An Owl's Whisper (3 page)

“Clarisse, behave!” pleaded Mirella’s chubby friend, Bébé.

Clarisse glared back and echoed a nasal whine. “Clarisse,
behave
!”

Mirella jumped up. “LaCroix, bet you haven’t been to Italy since
Il Duce
came to power. We’re the pride of Europe now!” She put her hands on her hips and thrust out her chin.

Clarisse pushed the candle’s flame toward Mirella and held her hairbrush like a club. “Right, Mirella, and I suppose you’ve made Ethiopia the pride of Africa, too?”

Eva stepped between the two girls, facing Clarisse. “You may choose to admire Mussolini or not. But when the Whispering Owl holds court, she won’t have one girl taunting another.” Eva said it matter-of-factly. “Do behave yourself, Clarisse. Or leave.”

Clarisse blew out the candle and shoved it back at Eva. “Talking owls. A convent of animal nuns. What a pile of
merde
!” She glanced around the circle of girls. No one met her gaze. Clarisse scowled. “Huh! Go ahead and waste your time. I’ve heard enough.” She stomped off to bed, crawled under the covers, and dramatically pulled a pillow over her head.

Françoise de Lescure leaned to relight the candle. So gangly she was known as Stork, Françoise shared a bond with Eva, one born of their mutual social invisibility. She glanced at Clarisse and whispered, “Careful, Eva. She’s used to running things here.”

Clarisse had been watching from under her pillow. She sat up in bed. “Bet you wouldn’t dare say that so I can hear it, de Lescure.” She shook her head in disgust. “Don’t know why anyone would listen to a dumb Stork.”

Eva faced Clarisse. “I, for one, love to hear her speak. Françoise’s tongue spins out poetry as nicely as
Monsieur
Kreisler’s violin bow does music.”

“Kreisler.” Clarisse crossed her arms and huffed. “Another kike!”

Eva’s face turned flinty. “At least he’s not in prison. For embezzlement. Like your mother.” Her eyes burned like a leopard’s. “I caught a glimpse of your file in the office one day. No wonder your mother doesn’t visit.”

Clarisse slid to the edge of her bed, but stopped there. Tears welled in her eyes. “Take it back,” she snarled. Then she said quietly, “She’s not in jail.”

“Then tell us why she never visits,” Eva taunted. “Thieux isn’t so far, is it?”

Clarisse glared. “You’re lying.”

“Sure Clarisse, I’m lying.” Confidence danced in Eva’s eyes. “There’s probably a perfectly good reason she doesn’t visit. Come on, tell us why.”

Clarisse turned her back to the circle of girls. She curled up into a ball on the bed facing away and said nothing more.

Eva smiled, victorious. She raised her candle and looked around. “Shall we proceed, girls?”

Bébé tugged on Eva’s sleeve. “I was wondering. About Mother Swan.” She bit her thumbnail. “Since she once had a beau and is so beautiful, maybe she’d still have admirers?”

“Bébé!
After
they become nuns, they can’t have boyfriends,” Camille said.

“They are people, Camille,” Eva said. “Who can say what goes on in the quiet of their hearts? Anyway, in fairy tales anything goes. So, a beau for Mother Swan? Hmm, let me see.” Eva tapped her index finger on her lips. “Ah-ha! Mother Swan’s boyfriend. There
was
a fellow who showed up one winter’s day, dressed to the nines and bearing gifts. He had fur white as swan feathers. His blue flannel suit, elegant as a prime minister’s, was decorated with a gold watch chain and a red rosebud boutonniere. He sported a scarlet bow tie and a collar starched stiff as communion wafer. He carried a leather swagger stick—he didn’t ride, but he liked the impression it made. In his sharp teeth he clutched a black and gold Russian cigarette and his eyes danced behind a
pince-nez
. His name was
Monsieur
Ermine.”

Bébé looked puzzled. “But an ermine is really just a pretty weasel!”

“A pretty weasel? That’s him, all right,” Eva said.

“Well, how could Mother Swan go for a weasel?”

“The gifts, the regal white fur, the red rosebud. I suppose she couldn’t see beyond them to the teeth.” Eva suddenly felt exhausted. “Girls, it’s late. Next time, I’ll tell you about Sister St. Bernard and Sister Tortoise. And if we have time you’ll hear how the students of St. François started the wren custom of morning song, a practice now delightfully spread the world over.”

As the others were shuffling off, Françoise took Eva’s arm. “How awful about Clarisse’s mother!” She looked at the floor. “You really shouldn’t go snooping in other girl’s files.”

Eva leaned over and whispered, “Between you and me, I didn’t.” She winked. “I made up the embezzlement story.” She poked Françoise’s ribs. “Look, no one ever sees her mother, and Clarisse becomes evasive when people ask why. Way I figure, she must be hiding something. You know, the truth can be more frightening than any fiction, Françie. No matter what fib I made up, I knew only the truth would counter it. I was betting Clarisse couldn’t bring herself to do that.”

Françoise stared in disbelief. “You lied?”

Eva shrugged. “Call it what you like. I wasn’t about to let her get away with what she said about you. I knew how to shut her up, and I did it. Lies that make good are good.”

“Lying is lying, Eva—” Françoise shook her head. “—even when you’re battling a bully.”

“Welcome to the Twentieth Century, dear Françie. People lie all the time. I just made one red-haired tyrant look soft as
soufflé
. You can’t deny that’s a good thing.”

“All I know is, lying is lying.”

The nuns had all seen Eva’s transformation and marveled at it in conversations among themselves. “Mother Catherine,” Sister Arnaude said, “you always said there was sparkle and glow inside that one, and now it shines forth like Christmas Eve candles. You were right.”

Mother shrugged. “I sensed she was something special. Now it’s there for all to see. What else can I say?”

She did say more to her confessor, Father Celion, Lefebvre’s parish priest and the chaplain at St. Sébastien. Only in the dark medium of confession could Mother voice the truth. “Father, I feel guilty of the sin of vanity and much worse in my thoughts, my musings.”

The priest’s brow rose. “Vanity and much worse? Say more.”

“Father, I refer to my musings about one of our girls.” Mother spoke slowly. Tentatively. “It’s not just me. Everyone’s charmed by her.” She said
charmed
as if it were sin in itself. “To the other girls—” She was silent for a moment, fighting the urge to say Eva’s name aloud. “—she’s become a sort of pied piper. You recall, Father, our little Danielle l’Hôpital? The one so homesick she’d run away five times?
Mademoiselle
Piper began telling bedtime fairy tales about a school where the students are small birds, and her stories have so soothed Dani that today she said, ‘Mother, I wouldn’t leave St. Sébastien for anything.’”

Father Celion pursed his lips. “But perhaps you should fret a pied piper. Remember the people of Hamlin who lost their children. Ask them about embracing pipers.”

“I only mean her allure has an air of magic to it. We’ve nothing to fear from my piper.”

“
Your
piper?” The priest cleared his throat. “I don’t doubt your judgment. I only advise caution as a matter of course. But we digress. It is your conscience we probe.”

“Excuse me, Father. As for me, while I see all the girls as daughters in Christ, I’ve come to see this one as—” Mother closed her eyes. “—As my own daughter. More. I always knew she was special.” Her voice became quick, excited. “But these days when I see her, I flatter myself that I am looking into a mirror. The vanity is staggering, Father. For my conceit is that the mirror is magical and this child is me, twenty-five years ago. Do I want her to have the life I chose for myself? No, for her I wish a secular life: Freedom, romance, marriage. I wish that, because through her I can—” Mother sobbed softly and for a moment was unable to go on. “—I can have those things, too. When I find myself wanting that, I feel I’ve broken my vows.”

Father tugged on his ear, a habit he’d picked up when he stopped smoking. “Let me see if I grasp this. You are happy in your vocation? Do you desire a secular life?”

She sighed. “For me, no. I want no other life.”

“But do you wish to experience a secular life vicariously?”

Mother closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “I don’t know what I want, Father.” Her voice was gray.

“Mother Catherine, I must say, you flabbergast me! You’ve always struck me as one so in control. One who sees everything so clearly. I never imagined you confused.”

“Father, when I was a girl, Papa used to take me to the opera. My favorite was
La Wally
. A hopelessly contrived story, but I identified with the little heroine Wally—free-spirited but vulnerable, just like me. Perhaps I entered the convent to rein in the former and vanquish the latter. And I thought I’d succeeded. But lately I’ve felt like a canoe left untethered at the riverbank. I love having
Mademoiselle
Piper at St. Sébastien, but life would be simpler if she’d never come.”

Another tug of the ear. “My child, you are not helping me know whether you wish the best for this child, for which you should be blessed, or you covet what your vows preclude, for which you need absolution.”

“That I cannot say, Father.”

A tug once more, and a sigh of exasperation. “Lacking the wisdom of Aquinas on this point, I am unable to cut such a fine distinction. I charge you to dwell not on this child’s future, but rather to exalt in your own service to Our Lord. Ask Our Lady to assist you in this by saying an
Ave
for each of your students and one for me. Now go and sin no more.”

Be the Stone

Mid-afternoon on April 23, 1940, baby-faced Nathalie toddled into Sister Eusebia’s geometry class with a note from Mother Catherine.

The nun put on her spectacles and read it. She removed the spectacles. “Eva, you are to go to the office immediately. It seems your uncle is here.”

Eva gathered her books and hurried out with the eyes of every classmate on her. She ran down the corridor, wondering what could bring her uncle to St. Sébastien on a Tuesday afternoon. He’d come to check on her regularly, monthly or so, since he’d placed her at the school in 1937, but always on weekends. Something was up.

At Mother Catherine’s door, Eva paused for a deep breath then knocked.

Mother opened the door. “Eva, your uncle’s come to see you.”

Henri strode to Eva with head tilted and hands outstretched. After kisses, he put an arm around her shoulder. “My dear, don’t you look fine to your old uncle! Gracious, I think you’ve grown two centimeters this month!” He laughed. “Mother, what
are
you feeding these girls?”

Mother closed the manila folder on her desk. “I was just showing your uncle how well you’re doing in school, Eva, and telling him how important you’ve become here at St. Sébastien.” She turned to Henri. “We
all
depend on this one,
Monsieur.”

Eva said nothing.

“That’s gratifying.” Henri picked up his bowler and umbrella. “Well, my dear, as I told Mother Catherine, I was in the area, and there
is
a matter we need to discuss—something Grandfather has planned. Let’s go for a ride on this lovely spring day. Get some fresh air. I’ll have you back by dinnertime.” Henri nodded to Mother and whisked Eva out the door.

They approached Henri’s big, tan Mercedes. The chauffer, Pruvot, stiff in his blue uniform, opened the car door for them. Eva whispered, “Is something wrong, uncle?”

Henri huffed impatiently and leaned toward her. “No, something’s not
wrong
. I have things to tell you, but not in front of the whole world. Is there a private spot nearby?”

“There’s a meadow next to the mill stream. It’s quiet. I sit there sometimes.”

“Fine. Tell Pruvot the way there.”

They got into the phaeton. Eva said to the driver, “Head toward Lefebvre, Pruvot. Turn left just after the rickety bridge.” The Mercedes eased away from the convent.

They turned onto the lane tracking the stream. Henri pointed with his swagger stick to a shady spot on the bank. “We’ll sit there, Pruvot. Bring the blanket from the boot.”

They walked the ten meters to the stream bank, and Pruvot spread the blanket. Henri told him, “Fine. Now wait with the car and keep a lookout. I don’t want to be disturbed.” He sat and patted the place next to himself, indicating Eva should join him. “Charming spot,” he said as he tossed a pebble into a pool near the shore.

Watching the circular ripples radiate on the water’s surface, Eva felt anxious.

With his stick, Henri flicked an imaginary speck from the blanket. “Mother Catherine chatters on about all you’re doing at the school.” He set the stick down, its tip touching Eva’s knee, and he picked a twig from the grass. “About how the other girls have come to look up to you.” He snapped the twig in two. “What are you thinking? I told you to shrink into the wallpaper, not be the damn chandelier.”