— I am glad you are coming to the second service, she whispered. It is good that you are here today.
At the house Isabelle sat next to Pascale by the fire and listened to gossip from the winter that she had known nothing about.
— But surely you know all this! Gaspard cried each time he told a new story. Hannah must have heard about this when she came to bake bread – surely she told you! Oh! He put a hand to his mouth, too late to stop the words, and glanced at Hannah, who was sitting next to Etienne on the other bench, her eyes closed. She opened them and looked at Gaspard, who laughed nervously.
— Eh, Hannah, he said quickly, you know all the gossip, n'est-ce pas? You can hear, even if you can't talk.
Hannah shrugged and closed her eyes again.
She is getting old, Isabelle thought. Old and tired. But she can still speak, I am sure of it.
Petit Jean soon disappeared with a neighbour's sons, but Jacob and Marie hung around restlessly, both with shiny, expectant eyes. At last Pascale said in a high voice: — Come, I'll show you the new kids. Not you, Isabelle. Just these two. She led the two children to the barn.
When they reappeared they were giggling, Marie in particular. She walked around the room, head held high as if she were wearing a crown.
— What were the kids like? Isabelle asked.
— Soft, Jacob replied, and he and Marie burst into laughter.
— Come here, petit souris, Gaspard said, or I'll throw you in the river!
Marie shrieked as he chased her around the room and, catching her, began to tickle her.
— She'll never keep quiet during the service if you do that, Etienne said stiffly.
Gaspard abruptly let Marie go.
Pascale returned to sit next to Isabelle. She had a smile on her face that Isabelle did not understand. She did not ask. She had learned not to ask.
— So you will have a chimney soon, Pascale said.
— Yes. Etienne will set the hearth after planting, with Gaspard's help, of course. The granite is so heavy. Then he will build the chimney.
— No more smoke. Pascale sounded envious and Isabelle smiled.
— No, no more smoke.
Pascale lowered her voice.
— You look better than when I saw you last.
Isabelle glanced around. Etienne and Gaspard were deep in conversation; Hannah appeared to be asleep.
— Yes, I've been outside more, she replied cautiously. I've had fresh air.
— It's not just that. You look happier. As if someone has told you a secret.
Isabelle thought of the shepherd.
— Maybe someone has.
Pascale widened her eyes and Isabelle laughed.
— It's nothing, she said. Just the spring and a chimney.
— So the children have said nothing to you.
Isabelle sat up straight.
— What would they say?
— Nothing. We should eat now. It will be time to go to Chalières soon. Pascale got up before Isabelle could say anything.
After eating they walked in an informal procession to the chapel: Etienne and Gaspard leading with Hannah at Etienne's elbow, then the women with Marie holding Isa-belle's hand, and Petit Jean and his friends following in a rough pack, pushing and shouting. Behind them all Jacob followed alone, hands in his pockets, smiling.
They arrived early; the chapel was only half full and they were able to stand close enough to see the minister without difficulty. Isabelle kept her eyes lowered but positioned herself so that she could see the Virgin when she dared to look up. Marie stayed at her side, hugging herself and giggling.
— Maman, she whispered. Do you like my dress?
Isabelle glanced down at her.
— Your dress is the proper thing to wear, ma fille. Black for the Holy Days.
Marie giggled, then bit her lip when Jacob frowned at her.
— You are playing a game, you two, Isabelle declared.
— Yes, Maman, Jacob replied.
— No games here – this is the house of God.
During the service Isabelle was able to glance several times at the Virgin. She felt Etienne's eyes on her occasionally, but kept her face solemn, her joy hidden.
Monsieur Rougemont spoke for a long time about Christ's sacrifice and the need to live a pure life.
— God has already chosen who among you will follow His son to heaven, he stated baldly. Your behaviour here indicates His decision. If you choose to sin, to persist in old habits when you have been shown the Truth, to worship false idols – Isabelle dropped her eyes to the ground – to carry evil thoughts, you will have no chance of gaining God's forgiveness. But if you lead lives of purity, of hard work and simple worship, you may yet prove to be one of God's chosen and be worthy of His son's sacrifice. Let us pray.
Isabelle's cheeks burned. He is speaking to me, she thought. Without moving her head she glanced nervously at Etienne and Hannah; to her surprise she saw on their faces looks of fear. She looked the other way and, except for the serene faces of the children, saw the same expression all around her.
Perhaps none of us is chosen, she thought. And we know it.
She looked up at the Virgin.
— Help me, she prayed. Help me to be forgiven.
Monsieur Rougemont ended the service by bringing out the cup of wine and thin wafers for Communion.
— The children first, he said. Blessed are the innocent.
— Go. Isabelle gave Marie a push and she, Jacob and Petit Jean joined the other children kneeling before the minister.
While they waited, Isabelle rested her eyes on the Virgin again. Look at me, she pleaded silently. Show me my sins have been forgiven.
The Virgin's eyes were cast down, focused on something below her. Isabelle followed her gaze to Marie. Her daughter was kneeling patiently, waiting her turn, her black dress pushed up around her legs where she knelt. Underneath, though, there was no white undercloth. It was blue. Marie was wearing the cloth.
Isabelle gasped, turning the heads of her neighbours and of Etienne and Hannah. She tried but couldn't take her eyes off the blue.
Others began to see it too. Nudges and whispers spread quickly through the chapel. Jacob, kneeling next to Marie, glanced back, then down at Marie's legs. He made a move as if to tug Marie's black dress back down, then stopped himself.
When Etienne finally saw it his face went white, then red. He pushed his way through the crowd to the front and pulled Marie to her feet. She looked up at him and her smile disappeared. She seemed to crawl inside herself. Etienne dragged her through the congregation to the door, where they disappeared outside.
Jacob had gotten off his knees and stood motionless in front of the kneeling children, his eyes fixed on the church door. As Isabelle turned to follow she caught sight of Pascale: she had begun to weep.
She pushed her way to the door. Outside Etienne had lifted Marie's black skirt high to reveal the blue one underneath.
— Who gave this to you? Who dressed you? he demanded. Marie said nothing. Etienne pushed her to her knees.
— Who gave it to you? Who?
When Marie still didn't tell him he hit her hard on the back of her head. She fell forward onto her face.
— I gave it to her, Isabelle lied.
Etienne turned.
— I should have guessed you would trick us, La Rousse. But not anymore. You won't be able to hurt us. Get up, he said to Marie.
She sat up slowly. Blood had run from her nose to her chin.
— Maman, she whispered.
Etienne stepped between them.
— Don't touch her, he hissed at Isabelle. He yanked Marie up and looked around. Petit Jean, viens, he said as their son appeared at the door.
Petit Jean walked over to him.
— Pascale, he announced to Etienne. It was Pascale, Papa. He took Marie's other arm. They began to march her away between them. She turned her head and looked back at Isabelle.
— Please, Mama
n, she said. She stumbled; Etienne and Petit Jean grabbed her arms more tightly. 204
Hannah and Jacob had appeared in the doorway. Jacob came now to stand next to Isabelle.
— The pebbles on the ground, she said without looking at him. They were the outline for the dress.
— Yes, he answered quietly. It was meant to protect her. Like the pedlar said. From drowning.
— Why was your father counting those pebbles too? Why would he want to know how big Marie is?
Jacob stared at her with wide eyes.
— I don't know.
8
THE FARM
I flew from Toulouse to Geneva, then caught a train to Moutier. It all happened fast and easily: there was a flight, there was a train, and Jacob sounded more pleased than surprised that I wanted to come on such short notice. Very short notice: I called him at noon; at six the train pulled into Moutier.
On the train from Geneva my mind began working again. I'd sat in a daze on the flight from Toulouse, but now the rhythm of the train, more natural than a plane's, shook me awake. I began to look around.
Across from me sat a sturdy middle-aged couple, he in a chocolate blazer and striped tie, reading a carefully folded newspaper, she wearing a grey wool dress and darker grey jacket, gold bows clipped to her ears, Italian shoes. Her hair had just been done, puffed out and newly coloured a reddish-brown that wasn't so far from my own except that it looked synthetic. She held a sleek leather handbag on her lap and was writing what looked like a list in a tiny notebook.
Probably doing her Christmas card list already, I thought, self-conscious in my limp, wrinkled linen.
They didn't say a word to each other the whole hour I sat across from them. When I got up to change trains at Neuchâtel the man raised his eyes briefly and nodded. ‘Bonne journée, Madame,’ he said with a politeness only people over fifty manage gracefully. I smiled and nodded to him and his companion. It was that kind of place.
The trains were quiet, clean and punctual. The passengers were also quiet and clean, soberly dressed, purposeful in their reading, deliberate in their movements. There were no couples making out, no men staring, no skimpy dresses or barely covered breasts, no drunks lolling over two seats – all common sights on the train from Lisle to Toulouse. This was not a lolling country; the Swiss never took up two seats if they'd only paid for one.
Maybe I was looking for such order after the chaos I'd left. It was typical for me to pinpoint national character traits after only an hour in a country, to come up with an opinion I could tinker with as I went, altering it to encompass the people I met. If I really wanted I could probably have found sordidness somewhere on those trains, torn clothes and raised voices, romance novels, someone shooting up in the toilet, some passion, some fear. Instead I looked around and clung to the perceived normality.
The new landscape fascinated me: the solid mountains of the Jura rising steeply away from the train tracks, the banks of dark green firs, the sharp lines of the houses, the crisp order of the fields and farms. I was surprised that it was so different from France, though logically I shouldn't have been. It was a different country, after all, as I had pointed out to my father. The real surprise was realizing that the French landscape I'd left behind – the gentle hills, the bright green vineyards, the rust colour of the earth, the silver light – was no longer strange to me.
Jacob had said over the phone that he would meet me at the station. I knew nothing about him, not even how old he was, though I suspected he was closer to my father's age than to mine. When I stepped onto the Moutier platform I spotted him immediately: he reminded me of my father, though his hair wasn't grey but brown, the same colour mine had been. He was very tall and wore a cream sweater stretched out of shape across shoulders that sloped down like a bow. His face was long and thin, almost gaunt, with a delicate chin and bright brown eyes. He had the energetic look of a man in his late fifties, still driven by work, not yet part of that group who have relaxed into retirement, but knowing he would join them soon and wondering how he would cope with so much freedom.
He strode up to me, took my head in his large hands and kissed my cheeks three times.
‘Ella, you look just like your father,’ he said, using the familiar form, in clear French.
I grinned up at him. ‘Ah, then I must look like you, because you look just like my father!’
He picked up my bag, put his arm around me and led me down a flight of stairs and out to the street. He swung my bag in a wide semicircle as he gestured with his whole arm. ‘Bienvenue à Moutier! ’ he cried.
I took a step forward and just managed to say ‘C'est très –’ before I fell to the ground.
I woke up in a white room, small and rectangular and plain, like a monk's cell, with a bed, table, chair and bureau. Behind my head was a window; when I rolled my eyes back to look out, I could see upside-down the white steeple of a church, the black clock face on it partially obscured by a tree.
Jacob was sitting in the chair next to the bed; a strange man with a round face hovered in the doorway. I lay looking at them, unable to speak. Jacob said gently, ‘Ella, tu t'es évanouiée.’ I'd never heard the word he used, but I understood immediately what he meant. ‘Lucien –’ he gestured behind him at the man – ‘was passing in his truck just then and he brought you here. We were worried because you were unconscious for a long time.’
‘How long?’ I struggled to sit up and Jacob gripped my shoulders to help me.
‘Ten minutes. All the way in the car and into the house.’
I shook my head slowly. ‘I don't remember a thing.’
Lucien stepped forward with a glass of water and handed it to me.
‘Merci,’ I murmured. He smiled in reply, barely moving his lips. I sipped it, then felt my face; it was wet and sticky. ‘Why is my face wet?’
Jacob and Lucien glanced at each other. ‘You were crying,’ Jacob replied.
‘While I was unconscious?’
He nodded and I became aware of my sore, runny nose, my hoarse throat, my exhaustion.
‘Was I talking?’
‘You were reciting something.’
‘J'ai mis en toi mon espérance: Garde-moi, donc, Seigneur. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ Lucien replied. ‘That was –’
‘You need to sleep,’ Jacob interrupted. ‘Just rest. We'll talk later.’ He pulled a thin blanket over me. Lucien raised his hand in a motionless wave. I nodded and he disappeared.
I closed my eyes, then opened them just as Jacob was closing the door. ‘Jacob, does this house have shutters?’
He paused and tipped his head into the room. ‘Yes, but I never use them. I don't like them.’ He smiled and shut the door.
* * *
It was dark when I next woke, sweaty and disoriented. Outside there were windows lit up all around; it seemed that no one used their shutters here. The church steeple was spotlit. At that moment the bells in the tower began to chime and I automatically followed them, counting to ten: I'd been asleep four hours. It felt like days.
I reached over and switched on the bedside lamp. The shade was yellow and cast a soft golden light around the room. I had never been in a room with no decoration whatsoever; the spareness was oddly comforting. I lay for a while, studying the way the light fell, not sure that I wanted to get up. But I did finally, leaving the room and feeling my way down the dark stairs. At the bottom I stood in a square hallway facing three closed doors. I chose one with a string of light along the bottom and opened it into a bright kitchen painted yellow, with a polished wood floor and a bank of windows along one wall. Jacob was sitting at a round wooden table reading a newspaper propped against a bowl of peaches. A young woman with dark frizzy hair leaned into the kitchen sink, scrubbing at a pan. When she turned at my entrance I knew she must be related to Jacob: she had the same gaunt face and pointed chin, softened by wisps of hair on her forehead and long lashes around the same brown eyes. She was taller than me and very slight, with long thin ha
nds and small wrists.
‘Ah, Ella, there you are,’ Jacob said as the woman kissed me three times. ‘This is my daughter, Susanne.’
I smiled at her. ‘I'm sorry,’ I said to them both. ‘I didn't realize it was so late. I don't know what was wrong with me.’
‘It's nothing. You needed to sleep. Will you eat something now?’ Jacob pulled out a chair for me at the table. Then he and Susanne began to set out cheese and salami, bread, olives and salad. It was exactly what I wanted, something simple. I didn't want them fussing over me.