She turned serious eyes to me. “Luc,” she said, and I realized it was the first time she’d called me by my first name. “Do you think she’ll return?”
“What?”
“You wished as hard as you could, and your mother returned for you.” Her eyes glistened, but I knew she wouldn’t cry. “Do you think mine will? Will she come for me here?”
I knew Maman had been writing to friends, to colleagues, to old classmates from the School of Art, seeing if anyone had an address for Maud Ross. “Not a word from her,” I overheard Maman say to Papa. “What are we to think?”
I wished I could tell Clare that everything would be fine, that her mother was safe and near and missing her madly. “Mademoiselle,” I said. “Clare.” Her eyes flickered, and I knew it was the first time I’d used her name, too. “She left home to draw her story. All you can do is draw your own and hope that she sees it one day.”
She swallowed a sigh, but she nodded.
“But don’t wait for that. Don’t wait for her or for anyone to see what you’ve created.” Papa had always been too expectant of critics, and Maman too shattered by indifference. “Draw it for you. Draw it because it’s your Something Important.”
“Something Important? I’m not sure I’ll ever find that.” She rubbed at a smudge of pencil on the side of her hand. “Why do we choose to draw what we draw?” she asked. I wasn’t sure she wanted an answer. “Aren’t they the things that speak to our heart?”
Once I thought it was nothing but tennis that spoke to my heart. But standing in the east hallway, with Clare standing in front of me, waiting, I wasn’t so sure. I pressed my pocket, where I had the Conté crayons wrapped in the handkerchief. My fingers itched to trace her face. “I think they must be.”
The next weekend it rained without cease and I didn’t come out to Mille Mots at all.
I had a theme to write on Alexander the Great and not nearly enough time to get it done. Macedonia, Egypt, Persia, Babylon—did he have to conquer so many places? I sent a telegram to Maman and then shut myself in my turne with far too many books and maps. When I emerged from the library, blinking, there was an envelope waiting at Uncle Théophile’s apartment, addressed in a round girlish slant. Monsieur Crépet, she wrote, that one spontaneous “Luc” put aside for the formality of a letter.
I’m sorry that you could not come to Mille Mots this weekend. Your maman said that you had much studying to do. Is it more philosophy? Anyway, it’s raining here. You aren’t missing much of anything. I’ve been trapped inside the château so that I’m not swept away into the Aisne (your maman swears it could happen).
So I thought, if you could not come to Mille Mots, I would send Mille Mots to you. Please accept this little drawing, monsieur. It was done with the utmost expression.
Sincerely,
Miss Clare Ross
Tucked into the envelope, folded into thirds, was the sketch she’d been working on the day I found her out under the chestnut tree. Mille Mots, leaning out over the river, with those wild tangles of roses climbing the walls. I leaned to the paper, convinced I could smell them. It was a hesitant sketch, the lines faint and nervous, but it showed promise. She had a good sense of perspective—that much I could tell—and a sure hand. I wished Papa could see it. Though I’d gone weeks before without coming home, I suddenly wanted to be nowhere but.
I washed and changed into a fresh shirt. I was due at the Café du Champion by half past five, while the tourists were still lingering over their Beaujolais, but before the students and laborers arrived. Between serving, I earned extra tips sketching the patrons tucked in at their tables with carafes and good conversation. Several glasses in, most were willing to buy the commemoration of their holiday.
It was a busy evening, with plates from the kitchen, refilled glasses, and many crossed fingers that I was far enough from École Normale Supérieure to avoid seeing any of my classmates. At the end of the evening, over a dish of ragoût, I scribbled a response on a cognac-spattered sheet of drawing paper, my last.
Mademoiselle,
I’ve never gotten more than a note or two from Maman and the occasional cramped letter from my grand-mère in Aix. As yours doesn’t include a treatise on your current health, a reminiscence on how things used to be better a generation ago, or a reminder to wear clean socks, it is already magnitudes more interesting. And to come with such an expressive sketch, I should really feel honored.
I truly do, you know. I remember how reluctant you were to show your sketchbook, how precious your drawings are to you. That you trust me, mademoiselle, it means much.
It’s been raining here as well, but I’ve hardly noticed. I’m only outside when passing from my study turne at the university to my job at the café then back to my uncle’s apartment to sleep. If I disregard the latter, sometimes there’s a spare corner of time for tennis. There’s a German student here, who I tutor in English, and he’s as mad for tennis as I am. Sometimes we’ll have a “lesson” across the net. He can now swear in three languages.
Well, I have a theme due for which I am woefully underprepared. If only I’d spent more time reading Callisthenes and less time accidentally discovering salacious paintings, I might be better prepared….
Forgive me, I’ve had too much serious reading this week and too little sleep. And yet, once more into the breach!
Thank you, truly, for the sketch.
Luc René Rieulle Crépet
I posted it on my way back to the university, along with a brief note to Papa. The demoiselle, she has talent in drawing. Papa, can you teach her the way you taught me? That stack of books on my desk somehow didn’t seem so towering the rest of the weekend.
Her response didn’t come straight away and then I was too into the weekday routine of classes, study, and work, with the occasional late tennis match, to notice. Then Wednesday I came home, dripping in my tennis flannels, to find a letter waiting.
“It arrived last night,” Uncle Théophile said. He pursed his lips. “If you’d come home at a decent hour, I would have told you.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle.” I reached past him for the envelope on the hall table. “It’s been a busy week. I’ve been studying a lot and I’ve been working a lot. I must pay my tuition somehow.”
He looked pointedly at my racket. “I can see that.”
Without changing, I took the letter and racket straight back out the door. Rather than sit across the table from my sour-faced uncle, I’d eat supper at the café after my shift. Again. The other boys in my turne, they always teased that I had it easier living in the city rather than boarding at the university, the way they all did. As draconian as the rules were for boarders, they couldn’t be any worse than Uncle Théophile’s. Home by seven, lights out by eight, no sugar in my coffee, no wine on weekdays. And absolutely no gramophone music.
Gaspard, the owner, rolled his eyes at my tennis flannels, but passed me an apron. “Clear those three tables, and I’ll have Hugues make a plate for you.”
I tucked Clare’s letter into my apron pocket, unread, and went with damp towel to clear the tables for the next customer. Of course, it wasn’t until three hours later that I finally had a corner table, a plate of lentils with tomatoes, a glass of cheap wine, and a moment to read her letter.
Dear Monsieur Crépet,
I don’t believe that it is as dreary as you say. You’re in Paris, after all. Universities, clean socks, unexpected letters. Living on your own rather than with someone telling you what you should or shouldn’t do. What can be better than that?
I haven’t been reading my Callisthenes either (should I be?). Your mother did give me a copy of Les Contes de Ma Mère l’Oye to keep me company. I can’t read more than a handful of words (l’ogre, les roses, la petite princesse) but it’s as marvelous as I remember. It makes me feel that I’m sitting in my nursery with Nanny Proud, my old nurse. She couldn’t read any of the French either, but always pulled me onto her lap to trace the pictures and tell me the stories in her own words. I think she made up half of them.
You know, I remember when your mother brought me the book. It must have been right after it was published, now that I think back on it. Of course then I had no idea your papa was the illustrator. Only that the nice lady who spoke with the lovely accent had visited from France and brought me a beautiful present. You were there, too, on that visit, weren’t you? You and your papa. You brought a rubber ball, but Nanny Proud told me that laddies were too wild to play with. I always wished that I had tried anyway. I’d never had a friend before.
And here I’ve rambled on. Hopefully this letter will give you a moment or two between your essays. If you’re able, maybe you’ll be back at Mille Mots this weekend? At least your mother hopes.
