I shrugged.
You wont talk me round, I said flatly.
Now youre beginning to sound like her too. His voice, complex with love, guilt, hate. Boise
I looked at him.
Someone had to remember her, I told him. And I knew it wasnt going to be you.
He made a helpless gesture.
But here, in Les Laveuses
No one knows who I am, I said. No one makes the connection. I grinned suddenly. You know, Cassis, to most people, all old ladies look pretty much the same.
He nodded.
And you think Mamie Framboise would change that.
I know it would.
A silence.
You always were a good liar, he observed casually. Thats another thing you got from her. The capacity to hide. Me, Im wide open.
He flung his arms wide to illustrate.
Good for you, I said indifferently. He even believed it himself.
Youre a good cook, Ill give you that. He stared over my shoulder at the orchard, the trees heavy with ripening fruit. Shed have liked that. To know youd kept things going. Youre so like her he repeated slowly, not a compliment but a statement of fact, some distaste, some awe.
She left me her book, I told him. The one with the recipes in it. The album.
His eyes widened.
She did? Well, you were her favorite.
I dont know why you keep saying that, I said impatiently. If ever Mother had a favorite it was Reinette, not me. You remember-
She told me herself, he explained. Said that of the three of us you were the only one with any sense or any guts. Theres more of me in that sly little bitch than the pair of you ten times over. Thats what she said.
It sounded like her. Her voice in his, clear and sharp as glass. She must have been angry with him, in one of her rages. It was rare that she struck any of us, but God!.. her tongue.
Cassis grimaced.
It was the way she said it too, he told me softly. So cold and dry. With that curious look in her eyes, as if it was a kind of test. As if she was waiting to see what Id do next.
And what did you do?
He shrugged.
I cried, of course. I was only nine.
Of course he would, I told myself. That was always his way. Too sensitive beneath his wildness. He used to run away from home regularly, sleeping out in the woods or in the tree house, knowing that Mother would not whip him. Secretly she encouraged his misbehavior, because it looked like defiance. It looked like strength. Me, Id have spat in her face.
Tell me, Cassis-the idea came to me in a rush and I was suddenly almost out of breath with excitement-Did Mother-do you ever remember if she spoke Italian? Or Portuguese? Some foreign language
Cassis looked puzzled, shook his head.
Are you sure? In her album-
I explained about the pages of foreign writing, the secret pages I had never learned to decipher.
Let me see.
We looked over it together, Cassis fingering the stiff yellow leaves with reluctant fascination. I noticed he avoided touching the writing, though he often fingered the other things, the photographs, the pressed flowers, butterflies wings, pieces of cloth stuck to the pages.
My God, he said in a low voice. I never had any idea shed made something like this. He looked up at me. And you say you werent her favorite.
At first he seemed more interested in the recipes than anything else. Flicking through the album, his fingers seemed to have retained some of their old deftness.
Tarte mirabelle aux amandes, he whispered. Tourteau fromage Clafoutis aux cerises rouges. I remember these! His enthusiasm was suddenly very young, very like the old Cassis. Everythings here, he said softly. Everything.
I pointed at one of the foreign passages.
Cassis studied it for a moment or two, and then began to laugh.
Thats not Italian, he told me. Dont you remember what this is? He seemed to find the whole thing very funny, rocking and wheezing. Even his ears shook, big old-mans ears like blue-cap mushrooms. This is the language Dad invented. Bilini-enverlini, he used to call it. Dont you remember? He used to speak it all the time
I tried to recall. I was seven when he died. There must be something left, I told myself. But there was so little. Everything swallowed up into a great hungry throat of darkness. I can remember my father, but only in snatches. A smell of moths and tobacco from his big old coat. The Jerusalem artichokes he alone liked, and which we all had to eat once a week. How Id once accidentally sunk a fishhook through the webby part of my hand between finger and thumb, and his arms around me, his voice telling me to be brave I remember his face through photographs, all in sepia. And at the back of my mind, something-a remote something-disgorged by the darkness. Father jabbering to us in nonsense talk, grinning, Cassis laughing, myself laughing without really understanding the joke and Mother, for once, far away, safely out of earshot, one of her headaches perhaps, an unexpected holiday
I remember something, I said at last.
He explained then, patiently. A language of inverted syllables, reversed words, nonsense prefixes and suffixes. Ini tnawini inoti plainexini. I want to explain. Minini toni nierus niohwni inoti. Im not sure who to.
Strangely enough Cassis seemed uninterested by my mothers secret writings. His gaze lingered over the recipes. The rest was dead. The recipes were something he could understand, touch, taste. I could feel his discomfort at standing too close to me, as if my similarity to her might infect him too.
If my son could only see all these recipes- he said in a low voice.
Dont tell him, I said sharply.
I was beginning to know Yannick. The less he learned about us, the better.
Cassis shrugged.
Of course not. I promise.
And I believed him. It goes to show that Im not as like my mother as he thought. I trusted him, God help me, and for a while it seemed as if hed kept his promise. Yannick and Laure kept their distance, Mamie Framboise vanished from view and summer rolled into autumn, dragging a soft train of dead leaves.
6
Yannick says he saw Old Mother today.
He came running back from the river half wild with excitement and babbling. Hed forgotten his fish on the verge in his haste, amp; I snapped at him for wasting time. He looked at me with that sad helplessness in his eyes, amp; I thought he was going to say something, but he didnt. I suppose he feels ashamed. I feel hard inside, frozen. I want to say something, but Im not sure what it is. Bad luck to see Old Mother, everyone says, but weve had enough of that already. Perhaps thats why I am what I am.
I took my time over Mothers album. Part of it was fear. Of what I might find out, perhaps. Of what I might be forced to remember. Part of it was that the narrative was confused, the order of events deliberately and expertly shuffled, like a clever card trick. I barely remembered the day of which she had spoken, though I dreamed of it later. The handwriting, though neat, was obsessively small, giving me terrible headaches if I studied it for too long. In this too I am like her. I remember her headaches quite clearly, so often preceded by what Cassis used to refer to as her turns. They had worsened when I was born, he told me. He was the only one of us old enough to remember her before.
Below a recipe for mulled cider, she writes:
I can remember what it was like. To be in the light. To be whole. It was like that for a time, before C. was born. I try to remember how it was to be so young. If only wed stayed away, I tell myself. Never come back to Les Laveuses. Y. tries to help. But theres no love in it any more. Hes afraid of me now, afraid of what I might do. To him. To the children. Theres no sweetness in suffering, whatever people might think It eats away everything in the end Y. stays for the sake of the children. I should be grateful. He could leave, amp; no one would think the worse of him for it. After all, he was born here.