Silent Bird (12 page)

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 s
he 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 th
ree 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 l
eft for the store feeling as dirty as you can get.

“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 did
n’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 was
n’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.

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

I ha
nded 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
américain
e
?”
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 before 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.

F
ootsteps 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 o
ut 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 c
ould 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.

M
aybe 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.

I
was
like Grandma! I had been so sure that man meant to catch me…

Finally, finally, the bustling
Place de la Comédie opened up like a glittering flower. Heart still hammering, I collapsed at the nearest table at the nearest café and ordered a coffee and drank it black.

I’m not afraid of
things.
It was an old mantra I hadn’t recited in years. Too bad I didn’t believe it now any more than I had back then.

I
am
afraid of things.

As we walked back home, Jeannot cheerfully described his flyer adventures: Arab barmen interested in his music because it wasn’t French; this one Moroccan restaurant that served American-sized plates of couscous; merchants saying they would love to hear original piano music along with the fabulous food of La Peña.

I did
n’t mention the man I’d felt so sure was following me in the alley. No point in confessing a moment of paranoia, right? Because then you have a reason to be paranoid when people think you’re not quite right in the head and constantly watch you to figure out what’s wrong…

“
Merci
for all your help,” Jeannot said at home, after we had put away the empty cart and dropped on the sofa to cuddle.

“My pleasure.”

He touched my face with the curve of his hand, and we kissed, long and sweet. And I closed my eyes and tried to focus. But the wrong sensation swooped at me anyway: racing through the alley, footsteps coming closer; dread racing up my neck.

His
hands…so disorienting! With an expert flick, Jeannot unleashed my swollen, premenstrual breasts. He unbuttoned my jeans and pulled them down, and knelt on the floor to hug my body against his face.

I felt my back go rigid. A vicious stab of pain in my heart.

Time screeched to a halt.

I tried to inhale and couldn’t—I’d been gut-punched by something invisible, a weight on my chest.

Jeannot looked up. “What? What is it?”

I wheezed; a terrible dragging sound. Then, a gasp: “My chest. Hurts!”

“My God,
Chérie,
are you all right?”

I
shook my head and mouthed
no
, and he released me and ran for the phone.

Breathing is underrated.

I mean it is the ultimate need and yet taken so much for granted.
We don’t think about breathing until it stops; but when we
can’t
breathe, we can’t think about anything else. The hunger for air consumes us. It becomes a pinpoint of intensity, a black hole of concentration: a particularity in the universe of body and soul.

I discovered this irony
when I was six years old—not long after my father stole me, whisked me away, and then carted me back to my mother like a gift you return because you can’t find the instructions.

By that time she and I had moved from the beach house in t
he Hamptons to a smaller house in Central Islip, and everybody was in a really bad mood. The breathing problem happened after I threw a temper tantrum. I sat there glaring at Mom’s calendar with my father's visitation days carefully circled and crossed out, and I held my nose and clamped my mouth shut until the spots came.

The room went dark.

I guess
I let go of my nose then to gulp as much air as I could. But it wouldn’t work—not fast enough. I wheezed and gasped until my mother pounded my back, sobbing she was sorry for all our troubles and that I shouldn’t worry so much, everything would be fine. I cried, “Ma-ma!” like a baby in diapers, and the incident was over, thank God.

Except I still worried
. Like: when Grandma said I was “broken-hearted” over my bum of a father, did she mean my heart would stop too? I didn’t much care if Daddy was a bum. Grandma called lots of people bums. But I
did
mind having broken parts and dying before I got to grow up.

W
as there something really wrong with me so I would get lost again or stop breathing or go crazy and die?

Was I really cursed with the Evil Eye?