The Virgin Blue

10 – THE RETURN

I stood on the stoop for a long time before I could bring myself to ring the doorbell. I set down my travel bag, the gym bag next to it, and looked at the door. It was nondescript, cheap plywood with a peephole at eye height. I glanced around: I was in a complex of houses, small and new, with grass but no trees except for a few spindles trying to grow. It wasn't so different from new American suburbs.

I rehearsed what I was going to say one more time, then rang the bell. As I waited my stomach began fluttering and my hands grew sweaty. I swallowed and rubbed my hands on my pants. I could hear thumps coming from inside; then the door swung open and a small blonde girl stood on the threshold. A black and white cat pushed past her legs and onto the steps, where it stopped in the act of sloping off and pushed its nose against the gym bag. It sniffed and sniffed until I nudged it away with my toe.

The girl wore bright yellow shorts and a T-shirt with juice spilled down the front. She hung onto the doorknob, balancing on one foot, and stared at me.

‘Bonjour, Sylvie. Do you remember me?’

She continued to stare. ‘Why is your head purple?’

I touched my forehead. ‘I hit my head.’

‘You must put a bandage on it.’

‘Will you put one on for me?’

She nodded. From inside a voice called, ‘Sylvie, who's there?’

‘It's the Bible lady. She's hurt her head.’

‘Tell her to go away. She knows I won't buy one!’

‘No, no!’ Sylvie shouted. ‘The other Bible lady!’

There was a click-click-click down the hall, then Mathilde appeared behind Sylvie, wearing short pink shorts and a white halter top and holding a half-peeled grapefruit in one hand.

‘Mon Dieu! ’ she cried. ‘Ella, quelle surprise! ’ She handed the grapefruit to Sylvie, seized me and kissed me on both cheeks. ‘You should have told me you were coming! Come in, come in.’

I didn't move. My shoulders were shaking, and I lowered my head and began to cry.

Without a word Mathilde put an arm around me and picked up the travel bag. When Sylvie picked up the gym bag I almost cried out, ‘Don't touch it!’ Instead I let her take it and my hand. Together they led me inside.

I couldn't face getting on a plane. I didn't want to be cooped up, but more than that, I didn't want to get home too fast. I needed more time to make the transition than a plane would give me.

Jacob came with me on the train to Geneva and put me on the bus to the airport, but three blocks out from the train station I got up and asked the bus driver to let me off. I went to a café and sat with a coffee for half an hour till I knew Jacob would be on a train back to Moutier, then went back to the station and bought a train ticket to Toulouse.

It had been hard leaving Jacob: not because I wanted to stay, but because it was so obvious to him that I wanted to get away as soon as possible.

‘I'm sorry, Ella,’ he murmured as we said goodbye, ‘that your visit to Moutier has been so traumatic. It was meant to help you but instead it has hurt you.’ He glanced at my bruised forehead, at the gym bag. He hadn't wanted me to take it with me, but I'd insisted, though I wondered vaguely if there would be problems with any sniffer dogs at the airport – another reason to take the train.

Lucien had brought the gym bag the previous morning when I finally woke up after the drugs the doctor pumped into me had worn off. He appeared at the end of my bed, unshaven, dirty and exhausted, and set the bag next to the wall.

‘This is for you, Ella. Don't look in it now. You know what it is.’

I glanced dully at the bag. ‘You didn't do it alone, did you?’

‘A friend owed me a favour. Don't worry, he won't tell anyone. He knows how to keep secrets.’ He paused. ‘We used stronger rope. The beam almost came down, though. The whole house almost collapsed.’

‘I wish it had.’

As he was leaving I cleared my throat. ‘Lucien. Thank you. For helping me. For everything.’

He nodded. ‘Be happy, Ella.’

‘I'll try.’

They left my bags in the hall and led me to the backyard, a patch of lawn fenced off from the neighbours on both sides and scattered with toys and a plastic wading pool. They made me lie in a plastic lawn chair, and while Mathilde went back inside to get me something to drink Sylvie stood at my shoulder, gazing at me steadily. She reached out and began patting my forehead lightly. I closed my eyes. Her touch, and the sun on me, felt good.

‘What's that?’ Sylvie asked. I opened my eyes. She was pointing at the psoriasis on my arm; it was red and swollen.

‘I have a problem with my skin. It's called psoriasis.’

‘Soar-ee-ah-sees,’ she repeated, making it sound like the name of a dinosaur. ‘You need a bandage there too, n'est-ce pas?’

I smiled.

‘So,’ Mathilde began when she'd handed me a glass of orange juice, sat down on the lawn beside me and sent Sylvie in to change into her bathing suit. ‘Where have you been to get such bruises?’

I sighed. The prospect of explaining everything was daunting. ‘I've been in Switzerland,’ I began, ‘visiting my family. To show them the Bible.’

Mathilde wrinkled her face. ‘Bah, the Swiss,’ she said.

‘I was looking for something,’ I continued, ‘and -’

A shrill scream came from the house. Mathilde jumped up. ‘Ah, that will be the bones,’ I said.

It was hardest leaving Susanne. She came into my room not long after Lucien left the gym bag. She sat on the side of the bed and nodded toward the bag without looking at it.

‘Lucien told me about it,’ she said. ‘He showed me.’

‘Lucien is a good man.’

‘Yes.’ She looked out the window. ‘Why was it there, do you think?’

I shook my head. ‘I don't know. Maybe -’ I stopped; thinking about it made me shake, and I was trying hard to make them think I was well enough to leave the next day.

Susanne put a hand on my arm. ‘I should not have mentioned it.’

‘It's nothing.’ I changed the subject. ‘Can I say something frank to you?’ In my weakness I was feeling honest.

‘Of course.’

‘You must get rid of Jan.’

The shock in her face was of recognition rather than surprise; when she began to laugh I joined in.

Mathilde came back out, holding a weeping Sylvie by the hand.

‘Tell Ella you're sorry for looking at her things,’ she ordered.

Sylvie regarded me suspiciously through her tears. ‘I'm sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Maman, please let me play in the pool.’

‘OK.’

Sylvie ran to the pool as if eager to get away from me.

‘I'm sorry about that,’ Mathilde said. ‘She is a curious little thing.’

‘It's OK. I'm sorry it scared her.’

‘So that – those – that is what you found? What you were looking for?’

‘I think her name was Marie Tournier.’

‘Mon Dieu. She was – from the family?’

‘Yes.’ I began to explain, about the farm and the old chimney and hearth, and the names Marie and Isabelle. About the colour blue and the dream and the sound of the stone dropping into place. And the colour of my hair.

Mathilde listened without interrupting. She examined her bright pink nails, picking at her cuticles.

‘What a story!’ she said when I'd finished. ‘You should write it down.’ She paused, started to say something else, then stopped herself.

‘What?’

‘Why have you come here?’ she asked. ‘Ecoute, I'm glad you came, but why didn't you go home? Wouldn't you want to go home when you are upset, to your husband?’

I sighed. All that to tell her too: we would be here for hours. Her question reminded me of something. I glanced around. ‘Is there a – have you got a – where is Sylvie's father?’ I asked awkwardly.

Mathilde laughed and waved her hand vaguely. ‘Who knows? I haven't seen him in a couple of years. He was never interested in having children. He didn't want me to have Sylvie, so -’ She shrugged. ‘Tant pis. But you haven't answered my question.’

I told her everything else then, about Rick and Jean-Paul. Though I didn't cut any corners, it took less time to tell her than I'd expected.

‘So Rick doesn't know where you are?’

‘No. My cousin wanted to call and tell him I was coming home, but I wouldn't let him. I told him I would call Rick from the airport. Maybe I knew I wouldn't make it back.’

In fact I'd sat on the train from Geneva in a stupor, not thinking about my destination at all. I'd had to change trains in Montpellier, and while I'd been waiting I'd heard a train announced, with Mende listed as a stop. I'd watched it come in, people get off and on. Then it had just sat there, and the longer it had sat not going the more it had taunted me. Finally I'd picked up my bags and stepped onto it.

‘Ella,’ Mathilde said. I looked up; I'd been watching Sylvie splashing in the pool. ‘You really need to talk to Rick, n'est-ce pas? About all of this.’

‘I know. But I can't bear calling him.’

‘Leave that to me!’ She jumped up and snapped her fingers. ‘Give me the phone number.’ I did, reluctantly. ‘Good. Now you watch Sylvie. And don't come inside!’

I leaned back in the chair. It was a relief to let her take charge.

Luckily children forget quickly. By the end of the day Sylvie and I were playing in the pool together. When we went inside Mathilde had hidden the gym bag in a closet. Sylvie said nothing more about it; she showed me all her toys and let me braid her hair into two tight plaits.

Mathilde would say little about the phone call. ‘Tomorrow night, eight o'clock,’ she explained cryptically, handing me an address in Mende, just as Jean-Paul had with La Taverne.

We ate dinner early because of Sylvie's bedtime. I smiled when I looked at my plate: it was like food I'd eaten when I was young, definite without being fancy. There was no pasta in special sauces or oils or herbs, no fancy bread, no blending together of tastes and textures. Here was a pork chop, string beans, creamed corn and a baguette; it was comfortingly straightforward.

I was starving, but when I took a bite of pork I almost spat it out: it tasted of metal. I tried the corn and the beans; they tasted of it too. Though I was hungry, I couldn't bear the taste and feel of anything once I had it in my mouth.

It was impossible to hide my discomfort, particularly since Sylvie had decided to link her eating with mine. Whenever I took a bite of my pork chop she took one of hers; when I drank, she drank. Mathilde wolfed everything down without noticing our pace, then chided Sylvie for taking so long.

‘But Ella is eating so slowly!’ Sylvie cried.

Mathilde glanced at my plate.

‘I'm sorry,’ I said. ‘I'm feeling a little funny. Everything tastes metallic.’ 272

‘Ah, I had that when I was pregnant with Sylvie! Horrible. But it only lasts a few weeks. After that you eat anything.’ She stopped. ‘Oh, but you -’

‘I think it may be the medication the doctor put me on,’ I interrupted. ‘Sometimes there are traces of it still in the system. I'm sorry, I just can't eat.’

Mathilde nodded. Later I caught her giving me a long appraising look.

I fit into their lives surprisingly easily. I'd told Mathilde I would leave the next day – not that I knew where to go. She waved it off. ‘No, you stay with us. I like having you here. It's normally just Sylvie and me, so it's good to have company. As long as you don't mind sleeping on the couch!’

Sylvie made me read book after book to her at bedtime, excited by the novelty, brusquely correcting my pronunciation and explaining what some of the phrases meant. In the morning she pleaded with Mathilde to let her stay home from the summer camp she was attending. ‘I want to play with Ella!’ she shouted. ‘Please, Maman. Please?’

Mathilde glanced at me. I nodded slightly. ‘You'll have to ask Ella,’ she said. ‘How do you know she wants to play with you all day?’

Once Mathilde had left for work, yelling instructions over her shoulder, the house was suddenly quiet. I looked at Sylvie; she looked at me. I knew we were both thinking of the bag of bones hidden in the house.

‘Let's go for a walk,’ I said brightly. ‘There's a playground nearby, yes?’

‘OK,’ she said, and went off to pack all the things she would need into a bear-shaped knapsack.

On the way to the playground we passed a row of stores; when we reached a pharmacy I paused. ‘Let's go in, Sylvie, I need to get something.’ She obediently entered with me. I led her over to a display of soaps. ‘You choose one,’ I said, ‘and I'll get it for you as a present.’ She became engrossed in opening the boxes and sniffing at the soaps, and I was able to talk to the pharmacist in a low voice.

Sylvie chose lavender, holding it as we walked so she could smell it, until I convinced her to put it in her bear bag for safekeeping. At the playground she ran off to her friends. I sat on the benches with the other mothers, who looked at me suspiciously. I didn't try to talk to them: I needed to think.

In the afternoon we stayed at home. While Sylvie filled her pool I went to the bathroom with my purchase. When I came down she jumped into the water and splashed around while I lay on the grass and looked up at the sky.

After a while she came and sat beside me. She played with an old Barbie doll, whose hair had been cut raggedly, talking to her and making her dance.

‘Ella?’ she began. I knew what was coming. ‘Where is that bag of bones?’

‘I don't know. Your mother put it away.’

‘So it's still in the house?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

‘Where else could it be?’

‘Maybe your mother took it to work with her, or gave it to a neighbour.’

Sylvie looked around. ‘Our neighbours? Why would they want it?’

Bad idea. I changed tack. ‘Why are you asking me about it?’

Sylvie looked down at the doll, pulled its hair, shrugged. ‘Don't know,’ she mumbled.

I waited for a minute. ‘Do you want to see it again?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘You won't scream or get upset?’

‘No, not if you are here.’

I got the bag from the closet and brought it outside. Sylvie was sitting with her knees pulled up under her chin, watching me nervously. I set the bag down. ‘Do you want me to – lay it out so you can see it, and you wait inside and I'll call you when it's ready?’

She nodded and jumped up. ‘I want a Coke. Can I have a Coke?’

‘Yes.’

She ran inside.

I took a deep breath and unzipped the bag. I hadn't actually looked in it yet.

When it was all ready I went and found Sylvie; she was sitting in the living room with a glass of Coke, watching television.

‘Come,’ I said, holding my hand out to her. Together we went to the back door. From there she could see something in the grass. She pressed into my side.

‘You don't have to look at it, you know. But it won't hurt you. It's not alive.’

‘What is it?’

‘A girl.’

‘A girl? A girl like me?’

‘Yes. Those are her bones and her hair. And a little bit of dress.’

We walked over to it. To my surprise Sylvie let go of my hand and squatted down next to the bones. She looked at them for a long time.

‘That's a pretty blue,’ she said at last. ‘What happened to the rest of her dress?’

‘It -’ Rotted – another word I didn't know. ‘It got old and was destroyed,’ I explained clumsily.

‘Her hair is the same colour as yours.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where does she come from?’

‘Switzerland. She was buried in the ground, under a chimney hearth.’

‘Why?’

‘Why did she die?’

‘No, why was she buried under the hearth? Was it to keep her warm?’

‘Maybe.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Marie.’

‘She should be buried again.’

‘Why?’ I was curious what she would say.

‘Because she needs a home. She can't stay here forever.’

‘That's true.’

Sylvie sat down in the grass, then stretched out alongside the bones. ‘I'm going to sleep,’ she announced.

I thought about stopping her, saying that it was inappropriate, that she might have nightmares, that Mathilde would find us and think I would make a terrible mother, letting her daughter sleep next to a skeleton. But I didn't say any of these things. Instead I lay down on the other side of the bones.

‘Tell me a story,’ Sylvie commanded.

‘I'm not very good at telling stories.’

Sylvie rolled onto her elbow. ‘All grown-ups can tell stories! Tell me one.’

‘OK. Once there was a little girl with blonde hair and a blue dress.’

‘Like me? Did she look like me?’

‘Yes.’

Sylvie lay down again with a satisfied smile and closed her eyes.

‘She was a brave little girl. She had two older brothers, and a mother and a father and a grandmother.’

‘Did they love her?’

‘Most of them, except for her grandmother.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don't know.’ I stopped. Sylvie opened her eyes. ‘She was an ugly old woman,’ I continued in a hurry. ‘She was small and wore black all the time. And she never spoke.’

‘How could the girl know the grandmother didn't like her if she never spoke to her?’

‘She – she had fierce eyes, and she'd glare at the little girl in a way she didn't at anyone else. So the girl knew she didn't like her. And it was worse when she wore her favourite blue dress.’

‘Because the grandmother wanted it for herself!’

‘Yes, the cloth was very beautiful but there was only enough to make a dress for a little girl. When she wore it she looked like the sky.’

‘Was it a magic dress?’

‘Of course. It protected her from the grandmother, and from other things too – fire and wolves and nasty boys. And drowning. In fact, one day the girl was playing by the river and fell in. She went under water, and she could see fish swimming below her and she thought she was going to drown. Then the dress puffed up with air and she floated to the surface and was safe. So whenever she wore the dress her mother knew she would be safe.’

I glanced over at Sylvie; she was asleep. My eyes lit on the fragments of blue between us.

‘Except for one time,’ I added. ‘And it only takes once.’

I dreamed I was standing in a house that was burning to the ground. There were pieces of wood falling and ashes blowing everywhere. Then a girl appeared. I could only see her out of the corner of my eye; if I looked at her directly she disappeared. A blue light hovered around her.

‘Remember me,’ she said. She turned into Jean-Paul; he hadn't shaved in days and looked rough, his hair grown out so it curled at the ends, his face and arms and shirt covered with soot. I reached out and touched his face, and when I took my hand away there was a scar from his nose to his chin.

‘How did you get this?’ I asked.

‘From life,’ he replied.

A shadow crossed my face and I woke up. Mathilde was standing over me, blocking the evening sun. She looked like she'd been there for a while, her arms crossed, studying us. I sat up. ‘I'm sorry,’ I said, blinking. ‘I know this must look bizarre.’

Mathilde snorted. ‘Yes, but you know, I'm not surprised. I knew Sylvie would want to see those bones again. It looks like she's not scared of them anymore.’

‘No. She surprised me, she was so calm.’

Our voices woke her; Sylvie rolled over and sat up, cheeks flushed. She looked around, her eyes coming to rest on the bones.

‘Maman,’ she said, ‘we're going to bury her.’

‘What? Here in the yard?’

‘No. Her home.’

Mathilde looked at me.

‘I know just the place,’ I said.

Mathilde let me take her car into Mende. It was strange to think I'd been there only three weeks before; a lot had happened since then. But I had the same feeling now walking around the grim cathedral and the dark narrow streets of the old town. It wasn't a welcoming place. I was glad Mathilde lived further out, even in a treeless suburb.

The address turned out to be the same pizzeria I'd eaten in before. It was almost as empty as last time. I felt calm walking in, but when I saw Rick sitting alone with a glass of wine, frowning at the menu, my stomach turned over. I hadn't seen him in thirteen days; it had been a long thirteen days. When he looked up and saw me, he stood up, smiling nervously. He was wearing work clothes, a white button-down shirt, a navy cotton blazer and docksiders. He looked big and healthy and American in that dark cave of a place, like a Cadillac crawling through a narrow street.

We kissed awkwardly.

‘Jesus, Ella, what happened to your face?’

I touched the bruise on my forehead. ‘I fell,’ I said. ‘It's no big deal.’

We sat down. Rick poured me a glass of wine before I could say no. I politely touched it to my lips without swallowing. The smell of acid and vinegar almost made me gag; I set it down quickly.

We sat in silence. I realized I would have to start the conversation.

‘So Mathilde called you,’ I began feebly.

‘Yeah. God, she talks fast. I didn't really understand why you couldn't call me yourself.’

I shrugged. I could feel tension gathering in my stomach.

‘Listen, Ella, I want to say a couple things, all right?’

I nodded.

‘Now, I know this move to France has been hard for you. Harder for you than for me. Me, all I had to do was work in a different office. The people are different but the work is similar. But for you, you don't have a job or friends, you must feel isolated and bored. I can understand that you're unhappy. Maybe I haven't paid enough attention to you because I've been so busy with work. So you're bored and, well, I can see there'd be temptations, even in a little hick town like Lisle.’

He glanced at the psoriasis on my arms; it seemed to throw him momentarily.

‘So I've been thinking,’ he continued, getting back on track, ‘that we should try and start over.’

The waiter interrupted him to take our order. I was so nervous that I couldn't imagine eating anything, but for form's sake I ordered the plainest pizza possible. It was hot and close in the restaurant; sweat formed on my forehead and hands. I took a shaky sip of water.

‘So,’ Rick continued, ‘it turns out there's an easy way to do that. You know I was in Frankfurt at meetings over this housing project?’

I nodded.

‘They've asked me to oversee it, as a joint project between our company and theirs.’ He paused and looked at me expectantly.

‘Well, that's great, Rick. That's great for you.’

‘So you see? We'd move to Germany. Our chance to start over.’

‘Leave France?’

My tone surprised him. ‘Ella, you've done nothing but complain about this country since you arrived. That the people aren't friendly, that you can't make friends, that they treat you like a stranger, that they're too formal. Why would you want to stay?’

‘It's home,’ I said faintly.

‘Look, I'm trying to be reasonable. And I think actually I'm being pretty good about it. I'm willing to forgive and forget this whole thing with – you know. All I'm asking is that you move away from him. Is that unreasonable?’

‘No, I guess it's not.’

‘Good.’ He looked at me and his goodwill momentarily slipped. ‘So you're admitting something happened with him.’

The hard knot in my stomach moved and beads of sweat broke on my upper lip. I stood up. ‘I have to find a bathroom. I'll be back in a minute.’

I managed to walk away from the table calmly, but once I reached the bathroom and shut the door I let go and vomited, long gasping retches that shook my whole body. It felt like I'd been waiting to do it for a long time, that I was throwing up everything I'd eaten in France and Switzerland.

Finally I was completely empty. I sat back on my heels and leaned against the wall of the cubicle, the light set into the ceiling shining on me like a spotlight. The tension had been flushed away; though exhausted, I was able to think clearly for the first time in days. I began to chuckle.

‘Germany. Jesus Christ,’ I muttered.

When I got back to the table our pizzas had arrived. I picked mine up, set it on the empty table next to us and sat down.

‘You all right?’ Rick asked, frowning slightly.

‘Yup.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Rick, I have something to tell you.’

He looked at me apprehensively; he really didn't know what I might say.

‘I'm pregnant.’

He jumped. His face was like a television where the channels changed every few seconds as various thoughts passed through him.

‘But that's wonderful! Isn't it? That's what you wanted, wasn't it? Except -’ The doubt in his face was so painful that I almost reached across and took his hand. It occurred to me then that I could lie and that would solve everything. That was the open door I was looking for. But I was never good at lying.

‘It's yours,’ I said at last. ‘It must have happened just before we started using contraceptives again.’

Rick jumped up from his seat and came around the table to hug me. ‘Champagne!’ he cried. ‘We should order champagne!’

He looked around for the waiter.

‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Please. I'm not feeling well.’

‘Oh, right. Listen, let's get you home. We'll go now. Do you have your stuff with you?’ He glanced around.

‘No. Rick. Sit down. Please.’

He did, the uncertain look back in his face. I took a deep breath.

‘I'm not coming back with you.’

‘But – isn't that what this is all about?’

‘What's all about?’

‘This dinner. I thought you were coming back with me. I've got the car and everything.’

‘Is that what Mathilde told you?’

‘No, but I assumed -’

‘Well, you shouldn't have.’

‘But you're having my baby.’

‘Let's leave the baby out of this for a moment.’

‘We can't leave the baby out of it. It's there, isn't it?’

I sighed. ‘I guess so.’

Rick gulped the last of his wine and set his glass down.

It made a cracking noise against the table. ‘Look, Ella, you've got to explain something to me. You haven't said why you went to Switzerland. Did I do something wrong? Why are you being like this with me? You seem to be implying something's wrong with us. That's news to me. If anyone should be upset it's me. You're the one running around.’

I didn't know how to say it nicely. Rick seemed to sense this. ‘Just tell me,’ he said. ‘Be straight with me.’

‘It happened when we moved here. I feel different.’

‘How?’

‘It's hard to explain.’ I thought for a moment. ‘You know how you can buy an album and be obsessed with it for a while, play it all the time, know all the songs. And you think that you know it so well and it's special to you. Like for instance the first album you ever bought when you were a kid.’

‘The Beach Boys. Surf's Up.’

‘Right. Then one day you just stop playing it – not for any reason, it's not a conscious decision. You just suddenly don't need to listen to it anymore. It doesn't have the same power. You can hear it and know that they're still good songs, but they've lost their magic over you. Just like that.’

‘That's never happened with the Beach Boys. I still feel the same way when I listen to them.’

I brought my hand down hard on the table. ‘God dammit! Why do you do that?’

The few people in the restaurant looked up.

‘What?’ Rick hissed. ‘What did I do?’

‘You aren't listening to me. You take the metaphor and mangle it. You just won't listen to what I'm trying to say.’

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘I don't think I love you anymore! That's what I'm trying to say, but you won't listen!’

‘Oh.’ He sat back. ‘Why didn't you just say it, then? Why did you have to drag the Beach Boys into it?’

‘I was trying to explain with a metaphor, to make it easier. But you insist on looking at it from your perspective.’

‘How else am I supposed to look at it?’

‘From my point of view! Mine!’ I rapped on my chest with my knuckles. ‘Can't you ever look at things from my point of view? You act so nice and easygoing with everyone, but you always get your way, you always make people see it from your point of view.’

‘Ella, do you want to know what I see from your point of view? I see a woman who's lost, directionless, doesn't know what she wants, so grabs at the idea of a baby as something to keep her busy. And she's bored with her husband so she fucks the first offer she gets.’

He stopped and looked away, embarrassed now, realizing he'd gone too far. I'd never heard him be so frank.

‘Rick,’ I said gently. ‘That's not my point of view, you see. That is most definitely your point of view.’ I began to cry, as much from relief as anything else.

The waiter came over and silently cleared away our untouched pizzas, then placed the bill on the table without being asked. Neither of us looked at it.

‘Is this – change in your feelings temporary or permanent?’ Rick asked when I'd stopped crying.

‘I don't know.’

He tried again. ‘This album thing you talked about. Does it ever change back? You know – do you ever get reobsessed with it?’

I thought about it. ‘Sometimes.’ But never for very long, I added to myself. The feeling never really returns.

‘So maybe the situation will change.’

‘Rick, all I know is that right now I can't come back with you.’ I could feel tears gathering behind my eyes again.

‘You know,’ I added, ‘I haven't even told you what happened in Switzerland. And in France too. What I found out about the Tourniers. A whole story. I could tell a whole story – filling in some gaps here and there. You see, it's like this whole different life is going on with me that you don't know anything about.’

Rick pinched his nose at the top of his brow between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Write it down,’ he said. He glanced at my psoriasis again. ‘Right now I gotta get out of here. It's too hot in here.’

When I got back Mathilde was still up, reading a magazine in the living room, her long legs propped up on the glass coffee table. She looked up at me inquiringly. I flopped down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling.

‘Rick wants to move to Germany,’ I announced.

‘Vraiment? That's sudden.’

‘Yes. I'm not going with him.’

‘To Germany?’ She made a face. ‘Of course not!’

I snorted. ‘Tell me, do you like any other country besides France?’

‘America.’

‘But you haven't even been there!’

‘Yes, but I'm sure I'd love it.’

‘It's hard to imagine going back. California would seem so alien.’

‘Is that what you're going to do?’

‘I don't know. But I'm not going to Germany.’

‘Did you tell Rick you're pregnant?’

I sat up. ‘How did you know?’

‘It's obvious! You're tired, food bothers you, though you eat a lot when you do eat. And when you're not talking you look like you're listening to something inside you. I remember it well from Sylvie. So who is the father?’

‘Rick.’

‘You are sure?’

‘Yes. We had been trying to conceive for a while, then we stopped, but obviously not before I got pregnant. Now that I think about it, I've had the symptoms for a few weeks.’

‘And Jean-Paul?’

I turned onto my stomach and pressed my face into one of the sofa cushions. ‘What about him?’

‘Are you going to see him? Talk to him?’

‘What can I say to him that he'd want to hear?’

‘Mais – of course he would want to hear from you, even bad news. You haven't been very kind to him.’

‘Oh, I don't know about that. I thought I was being kind not contacting him.’

To my relief Mathilde changed the subject. ‘I'm taking Wednesday off,’ she said, ‘to go to Le Pont de Montvert, as you suggested. We'll take Sylvie too. She loves it up there. And of course you can see Monsieur Jourdain again.’

‘Oh, I can't wait.’

She shrieked and we began to laugh.

Wednesday morning Sylvie insisted on helping me dress. She came into the bathroom where I'd been changing into white shorts and an oatmeal-coloured shirt and leaned against the sink, watching me.

‘Why do you wear white all the time?’ she asked.

Oh, God, here we go again, I thought. ‘This shirt is not white,’ I stated. ‘It's – like the colour of cereal.’ I didn't know how to say oatmeal.

‘No, it isn't. My cornflakes are orange!’

I'd eaten three bowls of cornflakes earlier and was still hungry.

‘Alors, what would you like me to wear?’

Sylvie clapped her hands and ran into the living room, where she began looking through my bag. ‘All your clothes are white or brown!’ she cried, disappointed. She pulled out Jean-Paul's blue shirt. ‘Except this. Wear this,’ she commanded. ‘How come you haven't worn this before?’

Jacob had washed the shirt for me in Moutier. The blood had mostly come out, but left a rusty outline on the back. I thought it wasn't noticeable unless you looked for it, but Mathilde spotted it immediately when I put it on. I caught her raised eyebrows and craned my neck to look down at my back.

‘You don't want to know,’ I said.

She laughed. ‘A life full of drama, eh?’

‘It wasn't like this before, I promise!’

Mathilde glanced at her watch. ‘Let's go, Monsieur Jourdain will be waiting for us,’ she said. She opened the hall closet, took out the gym bag and handed it to me.

‘You really called him?’

‘Listen, Ella, he is a good man. He has good intentions. Now that he knows your family really was from the area, he'll treat you like a long-lost niece.’

‘Is Monsieur Jourdain the man who called me Mademoiselle? With the black hair?’ Sylvie asked.

‘No, that was Jean-Paul. Monsieur Jourdain was the old man who fell off his stool. You remember?’

‘I liked Jean-Paul. Will we see him?’

Mathilde grinned at me. ‘Look, this is his shirt,’ she said, pulling at one of the shirt tails.

Sylvie gazed up at me. ‘Then why are you wearing it?’ I blushed and Mathilde laughed.

It was a beautiful day, hot in Mende but crisp and cool the further into the mountains we drove. We sang all the way there, Sylvie teaching me the songs she'd learned at her camp. It felt strange singing on our way to a burial, but not inappropriate. We were bringing Marie home.

When we pulled up to the mairie in Le Pont de Montvert, Monsieur Jourdain appeared immediately in the doorway. He shook hands with all of us, even Sylvie, and held on to my hand for a moment. ‘Madame,’ he said, and smiled at me. He still made me nervous; maybe he knew that, for his smile had a desperate air, like a child who wants to be accepted as an adult.

‘Let's have coffee,’ he said hurriedly, and ushered us down to the café. We ordered coffees and an Orangina for Sylvie, who didn't stay long at the table once she discovered the café's cat. We adults sat in awkward silence for a minute before Mathilde slapped the table and cried, ‘The map! I'll just get it from the car. We want to show you where we're going.’ She jumped up and left us alone.

Monsieur Jourdain cleared his throat; for a second I thought he was going to spit. ‘Listen, La Rousse,’ he began. ‘You know I said I would try to find out about some of the family listed in your Bible?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alors, I found someone.’

‘What, a Tournier?’

‘Not a Tournier, no. Her name is Elisabeth Moulinier. She is the granddaughter of a man who lived in l'Hôpital, a village not far from here. It was his Bible. She brought it here when he died.’

‘Did you know her grandfather?’

Monsieur Jourdain pursed his lips. ‘No,’ he said shortly.

‘But – I thought that you knew everyone around here. Mathilde said so.’

He frowned. ‘He was a Catholic,’ he muttered.

‘Oh, for God's sake!’ I burst out.

He looked embarrassed but stubborn too.

‘Never mind,’ I muttered, shaking my head.

‘Anyway, I told this Elisabeth you would be here today. She is coming to see you.’

‘That's -’ What is it, Ella? I thought. Great? Do you want to be connected with this family?

‘That was kind of you to arrange it,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

Mathilde returned then with the map and we spread it out on the table.

‘La Baume du Monsieur is a hill,’ Monsieur Jourdain explained. ‘There are some ruins of a farm, here, you see?’ He pointed to a tiny symbol. ‘You go now and I will bring Madame Moulinier to you there, in an hour or two.’

When I saw the car parked at the side of the road, dusty and battered, my stomach lurched. Mathilde, I thought. She does love making phone calls. I glanced at her. She pulled up behind it, trying to look innocent, but I could see the trace of a self-satisfied smile. When she caught my eye she shrugged.

‘Why don't you go on ahead?’ she said. ‘Sylvie and I will have a look at the river, won't we, Sylvie? We'll come find you later. Go on.’

I hesitated, then picked up the gym bag, a shovel and the map, and started up the path. Then I stopped and turned around. ‘Thanks,’ I said.

Mathilde smiled and waved a hand at me. ‘Vas-y, chérie.’

He was sitting on the crumbled remains of a chimney, his back to me, smoking a cigarette. He was wearing the salmon-coloured shirt; the sun gleamed in his hair. He looked so real, so at home with himself and his surroundings that I almost couldn't look at him, it hurt so much. I felt a rush of longing for him, to smell him and touch his warm skin.

When he saw me he flicked his cigarette away but remained sitting. I set down the bag and the shovel. I wanted to put my arms around him, press my nose into his neck and burst into tears, but couldn't. Not until I had told him. The effort to keep from touching him was almost unbearable, and so distracting that I missed his first words and had to ask him to repeat them.

He didn't repeat them. He just looked at me for a long time, studying my face. He tried to remain expressionless, but I could see it was a struggle for him.

‘Jean-Paul, I am so sorry,’ I murmured in French.

‘Why? Why are you sorry?’

‘Oh.’ I linked my hands behind my neck. ‘There's so much to tell you, I don't even know where to begin.’ My jaw began to tremble and I pressed my elbows into my chest to keep myself from shaking.

He reached over and touched my bruised forehead.

‘How did you get this?’

I smiled grimly. ‘From life.’

‘Tell me about it, then,’ he said. ‘And about why you are here with that.’ He nodded at the bag. ‘Tell me in English. You speak in English when you need to, and I speak in French when I need to.’

I'd never thought of doing it that way. He was right: it would be too much to say what I had to say in French.

‘The bag is full of bones,’ I explained, crossing my arms and resting my weight on one hip. ‘Of a girl. I can tell from the size and shape of the bones, plus there are remains of what looks like a dress, and hair. I found them under the hearth of a farm they say was the Tournier farm for a long time. In Switzerland. I think they're the bones of Marie Tournier.’

I stopped my halting explanation and waited for him to challenge me. When he didn't I found myself trying to answer his unspoken questions. ‘In our family names have been passed down even up to the present. There are still Jacobs and Jeans, and Hannahs and Susannes. It's like a commemoration. All the original names still survive, except for Marie and Isabelle. Now I know you'll think I'm making something out of nothing, and with no proof, but I think that meant they did something wrong, they died or were shunned, or something. And the family dropped their names.’

Jean-Paul lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply.

‘There are other things, the kind of evidence you'll be suspicious of. Like her hair, the hair there in the bag, is the same colour as mine. As mine turned when I came here. And when we were lifting the hearthstone and it fell back it made this noise I've heard in my nightmare. This big groaning boom. Exactly the same. But mostly it's the blue. The bits of dress are exactly the blue I dreamed of. The Virgin blue.’

‘The Tournier blue,’ he said.

‘Yes. It's all coincidence, you'll say. I know how you feel about coincidence. But there's too much of it, you see. Too much for me.’

Jean-Paul stood up and shook his legs, then began pacing around the ruin. He walked all the way around it.

‘This is the Mas de la Baume du Monsieur, yes?’ he asked when he returned to me. ‘The farm listed in the Bible?’

I nodded. ‘We're going to bury the bones here.’

‘May I look?’ Jean-Paul gestured at the bag.

‘Yes.’ He had an idea: I knew him well enough to read the signs. It was oddly comforting. My stomach, jittery since seeing the Deux Chevaux, settled down and demanded food. I sat on the rocks and watched him. He knelt and opened the bag, spreading it wide. He looked for a long time, touched the hair briefly, fingered the blue cloth. He glanced up, looking me up and down; I remembered I was wearing his shirt. The blue and the red.

‘I didn't wear it deliberately, really,’ I said. ‘I didn't know you would be here. Sylvie made me wear it. She said I wasn't wearing enough colour.’

He smiled.

‘Hey, speaking of which, it turns out Goethe stayed in Moutier for a night.’

Jean-Paul snorted. ‘That is no great boast. He stayed everywhere for a night.’

‘I suppose you've read everything by Goethe.’

‘What was it you said once? You would bring up someone like Goethe right now.’

I smiled. ‘Touché. Anyway, I'm sorry I took your shirt. And it got – I had kind of an accident with it.’

He scrutinized it. ‘It looks all right to me.’

‘You haven't seen the back. No, I'm not going to show it to you. That's another story.’

Jean-Paul zipped the bag shut.

‘I have an idea,’ he said. ‘But it may upset you.’

‘Nothing can upset me more than everything already has.’

‘I want to dig here. By the chimney.’

‘Why?’

‘Just a theory.’ He crouched by the remains of the hearth. There wasn't much left of it. It had been a large slab of granite, like the one in Moutier, but it had cracked down the middle and was crumbling away.

‘Look, I don't want to bury her right there, if that's what you're thinking,’ I said. ‘That's the last place I want to put her.’

‘No, of course not. I just want to look for something.’

I watched him shift bits of stone for a while, then got down on my knees and helped him, avoiding the larger rocks, careful of my abdomen. At one point he glanced at my back, then reached over and traced the outline of blood on the shirt with his finger. I remained hunched over, my arms and legs pricked with goosebumps. Jean-Paul moved his finger up my neck and onto my scalp, where he spread his fingers and pulled them through my hair like a comb.

His hand stopped. ‘You do not want me to touch you,’ he said; it was a statement rather than a question.

‘You won't want to touch me when you've heard everything. I haven't told you everything yet.’

Jean-Paul dropped his hand and picked up the shovel. ‘Tell me later,’ he said, and began to dig.

I wasn't really surprised when he found the teeth. He held them out to me in silence. I took them, opened the gym bag and got out the other set. They were the same size: children's teeth. They felt sharp in my hands.

‘Why?’ I said.

‘In some cultures people bury things in the foundations of houses when they're built. Bodies of animals, sometimes shoes. Sometimes, not often, humans. The idea was that their souls would remain with the house and scare away evil spirits.’

There was a long silence.

‘They were sacrificed, you mean. These children were sacrificed.’ 293

‘Maybe. Probably. It is too much of a coincidence to find bones under the hearths of both houses for it to be accidental.’

‘But – they were Christian. They were supposed to be God-fearing, not superstitious!’

‘Religion has never completely destroyed superstition. Christianity was like a layer over the older beliefs – it covered them but they didn't disappear.’

I looked at the two sets of teeth and shivered. ‘Jesus. What a family. And I'm one of them. I'm a Tournier too.’ I was beginning to shake.

‘Ella. You are far away from them,’ Jean-Paul said gently. ‘You belong to the twentieth century. You are not responsible for their actions. And remember that you are as much a product of your mother's family as your father's.’

‘But I'm still a Tournier.’

‘Yes, but you do not have to pay for their sins.’

I stared at him. ‘I've never heard you use that word before.’

He shrugged. ‘I was brought up Catholic, after all. Some things are impossible to leave behind entirely.’

Sylvie appeared in the distance, running in a zigzag, distracted by flowers or rabbits, so that she looked like a yellow butterfly flitting here and there. When she saw us she made a beeline for us.

‘Jean-Paul!’ she cried. She ran over to stand next to him.

He crouched beside her. ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle,’ he said. Sylvie giggled and patted his shoulder.

‘Have you two been digging already?’ Mathilde picked her way through the rocks in pink slingbacks, swinging a yellow panier. ‘Salut, Jean-Paul,’ she said, grinning at him. He smiled at her. It occurred to me that if I had any sense I'd bow out and let them be together, give Mathilde some fun and Sylvie a father. It would be my own sacrifice, an atonement for my family's sins.

I stepped back. ‘I'm going to look for a place to bury the bones,’ I announced. I held out my hand. ‘Sylvie, do you want to come with me?’

‘No,’ Sylvie said. ‘I'm going to stay here with Jean-Paul.’

‘But – maybe your mother wants to be alone with Jean-Paul.’

I immediately realized I'd made a mistake. Mathilde began to laugh her high shriek.

‘Really, Ella, you are so stupid sometimes!’

Jean-Paul said nothing, but pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it with a smirk on his face.

‘Yeah, I am stupid,’ I muttered in English. ‘Very, very stupid.’

We all agreed on the spot, a grassy patch next to a boulder shaped like a mushroom, not far from the ruins. It would always be easy to find because of the shape of the rock.

Jean-Paul began to dig while we sat nearby and ate lunch. Then I took a turn with the shovel, then Mathilde, until we'd made a hole about two feet deep. I began to lay the bones out. We'd dug room enough for two, and though Jean-Paul had found only the teeth among the ruins, I set them in their place as if the bones of the whole body were there too. The others watched, Sylvie whispering to Mathilde. When I finished I pulled a blue thread from the remains of the dress and put it in my pocket.

As I stood up Sylvie came over. ‘Maman said I should ask you,’ she began. ‘Could I bury something with Marie?’

‘What?’

Sylvie pulled the bar of lavender soap from her pocket.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Take it out of its wrapping first. Do you want me to put it in for you?’

‘No, I want to do it.’ She lay down next to the grave and dropped the soap into place. Then she stood up and brushed the dirt off her front.

I didn't know what to do next: I felt I should say something but didn't know what. I glanced at Jean-Paul; to my amazement he'd bowed his head, closed his eyes and was whispering something. Mathilde was doing the same, and Sylvie imitated them both.

I looked up and saw a bird high above us, fluttering its wings so that it hovered in place.

Jean-Paul and Mathilde crossed themselves and opened their eyes at the same time. ‘Look,’ I said, and pointed upwards. The bird was gone.

‘I saw it,’ Sylvie declared. ‘Don't worry, Ella, I saw the red bird.’

After we filled in the dirt we began piling small rocks on the grave to keep animals from taking away the bones, building it into a rough pyramid about eighteen inches high.

We'd just finished when we heard a whistle and looked around. Monsieur Jourdain was standing at the ruins, a young woman at his side. Even from that distance it was obvious she was about eight months pregnant. Mathilde glanced at me and we grinned. Jean-Paul saw the exchange and gave us a puzzled look.

Oh, God, I thought. I still have to tell him. My stomach tightened.

When they got close the woman stumbled. I stood frozen.

‘Mon Dieu! ’ Mathilde breathed.

Sylvie clapped her hands. ‘Ella, you didn't tell us your sister was coming!’

She reached me and stopped. We studied each other: the hair, the shape of the face, the brown eyes. Then we stepped together and kissed the other's cheeks: one, two, three times.

She laughed. ‘You Tourniers always kiss three times, as if two were not enough!’

Late in the day we decided to come down from the mountain. We would have a drink at the bar, then go our separate ways: Mathilde and Sylvie to Mende, Elisabeth to her home near Alès, Monsieur Jourdain to his house around the corner from the mairie, Jean-Paul to Lisle-sur-Tarn. Only I didn't know where I was going.

Elisabeth and I walked together to the cars.

‘You will come stay with me?’ she asked. ‘Come now if you want.’

‘Soon. I have some – things to sort out. But I'll come in a few days.’

At the cars she and Mathilde looked at me expectantly. Jean-Paul looked off at the horizon.

‘Um, you go ahead,’ I said to them. ‘I'll get a lift with Jean-Paul. We'll see you there.’

‘Ella, you are coming home with us, aren't you?’ Sylvie asked anxiously. She began to pat my arm.

‘Don't worry about me, chérie.’

When the cars disappeared down the road Jean-Paul and I found ourselves on either side of his car. ‘Can we take the roof down?’ I asked.

‘Bien sûr.’

We unhooked the clasps on each side, rolled the roof back and fastened it. When we were done, I leaned against the side of the car and rested my arms along the top ridge of the window. Jean-Paul leaned against the other side.

‘I have something to tell you,’ I said. I swallowed the lump in my throat.

‘In English, Ella.’

‘Right. OK. In English.’ I stopped again.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘I had no idea I could be so miserable about a woman. It has been almost two weeks you go away. Since then, I can't sleep, I can't play piano, I can't work. The old women tease me at the library. My friends think I am crazy. Claude and I fight over stupid things.’

‘Jean-Paul, I'm pregnant,’ I said.

He looked at me, his whole face a question. ‘But we -’ He stopped.

I thought again about lying, about how much easier it would be to lie. I knew he would see through it.

‘It's Rick's,’ I said softly. ‘I'm sorry.’

Jean-Paul took a deep breath. ‘There is nothing to be sorry about,’ he said in French. ‘You wanted to have a baby, yes?’

‘Oui, mais -’

‘Then there is nothing to be sorry about,’ he repeated in English.

‘If it's with the wrong person, there's plenty to be sorry about.’

‘Does Rick know?’

‘Yes. I told him the other night. He wants us to move to Germany.’

Jean-Paul raised his eyebrows.

‘What do you want to do?’

‘I don't know. I have to think about what's best for the baby.’

Jean-Paul pushed himself off the car and walked to the other side of the road, where he stood looking out over the fields of broom and granite. He reached over, picked a stalk of broom and squeezed the bitter yellow flowers between his fingers.

‘I know,’ I whispered so he wouldn't hear me. ‘I'm sorry. It's too much, isn't it?’

When he came back to the car he looked resolute, even stoic. This is his finest hour, I thought. Unexpectedly I smiled.

Jean-Paul smiled back at me.

‘What's best for the mother is usually what's best for the baby,’ he said. ‘If you are unhappy the baby will be also.’

‘I know. But I've lost sight of what's best for me. I wish I at least knew where home was. It's not in California anymore. And Lisle – I don't think I can go back there. Not right now. Or Switzerland. Certainly not Germany.’

‘Where do you feel most comfortable?’

I looked around.

‘Here,’ I said, ‘Right here.’

Jean-Paul opened his arms very wide.

‘Alors, tu es chez toi. Bienvenue.’