Silent Bird Page 6

  “Wait,” I said to Jeannot. “You’re playing?”

  “Yes, wish me luck, Chérie. I am not the best swimmer, but the water is not so very deep.”

  “Can you use a life…coat?”

  “For the Canal? No.” A rueful smile and he was gone.

  A few minutes later, to the vigorously cheering onlookers, Jeannot accepted a red sash from the captain. Jeannot tied the sash around his own waist and, already appearing wary, stepped onto the team’s rocking gondola. He was not dressed in pristine white, but he would do.

  As long as he didn’t drown.

  “You haven’t to worry,” Monique said lightly in her quaint fashion. “He plays against my husband and I am fine, yes?”

  “Rouge!” I screamed suddenly.

  She looked at me, startled, and then hollered: “Bleu!” We both laughed.

  I switched to blissful, comfortable English: “Go, Jeannot, go! You clobber that Blue Team!”

  VI

  Jeannot did go. Into the water, that is.

  Leaning to one side like a Carnival ride, it took only a few minutes for the Red Team’s gondola to unceremoniously dump my sweetie face-front into the Palavas Canal.

  Slap!

  I winced. The water couldn’t be that deep, not so close to shore. Right? Plus everyone was watching. Jeannot would be fine.

  To my annoyance, the crowd went nuts again, yelling, whistling, stomping feet; calling for the drums, for the ongoing clamor of trumpets. They were eager for Jeannot to show his soaking face. I found myself squeezing Monique’s arm.

  “Pilar, you haven’t to worry! This is the Palavas Canal. He may catch a virus; that is all.”

  I leaned forward, holding my breath, waiting for him to pop up, hair illogically shaped and dripping like a sea sponge.

  Nothing.

  The drums, still thumping, slowed down a bit. Streamer-spewing trumpets continued to blare.

  I moved closer. Jeannot?

  The sun was in my eyes; I could barely see past the iridescent water line.

  Nothing.

  “Oh God,” I murmured.

  “He can swim, yes?” Monique asked.

  I shook my head, counting the seconds. One-two-three-four…God, why didn’t anyone jump in there and get him? Was everyone going to just stand there like idiots?

  I didn’t hear the drums anymore. Just my heart, beating his name. Jeannot. Jeannot. Jeannot.

  Damn it, I can swim! I thought, still watching the water, still expecting it to part and for his beautiful head to emerge.

  The crowd had fallen silent. I heard a baby cry. Suddenly I pushed past Monique and darted and dodged toward the docks.

  Be okay, Jeannot. Please, please, please be okay…

  There was a ripple in the water—was he trying to get out? Maybe he was stuck on something. He needed help and no one understood, no one knew what could happen, how quickly disaster could strike and ruin lives.

  “I’m coming!” I cried in English.

  Just several people away, about six feet from the water, I heard a gasp. The man in black raised his arms and…a glimpse of red like a bedraggled flag emerged from the water. Jeannot! The red scrap of belt was followed by his soaking dark blond hair and sputtering face. A second later I saw his arm raised high above his head, fist clenched in triumph.

  The crowd roared. Drums pounded delightedly. Pa-da-pom-pom! Along the bridge the melody of “La Marseillaise” spread in a riot of giddy, meaningless, patriotic joy. Jeannot, up to his shoulders in the water, fist still high, smiled at me.

  He was exhausted and, I suspected, a little shaken. Yet he smiled.

  For me. Only me.

  Without realizing it, I really prayed for the first time in…years? Just a rushed Oh thank you God, thank you for saving him! And then Jeannot was completely out of that awful water, and I leaped on top of him and kissed his dripping face in front of hundreds of onlookers.

  I didn’t care. He was mine.

  VII

  Hard to say how things happened after that. Hard to spell out with marks on paper how a day at the beach can spiral into a new life.

  I only know this: hours later, sand scratching at my clothes, Jeannot and I sat talking—our version of it, anyway—in the cool evening sand. Everything already felt different. Behind him, the water looked invitingly cool and inky. Above his head the moon seemed playful, poking its face into France’s unyielding daylight. I felt as if I had gotten away with something; that, by sitting so close to my boyfriend on this moonlit beach, we had accomplished something wildly courageous.

  Even the moon wanted me to change, to transform into someone new. Which reminded me of another prayer, one I’d heard at least twenty years earlier:

  If he is a man, he should not lose his name.

  If she is a woman, she should not lose her knowledge.

  If it is a silent bird, God will help him.

  All the evil eye, all the stares, the pain, and the evil eye

  All will go to the bottom of the sea...

  After finishing our sandcastle, Jeannot and I stood and leaned against a stone wall framing the beach. This wall—seemingly so solid under my fingers—was really made of countless tiny niches filled with sand—a miracle too, perhaps; everything seemed miraculous tonight.

  A foghorn blew. It remained apart from us, hollow and desperate, whereas in Jeannot’s arms I felt safe, at last.

  I can do this.

  So when he asked me, lips pressed against the seashell of my ear, if I would leave my little studio and move into his apartment to live with him, I said yes. Actually, I said, “Oui.”

  “Je t’adore aussi,” I also said. “Beaucoup.”

  PART TWO:

  Forest in the Sand

  CHAPTER SIX

  I

  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 didn’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 sheets. 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 this 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 ha
d 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.”

  “Surprises?” 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?”

  “Biensûr. 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 farther 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.”

  II

  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 though 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.