Lisette's List (49 page)

“That night he was. I didn’t say anything because I thought it best to let sleeping goats lie. But now I say this. It would be wrong to consider him a bad man. It was Bernard who stood without a weapon other than words between those trigger-happy
maquisards
and the unarmed German soldiers retreating after the armistice.”

“I never guessed. Unarmed, you say? He had no pistol?”

“Oh, he has one. A hunting rifle too. Apparently he chose not to carry them. In that act, he was keeping the peace that was only hours old.”

“That puts him in a different light.”

“It’s time to leave the past behind us and let things heal themselves.”

“I’m not sure they will.”

“They will. Give Roussillon ten years, a plumbing system, and new stucco, and Germans will be coming here on holiday, and we’ll be glad about it because they will fill our coin purses.”

“But what about Maxime and me? He’s distraught.”

“Maxime is a smart man. He’ll work it out. He knows what he has in you, and that none of it was your doing. The spectacle tonight will help. Prepare a good dinner, and he will get over it. Men are made that way.” He patted his paunch. “Satisfy the belly, and the heart will follow. Nothing to worry about.”

“What about the constable tonight?”

“He’ll be busy making his rounds, making sure the fires in the countryside are tended and won’t get out of hand.”

Just as Maurice was edging toward the door, Maxime came in. Maurice gave him a manly slap on the back and went out. As he was closing the door, he poked his head back in. “She loves the cushions.”

“What was he doing here?”

I pointed to the pail.

We stood caught in a tangle of emotions like a ball of fishhooks, not saying a word, wishing the other one would speak of what mattered first. The longer we were silent, the harder it would be to bring it up.

“The last thing I want is to cause you anguish,” I said.

“It’s not your fault.” He sat down at the table and wrapped his hands around the pitcher of roses. “It’s not anybody’s fault. Maybe he was just an opportunist, not a downright traitor.”

Hearing that, I felt a shred of relief.

“He thought that supporting the Occupation might save Roussillon,” I explained. “
Résistance
activity in two villages nearby brought on brutal reprisals, and Maurice and other
résistants
were working here as well. He thought if the Germans knew that the constable of Roussillon was a collaborator, it might prevent our village from suffering a similar fate.” Saying any more than that would cast me as Bernard’s supporter.

Maxime considered that for some minutes and then said, “My mother remarked more than once that there were many degrees of collaboration. I wouldn’t dream of condemning her for working for the Opéra or the couturier.”

“Nor would I.”

Hoping to put an end to the issue, I asked him if he was hungry. “I started some ratatouille this afternoon. There were some beautiful eggplants at the Thursday market.”

He nodded and seemed willing to change the subject.

“I bought a
pain fougasse
for you,” I said, holding up a flatbread slashed with openings to look like an ear of wheat. “See? It’s a traditional Provençal bread with olives.” Laying it on the table, I was glad I had something to do right then to prepare the meal.

When I sat down opposite Maxime with only the veil of steam from the Camargue red rice between us, he said, “I didn’t come back just because I was hungry, I’ll have you know.” A mere glimmer of a smile passed quickly. “Actually, that’s not quite true. I was hungry to be with you.”

“I hated it that I upset you.”

“You did right by telling me. Think what you would feel like if you had to keep that secret forever. It would eat away at you, and the longer you didn’t tell me, the harder it would be to bring it up. I understand that only too well.”

“What about the letter?”

“If you had not shown it to me, I would have questioned his motive in taking you to the painting. It makes him not a bad man.”

“You won’t see him tonight. Maurice said he has duties in the countryside, monitoring the bonfires.”

A
S WE HEADED UPHILL
after dinner, I touched my hand to the back of Maxime’s. He grasped it instantly, giving me the reassurance I needed. Villagers were already gathering at the bonfire on the plateau. Soon, a violinist, a horn player, and a piper began the music of the farandole, and all the villagers held hands and danced around the roaring blaze in jubilation, turning the Castrum—once the camp of Roman soldiers bent on killing—into a dance floor.

Théo ran toward me, and I reached out for his hand. The leader of the dancers broke open the circle, and the string of dancers, including the three of us, like a family, followed him in a sinuous line around the perimeter of the Castrum, down the hill past the church and the bell tower, then looped back on itself to reach the Castrum again, where the line split into groups.

Maxime kept hold of one of my hands and Théo the other as we walked to the railing at the edge of the plateau. Théo tried to count the bonfires, then skipped away to his papa. Some fires were directly below the cliff. Others were scattered in the valley. Somewhere down there, Bernard was going from one to another to make sure they were well tended, faithful as always to the commune of Roussillon. I imagined him looking up at our big fire, maybe even trying to identify the silhouettes passing in front of the flames when we danced.

To the west, we could see a light spot in the sky where Gordes had its fire, and a paler light up the mountain to the northeast at Saint-Saturnin-lès-Apt, both villages in need of healing from their losses. Shepherds in front of their bories in the higher elevations had their dim little beacons, signaling to us that they were there to be counted among the populace of Provence. I hoped their solitude was rich with thoughts of peace.

“It feels like a sort of communion,” I said. “All those people gathering to commemorate John the Baptist heralding the coming of Christ with his message of grace and forgiveness for all mankind.”

Maxime put his arm around me. “What we’re seeing is the world in miniature. Vast darkness and spots of light where people gather. Some lights burn brightly and steadily. Others only glimmer. Some appear to go out completely, but the people are still there. And soon they will kindle new flames. That’s history.”

“And life.”

After a few moments he added, “The thing to do is to stay close to the light. That’s where love is.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

MY LIST

1948

I
N THE MORNING BEFORE
M
AXIME CAME DOWNSTAIRS
, I
TOOK
out my List of Hungers and Vows and read it over. It seemed an important day to take stock. If André were miraculously given to me again, I would hope that in telling him how I had lived, I would not be ashamed.

1. Love Pascal as a father.

I do
, I wrote below it.

2. Go to Paris, find Cezanne’s
Card Players
.

Done
, I wrote.

3. Do something good for a painter.

Done
.

4. Learn what makes a painting great.

Learning slowly. More to learn
.

In addition to considering what makes a painting great, I wondered, shouldn’t I also be considering what makes a life great?

5. Make a blue dress, the blue of the Mediterranean Sea on a summer day with no clouds.

Héloïse’s gift has taken care of that
.

6. Learn how to live alone.

Always learning. But maybe now was the time to learn how to live together
.

7. Find André’s grave and the spot where he died.

Crossed off
.

Markers on a strip of earth pale in comparison to the marks left on each other’s souls.

8. Forgive André.

No need. He was right to have gone to war
.

And forgive Bernard?

Working on it
.

I would know when complete forgiveness had come by the peace it would bring. But what about forgiving God for not preventing André’s death? Who was I to forgive God? What did I know of His intention for me, or for all of us? Commenting about Marc’s painting of the beggar in the sky, Bella had said that the messenger bringing good news was held aloft by a spiritual force despite gravity or any downward pull. By contemplating Bella’s thought, I could glimpse the idea that despite pain, despite cruelty, despite loss, the notion of having to forgive God would someday dissolve.

9. Learn how to live in a painting.

Done. Move on. Learn to live in life
.

10. Try not to be envious.

Of whom? No one. Not even Bella and Marc
.

11. Find the paintings in MY lifetime.

Done, enough to satisfy me
.

12. Learn how to be self-sufficient.

Always learning
.

Self-sufficiency doesn’t only have to do with living alone and providing for oneself. It’s finding in oneself the qualities that make a person unique, and being content with them.

13. Do something good for Maxime.

I have, and will
.

Loving is a blessed thing. It blesses the giver as bountifully as the receiver.

14. Earn my way to Paris.

Done
.

I was pleased by my responses, which, I supposed, meant that I was pleased with my life, and I thought André would be too. But I certainly had more life to live, so there was always room for more items. I immediately added a line:

15. Bathe in the Mediterranean Sea.

Oh, wouldn’t that be a thrill? I sat at the table thinking of what else to add, while loving the way the light of Roussillon slanted in through the south windows. New thoughts were born in that light, and I added to my list:

16. Do something good for Roussillon.

17. Love more. Love again. Love broadly. Love without reservation.

Maxime came downstairs carrying a three-kilo bag of sugar and thudded it onto the sink counter.

“What do you need all this for?”

“For marzipan. To give to my guests at the
veillée
this evening. To celebrate the return of the paintings.”

He turned in a circle to look at them. “There’s one missing!” he said in alarm.

“I know. Pissarro’s red roofs.” I felt a pang, knowing I would never see it again. “I’m content. Bernard had to sacrifice it to his German interrogators.”

The blitheness of my response seemed to satisfy Max.

“You can help me with this.” I got up and reached under the sink and drew out a pail of almonds I had harvested in November. “Let’s shell them outside.”

It was a beautiful summer morning. A pair of doves on the fence rail were cooing their harmonious lay; the passionflower vine was in its full, complicated bloom; and the branches of the almond tree were laden with a new crop of pale green velvet pods. To me, they represented continuity. Using the perfect flat rock and André’s mallet, we progressed quickly with the shelling at the work table in the lean-to. I struck the almonds open against the rock, and Maxime peeled off the shells. I brought out another pail from the root cellar. “Save the shells in this. I use them as kindling in the stove.”

I told him I wanted to give one of each kind of marzipan to Héloïse and Sister Marie Pierre and Monsieur Laforgue.

“And you want me to deliver them, I suppose?”

“No,” I chirped and gave him a teasing look. “I will.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Truly?”

“Yes. Truly,” I said with intentional lightheartedness, as though I had said something of no consequence, and proceeded to go over the guest list for the
veillée
.

“Maurice and Louise, of course. Odette and René Gulini, the baker. We bought a brioche at their bakery. Remember her?”

“No, I can’t say that I do.”

“Maxime! These people are important to me. They’re not just provincials with no names. René said he would make two
francesco
loaves, his Italian version of round fruit breads, one with apples,
the other with pears. I asked him to use these fruits because of the still life, instead of the apricots and strawberries he usually uses. Both of them will be sprinkled with chopped almonds. My almonds. Their son, Michel, and his wife, Sandrine, who works at the post office, will come, and their little boy, Théo, who held my hand in the serpentine last night. He’s the one who found the Picasso in the dump.”

“Then we must honor him especially.”

“I will. I already know of a way. Émile Vernet, the vineyardist; his wife, Mélanie; and their daughter, Mimi. We will drink their rosé this evening. He has already given me the residue from a wine cask to use as cream of tartar in the marzipan. Monsieur and Madame Bonnelly. Remember the vineyard we stopped at? She gave us pears. Aimé Bonhomme and his wife and son. He’s the mayor and was a
Résistance
leader. Monsieur Voisin, who had to adjust to having women in his café at
apéritif
hour. Jérôme Cachin, the grocer. Henri Mitan, the smithy, who struggled so mightily to explain the workings of the gasogene conversion, and his patient wife. Father Marc. And Claude, the farmer who loved the Cézanne landscape and kept it safe in his little borie. I tacked an invitation to the door of his borie shed. It took me hours to find it again.”