Whispering in French Read online

  “Got it. More water. And olives.” I hated olives and would never put one of those slimy, briny things in my mouth.

  “Is my darling granddaughter still a size six?”

  “We don’t need anything, really. I just need—”

  “Nonsense. Every woman likes and needs pretty things once in a while. And I love spoiling you. And Lily. How is she liking Biarritz after two weeks? Oh, is she as pretty as when I last saw her?” She laughed again. “Does she still look like me? It’s amusing how she looks more like me than you. You don’t really look like anyone in the family. Except perhaps your nose.”

  She would never change. And my role was not to even try. “Yes. She’s beautiful, Mom. Just like you.”

  Her voice became faint. “Oh, Paolo. Tell everyone I’m coming. Okay, darling. Do take care. Lots of exercise is always a good idea. Stay away from the foie gras and les frites. It’s not on the diet.”

  “Right. French fries and goose liver, no. Exercise, yes. Got it. Have fun.”

  She was gone. Had probably hung up ten seconds ago. And I was right back to square one. Day one.

  Me against everyone else in the family.

  Indeed, against everyone in southwest France.

  Except perhaps the short mayor, whose perpetual bad mood was likely due to a stomachache from puffing out his chest and holding in his abdomen all day long to exude authority. It became patently clear that evening that Jojo, despite his puffery, would be delighted to take the villa off my hands. Indeed, he was vying for the position of my new BFF, a term that deliciously embodied the ingredients of our budding relationship: juvenile brevity, tempestuous deceit, and absolute temerity.

  “Mme Hamilton,” he said during the gloaming hour in the village square with an unusually small traditional Basque building, la mairie in the background. We stood on the long fronton court, where that ancient game known as jai alai in the States was played by the local teams several times a week under the orange glow of a harvest moon in late summer. “As you can see, our extraordinary marché has grown and grown. You do know that Paris Match magazine named our village ‘The Crown Jewel of the Pays Basque’?”

  “Yes, M. le Maire.” It was the fifth time he’d imparted this little gem of information in the last month.

  He glanced toward the village butcher, who was taking great pains to display an impressive haunch of Serrano ham just next to us. The mayor escorted me to the privacy of the World War II memorial inscribed with all the townspeople who had lost their lives during the occupation.

  “Well, it’s just a little idea of mine that we need un plus grand espace for our mairie, for the fronton, for everything needed to make sure the jewel is properly displayed. Don’t you agree?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I would be happy to talk to your grandfather about this as I think the time is ripe, non?” Again, no pause. “I spoke to my dear friend in Arcangues, who tells me you toured his cottage last week. I feel sure we can all come to a mutually satisfying agreement about the future of Madeleine Marie. And your family would become known as les anges—the angels—of the Pays Basque for providing a better setting for our pearl.”

  Finally an ally was presenting himself, albeit with overblown prose. The only problem was I didn’t trust a word he said. We were completely different species. This smacked of a Nazi-Vichy collaboration and I was afraid I was feeling like the traitor and my poor grandfather represented old France.

  “Ah, and who do we have ’ere?” The mayor smiled broadly. “Why, it’s Mr. Smith from Sotheby’s and M. Landuran from Barclays. Bonsoir, mes amis!”

  “How convenient,” I commented without any surprise. I looked at the two men who at least had the decency to appear embarrassed. “Good to see you both.”

  The banker kissed my cheeks very correctly. The man from Sotheby’s didn’t dare. He nodded instead.

  “Antoinette rang me earlier,” M. Landuran informed.

  “Not surprised,” I replied.

  “She’s wiring money to your account.”

  “I know.”

  “She rang me too,” the man from Sotheby’s added to me.

  Now there was a surprise. “What did she expect you to do, Mr. Smith?”

  “Find a buyer.”

  “Oh. I thought I asked you to do that a while ago. And since that day, I’ve not heard a peep from you.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t fully understand the dire situation.”

  “Really? I thought your description of the plumbing, roof, and cliff quite inspiring.”

  He had the audacity to feign innocence. “Madame, pardonnez-moi. It’s just that we are in a strong growth cycle now. And we have the full support of so many people at present. I feel certain we can arrange for the sale.” He looked at the mayor, clearly the head of the village mafia.

  “May I remind you that I have not signed a contract with Sotheby’s yet?” I glanced at the inscriptions on the memorial. “So far, I’ve been unimpressed with your service. I’d expect a reduction in commission if I use you.”

  He blanched, his face almost pale blue in the darkening hour. He looked like a soldier caught consorting with the enemy.

  “And furthermore,” I added, “I’m employing a notary in Bayonne instead of here to complete any sale.”

  It was the mayor’s turn to take on the mien of a sardine’s belly.

  “But, please,” I said, “don’t misunderstand. I’m delighted by the prospect of a swift resolution regarding the future of our family’s villa.”

  “Naturellement,” the banker inserted. “Jojo, or rather, M. le Maire, would coordinate a long-term loan by the French government to purchase Madeleine Marie.”

  “Really? How much would la République offer for Madeleine Marie? And Mr. Smith, I would like to see the list of potential buyers you have contacted since last we spoke.”

  The mayor stepped in. “Oh, well, we mustn’t talk about such things right now. We must enjoy the beauty of the evening. The festivities. And I must accept the microphone to begin the Festival of the Sardine properly. The grillers are in position. Then the Strong Man competition. They will be climbing and sawing logs tonight, and then the crowd favorite tug-of-war. And we will have une boum—a dance—for the young and old here tonight.”

  I plastered a smile on my face. The mayor was immensely fond of the microphone if recent history was any indication. It was going to be a long evening, with the sardines and rosé counteracting the microphone and music with any luck. “Of course,” I said. “Please give me a call in the morning, Mr. Smith. And when you have—” I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find Edward Soames with a quizzical look on his face. “Yes?”

  “Your daughter requires your attention.” His eyes gave nothing away.

  “Oh. Excusez-moi, messieurs.” A round of advanced French leave-taking could not get me away fast enough. Major Soames’s arm-pulling did. “What’s going on? You were just trying to save me from those bureaucrats, right?”

  “Mostly yes. But I did just see Lily around the corner at the little port. She was helping unload the last of the sardines off the boats.” He leaned in. “Uh, there was a young man who appeared more than ready to improve French-American relations with her. Not too concerned. She had him by two inches. But—”

  “Hey, should I be worried or not?” I picked up the pace.

  “No, but walk faster, please,” he said, leading the way.

  I had to run to keep up. “You would have stepped in if you were worried.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “I know you would have stepped in.” I sounded pathetic.

  “Yep. I’m not worried. Just thought we should check on her again.”

  A quarter hour later and she was still not to be found. We stopped near the stand-up paddleboards chained to the rusting rings of a port that had probably protected fishing boats since before the Roman Inquisition, if the thickness of the port walls was any indication.

  “Are you sure the girl you saw was Lily? This is
ridiculous. I refuse to panic.” I started to panic.

  “She’s hard to miss,” he said. “She’s the tallest girl in this village and I could hear her voice.”

  “What about the guy? How old was he?”

  “Never seen him before. Maybe early twenties. Looked like a typical young recruit.”

  Bile rose in my throat. This was the last place in the world I could envision a problem. And she wouldn’t run away again. She just wouldn’t. But perhaps she would. I just didn’t know her anymore. My nerves were dancing on the thin wire of fear and losing ground. Really, I needed to get a grip.

  “Hey,” the major said softly, “you’re really worried, aren’t you? She didn’t run away if that’s what you’re thinking. Just thought you wouldn’t want some Gitanes-smoking young Frenchy flirting with Lily.”

  I felt like a miserable mother.

  “She’s probably back at the villa,” he insisted. “Why don’t you go there and I’ll keep looking here? I’ll call you or Magdali for an update in twenty.”

  I nodded, and left without a word, negotiating the patterned cobblestones of the tiny port in my striped espadrilles. It was nine in the evening and still the sun had not set. The crowd was becoming more raucous by the minute as the scent of sardines and olive oil tinged the salt air and a large orange tabby cat darted behind a fishing boat.

  Past Madeleine Marie’s heavy front door, I took the red-carpeted winding stairs two at a time toward the bedroom floor. Heart pounding, I edged open her door to find Jean, reading glasses low on his nose, a book propped high, in a chair next to her bed, my old bed of youth. A small lamp cast a yellow glow in the room.

  And Lily was asleep—a wild spray of dark chestnut locks spread over the pillow, her mouth slightly open, and her arms thrown carelessly over her head.

  It was the most beautiful tableau I’d ever seen.

  Jean brought a finger to his lips.

  I silently choked back a sound, and tears began to fall. My grandfather opened one arm and I went to him, kneeling between him and my daughter. And for the first time in forever I felt something warm in my chest. He rested a hand on my shoulder.

  This was what safety, security felt like. Perhaps. It was, of course, just an illusion. Everything changes. Nothing is secure from the havoc of time.

  “Stop thinking,” Jean whispered.

  He’d always been a mind reader. I remembered that from my youth.

  “Really,” he insisted quietly. “Just stop thinking.”

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  “She’s exhausted,” he said. “We had a lovely little talk, and I read to her one of my favorite poems—‘Le dormeur du val.’ Your daughter had brilliant observations. She has far more wisdom than most her age.”

  “She does. She’s seen too much and she loves to read anything and everything.”

  “Just like you, my darling. Just like you.”

  “No. She experienced hell. More than she ever should have.” I paused. “‘The Sleeper of the Valley.’ You read that one to me too.”

  “I think it captures that horrible sight after a battle when young lives are cut short in war.”

  “Did you see that?”

  “Oui, chérie,” he said simply. “It’s something you can never ever forget no matter how many years pass. May I show you something?”

  It was such a tender moment and I was desperate to hang on to it. It felt as fragile as a bubble caught on a summer breeze. “Of course.”

  I helped him to his feet and handed him his cane. We slowly navigated the distance to his bedchamber, which I hadn’t really had a good look at since my childhood. Instead of appearing smaller as most things do in adulthood, the room seemed even larger than I remembered. Its walls were covered with a few of the remaining exquisite portraits of ancestors, some of whom I knew by name, others were strangers frozen in time, looking back at me, through fine spiderwebs of cracked paint. Golden toile wallpaper relieved the darkness of the portraits, and a marble bust of a lady with a single long curl resting on her elegant shoulder stood coyly on a pedestal in the corner.

  Jean said nothing as he stood by the long doors leading to the balcony, and I went from object to object, remembering almost all of them. The slight scent of peppermint permeated the air, and the poignant memories of cajoling one from my grandfather flooded into this chamber. A jungle of golf trophies littered the room. The largest one, a magnificent, enormous, tarnished, and dusty bowl stood proudly in the corner behind the door. The shadow of something at the bottom of it piqued my curiosity and I fished out a red beribboned medal.

  “What’s this?”

  “What’s what, chérie?”

  I moved toward him and showed him the medal.

  He made a disparaging sound and waved a hand. “An elegant symbol of something quite the opposite.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What thousands of Frenchmen and women did during the war,” he said.

  “Which was?”

  His eyes were watery and very pale, almost silver blue in the low light. He appeared very frail, very old. And the warmth I had held within grew cold and numb.

  “The Germans appropriated houses up and down the coast. Madeleine Marie was one of them, as you know.” He looked toward a painting of his mother, Marguerite, in her youth, the tiny Peruvian powerhouse, so opposite from her tall son, my grandfather. Her shrewd black eyes stared back at me. “Well, while my mother tainted their food to make them ill or sleepy from time to time, we copied their communiqués and transmitted them.” His eyes took on a dreamy quality, lost in thought. “We tried to sabotage them at every turn—charming them with the daughters of our friends, with gambling, with wine, and even with golf.”

  “Where was Antoinette?”

  He smiled. “Why, here of course. Did she never tell you?”

  “I remember her talking about stuffing newspapers under the doors and how cold it was. And also how she hated her governess. She said she used to give her own rationed butter and chocolate squares to the gardener only to annoy her governess.”

  Jean smiled. “Sadly, she didn’t take to her stepmothers or any other woman in the house except her grandmother.”

  “Antoinette must have been too young to play any part in the sabotage.”

  He shook his head slightly. “She might have been very young, but at eight she was already adept at capturing and holding attention. One of the Kommandanten, the one who slept in this bedroom in fact, was completely under her spell. He had a daughter of the same age, waiting for him in Berlin. Antoinette did what we asked. She charmed and delighted him, holding his hand in the garden, giving him bouquets, kissing his stern face in the morning, littering him with false compliments to distract him when we needed. She deserved this medal more than I.”

  “Did she know how dangerous it was?”

  “Of course she did. Anyone who watched the Nazis arrive in Biarritz with guns and dogs understood. They marched right past the glittering splendor of the Hôtel du Palais. Napoleon was surely spinning in his grave. Antoinette saw it all. Jean-Michel was sickly and in bed, and petit Nicolas was far too young. But I wanted Antoinette to understand, and her grandmother insisted she go too.”

  “Nicolas died,” I said. “On the balcony here.”

  “Yes, along with my second wife.”

  “His mother. Rosemary.”

  “Yes. You know, I suppose, the story. She was English. And killed by her own countrymen, bombardiers from England who missed the railway target behind us and dropped a bomb on the balcony just a week after the Kommandant and his regiment had departed for Paris.”

  I looked closer at the medal and brushed away the layer of dust with my thumb. The white enamel points of the star framed twin French flags in the center with the gold words Honneur et Patrie—Honor and Country—embedded in the dark blue enamel. The French Legion of Honor . . .

  “Come, Kate. I told you I wanted to show you something.”

  He depressed th
e brass door lever, and I preceded him outside to the cement, crisscrossed railing. He joined me and we both gazed at the stars just emerging in the darkening night sky. There appeared to be thousands of them all around us, falling down the edges of our vision until they met the tall trees edging the vast gardens. We stood there for long minutes, and for the first time, I imagined the pain my grandfather endured each time he stood here, where his bonny English lass and their only child, Nicolas, both blond in the pictures he had by his bedside table, had died.

  I felt his hand cover mine on the cold railing.

  “Watch,” he whispered.

  At first I couldn’t see anything. Then, out of the evergreens rose fireflies—a living, breathing chimera of sparkling iridescence gusting across the gardens, reaching ever skyward until they mingled with the lowest stars on the horizon, blending heaven and earth in a symphony of natural beauty.

  “What do you think?”

  I swallowed against something hard in the back of my throat.

  “It’s hard to feel sad,” he said quietly, “with such magnificence, non?”

  “How did you cope?”

  He understood perfectly. “It was easier in those days. Everyone was mourning someone lost. I was no different than anyone else. But, of course, Antoinette and Jean-Michel suffered the most, because they probably felt like they lost their adorable brother and two parents, not just one. I disappeared for the rest of the war, joining the resistance in Paris, and following the allies to push the Germans all the way back to Berlin—finally returning to Paris to help rebuild the government. I just couldn’t bear to be here, without my wife. She was the one I loved with all my heart.” He paused. “My mother, despite her advanced years, raised Antoinette and Jean-Michel, until I returned seven years later. By then your mother was fifteen and Jean-Michel two years younger.”

  “Jean . . . I—”

  “Granddaddy,” he said.

  “Granddaddy,” I swallowed. “I’ve made such a mess of it. And my life was so much easier than yours.”

  “Not from what Antoinette tells me. And you’ve raised an extraordinary daughter.”

  “I just don’t know how to live a good life. I’ve lost my sense of purpose. I always said I wouldn’t let the past affect me when I could escape, but I was a fool to think it wouldn’t mark me.”