Tita (4 page)

This morning when I wake up my nose is so clogged I can only breathe through my mouth, but my throat is swollen, so not much air gets in. When I try to say good morning to Loli no sound comes out, not even a whisper. Mother decides that I’ll stay home from school. Dr Barral drops by, and Loli goes to the pharmacy for the usual lozenges and tablets. Meanwhile I follow Mother up into the bathroom. She takes a long twisted metal stick out of the medicine cabinet, disinfects it, winds a cotton swab around one end, takes me in her lap, dips the stick in a bottle of tart-smelling red liquid and thrusts it into the back of my throat. I should be used to this. Every time, though, I’m sure the stick is going to pierce my vocal cords.

Some gagging is going on in my throat, but the rest of my body stays very still as Mother dips and paints, dips and paints. I’m trying to stop my mind, pretend I’m already dead so nothing can hurt me. When she’s done, Mother closes the bottle, lays the stick in the washbasin, and gives me a long cuddle because I’ve been so quiet. “My sweet little sick girl,” she says. Then she carries me to my bed, where I leaf through
a bunch of old
Lisettes
and
Fillettes
from the night table, because I’m too tired to go and look for a book.

After a while I fall asleep. When I wake up, the gold clock on the mantelpiece, held up by three curly-haired naked boys with outstretched arms, says twenty past five, and I feel like getting up. I walk slowly downstairs (I’m still dizzy) and into Father’s study. I can vaguely hear Father’s voice coming from the office, in conversation with Simone (the secretary) and Berthe (the accountant), while on the other side, in the sitting room, Mother is having tea with her friends.

I slide into the sitting room, as noiselessly as I can, and sit on a low stool between the wall and a wide armchair that has a full square back and straight legs. The women are all at the other end of the room near the windows, in flimsier chairs with curved legs, with their teacups on small painted tables, all of slightly different sizes so you can stack them if you like. Nobody notices me. I often try this, and succeed about half the time. I do it as an experiment, to find out how invisible I can be, but today I also have a practical reason: if Mother saw me she might, instead of asking me to pass the cakes and then forgetting about me, send me back to bed.

Cami Espeluque, my friend Anne-Claude’s mother, plump and blooming in a low-cut yellow dress, is telling the others about her two-year-old twin boys, who have colds. “Can you believe those rascals? They get a kick out of sneezing into each other’s faces!” Mother often says that Cami “has no conversation” because she tends to go on about the twins, but the twins are a pretty good topic, I think. More entertaining than hats. Mother talks about her children too, but she never tries to be amusing. Or maybe she doesn’t know how.

But
I
am the topic right now. “Tita too has a cold.” Mother announces. “She’s in bed! Again! Throat infection, cough, the works. She’s so delicate, and such a bad eater. I don’t think this climate is good for her — all this dry wind, it’s enervating. I do everything I can to make her stronger, I never stop. Every morning I give her cod liver oil, nose drops three times a day, enemas every evening. I wonder what would happen if I didn’t. I guess she wouldn’t be alive by now.”

I’ve often wondered why Mother lies so much. Thank God she doesn’t wield cod liver oil every day. Or enemas! She does inflict those torments on me, but not very often. So why “every morning, every evening”? A lot of what she says is like that. For instance, last week, the owner of the fabric store in Narbonne said, “This ochre silk is perfect for you, you have such a beautiful complexion!” Mother looked delighted. “Thank you!” she said. “And you know, it’s absolutely natural. I never do anything to my skin other than wash it with savon de Marseille, never use any kind of cream or lotion. Ever!”

When actually she keeps a whole array of pots and bottles on her dressing table — she brings them back from Lyon, a big city far away near the Alps, where she used to live before she married Father. She often visits there because that’s where all her real girlfriends are, from the time when she had her own beauty salon. Through her friends, she can still get the wholesale price for serums, oils, masks, toners, moisturizers, foundations, powders. She uses a few of them evening and morning, over and above the concoctions she creates from fruit and vegetables.

I can’t imagine why her words are so at odds with the facts. I tried to discuss this once with Justine. She rolled her eyes at my instances of Mother’s mendacity: “You can’t call this lying! It’s
hyperbole
.”

“I’m not sure Dr Barral is up to scratch,” Mother goes on, “so I called a specialist in Béziers, Dr Viala. Have you heard of him? He was written up in
Le Midi Libre
, sounds like he’s the best. Very handsome too, at least according to their photo. I was lucky to get an appointment for tomorrow afternoon, at three thirty. Oh, and there’s a sale at the Galeries Modernes. They’re going to remodel the store. I think I’ll take a look at it after the specialist. I need beach towels, and a bathing suit. Would you be interested?”

Estelle shrugs. “Why not? I haven’t been to Béziers for quite a while. Let’s go and see what’s going on.”

“Good idea,” Cami says. “What about you, Denise? Let’s all go, shall we? In my car?” Because of her four children, Cami has the largest car.

Denise Pujol, our next-door neighbor, hesitates. “I’d like to take a look at their tea towels,” she finally says, “but I’ll have to talk to Roger.”

The other women try not to look at each other, but I know what they’re thinking: “Poor Denise!”

Not that the Pujols are poor, financially. Quite the opposite. They live next door to us in a bigger and more ornate house (ours is neater, though, with its plain façade and slender roof balustrade). Roger Pujol is one of Father’s oldest friends. He’s a
notaire
, and his offices take up the whole ground floor of their house. Their daughter lives in Toulouse (she married a surgeon), and their son is studying economics in Germany. They have a cook, two maids and a gardener. Every summer they go to the spa in Luchon, checking into the Grand Hotel. But Denise doesn’t have her own car. She doesn’t even drive. Also, the way the Pujols deal with money is peculiar. Roger gives Denise, every morning, the cash needed for grocery shopping. If she wants more than usual, she has to ask. He’s not actually stingy, he’ll give her what she wants, but she has to
ask
.

Mother finds this humiliating. “Every month, I get sixty thousand francs in my bank account,” she likes to say. “Which isn’t a lot, but at least it’s mine. Henri trusts me to spend it as I see fit.” What about Cami? Does her husband, too, put money into her account? He’s a
propriétaire,
he manages his vineyards with
his
father and my impression is, they’re in trouble. But Cami’s parents own a few houses around town. Her father has a real-estate business, and her mother a perfume store.

Estelle “has her own money”, people say. Is this the same as a dowry? My throat starts tingling, my chest is burning, I think I’m going to cough, so I slide back into Father’s study, which is empty. I sit at Father’s desk, forget about coughing, look up
dot
in the Robert. A dowry,
biens dotaux
, is what a woman brings to the marriage, to be managed by her husband. What she actually owns personally is called
biens
paraphernaux
.

At noon Loli is waiting for us in front of Sainte-Blandine. On our way back, we meet two friends of hers near the
école laïque
. Coralie, followed by the other maids’ little boys, climbs onto the benches along the avenue, jumps down, runs around the trees, hops on one foot, waves to acquaintances, while I listen to the maids discussing dances and boyfriends in Occitan. They exclaim, disagree, make fun of the men. They’re not going to be maids all their lives, and they don’t want to go back to their parents’ farms: they all came to town to find a husband.

Loli says to her friends, “There’s no hurry, is there? As long as you don’t have to wear Saint Catherine’s bonnet...” Nobody wants to be a
Catherinette
, which is what you become if you’re still unmarried when you turn twenty-five. For Saint Catherine’s Day all the
Catherinettes
make elaborate headdresses and walk in a procession wearing them. Loli is sixteen; in November for Saint Catherine’s day she’ll be seventeen, so she still has eight years left to find a fiancé. I hope it takes her a while, because I like her. She’s so cheerful. It’s not easy to be a maid: even though you are a grown-up, you have to do as you’re told, all day long. Our previous maid, Jeanine, who got married last spring, was often in a bad mood; she yelled at Coralie, and quarrelled with Justine.

As soon as we come through the garden door, I feel queasy. Veal blanquette. The smell of the sauce, creamy, vealy, makes me want to run away. Instead, I wash my hands and enter the dining room, where my parents are kissing against the central-heating radiator. The radiator is cold and if they wanted heat, which they probably don’t on this warm day, they could stand in the sun at the other end of the room, near the windows. But they always hold each other and kiss in front of the radiator. It’s a large radiator, as tall as Mother’s shoulders. Its top part is a cabinet that’s supposed to hold plates and dishes to keep them warm but it’s now full of old newspapers for the stove. For we also have a small wood stove, which is needed when it gets really cold. Eléonore’s grandmother told me that our house was the first one in town to get central heating, which is why our ancient radiators don’t produce much warmth. Mother says it’s also because the house is too big and too drafty.

“Where’s Coralie?” Mother asks. But I can hear Grandmother in the next room urging my sister to dry her hands more thoroughly.

After the asparagus, which I don’t mind, Loli brings the main dish and sets it in the middle of the table. When mother takes the lid off, I stop breathing. She lays two pieces of veal on my plate. “It’s very lean,” she says.

I examine the stringy fibers, the gelatinous texture. “Please, no sauce,” I whisper. I’ll eat the rice, at least the side of it that hasn’t touched the meat or the sauce.

“Just a little meat,” Mother says, cutting it up for me. “You know how important it is to eat meat. If you don’t, you’ll catch another ear infection. Or throat infection. You don’t want to be ill and miss school again, do you?”

Luckily she forgets about me as she starts telling Father about the wonderful crocodile handbag André gave Cami for her birthday. This is hardly news: Cami turned thirty-one more than a month ago, and I thought her friends were done with the oohs and aahs by now. Not to mention the fact that Father has never shown any interest in handbags. “André got it in Montpellier,” Mother goes on, “at Maxence & Fils, avenue de Pézenas. That’s where Estelle got her beautiful suitcase too.”              

This must be the beginning of a campaign. Mother’s birthday is April twenty-sixth, in hardly more than a week, and she wants her own crocodile. But I don’t think her approach is going to work. Father has been different for a while. Preoccupied. Everybody says that our local wines don’t sell as well as they used to. Eléonore’s parents are even talking about bottling theirs instead of dealing wholesale. It’s the sensible thing to do, they say. They wouldn’t need their two tank trucks, then. Father has three. Sometimes, for short errands, I’m allowed to sit next to one of the drivers, high above the netherworld of the streets. But when I happen to see one of these trucks in town, I cringe at my name out there on the back and sides of the tanks, green on yellow, bold and huge.

“Maxence & Fils, avenue de Pézenas, just after the Crédit Lyonnais,” Mother repeats.

Heedless of crocodiles, Father slowly savours a new wine and considers. For him, Mother is babbling; he has no idea what’s at stake. Every lunchtime, he brings three or four small bottles to the table. All morning, in the tasting room, he’s been sampling a dozen or two that various brokers came to submit, each with a handwritten label (grower’s name, broker’s name, date). Here are the ones he’s interested in — he’s written his opinion of them on index cards. Before buying a wine, he likes to taste it with food.

Coralie’s plate is empty. She points towards mine — I’ve dealt with the rice but haven’t grappled the veal at all. I nod, and she deftly picks up the bits of meat with her fork while Grandmother concentrates on tossing
the salad. Mother is still expatiating on the glories of Maxence & Fils. Father asks her if she wants to taste a fruity Minervois, which might be a bit on the heavy side. She swills nearly half a glass and says, “Yes, too sweet.” She’s irritated because Father hasn’t caught on to Maxence & Fils. I think he has other problems on his mind. Mother doesn’t like problems, except the ones she can solve immediately and brilliantly, like a drain to unstop, a room to paint, a child’s dress to make. She is proud that she managed to marry a man who has vineyards, a business, many friends, a great reputation. A good-looking man. Very tall, which is essential for her: she is tall, and needs taller. All her girlfriends from Lyon envy her. She’s made it, that’s all she wants to know. 

Cheese time, and Mother makes sure Loli puts two petits-suisses on my dessert plate. “Please, just one!” I beg. But Mother is adamant. “Remember, without calcium, your bones will crumble, your body will be crippled, and you’ll never grow tall. Is that what you want?”

What I want? A life without food. To go to heaven as soon as possible, or hell, or limbo, or any place provided there’s no food in it.

Petits-suisses are less offensive than Camembert, and less slimy than yogurt, but anything made from milk has this sour smell. Grandmother peels an apple and cuts it up for me. She urges me to hide spoonfuls of petits-suisses between slices of apple. I try; the chalky paste ruins the cool purity of the fruit. Two spoonfuls, and I give up. Thank God Mother is busy again, pronouncing on the last two wines while eating her Roquefort. How can she put that ancient curdled milk into her mouth, so rotten it’s covered with blue spots, so putrid that, if she didn’t know it was Roquefort, she’d look for a dead rat behind the furniture?

She professes that wines are always best tasted with cheese. She doesn’t use her nose, as Father always does before his lips touch the liquid. She swallows fast, and empties her glass. “Excellent, this one,” she says with complete self-assurance. Father tries to explain its pros and cons, but she isn’t listening.

On school days, as soon as we’re done with lunch, I have to go and practice the piano for half an hour before we go back to school. Loli brings coffee, Mother takes her cup and saucer and leads me up into the music room, where she sits in an armchair and waits. Not that she enjoys listening to my mindless exercises, but she wants to make sure I never stop.

Mother never had to play the piano, by the way. Why do I have to suffer what she didn’t? Because.
Parce que c’est comme ça
.