Читать книгу L'Amerique - Thierry Sagnier - Страница 11

Chapter 5

Maman was a painter. She’d dabbled in other media, had written and published a children’s book, and played both the piano and accordion. Jeanot harbored a small resentment when it came to the book, since it had been written specifically about and for his two sisters. He was waiting for his Maman to announce that there was another book written, one dealing with the adventures of Jeanot. He had been waiting a couple of years and come to the conclusion that writing a book might be very time consuming.

Maman’s paintings were drawn largely from old family photographs. She wanted to paint a dozen or so oils before she and Papa opened Créations St. Paul, the dressmaking shop made possible by a loan from Grand-père.

She painted colorful, confusing scenes: people in wedding clothes, surrounded by beaming armed Swiss guards. Jeanot had asked why guards were needed at weddings, and had gotten back a nonsensical, unsatisfactory answer that involved the Pope. Maman’s paintings reminded him of the contes de fées that Jeanot knew he should have outgrown years ago; there were flowers in full bloom and beautiful if slightly too-small horses who never pooped, pulling carriages of happy people. Everything Maman painted, in fact, was happy. There were never any old people, never anyone who was sick or injured. The soldiers never bled, or fought, which was jarring, though not really unpleasant. Maman told Jeanot that the style in which she painted was called neo-naif.

He had noted early that her people varied in height and sometimes were outsize standing next to their horses, or small when with their dogs. Jeanot concluded that in the Old Days most people were short and owned ponies and Great Danes. When he asked Maman about that at the dining table one night, she got mad, but his father laughed so hard red wine came out of his nose.

Painting was a family affair. When Maman decided to unfold her easel, Papa and Jeanot would drive to a dealer outside Amiens for the correct bois d’épicéa to build the canvas armatures. Then Papa would bring out the canvas stretchers, mallet, tacks and pliers he had bought at the flea market near Notre Dame. Maman shopped for new brushes, paints and old photographs. She always used the same palette and claimed it had once belonged to Auguste Renoir. The trash gatherer, she assured anyone who would listen, in Renoir’s Paris neighborhood had found it in the dustbin shortly after the painter’s death, sold it to a local antique dealer along with other items from the painter’s studio, and Maman had purchased it on a whim, spending that week’s food money.

Jeanot’s main responsibility was to stay out of the way, for in the week before Maman actually began painting, life in the apartment assumed a fevered pace. The easel was installed in a vacant maid’s room on the top floor, and a gypsy was hired to clamber across the roof and clean the skylight with soap and ammonia. When the man claimed to have hurt himself working at such heights, Maman called the concierge, Kharkov, who professed a deep hatred and distrust for all Romani. Kharkov and the cleaner argued in the courtyard, their voices echoing off the walls with increasing velocity. Jeanot watched with some interest as they traded insults, then slaps to the face that made cracking sounds. Eventually, the gypsy dropped his hands and left the courtyard with one last over-the-shoulder curse. Maman paid Kharkov a few Francs for the service. The Russian, his cheeks glowing bright red, considered the payment unnecessary and the day well begun. He liked, he said, hitting gypsies early in the morning.

When all was in place for her to begin painting, Maman brought from her bedroom armoire a tiny matador’s suit of light she had purchased years before in Spain. It fit Jeanot well after minor alterations, and the boy became her model for several canvases.

He liked the costume; the cape that swirled, the odd sideways hat held on by a chinstrap, the small brass-handled metal sword with a dull blade and a sharp tip. He tried parries and thrusts, parading in front of Trudy’s door. She was impressed, he could tell. She touched his shoulder, stroked the sequins enviously. She wanted to try the jacket on but he wouldn’t let her. These were men clothes that should never adorn a woman’s frail figure. Trudy pouted, cried, stomped her foot, and called for her mother who didn’t come. Then she tried bribery. She pulled up her skirt and showed him her panties. They were pink and very full and Jeanot wondered if Trudy still indeed wore diapers, as Babette claimed. He found that disquieting, turned his back and practiced his swordplay.

The suit of light, for all its elegance, was troublesome to put on and take off. The jacket alone was held in place with six small hooks that fit into eyelets sewn into the trousers’ waistband. Halfway through a graceful series of sword and cape maneuvers, Jeanot realized why Maman had asked him if he needed to go to the bathroom before strapping him into the pants and adjusting the belt and suspenders.

Now he needed. There were no adults in sight. Jeanot ran to the kitchen looking for Mathilde but she was buying that day’s food. Maman was in the upstairs studio; Papa was out. Jeanot held his breath, cinched in his bladder, knocked on Trudy’s door. No response. He pounded harder, feeling a small leakage run down his leg. The dampness along his thigh made things worse. He tried not to think about it, was inundated with visions of hoses, faucets, streams and waterfalls. He charged to the bathroom, inserted the sword into his pants and sawed up and down. Threads gave; the seams, basted but never sown, split; sequins exploded and fell into the toilet. Jeanot, bladder bursting, wiggled out of the pants, peed, and in a moment of utter thoughtlessness, balled up the gold trousers and shoved them into the toilet bowl. He reached his hand into the yellow water, pushed the sodden mass as far down as he could, then even farther with the point of the sword. He pulled the chain on the overhead tank. The water cascaded down, rose slightly as if uncertain, then edged its way to the lip of the bowl and overflowed. Jeanot flushed again, certain another rush of water would send the offending garment down the pipe and into the sewers. It didn’t and the floor was suddenly awash, sequins glinting like gold in a Yukon riverbed. He ran to his room, climbed into bed and pulled the cover over his head. He resolved to breathe deeply and evenly, as possible excuses caromed through his mind.

It took only five minutes for Mathilde, back from the market, to find him, whip the cover off the bed and, holding the ruined pants between index and thumb, march him up the stairs to the studio where Maman was sketching. His mother helped him into the sodden trousers of light, held them in place with safety pins and stood him on a stool. He remained there unmoving for an hour as she outlined the first sketches in charcoal.