Authors: Marie Houzelle
Justine is still in Sussex, but our brothers have come as usual for the summer vacation. Maxime spends most of his time with his local buddies fishing, sitting outside cafés, smoking, playing cards. He’s always kept his gang here, from the time he was in the infant class at Sainte-Blandine. He says he’s never made such good friends in Paris.
So he’s happy, even though he won’t go to university because he’s just failed his
bac
again, for the third time. He has a friend here who has also failed after repeating his class twice, and they keep joking about it: three years in
terminale
, they think they should get a prize for holding out so long. His friend is going into the Merchant Marine, and Maxime will take an exam for a photography school in Paris. Father asked for the syllabus, and he makes Maxime study some of it every day, but Maxime only wants to hang out with his crowd.
This morning he’s trying to do a math exercise in Father’s study (Father is in the tasting room). In the office next door, I’m concentrating in front of a typewriter. I have an idea for a new play, and I’m copying bits of dialogue from various notebooks and loose pages. Alas, when I look at it now, a lot of what I wrote, which seemed to work at the time, doesn’t make me laugh any more. I have more work to do. What I’m happy about is Coralie’s character.
Coralie wants to be a devil, more precisely
une diablesse
. Her name, I decide, will be
Diavola
. She says she’s always dreamed of wearing horns. I think the idea came from Grandmother who, when Coralie talks back to her, says, “Look at your horns”, sticking up her index fingers on each side of her
own
forehead. I wonder if Grandmother invented this or if it’s something they do in the mountains where she grew up. I find it odd, because with this gesture
Grandmother
looks like she has horns, not Coralie. Anyway, I like Diavola. I wonder if I’ll have an angel too. In a white tutu.
At the other end of the room, I overhear Simone whispering to Berthe. “Isn’t it a shame, the way this Pélican woman won’t let her go into
sixième
? Supposedly because she’s still too young and fragile to adjust to boarding school!”
“Yes,” Berthe says. “The excuse is so lame!”
Yesterday, Father looked sorry when he told me he hadn’t managed to persuade Pélican. “I know it’s hard to stay put when you could go forward,” he said, “but it will be nice to have you with us one more year. Just one year. Mademoiselle Pélican promised me that after a year she’ll have no problem with your going on to
sixième
.”
I’m trying to reconcile myself to my fate. But if I’m not going to boarding school, I
need to find ways of keeping
out
of Sainte-Blandine as much as possible during the next school year. Already this year I missed at least five weeks with throat and ear infections. I could completely stop eating fruit, so I’d catch more infections. And if this doesn’t work, accidents are another possibility.
With my bike, for instance. I could imitate the boys who crash a lot as they try to outdo each other racing downhill on the rocky track from the top of the Mourel Pardos: no hands, or back wheel only, or feet on seat.
I’d have to practice — I don’t want to hurt myself badly, just enough to keep me at home.
Simone sounds so angry at Pélican, she’s not whispering any more. “It’s so unfair! Tita is more than able, the termagant herself gave her the best marks. Why can’t she just let her go?”
“Yes,” Berthe says. “Unfortunately, Pélican is the one who decides. Most likely she doesn’t have enough students, so she makes up pretexts to hold on to them.”
Is this at all possible? That Pélican just needs one more student in her class? Actually, it could be. In my group, three girls are leaving, and four in Group Three. This leaves five of us, and only four girls are coming up in October. Next
rentrée
, there will be nine of us upstairs instead of twelve.
Maxime comes into the office to ask Berthe for help. He’s been trying and trying, but he has no idea what the math questions mean. Berthe explains and helps him find the answers. He writes everything down, then kisses her hand. “Thanks
infiniment
, Berthe. Father will be so happy with this. Goodbye now.”
“Are you done?” Simone asks. “I thought you had some chemistry too.”
“Oh, I’ll do it later!”
“Do you think this is the way you’ll pass your exam?” Simone scolds. “Working ten minutes a day?”
“Dearest Simone, please don’t harass me. I won’t pass this exam anyway. Exams are not for me.”
“Then what will you do?”
“I’ll come and work with you, of course. Aren’t you looking forward to it? I feel I was born to be a wine dealer. I’ll go on with photography on the side.”
Simone’s face becomes unusually serious. “Did you discuss this with your father?”
“Not yet,” Maxime says. “And now I’m sorry to leave you, but Dominique will be waiting for me at the Conti.” And he’s gone, waving to us in his carefree way.
Simone is frowning as she puts away some files. “This kid has no idea,” she says to Berthe. “Absolutely
no
idea. He’s twenty-one, he’s supposed to be an adult, and he knows
nothing
. He’s just spent three years in
terminale
in this expensive school, doing nothing, and he’s ready to go on doing nothing. He really thinks money grows on trees. He’s a nice boy, and he isn’t stupid, so what went wrong? Why doesn’t his father...”
“Divorce,” Berthe says. “Parents feel guilty. They want to do their best, and... Monsieur Henri is such a good man. Not strict enough, I guess. And maybe the boy’s mother doesn’t realise... ”
“With my children,” Simone says, “I’m going to be
more
than strict. They’d better do well in school, and they’d better behave. I’m not even sure I want to have children. Maybe one. And I hope it’s a girl.” I can hear her drumming her fingers on her desk. “I wouldn’t mind having a daughter like you, Tita. You understand you’re not going to work here when you grow up, don’t you? You understand there’s no future in this business?”
“Yes,” I say. “Father makes it pretty clear.”
“Why doesn’t he tell your brother, then?”
“He’s told him too. Many times. But Maxime likes it here. He believes that everything can stay the way it is.”
“I’m glad he likes it here,” Simone says. “But he’ll have to make a living, that’s what he’d better wise up to.”
I wonder why she takes Maxime’s situation so much to heart. Maybe she’s thinking about Father too. Father worries about what’s going to happen to all of us. Especially Maxime, at the moment. But at least there was a
reason
for Maxime to stay in
terminale
for three years: he didn’t work.
I’ll
be repeating a year for no reason at all.
Thinking about this makes me type more slowly. Simone comes up behind me. I’m aware of her hands on my shoulders, and her scent — mimosa. “It’s okay,” she says. “Don’t listen to me. This is none of my business. It just baffles me that Maxime, who’s almost my age, knows so much less than
you
do.”
“That’s because he doesn’t live here,” I say. “For Justine too, this place is paradise. They can’t see what’s going on.” But Mother, who does live here, can’t see it either. Or won’t.
Simone kisses my cheek. “Never mind. You just type your play, do what you need to do.”
Actually, I’m not too concerned about Maxime. Why should I be? He’s happy. And I think he’ll manage somehow, because everybody likes him. But I wonder what’s going on with Etienne. He’s not acting like himself this summer. One of the reasons might be that we no longer have a tennis court.
Before the Cabarrou was sold, he used to play tennis every day, but now he and his friend Laurent Vié have to bicycle to
Castelet, which is nearly an hour away. The court needs to be reserved and paid for, so they only go twice a week. Is this why Etienne spends so much time in the kitchen? He brought quite a few cookery books, and he also improvises.
At first, I thought he’d fallen for Loli. Which might have been a problem, because Loli already has a fiancé, a secret one: his name is Kamel, she met him at the dance; they’ve been seeing each other for quite a while. He’s nineteen, he comes from Algeria, and he works for the railway. After watching Etienne for a while, though, I decided that he’s not in love with her. He just likes her, and he loves to cook. He’s good at it too. Mother was taken aback at first, but now she compliments him. He’s been asking Grandmother about recipes from the Bresse.
This afternoon, Etienne is rolling out and folding his dough on the kitchen table, rolling out and folding, in total concentration, with flour not only on his hands but on his nose, cheeks and shirt. I’m oiling a tin for him. Father, on his way from the hall, stops and watches us for a few minutes with knitted brows, and goes out through the garden, to the cellars I guess. When I’m done oiling, I wash my hands and get on my bike. I find Father in the cellar yard, checking deliveries with Alban, one of the drivers, so I take another turn around the yard. When I come back Alban is getting into the truck, and we wave as I lean my bike against the wall. Father is standing there, waiting for me to tell him what I want, but I don’t know how to start.
“About Etienne,” I say after a while. “He doesn’t only cook. He also tidies up, cleans the pots. Everything. He doesn’t make more work for Loli. And he doesn’t waste anything, he’s careful.”
Father nods. “Good to know. And I’m glad he likes to cook. It’s just... I don’t think it’s a good idea for him to drop out of school.”
“Drop out of school? Why would he drop out of school?”
“I hope he doesn’t. It’s... something I’m discussing with his mother.”
Adrien, Alban’s brother, comes out of the cellar, so I say hello to him and get back on my bike. What does this mean? Etienne loves school. All of it. He can happily draw maps, heat up powders and solutions in test tubes, dissect frogs — he doesn’t mind the smell. He just wants to learn
everything
. He always gets
félicitations
, and first prize in every subject, including sports. So what’s going on? I’d like to ask him, but I don’t dare. I would, if it were just about him, but his mother seems to be involved, so I don’t feel I can.
But I can listen. On Sunday, Father and Bertrand take us all to the lagoon to sail. Only Coralie and Mireille stay in Cugnac with the mothers. For the first time, Philippe and I are allowed to get on a little dinghy together, just the two of us. We do pretty well for a while, but we have trouble getting back to the harbour. We make it, though. While I’m drying my hair and changing back into my dress, the Vié boys and my brothers decide to have a final race. Our fathers settle down to Cinzano Bianco and
tapas
outside the clubhouse. I go and sit nearby, under the pine trees.
Bertrand is shaking his head. “But that doesn’t make any sense!”
“What she says is, if Maxime can’t get his
bac
, Etienne shouldn’t. There should be no difference between them. It would make for bad feeling. This is entirely in her head. Maxime never liked school, he’s glad to be rid of it, whereas Etienne loves studying and is exceptionally good at it. How can there be no difference! And she’s persuaded Etienne that it’s the right thing to do. That he should sacrifice himself for his brother! He likes cooking, so he’ll go to hotel school.”
“But does Etienne
want
to go to hotel school?”
“It’s his mother’s idea, and he’s going along with it. What can I say? I asked him if he couldn’t get his
bac
first and go to hotel school later. I could see that the mere question upset him. He can’t go against his mother.”
“Did you discuss it with her?”
“Of course. When I tried to argue for the
bac
, she said I was stingy! That I didn’t want to pay for hotel school, which is very expensive, and wanted Etienne to go on to university because it costs practically nothing.”
“Can’t you just tell Etienne that she’s wrong? Because she
is
wrong. Anybody can see that.”
“Anybody but her son. And what’s the use of his seeing that she’s wrong if she makes him drop out anyway? As she will. So I’ll just have created more of a mess.” Father rubs his forehead with the back of his hand, back and forth.
“Bertrand,” he says, “it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have agreed to her getting custody. The children were young, I didn’t think of the future. I didn’t realize she’d get to make all the decisions. When she said I could have them for every school vacation, I just... Why do I never think ahead?”
In the kitchen the next day Etienne is making ratatouille, and I’m his assistant again. I can’t help him when he works with meat or fish (the smells), but I like ratatouille, and I think this one is going to be outstanding. First I peel the aubergines, slice them lengthwise, very thin, set all the slices side by side on four dishtowels, and sprinkle just a little coarse salt on them to draw the liquid out. In about an hour, I’ll dry them with the towels. Meanwhile I’m peeling the garlic cloves. Etienne has been blanching the tomatoes. He’s in the garden now, getting bay leaves and thyme. “So you want to be a cook?” I ask him when he comes back.