Tita (14 page)

Everybody looks at me askance because I don’t eat cheese, hate the smell of cheese, can’t be near cheese. I don’t know why people are so much more exercised by cheese than by the other foods I shrink from — liver, kidneys, snails, beef tongue, andouillette. Maybe it’s nationalistic.

Even Father. He knows there’s no hope with Camembert, but this morning as we’re getting ready for a picnic, he says, “It would be so nice if you could eat a little cheese. Not the fusty kind. A bit of Emmental. Could you try? If you do, I’ll give you a reward. Whatever you like. Book, toy, board game… ”

Father asks nicely. Not like Maxime and his friends, who used to pursue me with chunks of fetid cheese in their hands, squealing, “Choose between eating this wedge of Brie and being scalped (whipped, strangled, drowned, burned at the stake)!” That’s how I learned to run fast. Mother never tries to make me eat smelly cheese, but she sighs and shakes her head a lot. Father once told me in confidence that, as a child, he didn’t like cheese either. Now he’s inciting me to explore, and I feel ready to defy grisly threats to get… what? I know what. Something strange, as strange as the idea of eating Emmental.

“I’d like a black baby,” I say. “Small. I saw one in the toyshop in Narbonne.” Not too expensive, I think.

“Black?” Father asks.

“Yes, I already have quite a few pink dolls.”

“It’s a deal!” he says.

We have lunch along the canal, and nobody pays much attention to what I eat: two celery sticks and half a small melon. I’m saving my appetite for the Emmental. Father cuts me a thin slice, I stick it between two hunks of baguette, and I divide this into tiny bites. I chew them, one at a time. Swallow. Emmental is too salty but dry, tart, not soggy like cream cheese. Not too bad, actually. I don’t let on, though. I keep very quiet. Only Father notices and, when I’m done, gives me a small nod and a smile.

We stop in Narbonne on the way back and visit the toy store in the rue Droite. Mother tries to make me take a blond doll, she says it’ll be so much more fun, she’ll help me make dresses and suits for her. What do I want with a black doll — a boy too? He won’t wear any interesting clothes. But I’m adamant. Father says, “I promised”.

My black baby’s name is Aurèle, after Marcus Aurelius, a Roman emperor who didn’t like complainers. He wrote: “Is your cucumber bitter? Throw it away. Are there brambles in your path? Turn aside. That is enough. Do not add, ‘Why were such things brought into the world?’”. I found it in a notebook where Etienne copies quotations.

Mother gives me a leftover ball of blue yarn to knit an outfit for Aurèle, but I don’t feel like knitting, and he looks good with just his diaper, like an Infant Jesus in the crib. “You can’t take him out half naked!” Mother says.

“Why not? It’s blazing today.”

I’ll need to make him some clothes for next winter, though. I go to the dining room and look up “Africa” in the first volume of the big red Larousse encyclopedia. There I find a cross-reference to a “costumes” article, which has a full-color page on the way people dress in various parts of the world. It shows men and women of all heights, widths, skin colors, hair colors, with their clothes, ornaments and headgear. I decide that Aurèle’s outfit will be a long robe, which I’ll embroider around the neck with backstitch.
 

I look at all the men on this page and try to think which ones I’ll choose when I grow up and have children. My original plan was to have four children, but now I realize that I should have more, there are so many shapes and styles of men to have them with. I’d like them to be as different as possible from each other. For the time being, I single out a few: Tuareg, Nuer, Trobriander, Khoikhoi, Samoan, Kalahari, Iroquois, Dogon... I copy the names of their countries into my notebook, and look them up in the atlas.

“What are you doing?” Grandmother asks. She’s knitting in her armchair near the window. “Geography?”

Grandmother often asks me about my schoolwork, she wants to know everything. That’s because she didn’t go to school much. She grew up on a farm in the Jura. The school was two hours away on mountain paths that were impassable during the winter months because of the snow. Then in the spring there was a lot to do on the farm.

“Well,” I say, “not exactly.” And explain my project.

Grandmother shakes her head. “You should have all your children with the same man,” she says. “With your husband.”

“Father had his with two different women,” I object.

“Two, not eight! And it’s better to stay with one, if you can.”

“Why?” I ask.

Grandmother sighs. “Why why why!”

“I’d like to experiment. See what kind of baby comes out of the mix, every time. And it would be fun for them, to be so different from each other.”

“It isn’t done,” Grandmother mumbles, “and that’s that.”

Yes, I guess it isn’t done much, and not
bonne façon
(one of Grandmother’s special expressions), but why should I care? Father said I’m not going to live here anyway. Maybe I’ll live in New Guinea, or in the Sahara. I could also move to a new country each time I change husbands.

And maybe I don’t even need to change husbands. I could stay with the same man and just have children with various others. It’s probably not
bonne façon
either, but I know it
is
done. I heard Berthe and Simone discuss the fact that Philippe Vié is not Bertrand’s son. Of course he is, officially, but Estelle had a lover at the time, a blond man who was the director of the distillery, and Philippe looks like him. Philippe’s older brother seems to be Bertrand’s but about Mireille they weren’t sure. And Simone says that she herself was conceived with a grape picker from Andalusia during the grape harvest. Her father (the legal one) was not happy at first, but he himself was fooling around at the time so there wasn’t much he could say. And Simone was always his favorite. “Maybe because I’m different,” she said, “with my curly hair and darker skin. And more outspoken! You don’t necessarily want your children to be like you.”

Intense attraction is essential if you are going to get close enough to a man to have children with him. But Justine is right: it doesn’t last. I’ve been very attracted to several men or boys already, and it passed. At the moment there are three: Luis Mariano (whom I’ve seen only once and from a high box far away from the stage, but his voice is enough), Bertrand Vié, and Jordi Puch. My predilection for Bertrand is pretty obvious. Last year, I was such a baby I didn’t think anything of declaring my love to him every chance I got; he laughed, kissed me, reminded me that he was too old for me and directed me to his son Philippe. I’m more sensible now. Luis Mariano is even further out of my reach, but he completely inspires me as I bicycle into the hills among the lavender and pines, alone, singing
La Belle de Cadix
at the top of my lungs. Sometimes I am the Belle de Cadix, with her languorous eyes, sometimes her disappointed lover.

Nobody knows about my penchant for Jordi Puch. It’s not even a secret, it’s something that cannot be told, because it’s unimaginable. How can I, almost eight years old and in Group Two upstairs with all the older girls, be attracted to a younger, tinier boy who’s still in the infant class? Grandmother’s “It isn’t done” doesn’t begin to say how impossible this feeling is. But it’s real. I love Jordi. He smells of trees and pine cones. His little body exudes fresh energy, the “sparkle of health” Jean Santeuil sees in Marie Kossichef. I want to touch his chestnut curls, feel their springy texture.

His father is a carpenter. Whenever I can, on my bike, I swerve into the back alley, near the bowling ground, where he has his workshop. The Puch family lives above the shop, but I don’t particularly look for Jordi. What I like is that the whole width of the quiet street is covered with wood shavings. Under my tires, in the heady smell of resin, I crush the cracking wood.

July 12, last day of school, which also happens to be saint Olivier’s day, i.e., our priest’s name day. In the afternoon we’ll celebrate with a
goûter
in the downstairs classroom, which is more than large enough for all of Sainte-Blandine’s denizens.

Before we go down to the party, Pélican reminds us that, during the summer vacation, we shouldn’t forget to say our prayers (at least a whole rosary every day), go to mass on Sundays (mortal sin if we don’t) and take communion at least once a week, preferably twice. She also encourages us to read only the right kind of books and — her voice tight and dark — warns us about magazines. The devil is always out to entrap and confuse our souls, so we need to remember:
Coeurs Vaillants
(for boys) and
Âmes Vaillantes
(for girls) are highly recommended, but
Vaillant
is something we should avoid at all costs, as it’s an organ of pagan Communist propaganda.

I’d never heard of
Vaillant
, and now I’d like to take a look at it.
Âmes Vaillantes
I’ve seen around, and it didn’t look attractive at all — more like an organ of Girl Guide propaganda. But Pélican has already gone on to her next subject: today’s celebration. We need to walk down the stairs in an orderly file and, one by one, on our way to our seats, congratulate monsieur le curé, who will be sitting in the middle of the room in front of the cold stove. We should then wait until everybody is served before starting to eat and never, never look at our neighbors’ plates to check if their portion is bigger or smaller than ours.

“This is extremely important!” Pélican insists. “You should be grateful for what you are given, and never compare it with what the others get, for
that
is the beginning of Envy, one of the Seven Deadly Sins!”

Envy. I’ve never thought of that sin before, and I don’t think I’ve ever envied anybody — especially not for getting a bigger piece of cake! What a funny word. Where can it come from? Latin, I guess.
Video
, “I see”? Yes,
invideo
, exactly what Pélican was describing: I look into (my neighbor’s plate).

By the way, for “neighbor”, i.e., the other students, Pélican used the word
compagne
, literally “someone with whom you share bread”. It’s the official word at Sainte-Blandine (and nowhere else, in my experience — but maybe it’s normal for Catholic schools, I need to ask Justine). At the
école laïque
, and in the wider world, one says
camarade
(literally, “someone with whom you share a room”). But
camarade
is avoided at Sainte-Blandine as a godless Communist word.

Downstairs, I curtsey to the priest, who holds my hands for a few seconds. He’s wearing a white cassock with gold and brown embroidery: flowers, leaves and letters.
He looks benign, and tired. Everybody likes him, but I don’t think he has much influence on the school. Or on anything else.

Each large, plump, crown-shaped brioche has already been cut into a dozen clearly unequal pieces. They’re all capped with candied fruit, and lie on lacy paper mats, the trademark of pâtisserie Cassagnol. Anne-Claude’s parents donated the Cartagène, a sweet wine they make, in which you can smell the grapes just as if they were being crushed in front of you. Cami and another mother are pouring full glasses of the golden liquid for the priest, the teachers and themselves. For us, two fingers, which they top up with water.

“What’s this green thing on the brioche?” I ask Cami. “It looks like leek.”

“It’s angelica stem. You only eat it candied. And look at this.” She shows me a pale yellow cube. “Citron. You don’t eat it raw either. But candied, it’s delicious.”

Yes, this one smells a bit like lemon but deeper, mellower. When I put a bit of it in my mouth, though, I taste nothing but sugar. And the texture is so thick.

So I give it to Coralie with my pineapple, angelica and orange peel. Coralie loves candied fruit. She always gets some for Christmas, from her godfather. I don’t even understand the
idea
of candied fruit. Why take something fresh and aromatic to turn it into these sorry, sticky relics? But the brioche itself is nice, not too sweet, with a tang of orange blossom.

When the
goûter
is over, the priest leaves after a short, grateful speech, and each teacher gathers her students at one end of the room to give them their reports, in unsealed envelopes. Pélican explains that the results of our end-of-term exams are inside, but we shouldn’t look at them before we give them to our parents. Of course we’d like to know, she says, and it would be easy to take a peek, but we should resist temptation and exercise our willpower. This is what she tells us every term. For me, usually, it’s easy: I mostly get top marks except for geography and conduct, and anyway my parents have never punished or even scolded their children for a bad report. When we give him a report, Father comments in a nice way. Even if she’s around, Mother doesn’t even look. She’s proud of mine, I know, but doesn’t need to go into details.

So my willpower has never been tested yet. This time, though, for us in  Group Two, it’s different: except for Francette (who’s already twelve and a half so will have to join Group Three), our reports should tell us whether we’re staying in Group Two one more year or going on to boarding school. It makes a big difference. What difference exactly, I’d like to know. And I can’t, because I’ve never been to boarding school. I’m not at all sure I’ll like Sainte-Trinité or Assomption. But I’d rather not stay put. Even if boarding school is horrible, at least it will be an adventure. I’ll learn something.

We don’t go back upstairs, we don’t say our prayers in the Sacred Heart room, but we play in the yard until it’s time to go home. When the bell rings for the last time of the school year, as each group lines up in front of the gallery, Anne-Claude whispers in my ear, “I looked at my report in the loo. I couldn’t wait. I didn’t do particularly well in the exams, but it says, ‘Admitted to
sixième
.’ What a relief! I was so afraid she’d keep me for another year.”

“So you’re going to boarding school in October?”

“Yes! To Assomption.”

“Are you happy?” I ask.

“Sure. Noëlle too is ‘admitted to sixième’. And Sabine. What about you? You
must
be! Have you looked?”

I haven’t. My willpower is entrenched.

Coralie too has got her report from madame Riu. At home we find Father in his study and give him our envelopes. We wait while he opens Coralie’s first, takes a look, says, “Very good, so you’ll be in mademoiselle Pélican’s class in October, congratulations!”

“I want to stay with madame Riu!” Coralie cries. “She’s fine! I don’t want to go upstairs!”

“Why?” Father asks.

“Be-cause!” Coralie wails.

“You can’t stay with madame Riu anyway,” I say. “She’s leaving. She’s having her baby in October, and next week she and her husband are moving to Montpellier.” Madame Riu herself told me this yesterday. I didn’t even ask, but I couldn’t help looking at her waist so she laughed and explained.

“I like it downstairs!” Coralie squeals.

“But there will be a different teacher downstairs.”

“Never mind! I’ll be with the different teacher! I just want to stay downstairs! Please!”

Father takes her in his lap. “Don’t you want to read books? Write, count?”

“I like comics!” Coralie says. “And the other books Tita can read to me! I want to stay downstairs with Jean-Luc and Jordi and Alain! There are only
girls
upstairs. I won’t walk up those stairs. I won’t let them carry me! I’ll get my bow and arrows! Just wait!” And she runs out of the study.

Father shakes his head. “Well,” he says, “she has two and a half months to get used to the idea. Let’s look at your report.” He opens the envelope. “Excellent!”

I’m standing in front of him, waiting, so he raises an eyebrow, and hands me the report. “Here, everything is fine.”

I read. Yes, my marks are even better than usual. But I’m not “admitted to
sixième
”. Is this a mistake? Did Pélican forget to write it in? But Pélican doesn’t make this kind of mistake.

Why should I be kept back then? Why? Is it because I’ll be eight in October, and all the girls who are going to boarding school are ten or eleven? But what am I going to do? Stay at Sainte-Blandine for two more years? In the same group?

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Father asks. “Even your conduct is rather good, this time.”

Weird, after the hosts incident. Maybe she’d already filled out the reports when it happened. But can I say something? I’ll try. “Three girls in my group are admitted to
sixième
, and I’m not. It doesn’t seem fair, because my marks couldn’t be better except in geography and embroidery.”

Father takes up my report and studies it. “I see. Do you feel ready for boarding school then? As a matter of fact, I was pretty young too when I got into
sixième
, so maybe... I’ll have to talk to your teacher.”