Silent Bird (15 page)

As shocking as this may seem to the tiny-cellphone generation, Jeannot got a big kick out of his high-tech new speakerphone—loved it, in fact. He hated holding receivers; claimed they gave him a neck ache. And his favorite time to talk to friends and family was while in the kitchen cooking, which he also loved to do.

“
Cooking is an art and should be treated like one—
not
while holding a telephone,” he liked to say, meaning that one needed to concentrate hands-free while whipping up things like calf brains with butter and capers, fried testicles of goat, or
cheval,
which was a sneaky way to say “horse.”

As for me, I did
n’t think any of these meals required concentration at all. They required
not
thinking, especially while eating. But what did I know? I wasn’t French.

So w
ith one arm around me, my fiancé punched in his parents’ number and switched on the speakerphone and smiled at me encouragingly.

No cooking involved.
This was an ambush.

Madame Courbois picked up after one ring, sounding flustered. “
Allô
?”

“
Bonjour
, Maman,” Jeannot said cheerfully. “Is Papa home?”

“Jeannot,” she said. “It has been a difficult day. How are you?”

“I am well. Is Papa there too? Can he listen?”

She hesitated and then t
he connection took on a hollow sound, as if both phones had been tossed down a well. Speakerphone Number Two, I realized.

“
Is there a problem?” Monsieur Courbois demanded, joining the party.

I cringed, but Jeannot squeezed my hand.
“We want to talk to you both about something. Pilar is here with me.”

“
Bonjour,
” I said, feeling stupid.

They echoed
Bonjour
…

“
Anyway,” Jeannot went on, “we were discussing our wedding. She was telling me how it happens in the United States. They get married in all kinds of places, you know. Not only in churches but in parks, at the beach.”

“
Oh,” said his mother after a very long moment. “I see.”

We all waited helplessly.
Say something nice
! I wanted to scream.

Jeannot cleared his throat.
“And since Pilar is Jewish, and I am Catholic—”

“
She is Jewish?”

“
Oui
. So, we wondered how you would feel if we do not get married in a church.”

There was another deadly pause.
Then, Madame Courbois echoed faintly: “Not in a church?”

“
No. We do not know where yet.”

Another long, nerve-wracking silence.
Monsieur Courbois seemed to have either walked away or dropped dead from his son’s news. I chomped off a piece of fingernail.

Fin
ally Madame Courbois said, “But of course that is your decision. It is your wedding, yes? You must decide what you want.”

“
Even though it is not the way here,” Jeannot’s father added suddenly—his voice so cold that I felt it in my teeth. “It is tradition to get married at church. But since Pilar is not French…”

To my surprise, his voice trailed off.
I realized he was doing something else while talking to us: something more interesting than this phone call? I heard mumbling in the background. TV news?

“
I am glad that this is not a problem for you,” Jeannot said—playing innocent.

Both parents
murmured unconvincingly that it was not a problem, of course it wasn’t. Then his father said that the news was on; he had to go. Another dismissal, if I insisted on seeing it that way. But why bother? If Jeannot could put up with his parents, so could I. Time to stop making such mountains out of little French
collines
.

“
Well, that went…well enough,” Jeannot said when we had disconnected. “I hope you feel better,
Chérie
.”

I told him I did
, a little, and he began busying himself around the kitchen to fix us “a special lunch.” I trailed behind him to see the removal of a package from the fridge.

Oy, vay.
What would it be this time?

“
A surprise,” Jeannot promised. “
L’escargot
. I know you do not eat snails in America.”

N
o, not really. At least
I
didn’t. In America I stepped on snails by accident at night after a really good rain, when the garden-variety, slug-looking kind moseyed around on the sidewalk. I hated hearing them crunch under my feet. Hard to imagine what they would feel like in my mouth. However, if snails were a French delicacy, it was more than time to munch up.

Jeannot went on
chatting as he prepared. “
A Rome, fais comme les Romains
, yes ? I serve these with the shell on, so you will use this little fork to dig the meat out. Which is delicious, by the way, with butter and garlic.”

At least it’s not testicles
, I thought, and wished with all my heart for something simple, like a hamburger with catsup.

So many dining customs in France
still seemed like a logistical nightmare to me. Eating salad leaves, for instance. No matter how unwieldy they were, the proper person should not cut them with a knife, but fold and refold them as if manhandling some out-of-control pancake. Even cheese had to be cut a certain way:
gruyère
lengthwise and roquefort so that the last person didn’t end up with all the white; and round cheese in wedges. God forbid you get your shapes mixed up; then you were really in trouble.

There was also the issue of French bread
that fascinated me, a law unto itself. Literally. Apparently the Lord said: there MUST be bread, and it must be made
THIS
way—and the French government wasn’t going to let anyone forget it. Bake the stuff in a long pan with a lot of the bread exposed to the air while misting it with water to create the to-die-for crust. Dictator bread, I secretly thought, despite loving its taste and texture. Too bad that buying it had to be a daily task since the bread turned to stone the next morning. In any case, I tried to follow Jeannot’s lead and rip the baguette into pieces rather than cut it, though cutting a banana and eating
that
with a fork was not considered bizarre. And so it went...Sometimes I felt very, very tired of being the only person in my world who didn’t understand how to eat.

You
’re just having a teensy weensy bit of culture shock
, I told myself as I returned to the living room to turn on the news and see what had been so fascinating to Jeannot’s father.

A white-blond woman was speaking gravely about a missing child.
“More than twenty-four hours have passed since this seven-year-old girl was last seen leaving her home. She was wearing a black skirt and a white blouse and white kerchief. If you have any information, please call this number.”

A phone number appeared on th
e screen, followed by a picture of a little girl.

I gasped. It was
her!
The child who’d been bullied that day at Villefranche sur Lez!

I would never forget her face: the
black hair, sweet dark eyes, wide forehead and bowtie mouth. And that same white kerchief that had so rudely yanked off her head and dropped into the dirt by that obnoxious teenager and his pre-teen minions…

I whirled to face Jeannot, who had walked into the room from the kitchen
.

“
Mon Dieu
,” he said. He was staring at the TV too.

Jeannot’s
face had gone blank except for his eyes, which burned brightly again.

“She is from my village,” he said softly, almost under his breath.

I sank to the sofa as we listened to the rest of the report. Then I got up to shut the TV. I said, “Jeannot…that girl. Did you hear that? My God. She’s from—”

“I
know
.”

“And she’s missing! Did you hear them? They have no idea what happened to her.”

“Calm down, will you?” He sat down and looked at his hands. “Terrible, yes. But please, there is no need to get upset.”

“You don’t understand. I know her! That little girl is the one I saw on the day we went to lunch. She was getting...” Damn it, I still didn’t know the word for
bullied
.

He stared at me. “Strange,” he said…and nothing else.

I began to pace. “So you know her. What’s her name?”

“I do not know, Pilar. I know her face; that is all. We are a small village.”

“Yes. And she is missing!”

“I heard that. Why are you shouting?”

I looked at my hand, which had balled into a fist. I un-balled it. “I feel bad for her. Remember those boys I told you about? One teenager and two younger boys. The big kid pulled off her kerchief and threw it in the dirt. He stepped on it and made her cry…”

“Come here,
Chérie
, please. Sit.” He patted the sofa.

I sat and breathed calmly for a few minutes and then said, “Your father knows her name, I think. When we were on the balcony a
fter lunch, we saw her in the plaza. Before he began talking about the Arabs.”

Jeannot looked sharply at me.

God, how I wished I did
n’t have this horrible feeling in my gut. My mother’s words came swooping back at me:
Anti-Semitism is still in style in Europe. Like a plague, it comes back to haunt you
…

“
I doubt my father knows her any more than I do,” Jeannot said. “Even if he does, why does it matter?”

“It matters. Maybe he knows something. You could ask him.”

“Maybe he
knows
something, Pilar? About a missing girl?”

I shook my head. “I don’t mean that,” I said—and then stopped.

What did I mean? I was out of control…

“I hope they find her soon and that she is unhurt,” Jeannot said. “No one likes to hear about a missing child. But do not take it so personally,
Chérie
. We do not know what happened. And this”—he gestured at the TV—“This is none of our business.”

I accepted that. Then I didn’t.

“Maybe it
is
our business. You heard them say she might be the victim of a hate crime. In your village, Jeannot.”

There was a shout from outside; from the festive, light-hearted world of café living on our plaza.
Jeannot stared at me a long moment before heading for the balcony. I watched his back, wondering if I should follow; if I should apologize; if I had been out of line.

Why were my hands shaking? I felt so…distrustful. As if Jeannot’s father had made this little kid go missing. Which was ridiculous. Even I knew it was ridiculous.

I just found it so hard thinking about that poor little girl…

At the balcony railing, Jeannot watched
Madame Nony serve the red-checkered tables below. Summer in the South of France had conjured up another day of intense heat and beauty, heralded by light. I held my face up to its warmth.

Jeannot said:
“I am sorry about what you saw that day, Pilar. Children often do mean things to each other. It is the way things are, I know; but it does not mean something terrible happened to that child. We should not jump to conclusions in a situation we know nothing about. Let’s leave the matter of the girl to the police, yes? We have enough problems of our own without taking on the entire world.”

We have enough problems
…?

This was the first time he
had even hinted of our having problems. I felt a shock of recognition—and validation.

Of course
we had problems. Me. I was overreacting to everything because of where I had come from, not where I was going.

And I was taking it out on Jeannot.

“
Mo—mE, Mo-mE! Where are yooooou!”

There is a thump, and footsteps come running.
A white figure ripples in the dark. My screams turn guttural.

“
Ma-ma! Ah!
Ahhh
!”

“My God, shush child! I
t’s okay! Shhhh, it’s me. Wake up; you’re having a nightmare!”

Slowly I realize that the flapping thing beside my bed is Mama.
She is here, not far away. I clutch her nightgown so hard that she yelps: “
Ai
, Pilar, you’re ripping my clothes!”

“
I couldn’t find you,” I whimper into the sweet-smelling cotton. “Where were you?”

“Sweetheart, don’t strangle
me. I was in my room across the hall. Hey, what's this? Sucking your thumb again, a big girl like you?”

She’s right—I’m six years old now.
Too grown up for this!

“
And you’re wet again. Oh dear. Well, that’s okay; we’ll fix it. Let’s change your bottoms.”

I pull my thumb out of my mouth to speak in my tiniest baby voice.
“I was on the boat with Daddy.”

“Oh h
oney, that’s again? That’s just a dream. You’re home now, safe and sound, and you always will be.”

“
Pinky promise?”

“
Pinky promise.”

W
e hook pinkie fingers.

“
I can sleep with you?” I ask after my pajamas have been changed.

“For tonight, if you want
. But we shouldn’t make a habit of it.”

We walk hand in hand to her bedroom, which smells like only good things: soap and perfume
. And under her sheets, Mama whispers: “You want to tell me more about that dream, honey?”

I yawn
. She doesn’t ask again. We lie warm and tight in her bed.

Until:
“Honey, you’re strangling me again. Try to relax. I told you: no one's going to take you away.” She pulls the covers under our chins. “Pilar, can I ask you something? Daddy wasn’t mean to you when you were with him, was he? On that island with that woman…with Grandma Russell?”

“
No, he wasn’t mean.”

“Was
she
?”

“She wouldn’t play with me or let me touch anything. But Daddy played with me. He
slept in my bed.”

“
In your bed? How come?”

“I told you. So we could
play games.”

Mommy is quiet
for a long time. Finally she lets out a little laugh. “He’s strange, that man,” she says in a funny way, like she doesn’t even know Daddy.

“Sometimes we played
with Snowball too,” I explain—and then sit up, crying: “Oh no! Snowball’s still in my room, Mama! We’ve got to get her! She’s all by herself and might get stolen!”

“
Well, we don’t want that,” Mama says in her tired voice as we go back into my room to grab my poor Bunny off the floor.

I hug Snowball
fiercely, my face against the soft white fur. “I love her, Mama.”

“And we both love you, sweetheart. You know that, right?”

I nod, sucking my thumb again.

“
I’ll never let anyone hurt you, Pilar, I promise you that.”

“
Pinky promise?”

“
Pinky promise.”

And we hook pinkies again. But I don’t know if she will keep this promise.

What if parents get scared too?