Read Online Silent Bird by Reina Lisa Menasche - Free Book Online Page B

next to the Chain Saw of Doom?
    Poor Jeannot; he did n’t want to snore. He didn’t want anything to mar the ongoing romance of our living together.
    I sighed. The French doors to the balcony had been left open all night. As I watched, a delicious breeze nudged the doors, and they moved gently, as if inviting me to leave this bed, these damp twisted sheets and stuffy room.
    And Jeannot?
    What a disturbing thought. Taking care not to wake him, I unearthed our communal, sausage shaped pillow from under his head and wrapped it around mine like a big, puffy set of earmuffs. But that just cut off my air supply. I could still hear the tickle in the back of his throat; the snort and wheeee of congested sinuses.
    I pushed away the pillow and sat up.
    Jeannot’s sunburned nose peeked from under cotton shee ts. His sun-bleached hair was a-tangle; his finely sculpted musician’s hand open on the top of the covers. He presented a study in contentment and trust. And why not? Yesterday we’d shared another great Saturday in the endless playtime of summer in the Midi. My French was improving markedly. I even caught myself thinking in French—at least the kindergarten-level version. And so each day had eased into the next: just one more translucent morning with its smells of stone walls and old wood floors and mimosa growing outside.
    And snoring. What’s a little noise compared to all th is good stuff?
    Jeannot finally stirred. He rubbed one socked foot against my leg—he always slept naked but, oddly enough, with socks—and opened his eyes. Brown: that dear, clear chocolate brown.
    “ Bonjour, mon amour ,” he said in his Languedoc accent, music flowing over words.
    “ Bonjour, mon amour ,” I said back, my accent still like a truck bumping over cobblestones. Then I grinned, remembering. “ Bon anniversaire .”
    Happy anniversary . Happy three months , not three years—yet last night we had decided we would commemorate it.
    “ A 15-story building, Chinese, I think, was built in less than a week,” Jeannot had said as we were getting ready for bed. “Why not the best relationship in the world?”
    “ Forget buildings. What about people?”
    “ There are Napoléon Bonaparte and Josephine. He loved her instantly, and that love endured.”
    “ Except they got divorced. Didn’t she die of a broken heart while he was in exile?” I said—or something along those lines. Even with my increasing competence in French, I might have said, “They had divorce and she was sad.”
    “ Next example?” I asked.
    “ Perhaps you prefer the Czar Nicholas II of Russia and Alexandra. He fell in love instantly. They had a happy, passionate marriage. At least until they were executed. There will be no executions or exiles for us, Chérie. We are one of the great ones, without the tragedy.”
    “ The Frenchman and the American. Ooh-la-la .”
    We shut the lights after that and lay on our sides, spooning in the direction of the open doors. Now, morning. Three months! I had never been with anyone longer than six.
    “ Chérie ?” Jeannot’s lips were against my neck, his hand gently twisting the locks of messy, curly hair. “You going back to sleep?”
    Yes , I thought, but knew it was too late for that. In the fresh new light, our eyes met.
    “ Kiss?” he asked.
    With one finger I traced the curve of his eyebrows. “I have bad breath. Like everybody in Manhattan has been walking inside my mouth.”
    He laughed. “I have always wanted to visit New York.” Another slow, tender kiss, and he playfully tugged at what I was wearing—what I had insisted on wearing to bed. “Your pyjama is ready for the trash, but you look beautiful in this blue.”
    “ This blue” belonged to an old rag in T-shirt form, with a picture of the Pillsbury Dough Boy on the front. Love me, squeeze me, take me home , it announced in faded orange letters.
    I said, “Think of it as socks for my body.”
    “ D'accord. Now come here. I like these socks