Silent Bird Read online

  “For centuries we were a nation in exile, Pilar. That’s why our family came here. You think you’ll feel comfortable living in France? You’ll find plenty of terrorists and neo-Nazis there, and Palestinian supporters galore. Believe me; anti-Semitism is always in style, especially in Europe. Like a sickness, it comes back to haunt you.”

  My mother, so certain about things far away and in the past but not seeing what’s right under her nose—not seeing the connections that really mattered. What would she say if she knew that it was personal sickness drawing me away from her, from Grandma, and the only home I’d ever known? For this adventure I was planning had little to do with France or anywhere else. It had to do with my nearly overwhelming urge to settle somewhere completely anonymous and foreign. I would take along my clothes, my art supplies, and nothing else. A tabula rasa in the making…

  “Grandpa told me to be interested and curious about the world,” I said. “He would have understood.”

  “Maybe, and I understand too. I understand that you’re young and looking to catch your own shadow. But sweetie, you really won’t fit in. I know you. You won’t ‘find yourself.’ And you’ll never find a decent bagel either.”

  We looked at each other, picturing the life-altering lack of bagels. And we burst out laughing, though she turned out to be right about the bagels. Bagels and New York pizza: gone, gone, gone. Fortunately in France they did have scrumptiously fresh baguettes, which was what I was eating the morning after I slept off my jetlag and emerged from Hôtel de la Gare to begin my new life.

  A blank slate.

  III

  The plaza I ended up falling in love with welcomed me like a disarming old photograph.

  You know the kind of photo I’m talking about. Every dusty family photo album harbors one: of a forgotten relative in her youth, as flirty as all get-out despite the conventions of the time, or maybe because of them. Well, this street appeared like such a photo. I’d been nibbling my baguette while searching in vain for “to rent” signs—or ” à louer,” according to my English-French dictionary—because there were no apartments, flats, shared cottages or hovels available anywhere. At home I had envisioned an orgy of French living opportunities in my new city, especially with the dollar enjoying such a healthy exchange rate. I wasn’t fussy; anything would do. Shared housing near one of the campuses, a large-windowed flat on the Paris-like pedestrian streets, or even a Bohemian studio with peeling paint—they all sounded good. But Montpellier, it seemed, suffered from an actual housing shortage. I hadn’t considered the flood of students living in the South of France, hadn’t done my research, and now would have to lay my head in the lack of bed I had made for myself.

  El que corre, se cae, Grandma would say. He who runs, falls. In other words, forget problems finding a bagel; I was getting my Just Desserts…

  Then, suddenly, the dim twist of cobblestones I was following opened into an unexpected swish of sunshine and vivacity. The plaza, tucked into one of Montpellier’s deepest side pockets, with a For Rent sign directly in front of the loveliest building.

  Talk about fate! My heart whooped. I would have whooped and run along with it if my toe wasn’t itching so damn much.

  Oh please be nice inside, I thought, as I limped past café tables alive with students, families, elders, teenagers and dogs; past the scents of beef and baking bread along with something earthy and dank, maybe wildflowers or dog shit, which was also part of the panoply of sensations; past a door cheerfully ajar into a simply appointed rental office.

  A middle-aged man sat at the lone desk. He glanced up at my entrance. A young man standing over him smiled briefly in my direction too but kept talking; he was demanding something in a mishmash of sounds that seemed to end in the word frigo.

  Fridge? Take me fridge?

  The older man held up a hand to the man with the food storage problem and stood. “Mademoiselle,” he said, following with a long string of nonsense.

  “Appartement?” I tried in French, pointing at the sign and sounding like a toddler with a speech impediment. I fought down a surge of panic. Why didn’t these people speak English? This French stuff would never come out of my mouth; Mom had been right. I should have chosen Connecticut for my little adventure….

  The man pushed a few strands of over-ambitious hair aside and stepped forward to welcome me. He was a businessman, nervous but nice enough. He wore a well-made button-down shirt and creased white slacks. The younger man stood as well, his hair tousled as if he’d just climbed out of bed. He wore a white T-shirt over jeans, and old-fashioned rubber flip flops, black. He also wore dark blond stubble and a grin so bright I wanted to grab it and stuff it inside my purse.

  “Appartement,” I said again, emphasizing a different part of the word. Apartment. “Sorry, my French…”

  The man at the desk said, “Oui, oui, l’appartement,” and scratched at his head as if trying to unearth a new way of communicating. He settled on small sentences spoken very loudly. “No problem! Small! This is good, yes?”

  “Small is good,” I said, sort of. “Small is perfect.”

  The tall, lean young man waited patiently for me to finish. I placed a crumple of francs on the desk. To my surprise, the rental agent didn’t ask for a passport or count the money though he did un-crumple the bills, smooth them out, and anchor the pile under what looked like a Pet Rock. Then he stroked his comb-over again and lifted a set of brass keys from the wall.

  The young man said something else about his refrigerator—My “frigo” is broken? It cracked itself?—and the disagreement seemed to escalate. Both men gesticulated with genuine thespian talent.

  I zoned out. If the apartment worked out I’d haul my stuff from the Hôtel de la Gare to this charming plaza. I’d drink my morning coffee looking at that café and working on art. Corinthian columns outside; wainscoting inside. Maybe this building had been an estate house once. Maybe the plaza and café had replaced a seventeenth-century carriage house.

  The blond guy’s voice rose. My fridge is lost, he might have said. Or: My fridge has lost itself.

  Had it been stolen? Could be studios in France didn’t come with appliances. I’d have to buy my own or beg like this guy. Will Sketch for “Frigo,” my panhandling sign would say.

  Suddenly Blondie heaved himself into a chair and crossed his arms. Not moving unless you hand me what I want, was the message.

  I glanced at Mr. Comb-Over, who smiled again—large yellow teeth—and directed me to follow him out of the building. In the doorway, he pointed at a smaller, plainer building across the street. It had no Corinthian columns and no balconies.

  “Oh,” I said. “The apartment is over there?”

  He nodded, delighted with our dialogue.

  I, on the other hand, did not feel quite so delighted. Maybe there was no fridge in those apartments across the street, or no oven, or…no toilet? Was that possible?

  Waving goodbye to Blondie, I followed my prospective landlord across the plaza into a narrow hallway toward a long flight of narrow stairs. And at the base of the staircase, he pointed to a small doorway, smiling apologetically.

  “Toilette. He is down here.”

  IV

  My vocabulary left a lot to be desired, but toilet is toilet. So I got it. I saw the door with W/C on it—for Water Closet—and shook my head. No. Not doing it. Under the stairs in the lobby? Was that a toilet or the toilet?

  Monsieur began to climb, confident I’d follow.

  I need a toilet only for me, I wanted to say. Me want one toilet!

  At the top, he wiggled the oversized key into a door. I asked, “Pardon, one toilet?”

  “One, yes. Downstairs!” He briefly gestured in the direction of Hell. “But very nice studio here! For you. Voilà.”

  I am sorry, I thought. Je suis pardon, but moi no live here.

  Then I entered that poor misbegotten studio and squinted at two huge windows overlooking the café below—and my heart lifted.

  The lig
ht. The light.

  A poplar tree stuck like a flag in the center of the plaza, throwing a quilt of leaf-shaped shadows onto the hardwood. At the window warmth curled itself like an old cat.

  “You like, yes?” said the man eagerly, as if he were offering himself along with the studio.

  It had a bed already, single, tucked under all that luminescence. And two built-in shelves with—ta-da—one small refrigerator! Poor Blondie. Maybe he could borrow mine?

  And good Lord, the room also came with a bathtub! And a hotplate for a stove. Talk about luxury!

  Meanwhile, cutlery rang from the café below. Voices rose up in laughter, in camaraderie and joie de vivre. Life: hectic, colorful. Me: part of it yet apart.

  Hell, I could draw here: that was all that mattered. I’d draw here and pee downstairs. Though I should actually see the toilet to make sure it had a seat. I’d heard rumors of Turkish toilets with holes in the floor and tread marks to stand on—and I didn’t think I could stand that (no pun intended).

  The toilet did include a seat, thank God. It also included toilet paper as rough as cardboard. So I decided I’d buy the softest toilet paper on earth even if I had to order it special delivery and shipped Express. I would make this work. I would make everything work. Cézanne, here I come!

  Monsieur Bernard DeCroix, as the rental agent was called, led me back across the street where Blondie still waited.

  “Voilà, your neighbor,” Monsieur DeCroix announced.

  “Jeannot Courbois,” Blondie said. “Enchanté.”

  “Pilar Russell,” I said. “Hi.”

  We shook. His hand was warm, fingers slender and long. He smiled at me and briefly held on, and in his eyes I saw a flicker of that look that I’d never liked from men but always seemed to watch out for. He was handsome, this wholesome looking Frenchman, in a slightly off-beat way, as if he might be an artist too.

  Monsieur DeCroix did count my money this time and ask for 100 francs more. He even asked for my passport though he barely looked at it. I filled out and signed an application I couldn’t read, using the hotel as my previous address. Ten minutes later, with a grand flourish of his pudgy hand, he held out the brass key.

  It was mine. I accepted it, saying “Merci,” and was getting up to leave when a sharp pain in my toe caused me to cry out.

  Startled, I slumped into the chair.

  “Mademoiselle!” cried the two men.

  I held up my hand to tell them I was fine then slipped off my shoe. The offending toe was as big and red and puffy as a holiday balloon.

  Everyone gasped.

  V

  “You are sick!” Monsieur DeCroix exclaimed, or at least I thought he did.

  Jeannot Courbois quickly left and returned with ice wrapped in a café napkin. He placed it gently against my toe, squatting down so that his hairline was at my eye level; so that I could watch him studying the enraged digit and also glancing at my bare legs but being enough of a gentleman not to stare.

  This office was not air-conditioned. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and mine. His brows were dark blond, thick, and intense. He had one beauty mark, on the side of his neck. He smelled like little green apples. Shampoo?

  The rental agent handed me a glass of warm water, which I drank gratefully. The two of them were yakking back and forth as if I weren’t there. I felt like a mute. And I was tired. Dead tired. How was I going to schlep up and down from that new apartment to the bathroom with a swollen toe?

  I’d have to get my money back. Surely I’d be allowed to do that.

  The ice seemed to help, though. Not much, but enough. I didn’t want to get my money back. Finally saying goodbye to the two men, I grabbed my purse and hobbled toward the street to get started with the move.

  VI

  Jeannot Courbois followed me outside to the plaza. “Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle,” he called, and added something that sounded like “assistance.” He was asking if I needed help, if he could go with me—a nice thing to do.

  But I hesitated. I did not know this man, after all. I had to be smart for a change; certainly smarter than I had been up till now. What if this pleasant-faced stranger turned out to be an axe murderer? I would just disappear from France, and it would take my mother a month to figure it out.

  I stared into Jeannot’s chocolate-colored eyes, deciding. I was here, in this new country. I had to trust someone, right? May as well be here and now, with Blondie.

  Of course he wasn’t an axe murderer. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who could hold a grudge.

  He dangled his car keys, and I understood. “Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Jeannot’s car turned out to be small and French and parked on nearby sidewalk: an old blue Peugeot with dice hanging from the rear-view mirror. He drove without talking, and I did little more than point the way. My toe was starting to hurt again. What the hell? Had something bitten me—a spider? I wondered if there were black widows or brown recluse spiders in France. Maybe the Hôtel de la Gare harbored bedbugs, or snakes…or the plague.

  I packed quickly while Jeannot stood politely in the doorway, waiting for me. Then he carried the suitcase downstairs. He would have carried my sack of art supplies too, if I’d let him. But I didn’t: my ability to accept help had limits.

  An hour later my possessions and I were safely ensconced in the lovely room in the charming plaza I would now call home. The sun was low in the sky. I sat on the bed and put up my feet.

  Jeannot, squatting on the floor with his back against the wall, asked me something incomprehensible. I shook my head sadly. We sat there without speaking. Eventually I closed my eyes. The room seemed to drift. I felt warm.

  When I opened my eyes, the sun had set…almost but not quite. Like a child who keeps saying “One more minute!” at bedtime, the Mediterranean sun seemed to postpone its rest, to dread the dark. Uncanny hues of golden-pink and dusky blue filled my new windows. Lights from the café twinkled just out of sight.

  I squinted at Jeannot just sitting there hoping to help. He was a nice guy.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi.” He did not pronounce the “h.”

  I held up a finger—Wait!—and fished a small English-French dictionary out of my purse.

  “Light?” he asked, searching for a switch.

  The room lit up. He flicked on the ceiling fan too, which whirred noisily, barely fluffing the languid air.

  My toe looked awful, bigger and redder than before. I touched it and tried not to gasp.

  Jeannot sat on the edge of the bed and peered down and whistled. After consulting my dictionary, he said haltingly, “You…have…mushrooms.”

  “Mushrooms?” Sprouting from my toes? I leaned back against the lumpy mattress. Ugh, no pillow. I used my purse. “No, no mushrooms. An insect. A bug.”

  Jeannot frowned and laid a large cool palm on my forehead.

  “Docteur,” he said. Then, in English: “Now.”

  VII

  If I found it strange that Jeannot chose to drive to a town outside of the city instead of to a medical center in the city, I didn’t dwell on it. I was already breaking every single rule of safe traveling for American women alone in Europe—but I had a fever. And I trusted his guy, my new friend. Plus it’s harder to assert one’s independence if one’s toe falls off.

  Dropping the urban landscape like a petticoat, we zoomed down one tree-lined road after another until reaching a hill. On that hill a jumble of buildings perched, their lights flecking the darkness like so many stars.

  “Villefranche sur Lez,” Jeannot said with obvious pride. “My village.”

  VIII

  Tree shadows slid by as we crossed some kind of ancient donkey bridge. Down narrow, unlit streets we reached a lovely T-shaped villa with black iron gates and a massive stone chimney. The doctor—if indeed he was a doctor—opened the door wearing a cozy maroon velvet bathrobe. He cried out with pleasure at seeing Jeannot, hugged and kissed his cheeks three times, and shook my hand
warmly, cradling it inside his two hands like an injured bird.

  This doctor knew no English. And I didn’t feel well enough to try much with French. So the whole incident unrolled like a silent film: Old-world healer with knobby nose but loveable face cares for speechless young alien with swollen foot.

  I swallowed aspirin, drank water, and accepted what looked like a tube of toothpaste. Jeannot explained about medicine and mornings. I nodded, and he thanked the doctor without paying him. Then we drove back to the city listening to the exotic thump of Brazilian samba—interesting choice for a French boy.

  After parking somewhere ridiculous again, on a sidewalk or somebody’s driveway, Jeannot took my hand and led me through our pretty plaza, which was still rocking with life.

  At the junction between his building and mine, he hesitated.

  “What?” I said. “What is it?”

  He didn’t speak—what was the point?—but gently looked into my eyes as if asking permission.

  I don’t know if I gave it to him. I must have, for he led me away from the building with the remote toilet toward the building with the Corinthian columns and balconies. Past the darkened rental office, up an elevator of all things, we entered Jeannot’s apartment.

  It was spacious, neat, smelling of warm stone and distant cooking. I noticed whitewashed walls, a piano; a marshmallow-cushioned couch. French doors opened to sounds of the café bubbling up happily. I glanced around the kitchen area for a refrigerator but didn’t find one.

  “Soon,” Jeannot said with a smile.

  He served me water and told me to lie down on the couch. Then he tapped the tube of foot cream with his finger. “Ton médicament,” he said.

  “My medicine,” I repeated in English. I yawned. “But no mushrooms. It’s called fungus.”

  “Bad,” he said, and that worried me again.

  What if this fungus thing went septic and I ended up in a foreign hospital without being able to talk? Would I know what kind of surgery I was having? Would I wake up with my toe missing and no way to ask where it was?