Tita (20 page)

Once a month monsieur Bonnafous, the chartered accountant, comes to Father’s office for two days. He’s a big man with side whiskers, and he always wears a brown suit, with a yellow shirt or sometimes a purple one. He shakes my hand in the morning and all through the day he treats me as if I were a normal occupant of the office. When he’s around I keep especially quiet, because he needs to look at all the accounts, and at any time he might ask Berthe or Simone to get him this or find him that. It’s a completely different atmosphere, very focused but pleasant too. He even makes a joke once in a while.

Today, when they stop for lunch, monsieur Bonnafous, putting his jacket back on, comes to look at what I’m typing. “What’s this?” he asks.

“It’s a play. Well, I hope it’s going to be a play. For the time being, it’s just a bunch of scenes we’re working on. I’m trying to arrange them in some kind of order.”

He takes the pages I’ve already typed. It’s still the same comedy I started writing before camp, with Coralie as Diavola, but now it takes place in a boarding school where the girls try to stay alive, think, laugh, even though they’re stuck inside a building all week and don’t learn much from the teachers. At the moment we’re rehearsing every afternoon, and after each rehearsal there’s a lot I cut or try to improve.

“Who’s the author?” monsieur Bonnafous asks.

“Tita wrote it all,” Simone explains, enthusiastic as usual. “She writes all kinds of plays, she gives shows with her sister and her friends.”

Monsieur Bonnafous is reading and reading. After a while, I stop typing. He frowns. “Where do you get all these ideas?” he asks.

I shrug. “In books, and…”

My main inspiration, apart from camp and what the girls told us about Assomption, is Colette’s
Claudine à l’école
. But better keep quiet about it.

“She reads all the time,” Berthe says. “She never stops.”

“You write well,” monsieur Bonnafous says. “Perfect spelling!”

At the end of the afternoon, when we’re done rehearsing, our friends go home and Coralie jumps onto her trapeze. I walk around the house, which feels empty. Grandmother is away on her annual tour of brothers, sisters, older daughter and nieces, all around Lyon or in the Jura. Loli is back in her village for the grape harvest and Kamel, her fiancé, is spending his vacation with her family — he sleeps in her uncle’s house and helps with the grapes. Like Loli’s brother, he’s a
porteur:
the pickers (women, children, older men) empty their buckets into the
hotte
he carries on his back, and when the
hotte
is full, he takes its contents to the truck. On Monday I went there with Father, because Loli needed her espadrilles, which she’d left at our house. I wanted to stay and pick grapes with them, but Father said, “Next year, maybe.”

In the garden, I find Mother sitting in the sun. “What is it you’re knitting?” I ask.

“Booties for Arlette’s little boy. The baptism is next Tuesday.”

“Can I go?”

“No. It’s nothing special, just church and then lunch at the Bon Coin.”

“But I’d like to see little Romain. I’ve only seen him once.”

To this she doesn’t respond.

“He’s nearly five months old,” I go on. “Isn’t it better to baptize babies right away? Because if they die unbaptized, they’ll go to limbo.”

Mother chuckles. “This baby is not going to die.”

As if she knew. “How old was I when I was baptized?” I ask.

Silence, for quite a while. “You were two or three weeks old,” Mother finally says. “We went to stay with friends of your father’s in Juan-les-Pins for a few days, and you got sick. Your father took you to the priest, who baptized you, but without a ceremony.”

“Then what happened?”

“You kept vomiting a lot, and the doctor finally said we shouldn’t give you milk, only vegetable broth.”

“You could have baptized me yourself, you know. You didn’t need to take me to the priest.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

“It’s true! Mademoiselle Pélican explains it to the new students every
rentrée
. In an emergency, sickness for instance, or accident, or if the parents don’t want a child baptized, anybody is allowed to baptize. And it’s a duty. You just throw some water on the baby, you say the words, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” and it does the trick. The baby will go to heaven directly. Better than limbo.”

Once more, Mother remains silent. You’ll never catch her admitting that she was mistaken. It isn’t just because I’m a child: she’s exactly the same with adults. She won’t push her point either. She’ll just press her lips together, and look aloof.

The next morning, in the office, Berthe asks if I want to race her new mechanical calculator: while she does her sums, subtractions and multiplications on the machine, I try to be faster without it. Sometimes she wins, sometimes I do. I’m careful not to make any noise; we just exchange glances, nods and smiles. Berthe is not quite used to this calculator yet. On the old one, she won most of the time.

At noon, monsieur Bonnafous puts on his scarf, which is beautiful, dark red with a silver border. Monsieur Bonnafous must be the largest man I’ve ever seen close up. His round cheeks, the layers around the center of his body make me feel comfortable. I can’t imagine why Mother only likes slim people. When she meets someone, her first reaction is “fat bottom” or “thick legs”. As if people were nothing but body parts, and the less there was of them, the better.

Monsieur Bonnafous looks at my calculations, then pulls my plaits, but nicely. “How old are you?” he says.

“I’ll be eight on October third.”

“I guess you skipped a few levels,” he says. “You must be ready for Feris Delteil this
rentrée
.”

Get into Feris Delteil? Instead of boarding school! It’s never even crossed my mind. Feris Delteil is right here in Cugnac. But Sainte-Blandine girls never go to Feris Delteil. It’s the public lycée. I thought it was only for children who’ve attended the
école laïque
.

“She’s at Sainte-Blandine,” Simone says, “where there’s only one class for all the girls who can read. She listens to everything. That’s why she’s way ahead.”

“Don’t they have to take an exam for Feris Delteil?” Berthe asks.

“Yes, they do,” he says. “In June. But I think there’s another session in September for the children who couldn’t make it to the first one. You know, sickness, accidents, new arrivals...”

Now my heart is beating so hard I have to breathe in, then out, a few times. “How old do you need to be?” I ask.

Monsieur Bonnafous smiles as he buttons up his coat. “Usually, it’s eleven, and from the age of ten you can try. If you’re younger, you need special permission, which my grandson Jacques obtained last year when he was nine,” he says. “But you won’t quite be eight, so I’m not sure. I’ll inquire.”

When he’s left, Simone pulls me onto her lap and jiggles me up and down. She says, “Good for you, baby! He has lunch with the headmistress of Feris Delteil every Monday. He’ll find out.” Simone always knows everything. “Don’t hold your breath,” she goes on, “but maybe...”

“Do you really think...” Berthe says. “She’s so young!”

“Young, but special!” Simone says, kissing me on both cheeks.

The next Tuesday, after lunch, Father takes his cup of coffee into his study and asks me to follow him. I sit on the scratched leather chair facing him, with his wide desk between us.

“I saw monsieur Bonnafous this morning,” he says. “About Feris Delteil.”

Again, my heart is racing. “Did he say I can take the exam?”

“Maybe,” he says. “But… ” He leans on his elbow, his hand under his cheek.

“Please! I’ve been at Sainte-Blandine for
ever!
And then, boarding school...”

He sighs. “I know. I worried about Assomption. Cami told me more than you did about the camp, and I... According to monsieur Bonnafous, Feris Delteil is quite decent, and much better than all those convents. The young woman who teaches French and Latin to his grandson lives around the corner from him. She comes from Bordeaux and has a young daughter. He says she’s bright and competent.”

Latin! I love monsieur Bonnafous. I love the headmistress he has lunch with. I love his neighbor the Latin teacher. I love Father. “And Simone told me it’s free!” I say. “Why would you want to spend a lot of money to keep me prisoner?”

“Yes,” Father says, sighing again. “And Justine didn’t do so well... It’s just that… nobody in our family has ever attended a state school, and…”

“In our family? Mother has! And Grandmother.”

He hadn’t thought of that. “Quite true,” he says. “Not here, though. Here, it won’t go down easily.”

I’m thinking of something else. “What about Coralie?” I ask. “Please, please don’t leave her with mademoiselle Pélican. Remember what she was like after the nuns, in Lourdes? Mademoiselle Pélican is
so
wrong for her! Can she go to the
école laïque?
”

Father strokes his forehead, up and down, with all his fingers. Then he looks up, resting his chin on his clasped hands. He shakes his head. “I can already see the
Dames de charité
lining up to foretell atheism and debauchery. But I might as well be hanged for a sheep...”

A sheep? But Father looks revived, as if he rather liked, after all, the idea of a fight.

“The exam is on the 16th, and the headmistress wants to see us first,” he says. “Are you sure this is what you want?

“Yes,” I say.

We drive to the sea in the late afternoon, when the sun is no longer hot. There are quite a few beaches to choose from, all about half an hour from Cugnac. Leucate is Mother’s favorite because it’s immaculate, she says, and there’s a cliff that protects you from the Cers. The Cers is our north wind, dry and strong — so strong that, when it blows against you, downhill can feel like uphill. You push the pedals of your bike with all your strength and hardly manage to stay put. Mother abhors the Cers, especially at the beach, where it makes the sand fly into every nook and cranny of your clothes, towels, bags and body. She objects to our other wind too, the Marin from the southeast, because it often brings rain. I love the Marin, which is fresh, soft, and imbued with invigorating scents from the depths of the Mediterranean. 

Today the Marin is blowing mildly, and we are at Gruissan, which is unlike any other beach because all the houses are made of wood and built on stilts. That’s because sometimes the water comes up almost to the level of what would be the upper floor (actually, the only floor), and you need a rowboat to go from house to house. The sand here is dark, dense, slightly wet, so Mother unfolds her towel on the pier. “This beach never looks quite clean,” she says, curling her upper lip. Justine, who is back from England, settles next to her. I think she’d like to run to the sea right away with Father, Coralie and me, but she’s no longer a child, so she’s going to keep Mother company. We leave them behind, two ladies in their bikinis, lying on beds of flowered terrycloth to get a tan from the setting sun.

We swim out far beyond the pier, on and on, as if heading for the high seas. Once in a while, Father waits for us, floating on his back. He taught us how to swim when we were little. Before Coralie could quite walk, our brothers were already in the habit of throwing her into the water from the boat. Then they tossed her a rope to help her get back to the ladder. They stood ready to dive if she sank, but she always bounced up and chortled. They say that they did the same with me, and that I too enjoyed paddling with my little hands.

Now, as soon as we get near a body of water, the attraction is irresistible. What I like best is to drift underwater until I meet a school of fish. Then I follow them. I try to forget that my eyes sting, that I’m not one of them. Coralie wears a mask and snorkel, but I don’t. In the water, I’d rather do without human equipment. I don’t mind coming up once in a while to take a breath.

When Justine finally joins us, only a few rays of red light linger on the horizon. “Odette wanted to take advantage of the sun before it got too low,” she explains. We swim back together to the rocks at the end of the pier. Justine has been to a swimming pool in England with her friends, and she shows us how to dive in pike position.

From the rocks, we see Mother slowly entering the sea with her arms crossed over her chest and her sunglasses on. Shivering. After a while she starts her usual breaststroke, where she keeps her head up, out of the water. She doesn’t want to get her hair or her glasses wet. She never swims very far, so I don’t think she’d need perfect vision to make her way back to shore, but she says she’s totally helpless without her glasses. You never see her naked eyes, except when she’s asleep or in the shower, and then it’s only the lids.

While Mother and Justine walk back to change in the car, Coralie and I, our wet hair unbraided, follow Father to Marcérou’s, a rambling café-restaurant close to the pier. There we meet Estelle and Bertrand Vié, who’ve just arrived. Estelle, as usual, is trim in a simple off-white dress, and nonchalant. Bertrand, as soon as he sees me, crouches to kiss me on both cheeks. “How’s it going, my golden goby, how’s it going, my beloved bookworm?” He has hundreds of bizarre names for me, of fish and vermin. Then he takes Coralie in his arms and bounces her up and down on his knee with an Occitan song about horses and ditches, which makes her giggle. Unlike most people, he remembers that she doesn’t like to be kissed. “We should have brought the children,” he says to his wife.

Estelle rolls her eyes, then waves at Mother, who is creating a small sensation as she enters the room in her splendid green and orange low-cut dress (suns and foliage), her wavy auburn air falling artistically to her shoulders. Her arm is around Justine’s waist, and our sister, with her ponytail, green tartan shirt, jeans, and ballerina flats, looks, as usual, preternaturally Parisian.

The Viés and our parents discuss the menu and nod to passing acquaintances. Coralie has joined three little boys at another table. Bertrand pulls me up onto his lap. “Congratulations!” he says. I look up at him, wondering what he’s talking about. “On your exam! I’m sure you’ll do very well at Feris Delteil.”

“Thank you,” I say.

Estelle lays her hand on Father’s. “I hope you noticed how quiet I kept. Isn’t it a wonder? But you must have heard more than enough from our holy lady friends. You certainly gave them something to talk about.”

“I do appreciate it, Estelle,” Father says.

“Tita is Tita. “ She shrugs. “I’m sure you know what’s best for her.”

At the beginning of September, Father and I met with the headmistress of the lycée, who said that I could take the exam. Noëlle and Anne-Claude were taking it too, it turned out. Anne-Claude said we’d better not tell anybody, in case we failed. But people were stopping me on the street to ask what was going on, and I couldn’t lie. They didn’t seem too worked up about Noëlle, but Anne-Claude’s father is a pillar of the church, practically best friends with the priest, so her case was even more shocking than mine. Cami said, “Religion is all very well, but our daughters come first!”

On September 19th the results were displayed on the door of the lycée, and the next morning
L’Indépendant
ran an article about the three of us, with photos (mine was from the ballet show, worse luck!) because we were the first girls from Sainte-Blandine ever to enter Feris Delteil. The title was, “Three Young Pioneers”.

After the bouillabaisse, when the orchestra begins a tango, Bertrand looks at Estelle, gesturing towards the middle of the room. She shakes her head, so Bertrand asks Mother, who stands up. An unknown young man in a black shirt whirls Justine away.

Estelle chuckles and turns to Father. “Your Justine will never be a wallflower! By the way, did you find a school for her?”

“Yes,” Father says. “Next week she’ll be in a new boarding school in Paris, not a Catholic one this time. They have psychologists as well as teachers, and they work with gifted children who are failing in the regular school system. Justine’s tests were good, and her English helped. Let’s hope it works out. I don’t think we can afford any more mistakes.”

“Oh well,” Estelle says, “she’s so pretty, she’ll just marry early and you won’t have to worry any more.”

“Even if she gets married,” Father says, “it doesn’t mean she can do without an education.”

“Of course,” Estelle says, “a woman should be well read, know something about art, play an instrument if she can. But I hope you don’t share these new ideas about girls going to university. Intellectual girls won’t be very attractive to men.”

Father shakes his head. “Nothing will stop girls from being attractive. And remember, my daughters won’t have a dowry. They should be able to fend for themselves.”

“Their husbands will provide for them!” Estelle says.

“What if they become widowed? Divorced? What if their husbands don’t do well? These things happen.”

Estelle shudders. “Come on, why must you imagine catastrophes?”

Mother and Bertrand are back, and Bertrand asks me this time. A cha-cha! I’m excited: I just learned this dance last week with Justine. But I’m so small next to him. When Father stands up with Coralie, I decide that Bertrand, who’s much shorter than Father, is right for me. He’s not so good at the cha-cha either, so I relax.

Mother dances again with Bertrand, Justine with Father, Coralie and I with the little boys. Not so little: my partner turns out to be exactly my age. Estelle is at the other end of the room talking to a bunch of blondish women covered with make-up and bright jewelry, who look like they’re from Béziers. Then Coralie and the boys ask if I want to play hide and seek outside, but I’d rather go back to our table.

Bertrand and Mother are waltzing, Estelle settled in with her women friends. Father and Justine have been talking to some people at the other end of the room, and now Justine starts dancing with one of them. “A son of Emile and Bernadette Clady from Prades,” Father says as he sits down next to me, “I hadn’t seen them in ages.” He orders a bottle of Boulou water. He looks tired.

“When I grow up,” I say, “I want to work. I want to work all the time, even when I’m married. I’m not going to live on my husband’s money.”

Father smiles, and takes me into his lap. “I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful worker,” he says.

“But what kind of work shall I do?”

I’ve been thinking about this. I don’t see myself as a saleswoman, a waitress, or a hairdresser — I’m too clumsy. Eléonore’s mother is a wine dealer: she runs the office, and her husband takes care of the cellars. But I’m not going to be a wine dealer. I’d just bungle it, like Father. There’s also Sabine’s mother, who’s a doctor at the hospital. Sabine’s father is a doctor too, and our families have known each other for ever, but we seldom see them. Once I heard Mother say that it’s no wonder those people live like hermits: a woman can’t both work and entertain.

“You’ll study,” Father says, “and then you’ll see what you like.”

“What I like is to teach my dolls,” I say. “Do you think I could be a teacher?”

“Certainly.”

I think of mademoiselle Pélican. “How many students do you need, to make a good living?” I ask. I plan to have quite a few children, and I’ll need to provide for them.

Father sits me on the table in front of him, pours water into two glasses and hands me one. “You won’t be that kind of teacher,” he says. “You’ll live in a city, and you won’t work in a Catholic school. In a lycée, maybe. You won’t have to worry about numbers.”

As we drive back to Cugnac in the moonlight, Justine dozes off on the towel bag. Coralie’s head is in my lap; there are traces of chocolate cake on her cheeks and hair, a spot of
rouille
on the collar of her light-blue dress. She breathes slowly and once in a while makes a soft whistling noise. She too is saved from Pélican: she’s signed up for the
école laïque
.

In the front seat, Mother says, “Estelle puts up such a good front. I don’t know how she can bear it.”

I know what “it” is. Father knows too, but he doesn’t want to discuss it.

So Mother goes on. “Being left all alone while he...”

Estelle, all alone? Mother doesn’t seem to know what goes on in the Vié house. Apart from her three children and four live-in servants, Estelle has friends staying with her most of the time. All kinds of friends. That’s why I like her house. Last weekend there were two women from Montpellier, mother and daughter, who were excellent company. The daughter played the flute, and Estelle accompanied her on the piano. Over dinner, the mother said I should eat only what I like because “the body knows what it needs”! 

“Estelle seems fine to me,” Father says. “She and Bertrand have never spent much time together. She’s in Béziers or Montpellier a lot, she’s so keen on bridge. Whereas he loves sailing, hunting, riding, staying at
L’Etang and discussing when to prune with his
ramonets
.”

Mother would call the
ramonets
“overseers”. She doesn’t like our local words. “No problem with hunting,” she says. “But this young woman! Taking her out in public!”

“This young woman” is a striking redhead, the undertaker’s daughter, who’s been the subject of much gossip in the last few months. People say Bertrand always had girlfriends, but he took this one to La Vieille Auberge on the Narbonne road, and to various seaside restaurants where people like my parents go. That, apparently, is not done.

Father doesn’t react. Like me, he’ll stand by his friends. And I don’t think Mother spoke out of sympathy for Estelle. She is pleased that Father is not like Bertrand, that he doesn’t have lovers, because it allows her to feel superior. Estelle is rich, but Mother is... What is she? Loved. Officially loved. And that’s what she wants to be. Superior, and loved.

“Were you talking about Paris with Estelle?” Father asks.

“Yes, I’m driving to Paris with Justine on Saturday. I’ll reserve that nice little hotel in Souillac, and we’ll be in Paris Sunday afternoon.”

“But you know I’ve already booked a couchette for Justine!”

“Can’t you get a refund?”

“I don’t know. And don’t you think it would be a good idea to stay here for the
rentrée
, with both girls going to new schools? Just for a week or two? You could go to Paris later.”

“I’ve already told Caroline that I’ll be there on Sunday,” Mother says. “She’s got seats for Gilbert Bécaud at l’Olympia in the evening. Cami will be eaten up with jealousy when I tell her about this, she’s so crazy about her Monsieur 100,000 Volts. She never goes to Paris, poor woman.”

“But the girls...” Father says. “Loli won’t be done with the grape harvest until the middle of October, your mother is away...”