Amandine (14 page)

“Yes. Less sad. Not sad in the same way.”

“But still sad?”

“Yes.”

“Is everyone in the whole world sad about something?”

“Go get your red boots now. And your hat.”

“And my purse.”

Letting go of Solange’s hand and leaning backward to better view the Belle Epoque vault of the train station ceiling, Amandine, hands covering her ears against the screech of the stationmaster’s announcements, slowly turns herself in a full circle.

“How far can you go on a train?” she asks Solange as the two stand still among the throngs.

“Very far, if one wishes. Not on a single train but on a series of them. One can go almost anywhere on a train, one destination at a time.”

“Almost anywhere?”

“Yes. But not over the seas. Not over water. Not usually. One needs to take a ship for that. Or fly in an airplane.”

“Train stations are my first favorite places.”

“How quickly you’ve decided that. I think you might wait until you’ve seen a bit more of the world before—”

“I don’t need to wait. I already know. And when I’m big,
bigger
, I shall ride trains everywhere.”

“May I ride with you?”

“Of course.”

“Where shall we go?”

“To find my mother.”

“Yes, yes, of course, someday …”

“Where do the people get on the trains?” Amandine wants to know.

“Some of the tracks are along that wall. See the numbers above the doorways? Now look up there at the lighted board. The same numbers appear there. Do you see them?”

“Yes.”

“And next to each number is a departure time, the number of a train, and its destination. The place where it’s going. Look. From track number three at fourteen-forty, a train will depart for Paris.”

“Track three at fourteen-forty, number 1022 to Paris.”

“Perfect. That’s how to read the departure board. There is the same kind of board for the trains that are arriving. The ones that are coming here from somewhere else. Here, on this side. So if we look here we can see that, let’s see, what time is it right now? Ah, in seven minutes, at fourteen-ten, on track eleven, train number 3542 will arrive from Marseille.”

Amandine studies first one board, then the other. Looks at Solange. Back at the boards.

“Track six at fifteen-oh-five, train number 1129 in departure for Lyon. Where is Lyon? Can we go there today?”

“Too far for today. Now come with me to deliver the package to that desk over there and—”

“And then may we go outside to see the trains?”

“Well, I guess … Yes, yes, we can. If we hurry we can meet the train from Marseille, don’t you think? Look again at the arrival board, and then you lead the way.”

“Track eleven, let’s go.”

As though they were indeed meeting someone, the two hurry out to the platform to stand among the small, noisy congregations who wait. Amandine moves closer to Solange, holds her hand more tightly, wiggles the other hand to move the satin rope of the midnight blue pouch farther up upon her wrist. She looks up at Solange. “Isn’t it wonderful here?”

“Sssh, here it comes. You can’t see it yet, but you can hear it. Listen. Close your eyes and listen.”

Amandine nestles her head against Solange. “It sounds like it’s rushing to get to us. As though it can’t wait to see us. Doesn’t it sound like that to you?”

“I suppose it does. Yes, you’re right, just as though—”

Amandine laughs and squeals as the snorting, spewing beast lunges into the station.

Solange shouts above the noise, “Listen now. The stationmaster will announce it—”

“Arriving from Marseille on track eleven. Track eleven arriving from Marseille.”

Amandine watches as the passengers, smiling and waving, descend the metal steps from the car. She pays special attention to the women.

“May we stay to see more trains? I want to stay here until—”

“Let’s go back to look at the board and see when the next one is due.”

“The next and then the next and—”

“All right, two more. And then we’re off to tea. Aren’t you getting hungry?”

Two more. And then another until, against the leaving light on platform number six, the midnight blue pouch swinging from her wrist, her hat askew, Amandine looks up at Solange. “I like it here.”

“I do, too.”

“I like the smell. It burns my nose, but I like it. I like the way the air tastes. It’s like the spoon when I lick away the pudding.”

“It’s true, the air tastes like metal.”

“I could stay here forever until her train comes. The one from … I wish I knew from where. Maybe it will be the next one. That’s the best thing about trains. The train you’re waiting for might be the next one.”

“I think the sixteen-oh-three is right on time. Can you hear it?”

“Yes, I think I can. It’s scary every time, but I like it, all the noise like a million horses galloping and smoke thick as fog on the creek and the sparks like the ones from the horseman’s spurs in the story Philippe told me. Now the stationmaster will say it. Get ready …”

In perfect time with the stationmaster, Amandine and Solange scream at the top of their voices,

“Arriving from Carcassonne on track six. Track six arriving from Carcassonne.”

One Sunday morning months later, when Solange is arranging the sheets on Amandine’s chintz-draped bed, she picks up one of the pillows, holds it to the light, says, “What is this?”

She peers more closely at what seems like a drawing of sorts on the pillow slip.

“Amandine, have you by any chance been drawing on your pillows? This one is smudged with something like—”

“It’s charcoal. We use charcoal in our drawing classes. We’re supposed to draw trees or flowers, but sometimes I draw faces.”

“I see. But I don’t think it’s good to practice on the bed linens.”

“I wasn’t practicing. It’s a drawing of my mother. Of her face. Look, if you hold it like this you can see—”

“Yes, yes, I do see. But why did you draw her on the pillow? Why not on—”

“I do it all the time at school, and Sister Geneviève never seems to mind. When she changes the linens, I just draw my mother another time on the clean one. I told Sister Geneviève it helps me to sleep. To have her near me. I knew you would scold me, and so I never did it here. But last night I couldn’t sleep and I thought that if I drew her …”

“I understand. We’ll just leave it be then. Leave it like this for next week. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“But you know that if you can’t sleep or if your dreams are … You know you can come to sleep in my bed or call me to come sleep with you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes. But when those things happen to me in the dormitory and you’re not there … And besides, I’m seven now. I have to learn to be alone.”

“Do you know how much I miss you, Amandine?”

“You have to learn to be alone, too.”

The words sting, and Solange stands quietly looking at Amandine, who has turned away, gone to stand by the window.

“How would you like me to tell you a secret?” Solange asks.

“A secret about what?”

Solange goes to the sofa, sits down. “Come here and sit next to me. Closer.” With Amandine’s back nestled to her breast, her arms encircling her, Solange says, “Do you remember when I told you about the lady who came to see my grandmother? The one who came to talk about you?”

“The one with eyes like a deer?”

“Yes. She. Well, she left something for you in my care, Amandine. I am to save it for you until you’re older. I’m to guard it as I would guard you, Grand-mère told me.”

“What is it? Where is it?”

“I don’t know what it is. I’ve never opened the package. It’s hidden away in my things. I’ll show you the package if you want, but you mustn’t open it. It will be for you to open when the time comes. I have written your name on a little card and attached it to the package. Otherwise it’s just as it was when the lady left it.”

“Oh yes, I would like to see the package.”

Solange rises, goes to the armoire, opens one of the three narrow, long drawers where she keeps her underclothing. Riffling without looking, she pulls out a brown-paper-wrapped parcel tied with white string.

“Here it is. You may hold it, but don’t shake it or be rough with it. Promise?”

“Promise.”

As though it is a just-born baby, Amandine takes the package tenderly in her hands, looks down at it. “Did it really come from that lady?”

“It really did. And the reason why I’m telling you all this today, why I want you to know about this gift, is so that you will feel less alone. You see, this is a kind of symbol of the love your mother has for you.”

“What’s a symbol?”

“A symbol is a sign. An evidence of a sentiment. Of a feeling. In this case, whatever is in this package is a symbol of your mother’s
love. It hardly matters what the symbol is … It might be something old, something that was precious to her, something that was hers when she was a child, I don’t know. But what does matter is that she wanted you to have it. Whatever is in this package represents the connection between you and her.”

“The connection?”

“Yes. The truth that you are part of one another.”

“Really part of one another?”

“Really. Whether she’s here or not, what she looks like … all those things you, you
don’t
know can never, ever change that single important fact. That she is your mother and you are her daughter.”

“That’s two facts.”

“You’re right. Two facts. Hold those truths tight to you, and I think you’ll be less lonely.”

“When can I open this?”

“My
grand-mère
said that the lady told her I should give it to you on your thirteenth birthday.”

“Thirteen? And I’m only seven now. I’ll be so old by the time I’m thirteen.”

“I think not, darling girl. I think you’ll be younger by then. Far younger than you are now.”

“Is that how numbers really work? I mean, do we get more little as the numbers get higher?”

“If we’re lucky.”

“Oh.”

“Now I think it’s time we went out to walk, so go get your—”

“Red boots. I know.”

E
ACH WEDNESDAY DURING RECREATION TIME THE STUDENTS ARE
permitted a walk to the village, where the younger girls visit the
chocolatier
, the older ones the Monoprix for hairpins or tampons or violet water. One Wednesday, Amandine—who most often does not join in the outing—wanders off on her own, enters the newsstand, wishes the newsagent a good afternoon, looks about uncertainly.

“May I help you, mademoiselle?”

“Yes sir. I would like to see the film-star magazines.”

“Ah, right here. Any particular one in mind?”

“No sir. May I just look a bit?”

“Bien sûr, mademoiselle
. You’ll let me know if I can be of assistance?”

She looks first at the covers, then selects one, leafs through it slowly. Nothing. She takes another one. Half an hour passes, and she has looked through all of them. The newsagent is working nearby, counting magazines and newspapers, cutting the string on bundles of
new arrivals, arranging the shelves to accommodate them. He hums, and Amandine sways gently to his music. They are comfortable in one another’s company. As he pulls his small knife upward on the string from a newspaper-wrapped bundle of magazines, Amandine tells him, “That’s the one. That one, sir, may I please see it?”

On the cover of the one Amandine asks to see is a close-up photo of the actress Hedy Lamarr.

“Ah, Mademoiselle has excellent taste.
The most beautiful woman in films
. That’s what she’s called, you know.”

Amandine smiles, shakes her head no. Takes the magazine from the newsagent, crouches down on the floor, and stares at the cover. She peruses the pages, looks back at the cover, back at the pages. Back at the cover. Amandine is crying. Slowly, she rips the cover from the rest of the pages, carries the severed cover to the counter, where the newsagent is serving other customers. When it is her turn, she says, “I don’t think I have enough money to buy the whole magazine, and so I’ll just take the cover. If that’s all right.”