I imagined I was tasting the sea. āArenāt you already a tennis player?ā I knew nothing about the sport, but heād come in swinging his racket like an expert.
āNot just a player. A star. Like Paul AymĆ© or AndrĆ© Vacherot or Max Decugis.ā He brushed back a dark curl from his forehead. āPlaying in the Championnat de France, the French Covered Courts Championship, the Riviera Championship. They even have tennis in the Olympics now.ā
Iād never heard of any of those men or any of those tournaments, but the way he said their names, the way his face glowed and his words slipped over one another in excitement, I leaned closer. āAnd will you? Will you be a star?ā
He busied himself unwrapping a wedge of bright orange cheese. āThereās nothing all that practical about dreams like that.ā
āWhoever said dreams had to be practical? If they were, we wouldnāt have to hide them in the middle of the night.ā I didnāt wait for him, but broke off a crumbling bite of cheese myself.
He looked up under a fringe of lashes. āSo what are yours?ā
The cheese was sweet and nutty and utterly delicious. āMy dreams?ā I brushed crumbs of cheese from my lips. āWell, Iāve never told anybody. Iām sure you can guess.ā
āMimolette.ā
āIām sorry?ā
āThe cheese. Itās Papaās favorite.ā He cut me another piece, but held it just out of reach. āConfess all or the mimolette goes on the fire!ā
āOf course itās art.ā I hopped down from my stool and snatched the slice of cheese. āThe Glasgow School of Art, like our mothers. I want to learn to draw, to paint, to sculpt, to carve, to etch, toā¦arrange, to design. To learn anything theyāll teach me there.ā I ate the cheese in a single bite. āAnd I wonāt leave school, like my mother did. To give up on all of that, for marriage?ā
āMy maman left the School of Art to marry, too.ā
āWas your father also a student there?ā
āWorse. He was her instructor. It was quite the scandal.ā
āMother spoke fondly of your father. She omitted all the good details, it seems.ā
āThey were all friends, I think. Our mothers, our fathers.ā He wiped the knife on his towel. āIāve seen some of Papaās studies from that time. Boisterous dinner parties, cafĆ©s, picnics, rowing on the Clyde.ā
Mother always spoke of art school longingly, but never of her life in Glasgow. Had she once worn Gypsy earrings like Madame CrƩpet? Drunk black coffee and argued socialism in smoky cafƩs?
Father had been part of that life. For a brief time heād stepped outside of his architecture apprenticeship long enough for night classes at the School of Art, long enough to fall for a redheaded art student named Maud. Iād always wondered what had brought them together. I wished Iād asked him about it when I had the chance. I wished Iād asked him about a lot of things.
āAnd then they married and left all that behind,ā I said. āThe rowing, the parties, the school.ā
āThey stayed friends, though. Even when my parents left Glasgow for France.ā He uncovered a dish and, with a corner of bread, scooped something pale brown and creamy. āHere, this is garlic pĆ¢tĆ©.ā
I took the bread but didnāt eat. āThey couldnāt have been as close. They lived in different countries, they had different lives. They only saw each other once a year.ā I ran a finger through the pĆ¢tĆ© and put it in my mouth. It tasted like garlic and herbs, like autumn in the woods.
āI suppose Iāve never had a friend to grow apart from,ā he said.
Neither had I. After Mother left, Father kept me close. Maybe he was lonely. Maybe he was worried Iād disappear next. āOne must always begin somewhere,ā I said, the taste of pĆ¢tĆ© still on my tongue. For the first time in a long while, I let myself smile.
Clare Ross wasnāt the first stray that Maman had brought to Mille Mots. She was forever carrying in some wretched creature, a sore paw or a broken wing tied up with her pocket handkerchief. Apart from Martheās parakeets, weād housed numerous dogs, several scrawny cats, a handful of birds, a baby mouse, and, on one occasion, a three-legged squirrel. To me, a teenage girl was as mystifying as a pet squirrel.
It must have been just as mystifying for Maman. She wrote me from Calais to say she was bringing home a visitor, her old friend Maudās daughter. Will you come home at the weekend, Luc? Your papa is working on that frieze, the one with the serpents and the swans, and is in Reims most days. Iām sure Clare doesnāt want to be stuck here with no one but me.
And though I had lessons and work and tennis games Iād rather be playing, I didnāt argue. There was a note of desperation hidden in Mamanās note. I pinched the inside of my wrist, the way Maman always had when I was a boy and swung my legs during church. A good CrĆ©pet. Iāll be there Saturday night, I wrote back.
I didnāt want to play nursemaid. I expected black crepe and tears, stiff-necked Britishness. I expected dreary hours of being polite. Instead I found a girl, hesitant in the front hall of the chĆ¢teau, with a halo of Titian hair and a wispy dress the color of summer leaves. She might have been one of Papaās fairy queens. Her face was shuttered, yet her eyes were intense and curious, flicking from one thing to the next. I wondered how she saw Mille Mots.
Though I tried to study on the train ride back to Paris, my thoughts kept going to Clare Ross and her single, careful smile. I sensed that she didnāt offer them often. Though I hadnāt planned on it, I knew Iād be back soon.
When I returned the next Saturday, Mademoiselle Ross wasnāt in the chĆ¢teau. I found her out under the old chestnut tree with a sketchbook resting against her knees. She still wore that leaf-green dress. Two of the dogs stretched out on the grass beside her, one snoring, the other watching my approach with rapt attention and wagging tail.
āThere you are.ā She pushed her straw hat back from her face. āI havenāt seen you in days.ā Despite the hat, the tip of her nose was pink.
I bent to pet Bede the springer, who jumped up, wriggling, and licked my wrist. The other, a pudgy mutt we called Ripper, yawned without opening his eyes. āParis. Remember?ā
She nodded. āAnyway, youāre dressed differently. At first I thought you were a country curate coming across the lawn.ā
I looked down at my black suit, narrow cravat, ink-stained shirt cuffs. āThe unofficial uniform of a student.ā
āI liked your red sash. The one you were wearing while you played tennis?ā She poked the end of the pencil in her mouth. āYou looked like a pirate.ā
āHave you met many?ā
āPirates? Not as many as Iād like.ā She patted the grass and I dropped down next to her, easing my satchel from across my chest. āI used to pretend my grandfather was, though. He was always gone, traveling.ā
āSailing the seven seas?ā
āNearly. Africa, India, the Far East. Heās a linguist, you see.ā She said this with an air of confession, as though it were a shameful secret. āI havenāt seen him in years. I donāt even know where heās at now. His last letter came from Ceylon.ā
I cleared my throat. āDoes he know aboutā¦ā
āYes.ā Her hair swung out over her shoulders so that I couldnāt see her face. āI wrote to him. I told him about Father.ā
A bird fluttered up from the tree, sending down a leaf onto Ripperās nose. He sneezed and rolled over. āAnd your mother?ā
She busied herself with her sketchbook. āOh, I wrote to her, too. Iāve written to her almost every day for the past four years.ā Her pencil scraped across the paper so hard the tip broke. āI only wish I had an address.ā
I didnāt know the right thing to say. What to say to a girl whose mother ran off without a backward glance? Maman said that Maud Ross was passionate, vain, impulsive, and stubborn as a she-goat. She loved her friend to the end, but knew Maud would never return.
Cicadas filled the silence. I scooted closer. āSo what are you drawing?ā
āNothing.ā She hunched her shoulders. āA castle.ā
The hem of Clareās dress brushed my leg. āYouāre drawing Mille Mots, arenāt you?ā
āAre there any other castles around?ā
I stretched. āIt isnāt really, you know. Just the fantasy of a silly vicomte some centuries ago. He had royal aspirations.ā
Maman fell in love with the chĆ¢teau instantly, and Papa had his easel set up outside the tumbled-down old chapel before the first crate was unpacked. The gardens were left wild and overgrown, at her express instructions, and she spent all summer carefully cultivating that wildness. I spent my early years with the outdoors as my classroom. I learned to read amidst the scent of roses and river. Mille Mots was our little heaven.