The Unfortunate Son (6 page)

Pons began to notice more than the boy’s grace. Luc had an uncommon sharpness of vision, easily noting the sea’s faint color change that marked a school of fish. He spotted distant gatherings of birds, another telltale sign of fish. Pons handed him a line, and as soon as it sank, Luc caught a fish. It wasn’t just beginner’s luck, either. It seemed to Pons that every time Luc dropped a line, he caught another fish. Pons played out the long line, strung at intervals with baited hooks, and before long, that line, too, began to tug with bites.

“Pull in the lines, now,” said Pons as he hoisted the sail to catch the sea breeze. “It’s time to head home.”

“What kind of fish are those?” asked Luc, pointing to three silver creatures that appeared just beyond the stern, diving and leaping out of the water, riding the draft of the little boat under sail.

“Those are dolphins, boy,” said Pons, with a broad smile
that creased his eyes. “That’s the best luck a fisherman can have, seeing dolphins like that. You caught the first fish today, and now this?” Pons patted the boy’s head. “Lucky signs, Luc.”

That day Pons’s nets filled with more fish than on the best of days, and Pons suspected that the boy’s value might go beyond his young hands and his good nature.

LIFE IN THE fisherman’s cottage was good and getting better. Throughout the day, Cadeau followed Beatrice until each afternoon when the dog caught sight of Luc and tore down the road. December was often a rainy month, but this year the weather stayed fine, and Pons declared that the fishing had never been better.

Pons and Luc napped most afternoons after they returned from fishing. The winter sun set earlier, but whenever Luc awoke before day’s end, he would help Beatrice and Mattie until nightfall, when they would all share supper. Pons had slaughtered the pig at the end of November, and Mattie was curing its hide in a shallow ditch behind the cottage. She had soaked the hide in quicklime and then in the residue of
her cider pressing. Next, the pigskin steeped under a layer of dung. Mattie never let Beatrice help with the unpleasant task of leather tanning, but she welcomed Luc’s assistance. He was good-natured even during the worst of jobs.

“Luc,” said Beatrice one afternoon, pinching her nose. “You stink worse than the privy.”

“That he does, poor boy,” said Mattie, stepping back from Luc. “Give me your shirt.”

Luc peeled away his shirt, and Mattie took it to rinse in a bucket. Luc washed himself with a basin, a cloth, and soap that Beatrice readied in the yard for him. When he came inside, he was shivering, and Beatrice handed him a blanket to wear until his shirt was dry.

“That’s better,” she said, sniffing.

“Better for you,” said Luc. “I’ll probably catch my death from the cold.”

As Mattie was hanging Luc’s wet shirt on a hook by the hearth, they heard children’s laughter. Cadeau barked, and Mattie went to the door to find three smiling barefoot village boys standing on the cottage threshold, caps doffed.

“Please, ma’am, can we see the fish?” asked the biggest child. He was slender, snugly dressed in a heavy shirt of mustard-colored wool.

“And the mermaid?” added the littlest, who wore a shirt of the same cozy yellow wool. The middle boy was heavier than the other two, and Mattie recognized him as one of the baker’s sons.

Luc ducked out the back door as Mattie chuckled and ushered the children into the room. They were hushed and slack-jawed, looking up at the fish. Beatrice smiled and handed each child a small apple. The littlest was afraid to take the apple, and Beatrice was crouching to reassure him when Luc burst through the front door with the blanket draped over his head, running at the children, hooting and braying.

The children screamed and headed for the back door as he whipped off the blanket, laughing. The boys turned, and the two older ones started to laugh, but the little one was terrified. Beatrice took him in her arms and wiped away his tears.

“Bad Luc,” she said, and she began to sing softly to the little boy.

Luc was smiling at the older boys, who were giggling and making fun of the crying child, when the biggest boy stopped and stared at Luc. He pointed.

“It’s the pig boy,” he said, elbowing his friend. “He has only one ear.”

“Nope,” said Luc. “Look here.”

Luc opened his palm and showed the boys the wooden ear that Mattie had carved. All three boys were silent. The oldest thanked Mattie and Beatrice, and the three children backed out of the cottage, keeping their eyes on Luc until they were outside. With a roar of laughter they were off, running from the yard.

“I’ll see you scamps in church,” yelled Luc.

When the three boys spotted Luc that Sunday at Mouette’s little church, Saint Olive’s, they rushed to him with big smiles on their faces. He had already been known to the villagers as the swineherd’s helper. Now, after several weeks of fishing, he was becoming known as Pons’s lucky boy, because Pons had bragged about Luc’s good fortune to his fellow fishermen. Everyone began to notice the increase in the old man’s haul.

Saint Olive’s was a small stone church with a wide nave and a barrel-shaped chancel that held the village’s only glazed window. It lit the simple wooden altar that today was decorated with Christmas greens and two beeswax tapers. The inhabitants of Mouette stood together in a space that would have been crowded if only half the village showed up. But every Sunday and holiday, everyone jammed together, stood, and listened to the old priest’s Latin singsong mass.

When they returned to the cottage after church, Pons held out a basket with three plump sea bream. “Take these to your mother, Luc. It’s been almost a month since you left home.”

“She’ll be happy to have fresh fish before Christmas,” added Mattie.

“I’m sure she’s missed you,” said Beatrice.

“Stay for a meal with your family,” said Pons.

Luc missed his brothers and his mother, and he was proud of the fish in the basket, so he and Cadeau marched happily up over the hills to see his family. When he saw Luc,
Pierre jumped into his brother’s arms, whooping and laughing.

“Never leave again.”

Luc laughed, rubbed the little boy’s head, and kissed each cheek. “Smile for me, Pierre.”

“My bad tooth’s gone. It fell out as soon as you left. Papa said that meant you would never come back.”

Hervé stepped from the cottage and nodded at Luc.

“Are you home for good?” he asked.

“Just a visit,” said Luc, clapping his brother on the back.

Hervé smiled. “I miss you, Luc.”

“Good,” said Luc with another thump. “I’ve missed you and Pierre. Maybe you’ll bring him to see the carved fish. Where is Mother?” asked Luc.

“Inside. Father is asleep in the garden.”

Luc shook his head, and went into the house.

When Blanche saw Luc, her eyes filled; she pulled him close and held him. Then she pushed him away and looked at him.

“You look older and stronger.”

“In one month?”

“You still have stork legs,” she said, gently pinching Luc’s cheek. “But you’re filling out.”

“Look what I brought.”

“Did you catch those?” asked his mother.

Luc nodded, handing her the basket of fish.

“We’ll have a good dinner today, after all,” she said.

“And Father?”

“He’s asleep.”

Blanche chewed her lip. “You should leave before he wakes. His temper is worse and worse. There isn’t even time to fix you something to eat.”

“That’s all right; I’m not hungry.”

But Luc’s stomach rumbled as he sat at the table and studied his mother. Her thin hair was pulled back under a small cap, and her cheeks were pale and hollow. Her apron was spotless, but her sleeves were frayed, and her cap was torn. She sat down across from him and pulled the basket of fish to her. Looking at the fish, she shook her head and smacked her dry lips.

“I can’t remember the last time we had fresh fish,” she said.

“No,” said Hervé, slipping in next to Luc. “It’s always herring. Salty old herring. Like eating old shoes.”

Blanche reached across, cupped Luc’s chin, and smiled.

“Pons said we come from the north. Is that true, Mother?” Luc asked.

She pulled her hand away from his face and looked down.

“What?” asked Hervé. “I thought I was born right here in this house.”

“You were,” she said, glancing at Hervé.

“But I wasn’t, was I?” asked Luc.

Blanche squeezed her eyes shut. “Someday I’ll tell you, Luc.”

“Tell me now.”

“There isn’t time,” said Blanche.

Luc stood, and waited for his mother to look at him.

“Why does Father hate me? Is it because I am a freak, or something else?”

“Hush, Luc. You’re not a freak. Pascal is a good man. But go, before he wakes.”

“He’s a mean, drunken fool, Mother.”

“You had better go now. Thank you for the fish,” said Blanche, without a glance at Luc.

Luc nodded and left the house with a throat too tight to speak. Hervé followed Luc outside, where they found Pierre throwing a stick for Cadeau.

“What’s all that about being from the north?” asked Hervé.

“I don’t know,” said Luc.

Hervé shrugged. “Who cares?”

“I do.”

Luc whistled for Cadeau, and Pierre ran with the dog to him.

“Be good, Pierre,” said Luc, rubbing his little brother’s shoulder.

“Don’t go, Luc,” pleaded the little boy, dropping the stick and hugging Luc’s legs. “You have to be here for Christmas.”

Luc shook his head and kissed the top of Pierre’s head; his dog fell in behind as he left for the fishing cottage.

A FEW DAYS later, Luc helped Mattie and Beatrice hang greens and holly over the cottage windows. Early in December, on Saint Barbara’s day, Beatrice had planted three saucers of lentils and wheat, which now were green with new growth. She and Pons set up a nativity scene on a wooden chest by the hearth. Luc had never seen anything like it.

“Mattie started these carvings on my first Christmas here in Mouette,” said Beatrice, lifting the figure of Joseph and showing it to Luc. “First it was just the holy family.”

Luc picked up a lamb and rubbed his thumb along its wooden curly coat.

“Every year Mattie carves something secretly,” Beatrice
said, pointing to the stable animals and the shepherds. “This year it’s the three kings.”

“Now she has nothing left to add,” said Luc.

Beatrice scowled. “I hope you’re wrong. It’s a wonderful surprise every year when she adds the new figures.”

On Christmas Eve, Pons killed the goose, and Luc awoke on Christmas morning to the delicious aroma of the bird roasting, its fat popping and sizzling, as Mattie turned the spit. Luc took deep breaths and let the wonderful smells fill him to his spine. This promised to be his best Christmas. He went out to the pile of wood at the back of the cottage and split several logs for the hearth.

When it was time to eat, Beatrice helped Mattie dish out the food, and Pons motioned to Luc to sit next to him at the table. Then the four of them bowed their heads, and Beatrice said a prayer.

“Thank you, Lord, for all that we have and for what we are about to receive.” Then she raised her eyes for a moment and caught Luc watching her. With a half smile she added, “And thank you for bringing Luc into our home. Amen.”

“Amen and Merry Christmas,” said Pons. “Let’s eat.”

After the Christmas feast, Mattie shooed everyone outside.

“Look how beautiful that sky is,” she said, pointing to the low December sun. “You three go for a walk while I clean up.”

“That’s not fair,” said Beatrice. “We’ll help.”

“No,” said Pons. “You young ones go out, and enjoy the afternoon. I’ll help Mattie.”

So Beatrice took her shawl, and Luc wore an old cloak of Pons’s, and they headed toward the village with Cadeau. Pons watched from the doorway as the two walked along, and he turned to Mattie.

“I like that boy. You were right, Mattie.”

“Aren’t I always right?”

Pons laughed. “Yes, you are.”

Mattie collected the dishes, saving any scraps of meat and vegetable for a soup that was already simmering.

“Not much left over, is there?” he said.

“No, the boy eats a lot,” answered Mattie.

“But he brings in more than he eats. He’s special,” said Pons, rubbing his chin. “And Beatrice seems to like him. Nice for her to have someone her age around.”

“I just hope she doesn’t fall in love with the boy.”

“Why not, Mattie?”

“Beatrice, a fisherman’s wife?” she asked with her hands on her hips.

“It was good enough for our mother,” said Pons.

Mattie rolled her eyes. “Maybe.”

The rest of that winter was mild, and Luc and Pons fished almost every morning; now and then a storm kept them home. When the mistral blew down from the hills and across the water, the winds howled without pause for three or
four days. The wind pressed the bare branches, and the trees whined; the blue sea turned white and dangerous. Then Pons and Luc sharpened Mattie’s knives, or made rope, or they worked on the nets. Pons showed Luc how to waterproof the boat using a narrow mallet to drive hemp caulking and pine tar into the seams.

One bright but gusty morning in February, instead of fishing, Pons and Luc were repairing loose and cracked stones on the shallow-pitched cottage roof. Most of the village roofs were thatched, but Pons and his father had long ago replaced their roof with flat stones, which would last beyond the lifetimes of those who dwelled within. After a long morning, Pons and Luc climbed down from the roof at midday, when Mattie and Beatrice brought out bread and sardines. They all sat against the cottage in the afternoon sunshine, sheltered from the dying wind. Roofing was hard work, and Luc was sweaty and chilled.

Beatrice went inside and returned with a blanket that she handed to Luc. He wrapped himself in it and smiled at her.

“This wind is just about played out,” said Mattie, tucking a curl into her cap. “You’ll fish before dawn tomorrow.”

“Fishing is the life for me. One day I’ll buy a new sail for your boat, Pons, and I’ll get Mattie a cloak made of the softest lamb’s wool and dyed crimson,” said Luc between bites.