Sirocco Page 12

She immediately coiled her tongue back inside. “How d’you know about toads’ poison and sugar?”

  “I read it.”

  “Where? In Maman’s medical books?”

  “Nonnn ….”

  She squinted. “Where, Nanna?”

  “In a book.”

  “What book?”

  My eyes searched the yard. “I wonder where that toad went—”

  “Don’t change the subject. What book, Nanna?”

  “My wise woman’s book, IF you want to know.”

  “What? My tongue burns like hell because you believe that stupid book of yours?” She paused, one foot forward, hands on hips, head tilted up, tongue back in its natural habitat, wagging. “The same book where you got the brilliant idea to use a coin on Mireille’s forehead when she fell off the swing?”

  I nodded, sheepish.

  A spark that had nothing to do with the reflection of the white-hot sun above ignited her gorgeous hazel eyes. Her lips parted to display her perfect white teeth. And she laughed.

  She laughed with gusto, mouth wide open, raw tongue dripping clear threads of saliva onto the sizzling concrete at our feet.

  Water Shortage

  The sizzling went on all summer, until a serious draught compelled the city to cut off the water from six o’clock in the morning to six o’clock in the evening, when people did some washing up, dishes, light laundry, and stocked up on water to last them through the next day.

  Then there was no city water at all, and military cistern trucks had to dole out the precious liquid. Europeans and Arabs, young and old, queued like slow-moving trails of ants hoping to take a bite at a juicy scarab. They brought Jerry cans, pots, pans, buckets, earthen jugs, and who knows what else. Their containers filled, they carried them home with mincing steps—careful not to waste a drop.

  One August day, Maman dispatched Mireille, Zizou, and me to a spot she knew in the field across the road where water welled from an underground source. When we arrived with our pails, Arab girls were already lined up. The oldest ones—about my age, thirteen—carried metal or earthenware containers atop their heads. A few bore toddlers slung across their backs or straddling their hips, while slightly older children clung to their skirts. The little ones wore short tunics, once white. Flies collected around their eyes and runny noses. Most were barefoot. The empty-handed little boys had shaved heads; the little girls, carting small pots and jugs, wore braids entwined with colorful rags.

  I knew a few of the older girls by sight. They returned my nods as my sisters and I took our place at the end of the line.

  Water collecting was slow and tedious—a girls-only job. They scooped up water with a cup as it gurgled out of the ground and emptied it into their containers. The teenager whose turn it was to kneel at the edge of the hole beckoned us to come down the line and take her place. I smiled and shook my head. “Non, merci.”

  Zizou poked my back. “Vas-y. It’s hot here.”

  I frowned. “We can’t go.” I motioned at the girls ahead of us. “They were here before us.”

  “Well, they want us to go first.”

  “How would you like to wait a long time in this sun and have someone go ahead of you?”

  “Why do you think they want us to go first?” she challenged.

  Mireille offered, “Because we are French?”

  Zizou shook her head emphatically. “Non. That wouldn’t be right.”

  I thought aloud, “Maybe … because they come here often, they believe the spring belongs to them ….” I paused, trying to compose my thoughts.

  “Et …?” Zizou prodded.

  “And … They think we are their guests and guests always go first.”

  Mireille said, “I like that.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Zizou rolled her eyes and stepped back in line.

  The heat sucked every bead of moisture out of our pores. “Merde,” Zizou said. “I feel like I’m turning into a dry date.”

  Eyes half-closed against the glaring sun, I watched the girl bailing water and realized we didn’t have a cup. I squeezed Mireille’s shoulder. “Go home and get a cup to scoop the water.”

  Zizou and I arrived at the head of the line before Mireille returned. The girl ahead of us moved her filled clay urn to the side and shook her cup at me. “Tiens, use this.”

  I asked, “Aren’t you going home?”

  She shrugged. “I can wait.”

  I thanked her and passed the cup on to Zizou. She had started filling her pail when Mireille arrived with our cup.

  I returned the girl’s cup. “Merci beaucoup.”

  She tied the cup handle to her belt then bent down at the waist and, in a smooth, gracious motion, lifted her two-handled urn, balancing it on a folded cloth on top of her head.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  With the back of her hands, she whipped her braids over her shoulders. “Amira.”

  “It’s a pretty name.”

  “It means ‘princess,’ ” she said, and added with obvious pride, “It also means ‘prosperous.’ ” Then she walked away, her ankle-length skirt twirling around her legs. She glided on her bare feet, ankle bangles clinking, moving like a grown woman. Back erect, hips swaying. I watched her go, embarrassed by my flat chest and boyish hips.

  Zizou posed beside her full container, fists balled on her hips. “Are you going to fill your pail or not? I don’t want to turn into a dry date, you know.”

  Back home, we dumped our water into the oval zinc tub at the foot of the stairs.

  The water sloshed in and swirled, conjuring wistful visions of the water bouncing over rocks at La Rivière des Chiens.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mireille and the Tub

  La Rivière des Chiens: The Dogs’ River. That’s where Papa took the family for a day to cool off the following Sunday. When we returned from the river, Maman went up to the house to start dinner. The rest of us unloaded the Citroën. Papa checked the carburetor and oil level.

  While carrying the picnic things to the house, I glanced at my siblings. They had the rosy glow of turkey meat when you prick it and the pink fluid tells you the bird’s not yet cooked.

  Maman called from the kitchen, “Nanna, put the bathing suits and towels to soak in the tub, will you?”

  I stepped down to the bottom of the stairs—our faithful zinc tub’s quasi-permanent dwelling. It wasn’t there. “Zizou, d’you know where the tub is?”

  She marched down the stairs and searched the front and back yard, and the front yard again before yelling, “Anybody seen the tub?”

  Eerie silence.

  Done with his carburetor and oil level, Pa slammed the car’s hood shut. He wiped his hands on a rag and lit a cigarette. While returning the pack of Gauloises and matches to his breast pocket, he contemplated his gathered brood through exhaling smoke. “Where’s the tub?”

  The unanimous answer came in various pitches. “I don’t know,” which translated into, “Don’t even look at me. Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”

  Papa blew another coil of gray smoke. “Who used it last?”

  I glanced at Mireille. Four different pairs of lips harmonized, “Pas moi!”

  Papa zoomed in on she who hadn’t replied. “Mireille?”

  Her voice cracked. “Moi.”

  “Where is it?”

  She pointed to a spot in the front yard. “I left it over there.”

  We turned as one. “Over there” revealed nothing but patches of dry grass.

  Papa picked a tobacco fleck off the tip of his tongue. “What was it doing there?”

  Head down, Mireille whispered, “I was taking my doll for a ride, and Zizou called me to peel potatoes.” She bent her head. “I picked up my doll and left the tub there.” She pointed at the empty space again.

  “You better find it.” Papa spoke to Mireille but clearly addressed all of us.

  Convinced the thing had found a self-anointed new owner, we searched with make-believe zeal.
In desperation, smart-ass Riri explored the inside of the trashcan with a fervor that set off nervous giggles soon stifled when we realized the magnitude of the loss and pending retribution.

  The tub had been in our lives since I don’t know when and had always served whatever purpose was required—laundry, water tank, baby bathtub, even cradle. Once, before Pépé Honninger put a stop to it, it even served as a sleigh after a heavy snowfall one January day.

  Zizou and I had plunked a delighted two-year-old Riri in it and dragged him through the snowed-in yard. The tub, valiant soldier and reliable servant, suffered a few leaks, which put it out of commission until the Gypsy tinker showed up in the spring. He added a couple of solder beads to the ones already there. They looked like tears of silver—testimonials to this faithful old friend’s tormented saga.

  Now, it seemed the tub’s saga would go on in the service of strangers who’d have no idea of the sentimental loss they’d inflicted on us and of the immediate physical retribution Mireille was about to receive.

  To his persona of Inspector Vincent, Papa added that of judge, jury, and executioner—Mireille had been neglectful. The tub was no more. The die was cast.

  Pa shook his head as if powerless against the dictates of fate. He raised his hands to his belt buckle and moaned around the smoldering cigarette, “What am I going to do with these bastard kids?”

  Even though we all stepped back to widen the space between him and us, we were not too concerned. We knew the drill.

  First, he’d warn, “Don’t force me to take my belt off.” Meaning that once unbuckled, the belt had to come off and, in all fairness, he must wield it.

  Typically, when Papa’s hand erred toward his belt, one of us pleaded, “Non papa. Non.” His green eyes narrowed. The corner of his mouth pushed his cheek up a bit, then he’d nod. “Ah, bon. Behave yourselves, then. You hear? Because next time ….” He’d let his hands drift from his waist to his breast pocket in search of a cigarette and would leave.

  This time though, the belt came off.

  The strategic circle widened, exposing the sacrificial vestal. Mireille begged, “Non, Papa. Non.” But this time, the plea held no magic. It was “Maktoob.” Preordained, as we say in these parts.

  The belt struck.

  Mireille screeched, “Non, Papa!” The poor soul wore the little white dress with red polka dots she favored. The thin nylon did nothing to absorb the blows, and her skin, already glorious sunset-red, sent distress signals like a frantic mirror. As for us onlookers, the goose pimples raising the hair on our skins had more to do with sympathy pains than natural reaction to sunburn.

  We searched each other’s faces. Amazed. Thrashed? Mireille? Incroyable. Hadn’t Papa decreed that, because of her heart murmur, we must be tolerant and kind to her?

  Convinced she used her affliction to get away with things, we often teased, “Oh, la pauvre Mimi, she has a souffle au coeur.”

  I’d whimper, “I have a souffle au coeur, be kind to me.”

  Zizou clasped her hands upon her heart and say in sorrowful, accented Greta Garbo fashion, “Me toooo. Me toooo.”

  The boys mimed blowing into a balloon. “Souffle, souffle.”

  And Mimi cried.

  In time, the spontaneous spring of her tears won her the nickname of “Tsunami Mimi.”

  That day though, Mimi’s stricken look and real tears inspired true pangs of empathy. As always, though, Papa’s anger did not last. He threaded his belt back on, hiked his pants, and buckled up. He walked to the front gate and started up the road, saying to no one in particular, “Tell your mother I am going to La Guinguette.”

  For a while, the skin on Mireille’s limbs and back displayed stripes a hue darker than her sunburn. Riri smirked, “Hey, Mimi, if you wear your white dress with the red dots, then when these marks turn blue, you’ll be just like the French flag—bleu, blanc, rouge.”

  And Tsunami Mimi struck again. In time, Mireille’s bruises turned blue, green, yellow, and then faded away—but not so the memories of our lost tub, tied forever to countless chapters of our lives. Most pleasant, some sad, a few funny, like the episode of the jumping liver, seven years earlier.

  The Jumping Liver

  Summer, 1950

  That day, my six-year-old chest puffing up like the breast of the rooster in our poultry yard, I had helped Maman gather the dirty lunch dishes when lots of pipi ran down her legs. Grunting with the effort, she wiped the floor with a rag and called my pa, “It is time, Riri.”

  Papa and Pépé Honninger helped Ma down to the car. Then Pépé climbed back to the top of the stairs, where two-year-old Mireille, four-year-old Zizou and I stared anxiously at him. Pépé rolled his shoulders and his thin lips faked a smile. “Maman’s going to have the baby.”

  I pulled at his pants leg. “Did le bébé do pipi in Maman’s belly?”

  Pépé stared at me. His magnified eyes blinked behind the smeared lenses. “Hmm ….” He thought for a moment then licked his dry lips and bent down to pat my cheek. “Oui …. Oui, ma petite. That’s it. Le bébé did pipi.” He took Mireille and Zizou’s hand. “Let’s take a nap. Come, Nanna.”

  “Can I finish cleaning the table, Pépé?”

  He looked like he heard me but was thinking about something else. “All right, but after that, you’ll take your nap.”

  The kitchen was dark. Forbidden to climb onto the window ledge to push open the shutters, I rose on tiptoe and flicked the light switch. Compared to the brilliance of the outdoors, the ceiling light was cold and sad, and the dirty dishes, stained oilcloth, and smell of fried fish made me feel miserable and lost.

  I wanted to cry, but remembered Maman as she dried her legs, grunting as if she hurt. I contemplated the mess around me and, thinking Maman was going to be too tired to do the dishes when she came home with the baby, I pushed a chair up to the sink and climbed onto it.

  How does Maman do it? The dishrag hung on the lip of the sink. The plug stood on its side against the wall tile. Ah, oui. I plugged the sink. Slid off the chair and, one by one, carefully dropped the dirty plates, flatware, glasses, and frying pan pell-mell into the sink. Then I climbed back onto the chair, turned on the water tap. It sneezed and coughed and shook like a wet dog, reminding me that the city cut off running water during the day. I climbed down and went to the water-filled zinc tub that stood beside the stove. I dunked the bailing pan hooked onto its handle into the water and emptied it into the sink again and again until it was filled and the front of my pinafore was dripping wet.

  Once more, I climbed onto the chair. Great globules of fat floated to the water’s surface like monster-fish eyes that darted and grabbed my arms as I submerged the dishrag. I yelped and quickly withdrew my hands, pinching my lips in disgust. Water washed over the slanted drying board, sloshed over the sink lip, soaking the front of my dress and my bare feet beneath. It’s not like this when Maman washes dishes. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I sniveled, wiped a fly off my nose, smearing the stench of fish across my face. Maybe I’m stupid, like Papa says. Sobs bubbled up from inside my chest like hiccups when Pépé’s voice made me jump. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m washing the dishes, Pépé.”

  “Didn’t I tell you to take a nap?”

  “Yes, but I asked if I could clean the table first, Pépé, and you said yes.”

  He put his hands on his hips and nodded. “You’re right. Now, why are you crying?”

  I made a face. “I smell like fish.”

  He came to the sink and laughed. “Bien sûr, ma petite, you are using cold water and no soap.” He dragged the chair aside, with me still standing on it. “En plus, you are not supposed to put everything together in the sink at once. The least dirty go first.” He emptied the sink of dishes, pulled the plug, and set a pan of water to heat on the stove. Then he poured the hot water into the sink, explaining as he went. “And you add a little cold water.” He grabbed the soap from under the sink, “And soap. Now, tell me, which of
these dishes are the least dirty?”

  I studied the sheen coating the heap of dishes. They all looked dirty to me, but I had to choose. “The glasses?” I clapped my hands when he nodded. He sunk the glasses into the soapy water. “Then you wash the flatware, the plates, and finally, the frying pan.”

  When the washing was over, Pépé unfolded a clean dishtowel. I asked, “Can I help dry?”

  He stretched his neck to one side then the other. “Maybe tomorrow. Go, take a nap, now.”

  My dishwashing attempt must have impressed Pépé as, when I woke up, he asked, “Want to learn how to cook liver?”

  My chest filled again like the rooster’s breast when he fluffs up his shining green, red, and purple feathers. I had never felt that important before. Now, I believed I could do anything.

  I watched Pépé cut up the calf liver into pieces. While they soaked in milk, we gathered parsley and garlic from the garden and chopped them. “Now, be careful,” Pépé warned. “These knives are very sharp.”

  I nodded.

  * * *

  A few days before, the tinker man had stopped at the roadside by our house and set up his grinding wheels. When he rang his bell to announce he was ready for business, Maman brought down all her knives and scissors. While she waited, my sisters and I sat on the slope at the roadside and watched the wheel grind against the knives and create flying sparks. They dashed in all directions like the golden hair of angels in a windstorm. I wondered whether the sparks burned or caressed, but they didn’t seem to affect the tinker man either way.

  The pull of the fleeting sparks became irresistible. I got up from the grassy knoll and approached the spinning wheels. The grating racket of the blades connecting with the stone along with Maman’s stern warning stopped me near enough to the wheels to smell the hot metal and marvel at the sparks’ orange, blue, and gold flickers. Spellbound, I extended a cupped hand to catch the lively fireflies, but Maman grabbed my arm and pulled me back to the knoll. “Sit down here or go back to the house.”

  Embarrassed at being scolded in public, I stomped toward the house, heavy-hearted, wondering what I had done wrong. Now, I will never know if the sparks caress or burn.