Parrot and Olivier in America (39 page)

Miss Godefroy had led me to the tamped yellow path along the river. "Tell me where you live," she asked. The path was so narrow we must be careful not to bump each other and we were as careful and careless as you might expect. "I have never been to France. I cannot imagine what it must be like."

"We live very much in the past, I fear." I spoke not
quite
sincerely, for I affected to mock my country, a bad habit for a French commissioner, but one learned on the job. And yet I spoke truly for we French had not yet cleared a way forward from the past. We were stuck in the slough between what had been and what might be possible, and whatever avenue we sought was mired with mud and blood and the horrors of misrule. We fiddled here. We fiddled there. And all the while the great lava flow of democracy came inexorably toward us.

"I was thinking last night of your fields," she said softly, "and how they have surely been farmed for centuries, so there must be--am I right?--a certain softness to the contours, even the hedges and ditches."

When last night had she thought this? Lying in her bed? My ditches?

We pushed on along the river, heedless of where we might arrive. Yes, I thought, she imagines our fields very well. "Your town meeting rather shook me to my bones," I said. "I am still reverberating."

I thought, I should not have said reverberating. I might as well say I dreamed about her all night long.

I felt myself blushing, which of course only made it worse. "What exactly are we discussing, Miss Godefroy?"

"Democracy in America," she said. "You were interrogating me."

"Very well." I smiled. "Does the government never subdue your town? Do they not think this association dangerous?"

"There is always danger everywhere." She smiled.

I said, "But your town meeting is an old practice? You have never clashed with the central government?"

"Our fathers founded the town before the state. There were Wethersfield town meetings before there was a United States."

"Then I have a question. It may be impertinent."

"Oh please
do
be impertinent." She laid a hand again upon my arm. "No one is ever impertinent in Wethersfield."

"Was it a town meeting that tried and convicted your witches?" This was what Blacqueville would have called a
blurter
. I said it only because it had been much on my mind. "I am sorry. I have been ill-mannered."

"On the contrary," she said kindly. "I have been too light and frivolous. Those women were murdered by a theocracy. There was no democracy involved. It was a terror, but not an American terror."

If she had been briefly cool, then she was cool no longer. Her eyes were bright and liquid. I thought, Good heavens, here she is.

She said, "Who could not be moved by the fate of your dear grandfather?"

Not for the first time was I taken aback by the lucky boldness with which these American girls could steer their thoughts through the reefs of lively conversation.

"Of course," she said, "we are not grand or cultivated. We must seem very provincial to you."

I thought, What does she feel?

"A little provincialism is very much to be desired," I said, then saw her blush. "In France," I insisted, "we have suffered from centralism: the Revolution, Bonaparte, you see."

"You will have what you desire," she said, and abruptly turned. Good God what did she mean? I watched her slender back as she led me along the river. Beside us a cormorant, blue sky mirrored in its glistening back. Here: a fir tree. She ducked low, and I followed into a dark and spiky little wood, my heart racing very hard. We emerged in a considerable field, its extent being some thirty acres, curtained by forest, no human being in sight. I held out my hand to her and she took it quite definitely and together we walked toward the center of the field. I was on the other side of the earth, invisible to that fierce eye.

I thought, Might I live here? In this town?

"But what of envy?" I asked her. "If the majority is to rule, what of its desire to level?"

She listened, but only to that part of a conversation that cannot be detected by the ear, and she heard me very well indeed and when I opened my arms she came slowly to me, her chin lifted, her eyes narrowed. Her lip.

Who would not envy me? I thought. Dear Lord, I thought, as I breathed the mad warm air directly from her nose.

Parrot

I

THE DARK HORSE was lurking on the stairs. Good Jesus, did servant ever suffer such surprise? I pretended not to see him but I don't know why I bothered. He had no shame.

Bonjour
, called he as he retired.

Bon
-bloody-
jour
indeed. It was not long past dawn and his stockings were wet up to the knees.

"Bonjour,"
said I and returned to my plain white room and sat upon the bed.

He with his dachshund eyes, I thought. A stallion after all.

I would have happily waited for his orders and it was only the fear of missing breakfast that drew me eventually down the stairs, and then--in the library--blow me down if it was not the sneaky French commissioner, and sitting
in my place
was the lovely Miss Godefroy, her white muslin alive with sun, ready with her quill to take dictation or, should I say, my job.

I laughed. I smiled, but I knew not what I thought: You dog, for one part. But also: She should be careful with that ink.

I asked my employer would he be needing me this morning.

"No," he said.

"What shall I do?"

He raised his brows in such a way as to make Miss Godefroy laugh. Why would I let myself be offended? It was a lovely day and the pale blue sky was feathery and pretty as a mother's china. My time was all my own so I set off for Wethersfield, but I had not walked two miles when my other master--that is, my stomach--issued loud orders to return.

At the midday meal I once more inquired would his lordship be needing me. He answered no.

In the afternoon I observed him return to the library in the company of Miss Godefroy. This time her father sat attendance. Had negotiations begun already? Who can imagine what was said?

At the evening meal, I asked would sir need me on the morrow.

But tomorrow was the Sabbath. Christ, it turned out to be an awful thing. The lady of the house had been, until this morning, distinguished by her relentless busyness, but now all that was extinguished and when she sat at table I had a chance to see her, in the flesh, as the saying is. Even in the unforgiving light which streamed through the eastern windows, it was clear that Mrs. Godefroy had once been a raving beauty. But something had frightened or disappointed her, or perhaps the rigors of being a God-botherer had turned her bottom into stone.

His lordship, on the other hand, was very perky and I observed how adoringly Miss Godefroy looked at him. She had snagged an aristocrat, and she was pleased about it. He was talking on and on, as always, leaning forward, cocking his head, mispronouncing every English word he knew. Miss Godefroy thought him perfect. Did the Indians have a religion, he wished to know, or was it what they would call a cult?

The mother then replied. "I am afraid the French commissioner will find us heavy and stupid."

"On the contrary, madame." He smiled, showing off his noble manners.

"This is our day of rest," said Mrs. Godefroy bluntly. "A very different day, I am certain, from what you have in your own country."

She meant he was a Mick and she would burn him if she could.

"I shall do very well, madame," my master answered, smiling at each and every one of us in turn. "I like work better than Sunday amusements."

At this I found it necessary to kick his shin.

"Just so," said he, understanding me perfectly, biting his lip in the most thoughtful manner. "Everybody to church."

"Some go to church, but most to chapel. I am not quite sure Wethersfield has anything in the French style," said Mrs. Godefroy.

Miss Godefroy was blushing, furious, staring at her plate.

"I am a Christian." His lordship smiled, applying a Catholic amount of butter to his Protestant bread. "I can join all Christians, no matter of what denomination, as brethren in their devotions."

"Indeed," said Mrs. Godefroy. "Then I would say your doctrine is rather broad."

The family, quite clearly, had scuffled at these crossroads more than once before and now Miss Godefroy, very bright of face, addressed her mother. "Of course you will worship at Mr. Farrar's?"

"And you will come with us?" the mother asked.

I understood nothing except there were preachers named Poole and Farrar and they were on opposing teams.

"I will go to hear Mr. Poole," the daughter said. "And if the gentleman," she added, with a slight bow across the table to Olivier de Garmont who sat showing his clean teeth to one and all, "will keep me company, I shall be most happy to show him the way."

"Mr. Poole is a worthy divine. I have said so before."

"Oh dear," said Mr. Godefroy, looking from wife to daughter as a mood descended on him like a Dartmoor mist.

"Yes dear Mr. Godefroy," said his wife. "Mr. Poole is a grander man in the pulpit than Mr. Farrar. But alas he is almost Unitarian."

"That is, a reasoning being," said Mr. Godefroy, smiling.

I did not get the joke, but I was chuckling sociably when Mrs. Godefroy swooped on me, "And you, Mr. Larrit, where to?"

"With my apologies," said I. "An atheist."

The French commissioner frowned at me. Miss Godefroy bowed her head but I could see the edge of her bright eyes as they looked up from under her brow. Perhaps she was amused but her mother seemed likely to never look my way again. I was upset to have been rude to the lady of the house, although she could not damage me as severely as my employer who would not tell me what my future held.

After breakfast I stood alone on the great porch and observed streams of worshippers move across the landscape to their different destinations like ants before a deluge. Two hours later I saw them all return. Then it was the dinner hour. Then afternoon service. Then teatime. Then evening service. Then supper. Then Mr. Godefroy read a Bible chapter, Lord knows which one.

So what was my future?

Not a word.

That night was cold and the blanket thin. When it was finally Monday I went eagerly to my desk, only to find it already occupied by Miss Godefroy.

"Good morning, Mr. Larrit," cried she.

"Am I required?" I asked my employer.

"No," said he.

I inquired was there anything else he wished to tell me. He said that there was not. Goddamn them. I needed paid employment.

I returned to my room, reflecting on the general thoughtlessness of aristocrats. They never imagine a man has a life of his own. When they are done with him, then it is over, and when they want him, then he must come back again. So it had been with the Marquis de Tilbot who had walked into the architect's office like he had been away twelve minutes not as many years. "Come up-country," he said. "You are a clever chap; it will make your name."

Well, who does not want to have a name? "But I have a family," I said.

"And you will return to them with money in your pocket, royal ribbons on your coat."

And what did I know of him that would make me trust his word? Nothing. He could eat a trout alive. He was a spy. For a frightened boy to believe him was one thing, but what about a man?

Eight months later, having suffered dysentery, tropical ulcers, and a continual anxiety about my wife and child, having bashed my way through the worst of Queensland and New Guinea, I arrived in what was then Porte de Bergamote where I fully trusted I would get a berth on a Sydney clipper, but there had never been a ship for Sydney in Porte de Bergamote, not then or ever, and Monsieur was loudly astonished that I would imagine there ever could be at a time of war.

But
voila
! We could both get a berth to Marseille.

"As you know," he said, "your engravings were commissioned by the Empress Josephine, and she insists you call on her at home."

As a result of this and other lies, I began to have foolish ideas about what would happen to me in France. I wrote to my dear wife. I have no copy of my letter but fear it was filled with too much empress and insufficient heart. In any case this stupid act had her take the boy to Melbourne with that famous liar, Ted Spence.

The composition of that two-page letter was the most stupid thing I ever did, and all my life, as now at Wethersfield, this memory made me grimace and cry out.

I went downstairs again and demanded, "Are you dismissing me?"

He was in the library reciting opinions, his head back, his eyes half closed.

"No, no," Miss Godefroy said. I did not think this was her business. She was not married to him yet.

"I have an important job for you," said his lordship, still reclining.

"What is it?"

"I will tell you later," said he, and I thought, He has no more clue than a blind pig. He will send me
up-country
perhaps, and what of my own life, and my own happiness?

I walked into Wethersfield that afternoon wishing only to get the burn of arrack in my throat. The town was dry, I was told three times, and just as I was getting in a mighty rage about Jesus Christ and all his ministers, I entered a likely doorway and found a landlord mixing sherry cobblers. Blow the man down.

After I had tried a cobbler, he made me what they call a
cocktail
after which my natural temper came hurtling back. The landlord then begged I try his
pick-me-up
. Having obliged him, I was ready to ask him the role of religion in a town where they burned people who did not know their catechism.

To this he responded with a doleful kind of hymn, sung in a deep bass voice--
Damnation! Oh, damnation
--and this provoked a croaking laugh from an individual who now began drowsily rocking herself in a dark corner.

"Not salvation," said she who may have been his wife. "Damnation, damnation," and off they set, the pair of them like Christmas carolers.