– Thank you, Maman, she said softly. I won't forget.
Jean, Hannah and Etienne were sitting by the fire while Susanne cleared the last of their bajanas, the same chestnut soup Isabelle had served her father earlier, and dark, sweet-smelling bread. All four froze when Isabelle entered.
– What is it, La Rousse? Jean Tournier asked as she stood in the middle of the room, her hand once more resting on the table as if to secure her a place among them.
Isabelle said nothing but looked steadily at Etienne. At last he stood up and moved to her side. She nodded and he turned to face his parents.
The room was silent. Hannah's face looked like granite.
– Isabelle is going to have a child, Etienne said in a low voice. With your permission we would like to marry.
It was the first time he had ever used Isabelle's name.
Hannah's voice pierced.
– You carry whose child, La Rousse? Not Etienne's.
– It is Etienne's child.
– No!
Jean Tournier put his hands on the table and stood up. His silver hair was smooth like a cap against his skull, his face gaunt. He said nothing, but his wife stopped speaking and sat back. He looked at Etienne. There was a long pause before Etienne spoke.
– It is my child. We will marry anyway when I am twenty-five. Soon.
Jean and Hannah exchanged glances.
– What does your father say? Jean asked Isabelle.
– He has given his permission and will provide the dowry. She said nothing about his hatred.
– Go and wait outside, La Rousse, Jean said quietly. You go with her, Susanne.
The girls sat side by side on the door bench. They had seen little of each other since they were children. Many years ago, even before Isabelle's hair turned red, Susanne had played with Marie, helping with the haying, the goats, splashing in the river.
For a while they sat, looking out over the valley.
– I saw a wolf out by the cleda, Isabelle said suddenly.
Susanne stared, brown eyes wide. She had the thin face and pointed chin of her father.
– What did you do?
– Chased it with a stick. She smiled, pleased with herself.
– Isabelle -
– What is it?
– I know Maman is upset, but I am glad you will live with us. I never believed what they said about you, about your hair and – She stopped. Isabelle did not ask.
– And you will be safe here. This house is safe, protected by -
She stopped again, glanced at the door, bowed her head. Isabelle let her eyes rest on the shadowy humps of the hills in the distance.
It will always be like this, she thought. Silence in this house. The door opened and Jean and Etienne emerged with a flickering torch and an axe.
– We will take you back, La Rousse, Jean said. I must speak with your father.
He handed a piece of bread to Etienne.
– Take this bread together and give her your hand.
Etienne tore the bread in two and gave the smaller piece to Isabelle. She put it in her mouth and placed her hand in his. His fingers were cold. The bread stuck in the back of her throat like a whisper.
Petit Jean was born in blood and was a fearless child.
Jacob was born blue. He was a quiet child: even when Hannah smacked his back to start his breath he did not scream.
Isabelle lay in the river again, many summers later. There were marks on her body from the two boys, and another child pushing her belly above the water. The baby kicked. She cupped the mound with her hands.
– Please let the Virgin make it a girl, she prayed. And when she is born I will name her after you, after my sister. Marie. I will fight everyone to name her that.
This time there were no warnings at all, no bells, no sense of eyes on her. He was just there, sitting on his heels on the river bank. She sat up and looked at him. She did not cover her breasts. He looked the same, a little older, with a long scar down the right side of his face, from his cheekbone to his chin, touching the corner of his mouth. This time she would have smiled back at him if he had smiled. The shepherd did not smile. He simply nodded at her, cupped his hands, splashed water on his face, then turned and walked in the direction of the river's source.
Marie was born in a flood of clear liquid, her eyes open. She was a hopeful child.
2 – THE DREAM
When Rick and I moved to France, I figured my life would change a little. I just didn't know how.
To begin with, the new country was a banquet where we were ready to try every dish. Our first week there, while Rick was sharpening his pencils at his new office, I knocked the rust from my high-school French and set out to explore the countryside surrounding Toulouse and to find us a place to live. A small town was what we wanted; an interesting town. I sped along little roads in a new grey Renault, driving fast through long lines of sycamores. Occasionally when I wasn't paying attention I thought I was in Ohio or Indiana, but the landscape snapped back into itself the moment I saw a house with a red tile roof, green shutters, window boxes full of geraniums. Everywhere farmers in bright blue work pants stood in fields dusted with pale April green and watched my car pass across their horizon. I smiled and waved; sometimes they waved back, hesitantly. ‘Who was that?’ they were probably asking themselves.
I saw a lot of towns and rejected them all, sometimes for frivolous reasons, but ultimately because I was looking for a place that would sing to me, that would tell me my search was over.
I arrived in Lisle-sur-Tarn by crossing a long narrow bridge over the River Tarn. At the end of it a church and a café marked the town's edge. I parked next to the café and began to walk; by the time I reached the centre of town I knew we would live there. It was a bastide, a fortified town preserved from the Middle Ages; when there were invasions in medieval times the villagers would gather in the market square and close off its four entrances. I stood in the middle of the square next to a fountain with lavender bushes planted around it and felt contained and content.
The square was surrounded on all four sides by an arched, covered walkway, with shops on the ground level and shuttered houses above. The arches were built of long narrow bricks; the same bricks made up the top two levels of the houses, laid horizontally or diagonally in decorative patterns between brown timbers, held together with dull pink mortar.
This is what I need, I thought. Seeing this every day will make me happy.
Immediately I began having doubts. It seemed absurd to decide on a town because of one beautiful square. I began to walk again, looking for that deciding factor, the sign that would make me stay or go.
It didn't take long. After exploring the surrounding streets I entered a boulangerie on the square. The woman behind the counter was short and wore a navy blue and white housecoat I'd seen for sale at every market I had visited. When she finished with another customer she turned to me, black eyes scrutinizing me from a lined face, hair pulled back in a loose bun.
‘Bonjour, Madame,’ she said in the singsong intonation French women use in shops.
‘Bonjour,’ I replied, glancing at the bread on the shelves behind her and thinking: This will be my boulangerie now. But when I looked back at her, expecting a warm welcome, my confidence fell away. She stood solidly behind the counter, her face like armour.
I opened my mouth: nothing came out. I swallowed. She stared at me and said, ‘Oui, Madame?’ in exactly the same tone she'd first used, as if the last few awkward seconds hadn't occurred.
I hesitated, then pointed at a baguette. ‘Un,’ I managed to say, though it sounded more like a grunt. The woman's face modulated into the stiffness of disapproval. She reached behind her without looking, eyes still fixed on me.