“She’s so little,” Grandmother says, “she doesn’t know the difference.”

“She shouldn’t lie,” Mother says.

“She’s not lying,” I say, “she’s telling me a story.”

“A story?” Mother says. “She claims she did this and that. It doesn’t even make sense.”

“You can tell a story in the first person,” I say, “and it’s still a story, not a lie.” I could mention
Claudine à l’école
, which I borrowed from Anne-Claude’s grandmother, but better not. Claudine is in love with a young teacher at her school, who teaches the smaller girls. In love with a woman! I’m not sure Mother has even heard about women who are in love with each other. Anyway we’re already walking into church.

Choirboys with their lace collars, priest going back and forth, holding up the host in the sparkling monstrance. We bow because our mortal eyes are not supposed to espy the Real Presence. I can’t take communion, because to do so I’d have had to abstain from eating. Which I’m allowed to do for the early mass on my
jour de garde
, but on Sundays we go to the High Mass, at ten, and Mother doesn’t want me to go that long without food. Food is what she cares about. She never takes communion. I wonder if she’s even baptized. Actually, why was
I
baptized? Nobody in my family has any interest in religion.

After mass, Mother talks to her friends for a while in front of the church. While the women dissect each other’s outfits, I join Coralie, Anne-Claude and Sylvie, who are admiring the window of a small bakery. “My mother is furious about the
patro
nuns,” Anne-Claude says. “She wrote to the bishop, she called lots of people to warn them never to send their daughters to that camp. And I might not go to Assomption after all!”

“That’s great news! But where will you go?”

“I’m not sure. Mother’s calling around.”

“What did you tell her?” I ask.

“Not much. But Sylvie prattled on about the water, the food, the Way of the Cross on our knees, so Mother asked why we didn’t mention any of this in our letters. I explained. And that’s what made her most angry: that they didn’t let us write what we wanted.”

Coralie and Sylvie, in front of the shop window, are trying to decide which cake they would most like today:
religieuse
,
millefeuille
,
saint-honoré
? Noëlle joins us. “I’m so glad I didn’t go to Lourdes with you. These Assomption nuns sound even worse than what my neighbors tell me about Trinité.”

“Sainte-Trinité?” Anne-Claude asks. “That’s where Sabine’s going in October! Is it that bad?”

“Well,” Noëlle says, “it’s supposed to be so chic and all but, according to Geneviève and her sister, quite a few of the teachers are loons, and most girls don’t even take the
bac
. The only edge Trinité has over Assomption is that the school doesn’t have a chapel, so the girls get to go into town. They line up in twos and walk to the church for mass three times a week. At Assomption, apparently, they never even leave the school, and their yard is pretty small. But it’s closer to Cugnac, and less expensive, that’s why so many people choose it. I visited both schools with my parents in July but they didn’t like either so they asked around and...”

Noëlle’s father is calling her, and they get in their car while we set off towards home. To cross the avenue, Mother takes Coralie’s hand and Cami takes Sylvie’s. I am behind them with Anne-Claude, who comes closer to me and whispers, “Do you know what’s going to happen at Sainte-Blandine?” I don’t. “I overheard monsieur le curé telling my father, but it’s supposed to be kept secret until the
rentrée
, or more parents might back out. When the bishop received Pélican’s estimates in June, he said he needed to know precisely how many students the school could count on for this October. He said that he wouldn’t recruit a new teacher to replace madame Riu if there weren’t nine at least in each class.”

“But there
will
be
nine in each class. Just. Upstairs too, thanks to me!”

“Maybe not. Elisabeth might not go back, she helped at the record store during the summer and now they’ve offered her a job. Pélican is trying to persuade her parents to keep her in school for another year but I don’t think they will. Pélican was also thinking of putting little Roxane upstairs even though she can’t read at all. But then there wouldn’t be enough kids downstairs. It was touch and go, so the diocese decided last week that there will be only one class this year. Only Pélican’s. If more students enroll next year, then maybe they’ll appoint another teacher.”

Further along the avenue, we run into Father in his car. “I’ll take the girls to the cemetery,” he says to Mother, and we climb into the back. I try to imagine Pélican alone with students from two to fourteen years old, six groups in the same room. It will all take place downstairs, certainly — the room upstairs would be too small. Pélican never even
looks
at the little kids. Someone who can’t read doesn’t exist for her. And even when you’re in her class, as soon as you cut your finger or your nose bleeds, she sends you down to madame Riu. How will she manage on her own?

In the cemetery, we have several tombs. The main one is at the end of the first row, you see it as soon as you walk through the gate. It’s huge, with a fat column on each side. On its front are the names of my paternal grandfather and grandmother, aunt Marta, and aunt Madeleine. There are two empty spaces still, where you could engrave the names of two more people. Who? I don’t think Mother will want to be in there, she hardly ever comes with us to the cemetery. Aunt Caroline?

We tend this tombstone every Sunday. Sometimes we bring fresh flowers, or new plants, but today we just water the ones that are there, yellow freesias, small white chrysanthemums. Coralie is rubbing wet soil between her hands. I recite a
Requiem aeternam
for each of the four dead people, and a special
De profundis
for Marta. What I like about this prayer is that it speaks in the dead person’s voice, trying to reach God from the depths of the tomb.
Clamavi ad te
, “I called you,” I enunciate — but softly.
Exaudi vocem meam!
“Hear my voice!” But I have no idea what Marta’s voice was like. Father must remember. He’s standing there, his eyes closed.

We walk on to the back of the cemetery, Coralie skipping in front of us, singing
Nous n’irons plus au bois
. We have three more tombs there, all full. I don’t know exactly who the people are in these tombs. Many of the men are called Auguste or Gustave, and most of the women are Clara or Marta. “Which of my names will be on my tombstone?” I ask.

Father looks startled. “You’ll have to choose,” he says.

“Which one would
you
choose?”

“I chose Euphémie when you were baptized. I needed to find a saint’s name in a hurry. And now I think it rather suits you.”

“So I don’t need to be Lakmé at all, after I die?”

“You can decide what’s on your tombstone,” Father says.

“But not what’s on my passport?”

“No. You can’t change your legal name. At least, not easily.”

“What about you? Do you like Lakmé?” I ask.

He looks embarrassed. “Your mother...” he starts, but doesn’t go on. “For Coralie too the priest asked us to find a different baptismal name,” he says after a while. “There’s no saint Coralie. Your mother chose Christine.”

When we get back in the car Father says, “I need to stop by Laget’s.” Laget is the blacksmith, and we all go into his shed. Father and monsieur Laget start looking at metal rods while Coralie plays with the little dog. Father nods, and shakes monsieur Laget’s hand.

At home, Father warns us: “Keep away from the garden!” Through the window, we try to see what’s going on. A man is digging a hole. There are metal bars on Mother’s gravel.

After lunch, Father takes us into the garden. In the middle of the gravel area, between two flower beds, there’s a huge contraption with a slender crossbar at the top from which hang a trapeze, two rings, and a swing. It looks homemade: the texture of the metal is rough, not like in public parks. Coralie jumps up, kisses Father, gets on the trapeze and hangs from her knees as if she’s done this all her life. Mother says, “What is this?”

Father smiles. “It’s for Coralie,” he says, “she’s such an acrobat!” He puts his hand on my neck and pushes me gently towards the swing. “I hope you’ll like it too, Tita. Try.” Yes, I think I’ll like it too. And our friends. But Coralie! I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so bouncy. She jumps down from the trapeze, slides her feet into the rings and swings high.

“Careful!” Mother says. She’s not happy. The whole design of her garden is ruined. But she’s not going to say anything. Too late.