I could believe it. Cassis was never one to hoard wealth. He slid it through his fingers in smoke, or more often into his belly. Cassis was always his own best customer in the Paris days.
Of course we wouldnt think of begrudging him that. Laures voice was soft. We were very fond of poor Papa, werent we, chéri?
Yannick nodded with more enthusiasm than sincerity.
Oh, yes. Very fond. And of course such a generous man. Never felt any resentment at all about this house, or the inheritance, or anything. Extraordinary.
He glanced at me then, a sharp ratty slice of a look.
Whats that supposed to mean?
I was up at once, almost spilling my coffee, still very conscious of Pistache sitting next to me, listening. I had never told my daughters about Reinette or Cassis. They never met. As far as they knew I was an only child. And I had never spoken a word about my mother.
Yannick looked sheepish.
Well, Mamie, you know he was really supposed to inherit the house-
Not that we blame you-
But he was the eldest, and under your mothers will-
Now wait a minute! I tried to keep the shrillness from my voice but for a moment I sounded just like my mother, and I saw Pistache wince. I paid Cassis good money for this house, I said in a lower tone. It was only a shell after the fire, anyway, all burnt out with the rafters poking through the slates. He could never have lived in it, wouldnt have wanted to either. I paid good money, more than I could afford, and-
Shh. Its all right. Laure glared at her husband. No ones suggesting your agreement was in any way improper.
Improper.
Thats a Laure word all right, plummy, self-satisfied and with just the right amount of skepticism. I could feel my hand tightening around the rim of my coffee cup, printing bright little points of burn on my fingertips.
But you have to see it from our point of view. That was Yannick, his broad face gleaming. Our grandmothers legacy
I didnt like the way the conversation was heading. I especially hated Pistaches presence, her round eyes taking everything in.
You never even knew my mother, any of you, I interrupted harshly.
Thats not the point, Mamie, said Yannick quickly. The point is that there were three of you. And the legacy was divided into three. Thats right, isnt it?
I nodded cautiously.
But now since poor Papa has passed away, we have to ask ourselves whether the informal arrangement you two made between you is entirely fair to the remaining members of the family.
His tone was casual, but I could see the gleam in his eyes, and I shouted out, suddenly furious.
What informal arrangement? I told you, I paid good money I signed papers
Laure put her hand on my arm.
Yannick didnt mean to upset you, Mamie.
No ones upset me, I said stonily.
Yannick ignored that and continued:
Its just that some people might think that an agreement such as you made with poor Papa a sick man desperate for cash
I could see Laure was watching Pistache, and cursed under my breath.
Besides the unclaimed third that should have belonged to Tante Reine
The fortune under the cellar floor. Ten cases of Bordeaux laid down the year she was born, tiled over and cemented into place against the Germans and what came later, worth a thousand francs or more per bottle today, I daresay, all awaiting collection. Damn. Cassis could never keep his mouth shut when it was needed. I interrupted harshly.
Thats being kept for her. I havent touched any of it.
Of course not, Mamie. All the same Yannick grinned unhappily, looking so like my brother that it almost hurt. I glanced briefly again at Pistache, sitting bolt upright in her chair, face expressionless. All the same, you have to admit that Tante Reine is hardly in any position to claim it now, and dont you think it would be fairer to all concerned
All that belongs to Reine, I said flatly. I wont touch it. And I wouldnt give it to you if I could. Does that answer your question?
Laure turned to me then. In her black dress, with the yellow lamplight on her face, I thought she looked quite ill.
Im sorry, she said, with a meaningful glance at Yannick. This was never meant to be about money. Obviously we wouldnt expect you to give up your home-or any part of Tante Reines inheritance. If either of us gave the impression
I shook my head, bewildered.
Then what on earth was all that-
Laure interrupted, her eyes gleaming.
There was a book
A book? I repeated.
Yannick nodded.
Papa told us all about it, he said. You showed it to him.
A recipe book, said Laure with strange calmness. You must have all the recipes by heart already. If we could only see it borrow it
Of course, wed pay for anything we used, added Yannick hastily. Think of it as a way to keep the Dartigen name alive.
It must have been that-that name-which did it. Confusion, fear and disbelief warred in me for a while, but at the mention of that name a great spike of terror pierced me and I swept the coffee cups off the table, where they shattered against my mothers terra-cotta tiles. I could see Pistache looking at me strangely, but could do nothing but follow the seam of my rage.
No! Never!
My voice rose like a red kite in the little room, and for a second I left my body and looked down upon myself emotionlessly, a drab sharp-faced woman in a gray dress, her hair drawn fiercely back into a knot at the back of her head. I saw strange comprehension in my daughters eyes and veiled hostility in the faces of my nephew and niece, then the rage slammed into place again and I lost myself for a while:
I know what you want! I snarled. If you cant have Mamie Framboise, then youll settle for Mamie Mirabelle. Is that it? My breath tore through me like barbed wire. Well, I dont know what Cassis told you, but he had no business, and nor have you. That old storys dead. Shes dead, and youll get none of it from me, not if you were to wait fifty years for it!
I was out of breath now, and my throat hurt from shouting. I picked up their most recent present-a box of linen handkerchiefs lying on the kitchen table in their silver wrapping-and pushed it fiercely at Laure.
So you can take your bribes, I yelled hoarsely, and you can stick them up your fancy ass with your Paris menus and your tangy apricot coulis and your poor old Papas-
For a second our eyes met and I saw hers unveiled at last and filled with spite.
I could talk to my lawyer- she began.
I began to laugh.
Thats right! I hooted. Your lawyer! It always comes to that in the end, doesnt it? I yarked savage laughter. Your lawyer!
Yannick tried to calm her down, his eyes bright with alarm.
Now, chérie you know how we
Laure turned on him savagely.
Get your fucking hands off me!
I howled laughter, cramping my stomach. Points of darkness danced before my eyes. Laures eyes shot me with hate shrapnel, then she recovered.
Im sorry. Her voice was chilly. You dont know how important this is to me. My career
Yannick was trying to steer her toward the door, keeping a wary eye on me.
No one meant to upset you, Mamie, he said hastily. Well come back when youre more reasonable its not as if we were asking to keep the book
Words like spilled cards sliding. I laughed harder. The terror in me grew, but I could not control my laughter, and even when they had gone the screech of their Mercedes tires oddly furtive in the night I still felt the occasional spasm, souring into half sobs as the adrenaline fell from me, leaving me feeling shaken and old.
So old.
Pistache was looking at me, her face unreadable. Prunes face appeared round the bedroom door.
Mémée? Whats wrong?
Go to bed, sweetheart. said Pistache quickly. Its all right. Its nothing.
Prune looked doubtful.
Why was Mémée shouting?
Nothing. Her voice was sharp now, anxious. Go to bed!
Prune turned reluctantly. Pistache closed the door.
We sat in silence.
I knew shed talk when she was ready, and I knew better than to rush her. She looks sweet enough, but theres a stubborn streak in her all the same. I know it well; I have it too. Instead I washed the dishes and the cups, dried them and put them away. After that I took out a book and pretended to read.
After a while Pistache spoke.
What did they mean about a legacy?
I shrugged. Nothing. Cassis made out he was a rich man so that theyd look after him in his old age. They should have known better. Thats all.
I hoped she might leave it at that, but there was a stubborn line between her eyes that promised trouble.
I never even knew I had an uncle, she said tonelessly.
We werent close.
Silence. I could see her going over it in her mind and I wished I could stop the circle of her thoughts, but knew I couldnt.
Yannicks very like him, I told her, trying for lightness. Handsome and feckless. And his wife leads him like a dancing bear.
I demonstrated mincingly, hoping for a smile, but if anything her thoughtful look deepened.
They seemed to think youd cheated him somehow, she said. Bought him out, when he was ill.
I forced myself to pause. Anger at this stage would not help anyone.
Pistache, I said patiently. Dont believe everything those two tell you. Cassis wasnt ill, at least, not in the way you think. He drank himself into bankruptcy, left his wife and son, sold off the farm to pay his debts
She watched me curiously, and I had to make an effort to keep my voice from rising.
Look, that was all a long time ago. Its over. My brothers dead.
Laure said there was a sister.
I nodded. Reine-Claude.
Why didnt you tell me?
I shrugged.
We werent
Close. I gathered.
Her voice was small and flat-sounding.
Fear pricked at me again, and I said more sharply than I had intended:
So? You understand that, dont you? After all, you and Noisette were never
I bit the words short, but too late. I saw her flinch and cursed myself inwardly.
No. But at least I tried. For you.
Damn. Id forgotten how sensitive she was. All those years I took her for the quiet one, watching my other daughter grow wilder and more willful day by day Yes, Noisette was always my favorite. But until now I thought Id hidden it better. If she had been Prune I would have put my arms around her, but to see her now, this calm, close-faced woman with her small, hurt smile and sleepy cats eyes I thought of Noisette, and how, out of pride and stubbornness, I had made her a stranger to me. I tried to explain.
We were separated a long time ago, I told her. After the war. My mother was ill and we went to live with different relatives. We didnt keep in touch. It was almost true, at least as close as I could bear to tell her. Reine went to work in Paris. She fell ill too. Shes in a private hospital near Paris. I visited her once, but
How could I explain? The institution-stink of the place, boiled cabbage and laundry and sickness, televisions blaring in soft rooms full of lost people who wept when they didnt like the stewed apples and who sometimes shouted at one another with unexpected viciousness, flailing their fists helplessly and pushing each other against the pale green walls. There had been a man in a wheelchair-a relatively young man with a face like a scarred fist and rolling, hopeless eyes-who had screamed I dont like it here! I dont like it here! during the whole of my visit, until his voice faded into a drone and even I found myself ignoring his distress. One woman stood in a corner with her face to the wall and wept, unheeded. And the woman on the bed-the huge bloated thing with the dyed hair, round white thighs and arms cool and soft as fresh dough, smiling serenely to herself and murmuring Only the voice was the same, without which I would never have believed it, a little-girls voice chiming nonsense syllables, the eyes as blank and round as an owls. I made myself touch her.
Reine. Reinette.
Again that vapid smile, the little nod, as if in her dreams she were a queen and I her subject. She had forgotten her name, the nurse told me quietly, but she was happy enough; she had her good days and she loved the television, especially the cartoons, and to have her hair brushed while the radio played
Of course we still have our bad spells, said the nurse, and I froze at the words, feeling something shrivel in my stomach to a bright hard knot of terror. We wake in the night-strange, that pronoun, as if by taking on part of the womans identity she might be able to somehow share in the experience of being old and mad-and sometimes we have our little tantrums, dont we? She smiled brightly at me, a young blonde of twenty or so, and I hated her so much in that moment for her youth and cheery ignorance that I almost smiled back.
I felt the same smile on my face as I looked at my daughter, and hated myself for it. I tried again for a lighter note.
You know what its like, I said apologetically. Cant bear old people hospitals. I sent some money
It was the wrong thing to say. Sometimes everything you say is the wrong thing. My mother knew that.
Money, said Pistache contemptuously. Is that all people care about?
She went to bed soon after, and nothing was right again between us that summer. Near the end of the holidays she left a little earlier than usual, pleading fatigue and the approach of the school term, but I could see something was wrong. I tried to talk about it to her once or twice, but it was no good. She remained distant, her eyes wary. I noticed she was receiving a lot of mail, but I thought nothing of it until much later. My mind was on other things.
2
A few days after the business with Yannick and Laure, the Snack-Wagon arrived. A large trailer-van brought it and parked its load on the grass verge just opposite Crêpe Framboise. A young man in a red-and-yellow paper hat got out. I was busy with customers at the time and paid little attention, so that when I looked out again later that afternoon I was surprised to see that the van had gone, leaving on the verge a small trailer upon which the words Super-Snaсk were painted in bright red capitals. I came out of the shop to take a closer look. The trailer seemed abandoned, though the shutters that secured it were heavily chained and padlocked. I knocked on the door. There was no answer.
The next day the Snack-Wagon opened. I noticed it at about eleven thirty, when my first customers usually begin to arrive. The shutters opened to reveal a counter above which a red-and-yellow awning gaped. Then a string of bunting, each colored flag bearing the name of a dish and a price steak-frites, 17F; saucisse-frites, 14F and finally a number of brightly colored posters advertising Super-Snaсks or Big Value Burgers and a variety of soft drinks.
Looks like youve got competition, said Paul Hourias, exactly on time at twelve fifteen.
I didnt ask him what he wanted to order he always orders the special and a demi you could set your watch by him. He never says much, just sits in his usual place by the window and eats and watches the road. I decided he was making one of his rare jokes.
Competition! I repeated derisively. Monsieur Hourias, the day Crêpe Framboise has to compete with a grease merchant in a trailer is the day I pack up my pots and pans for good.
Paul chuckled. The days special was grilled sardines, one of his favorites, with a basket of my walnut bread, and he ate reflectively, watching the road, as usual, as he did. The presence of the Snack-Wagon did not seem to affect the number of clients in the crêperie, and for the next two hours I was busy overseeing the kitchen while my waitress, Lise, took the orders. When I looked out again there were a couple of people at the Snack-Wagon, but they were youngsters, not regulars of mine, a girl and a boy, with cones of chips in their hands. I shrugged. I could live with that.