think he’s right, as a whole. About Indochina, Tunisia, Morocco. And about the need for a European Union.”
“But what’s the difference?” I ask. “Between Radicals, Communists, and... the other kind?”
“Socialists,” Father says. “In my opinion, they’re too stagnant; and I don’t agree with what the Communists are doing in Russia, in Hungary. But in the council here, they work well together.”
“What do you care what they’re doing in Russia if they build houses for people who need one here?”
“Well, you might be right,” Father says. “Maybe next time I’ll vote for Rigaill.”
Petals
May first, lily-of-the-valley day. Mother came back last night from a few days in Lyon. While she was unpacking, Father showed me the sprigs he brought from La Fourcade and hid in the tasting room. This morning Coralie and I, as soon as we open our eyes, run down in our nightgowns to find them and present a few to Grandmother and to Loli. We get kisses in return. Then we run up to our parents’ room and give Mother her little bouquet. “It smells wonderful,” she says, and kisses us too.
Back in our bedroom, Loli helps us get dressed before we join our parents again. Father is reading La Revue Nautique . Mother plaits my hair and Coralie’s, then helps herself to more coffee. When she pours milk into it, I run to the window and hide behind Father’s chair. I rather like the way coffee smells on its own (especially when it’s roasting and not yet soaked in water), but mixed with milk it’s mephitic.
Coralie is already tripping back towards our room but Mother, gulping her coffee, calls her. “Come here, let’s make you presentable.” Coralie, her feet wide apart, stops but doesn’t turn round; I alone, from my hiding place, can see her pouting lips and ferocious eyes. Mother pulls down the skirt of Coralie’s blue-and-white smocked dress. She also tries to straighten up the short puff sleeves, but she can’t get hold: they are too tight around Coralie’s plump arms. “Coralie has grown so much this year,” she says. “And she’s put on so much weight, there’s not a chance Tita’s dresses from last summer will fit her. I’ll have to get some fabric and make at least two new dresses for each of them. I found amazing patterns in Lyon, the kind nobody in Cugnac has ever heard of. Wait and see.”
Father looks up from his magazine. “Of course,” he says. “Poor Coralie, you can hardly breathe! But maybe you’ll choose another color this time? Isn’t there anything you like apart from blue?”
“I — don’t — like — blue,” Coralie articulates. “And I don’t like dresses. Can I have shorts and shirts instead?”
“Nonsense,” Mother says. “Do you want to go to school in shorts? To church, and to birthday parties?” She breathes in slowly, then out through her nose, and says, looking in Father’s direction but not at him, “What’s wrong with blue? It’s her color. It looks perfect with her eyes.”
Father smiles, and shrugs. “I know it’s silly, but blue always reminds me of Children of Mary. I find it a sad color. So, if Coralie doesn’t particularly...”
How can he imagine that Coralie’s tastes, or mine, have any influence on what we wear? “What’s a Child of Mary?” I ask.
Father shakes his head. “I don’t even know exactly, but there were lots of them when I was growing up. I think it started with a nun in the nineteenth century, who had seen some apparitions. The Children of Mary wear a miraculous medal on a blue ribbon. They also wear blue capes. Everything must be blue.”
“Medals are so gruesome,” I say. “Not to mention miraculous ones.” Actually, I despise all ornaments.
Father nods slowly. Coralie has settled in his lap and is drawing a horse on a discarded envelope. Father makes me laugh sometimes, the way he recoils from religion. It’s almost like me with cheese. No-good Children of Mary! But that reminds me of the Month
“But what’s the difference?” I ask. “Between Radicals, Communists, and... the other kind?”
“Socialists,” Father says. “In my opinion, they’re too stagnant; and I don’t agree with what the Communists are doing in Russia, in Hungary. But in the council here, they work well together.”
“What do you care what they’re doing in Russia if they build houses for people who need one here?”
“Well, you might be right,” Father says. “Maybe next time I’ll vote for Rigaill.”
Petals
May first, lily-of-the-valley day. Mother came back last night from a few days in Lyon. While she was unpacking, Father showed me the sprigs he brought from La Fourcade and hid in the tasting room. This morning Coralie and I, as soon as we open our eyes, run down in our nightgowns to find them and present a few to Grandmother and to Loli. We get kisses in return. Then we run up to our parents’ room and give Mother her little bouquet. “It smells wonderful,” she says, and kisses us too.
Back in our bedroom, Loli helps us get dressed before we join our parents again. Father is reading La Revue Nautique . Mother plaits my hair and Coralie’s, then helps herself to more coffee. When she pours milk into it, I run to the window and hide behind Father’s chair. I rather like the way coffee smells on its own (especially when it’s roasting and not yet soaked in water), but mixed with milk it’s mephitic.
Coralie is already tripping back towards our room but Mother, gulping her coffee, calls her. “Come here, let’s make you presentable.” Coralie, her feet wide apart, stops but doesn’t turn round; I alone, from my hiding place, can see her pouting lips and ferocious eyes. Mother pulls down the skirt of Coralie’s blue-and-white smocked dress. She also tries to straighten up the short puff sleeves, but she can’t get hold: they are too tight around Coralie’s plump arms. “Coralie has grown so much this year,” she says. “And she’s put on so much weight, there’s not a chance Tita’s dresses from last summer will fit her. I’ll have to get some fabric and make at least two new dresses for each of them. I found amazing patterns in Lyon, the kind nobody in Cugnac has ever heard of. Wait and see.”
Father looks up from his magazine. “Of course,” he says. “Poor Coralie, you can hardly breathe! But maybe you’ll choose another color this time? Isn’t there anything you like apart from blue?”
“I — don’t — like — blue,” Coralie articulates. “And I don’t like dresses. Can I have shorts and shirts instead?”
“Nonsense,” Mother says. “Do you want to go to school in shorts? To church, and to birthday parties?” She breathes in slowly, then out through her nose, and says, looking in Father’s direction but not at him, “What’s wrong with blue? It’s her color. It looks perfect with her eyes.”
Father smiles, and shrugs. “I know it’s silly, but blue always reminds me of Children of Mary. I find it a sad color. So, if Coralie doesn’t particularly...”
How can he imagine that Coralie’s tastes, or mine, have any influence on what we wear? “What’s a Child of Mary?” I ask.
Father shakes his head. “I don’t even know exactly, but there were lots of them when I was growing up. I think it started with a nun in the nineteenth century, who had seen some apparitions. The Children of Mary wear a miraculous medal on a blue ribbon. They also wear blue capes. Everything must be blue.”
“Medals are so gruesome,” I say. “Not to mention miraculous ones.” Actually, I despise all ornaments.
Father nods slowly. Coralie has settled in his lap and is drawing a horse on a discarded envelope. Father makes me laugh sometimes, the way he recoils from religion. It’s almost like me with cheese. No-good Children of Mary! But that reminds me of the Month
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