Silent Bird Read online

  Pinky promise? The shadow of my dream flitted over my heart.

  Jeannot continued: “If we dine with them every Sunday, they will grow to understand you. And you will understand them. Villefranche sur Lez is such a small village. My parents are provincial. They are good people though.”

  “Of course.”

  A low-pitched bong sounded—the doorbell.

  “Merde,” Jeannot muttered. “I am not in the mood for visitors.”

  “Me either,” I said, and oh boy, did I mean it.

  Only a couple of Jeannot’s friends liked to drop by our apartment without calling first—the primary candidate being his damn preschool buddy Thérèse Bonnet. Yes, she of the high heels and dead gopher purse. Thérèse had already “dropped by” twice after meeting me at the American Library, and I dreaded her third visit the way you dread a trip to the dentist when you know what the drill feels like.

  Jeannot sighed and got up to answer the door while I threw on a clean T-shirt and jeans and brushed back my hair and tried to look less—well, shlumpy.

  Ready to face this Frenchwoman whom I knew was in love with my fiancé.

  II

  “What do you plan to do with all these flyers?” she asked when I joined them in the living room.

  She was standing by our dining room table eyeing the stack of concert flyers that Jeannot and I were going to post around Montpellier’s town center. And she looked exactly how I expected her to look, down to the same mummified animal dangling from her shoulder. Yellow heels that I would need crutches to walk on. Cropped pants and clingy black and white top. Oh, and let’s not forget the scarf knotted neatly around her long neck. Her skin showed not a speck of sweat despite the humidity. She came across as...arresting. Effortlessly sexy and nonchalant and oozing with the kind of savoir faire that enables French women to wrap scarves around their necks and not strangle themselves.

  Don’t give me any ideas, I thought. Though it worried me that I didn’t care for Jeannot’s parents or his oldest friend. Wasn’t feeling this way kind of like shooting myself in the foot?

  “I will be performing my own music,” Jeannot told her proudly, and explained the arrangement he had made with La Peña.

  Thérèse gave a startled little cough. “Your own music? Jeannot, I am so pleased that you are still playing and composing. Believe me, I respect that. You are very talented. But a concert? I did not realize you were serious about that.”

  I started to say something, but Jeannot cut me off.

  “Of course I am serious. I thought you knew.”

  “Ah, bon. Well, then.” She sat down and crossed long bare legs. “Did you do the drawing?” she suddenly asked me, pointing at a flyer.

  “Yes.” It was a charcoal rendition of Jeannot at the piano with his eyes partially closed, his vision tuned to the inside.

  “Jeannot said you are a gifted artist.”

  “Thank you.” Or him.

  “Are you trying to make art a career?”

  “I hope so,” I said, wondering why I felt like I was on trial. As far as I knew, art aspirations were not yet illegal…

  “Look, here is more of Pilar’s work.” Jeannot beckoned Thérèse to our recently redecorated wall, where she blew smoke all over my charcoal sketches of the city. The medieval arches of the Montpellier medical school, its corners as dark and primitive as the amputations done there centuries ago. La Place de la Comédie, the largest pedestrian plaza in Europe and a great place to sell watches and useless mechanical birds. A French waiter who was not Jeannot, standing on the sidewalk, dishtowel over his arm as he stared at a woman sashaying by. The woman wore low-rider jeans, pierced belly showing, her thin arms dangling leather bands that probably came from Italy and cost a fortune, though they looked like something an eighth grader would make in Home Economics.

  I might never develop a knack for French style, but it sure was fun capturing it on paper. I stood straighter and squared my shoulders and gazed directly at Thérèse, who was staring fixedly at my boyfriend—looking, in fact, as if she wanted to dip him in some nice Dijon and lick him clean. A frightening image.

  To my relief she finally dragged her attention away from him. A long, awkward silence passed as she decided what to say next—and measuring my threat. How could Jeannot not notice? I was starting to worry about this too, about his judgment in people.

  People like me?

  Thérèse reached into her purse and pulled out a little metallic case of cigarettes: thin brown cheroots that smelled like the East River on a bad day. “Very nice art,” she said finally, in her smoke-gritty voice. “Good luck with it.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She turned back to Jeannot. “But tell me, Jeannot, are you really hoping for a career in music? At our age?”

  Both of them were twenty-nine. Twenty-nine here had to be like, well, fifty in the States. I was younger by only five years. Still youthful enough to be allowed dumb dreams?

  “I know I am a little old,” Jeannot said, and I wanted to smack Thérèse—forget strangling her with the scarf.

  She seemed pleased with his admission of agedness. “To begin a career that is difficult enough when you are young—”

  “This is just a concert. There is no guarantee about the career.”

  She drew in her breath, tendrils of smoke escaping as if from a dragon. “Are you saying you do not care whether your concert succeeds? Please, mon ami, be honest! I have known you since—what age?”

  “Five? Six?”

  “Four.”

  Why not three? Before my eyes, they shared a look, a whole yardstick of memories. I inched closer to Jeannot.

  “Believe it or not, we attended a two-room schoolhouse,” he told me as an aside. “The younger grades in one room, the older in the other. They do not have that anymore, of course. Our graduating class was—what? Thirty-five?”

  “Sixth grade graduation?”

  “No, high school.” He chuckled. “Listen, anyone want coffee?”

  “Oui, merci,” said Thérèse.

  “Oui, merci,” I echoed, though the last thing I needed was more jitters.

  Poised with her cigarette stub like a magazine advertisement that should be banned for its power over kids, Thérèse continued to eyeball me. I chose a chair. She ground out her stub in our only ashtray. Jeannot came back into the room with our coffee and said, “Anyway, if it did become a career, so what? I am not quitting my job. And twenty-nine is not old.”

  He was quoting me. I felt a thrill of both pride and dismay. What if I’m wrong?

  “With all respect for your music, I cannot see you hitting the clubs like some kid,” she said.

  “This is a restaurant, not a club.”

  “You mean this place you work, where you are already known as a waiter?”

  “Oui.” Spoken reluctantly.

  “And now they give you this chance as a musician? They are paying you?”

  “Non. Not yet.”

  Thérèse nodded as if everything was beginning to make sense. “So what will this concert bring you? You do not see yourself going to America like they all do, trying to make a name. You admit you have no interest in living there.”

  Jeannot glanced at me sheepishly. He’d told her that he never wanted to live in America? Of course, I didn’t want to live there either—not now, anyway. But how could he say such a thing? He’d never seen Long Island, never mind the rest of my country. He didn’t know.

  Damn Thérèse! This was dislike, not jealousy. She was a pompous judgmental pain in the ass; what did Jeannot see in her? As I watched him conversing with the woman he might have married if he hadn’t met me, an odd foreboding poked into my side like a flash of indigestion. I pressed my hand to the spot.

  Jeannot really did lie to himself about people. About his father; about his oldest friend?

  About me.

  “I am not looking for roads paved with gold,” Jeannot was saying. “But I must try this. If it turns out I enjo
y doing concerts, why not?”

  “Yes, why not? But please, do not lie to yourself.”

  This statement, so close to what I’d been thinking, felt like a slap.

  “I do not plan to lose touch with reality,” Jeannot said dryly. “I am simply trying to think big—outside the box, you could say.”

  How many times had we discussed the risks of his venturing outside of the proverbial French box of “this is allowed” and “that is NOT allowed”? And I’d spouted my optimistic, probably outdated, I-come-from-the-land-of-opportunity ideals that I didn’t remember learning but somehow still believed in?

  Everything is possible if you try hard enough. The American Dream.

  But in France?

  I took a deep breath. “In the States, people start new things at all ages. Grandmothers take aerobics classes. Middle-aged people go parachuting. It doesn’t mean they’re crazy. Musicians can be any age unless they’re trying to sell to teenagers and get a contract. I believe Jeannot will be great. In America no one would notice.”

  “Yes, but in America, fat people wear Spandex,” Thérèse said.

  My eyes narrowed. All of a sudden I felt very protective of those unknown fat people, wherever they were. Why shouldn’t they wear Spandex if they wanted to?

  “Sorry to change the subject,” Jeannot said. “But, Thérèse, I do have something to tell you: Pilar and I have news.”

  “Oh?” She glanced at me, expression suddenly wary.

  “We told my family yesterday. We are getting married. Pilar, show her the ring.”

  III

  With no small satisfaction, I held out my left hand.

  Thérèse’s mouth formed a perfect O. For a moment she didn’t speak; something in her eyes flickered like a Long Island firefly and disappeared.

  Then she murmured, “Well…congratulations, both of you! I cannot believe I did not notice—such a pretty ring, too!”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Mechanically she kissed Jeannot three times, and then me, gazing with extra intensity at my unattractive Oompa-Loompa T-shirt.

  “Good luck with your, ah, flyers,” she told Jeannot. “I have something scheduled that night, but I do hope to hear you play. Now I must be going and leave you two lovebirds to your day. Call me, yes, mon ami?”

  Jeannot promised that he would and saw her to the door. And when he returned, smiling, he trailed his finger down the center of my Oompa-Loompa T-shirt and said, “You shouldn’t dress so sexy when our friends come to visit, Chérie. You will be the envy of everyone we know.”

  “Very funny,” I said.

  “I know we have all those flyers to distribute, but I think we both need a shower. Shall we conserve water and start the day correctly?”

  His face was expectant and playful—and oblivious. His arms pinned me like the cables of the Brooklyn Bridge. The pain in my side burned.

  “No, I’m going to the boulangerie for a baguette,” I said, quickly easing away from him. “You shower as fast as you can, and then I will make you an American breakfast, yes?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, without missing a beat, and to the shower he went. Alone.

  I left for the store feeling as dirty as you can get.

  IV

  “About your father,” I said later on, as Jeannot and I walked into town wheeling our laundry cart of flyers. “There is something I would like to know.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “I have the, ah, impression that he does not like foreigners. That he doesn’t trust them. He sounded that way when I talked to him after lunch. On the balcony.”

  Jeannot stopped and looked at me. We had just reached the egg-shaped Place de la Comédie, located between Montpellier's copy of the Parisian Opera House and the fountain of the “Three Graces” that featured three goddesses whose job it was to bestow us mere mortals with beauty, charm, and maybe a sense of humor.

  I offered a weak smile. “Not that I blame him. If I was French, I wouldn’t trust me either.”

  “I do not understand what you mean.”

  Maybe it was the wrong time to bring this up. In a minute we’d be going our separate ways: me with the cart up the snaking rue de la Loge; Jeannot hand-carrying his bundle south of the train station. We had a job to do and limited time to do it in.

  “What did my father say to you?” Jeannot asked.

  “It is difficult to explain. We were watching some children in the plaza…that same girl, in fact: the Arab girl. And he sounded really…negative. “

  “About the girl? Or?—”

  “About foreigners in general. Foreigners in France.”

  For a moment Jeannot didn’t reply. Then he shrugged. “I told you, he is a little old-fashioned. But he has nothing against Americans.”

  “What about other nationalities?”

  “They are not very political, my parents. They are only—insular. Our family has lived in Villefranche sur Lez for generations. To them, anyone from outside seems…different. Suspicious, maybe. But my parents are actually very nice.”

  “I’m only asking.”

  “It is true, they distrust change. Our neighbors are changing; even our family. Like Carole with her divorce. My father would prefer to buy oxen than try new technology.”

  “But Montpellier is an international university town. Very modern.”

  “They can ignore that; they don’t live in the city. But they cannot ignore you.”

  I almost said: They want to. Instead, I changed tack. “He sounded angry about the Arabs in your village. About people like that little girl.”

  “I see. So this upset you?”

  My turn to shrug.

  “There is much history between the Arabs and the French,” he said. “But the French do love Americans, Chérie. You know that. My father only needs time.”

  I kissed him hard, and his hand moved like a wish over my hair. How I loved this man’s optimism! How Jeannot had come from that curmudgeon with a cigar, I might never know.

  Thank God I wasn’t planning to marry his father.

  Just like Jeannot isn’t marrying mine…

  “A tout à l'heure. Meet you in one hour.” Waving goodbye, I pushed our cart toward the marble-floored square of Jean Jaurès, determined to make Jeannot’s dreams—his untraditional, unorthodox, rather American dream—come true.

  V

  This small plaza was haunted by so many students that they seemed permanently perched there, mythological characters turned to stone.

  I handed flyers to every student-like figure draped around a little round table smoking a cigarette and kissing or yakking; standing or chatting in the cobbled alley or at a cafe; or awaiting a table at the restaurants or outside bars. For the most part, everyone graciously accepted what I gave them. Some guys stared while they were at it, which was a little creepy. But staring at women was part of the fabric of this city. I had long ago decided not to take it personally.

  At a doorway in the corner, the Atelier du chocolat stood hawking his window display: “Allô, Monsieur Bon Bon!” “Is this your boyfriend?” he demanded when I handed him a flyer. “Too bad, because you are beautiful enough to invite home to my mother!”

  Lowering my head, I walked faster. Montpellier is a safe city, I told myself. He’s just flirting.

  A guy with a guitar on his back blew a noisy kiss, following by a dirty sounding: “Ooh-la-la.” Two men with sweaters twisted around their shoulders cried, “Bonsoir, mademoiselle!” adding sloppy smacking noises like dogs at a water bowl.

  I shoved my cart faster, racing toward the 300-year-old Arc de Triomphe. Shutters thudded shut overhead like hands slapped over eyes. Behind me, glasses clinked and waiters shouted. One guy fiddled like Tevya from a third floor window ledge. A young woman leaned down yelling in German. Three men whispered to me, “Vous êtes américaine?” before losing their voices to a hoard of souped-up scooters.

  I glanced at my watch. One stack of flyers left and only ten minutes be
fore meeting Jeannot. I can do this!

  The moon looked abnormally big in this dusty blue sky: l’heure bleu. The Blue Hour.

  I turned the corner and stumbled into two men and a woman staggering arm in arm like drunken fools. I entered a different street. This one was narrow and claustrophobic and unevenly cobbled; none of the windows above were lit.

  I was alone. In a city with more inhabitants than rooms, how was that possible?

  I’m not afraid of things.

  Footsteps suddenly clipped behind me, a half-beat behind my own. Coincidence? Nothing will happen in the middle of town, I told myself. Only I wasn’t buying it. Anything could happen anywhere. In a house, on a beach, on a boat, in a car.

  In a bathroom.

  Well, hoof it out of here, then, my common sense commanded. Go back to La Place Jean Jaurès, to 60,000 students living outside. Safety in numbers, right?

  If push came to shove, I could use the cart as a weapon. Turn around and fling it at whoever-it-was and scream and run. I stole a peek over my shoulder. Saw a man about 50 yards away. He gave me the uneasy impression of an older guy, confident, strong. Grandma could see a criminal in a church, Mom used to complain. I wasn’t like that.

  Another look: ten paces closer…

  “European men enjoy women but do not intend to be rude,” Jeannot once said.

  Maybe he was right. Or maybe he was wrong.

  This guy is following me!

  “Come on, come on,” I murmured, and swerved my cart just in time to miss a pile of dog shit.

  Hope you step in it.

  A portly woman appeared in a doorway, tugging her dog's leash. If I was going to confront anybody, this was the time and place. I whirled around to face my stalker. “Stop!” I screamed in English—just in time to see a thin young man with dark hair go racing past me, glancing at me like I was nuts.

  I stared after him, open-mouthed.

  He threw one last shot of bewilderment over his shoulder: a look that disapproved of women screaming in alleys for no good reason.

  The lady in the doorway stared at me too. Even her dog seemed displeased.