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.
Chapter 6
Babette Bonjean was two years older and two inches taller than Jeanot, and infinitely wise. In a matter of minutes she pushed Trudy out of his heart and mind.
Dr. Bonjean was a dentist from a well-off family. Mathilde was adamant that Dr. Bonjean had made good money drilling out the cavities of occupying German officers, but both Papa and Maman liked him. He was a genial man who had lost two brothers in the war and donated heavily to the Jewish orphan and widow relief programs. He had bought one of Maman’s paintings and always came bearing large picnic baskets full of butter, cheese, ham, wine, fresh fruit and still-warm breads. Jeanot liked him because he brought Babette.
Babette was worldly. She read aloud from adult books although Jeanot suspected she only pretended to read and just told made-up stories. He noticed she sometimes turned the pages quickly, sometimes lingered. Occasionally, she looked at him while reading. She also told him she read newspapers daily: France-Soir, which Jeanot liked because of the comic strips, and Le Monde, a daunting daily with no pictures at all. Jeanot thought she was lying about the newspapers, but it didn’t matter. She was the most fascinating creature in his world, and to his delight, she was fond of raising her skirt, pulling down her panties, and explaining to him the basic differences between a boy and a girl.
“Tu vois?” She pointed to the small slit five inches beneath her belly button. “C’est par là que je fais pipi…” She undid the three buttons holding his pants up, lowered them and his underwear, took his penis between thumb and forefinger. “Toi, c’est avec ca.”
He knew instantly this could be trouble. He glanced at the door. The parents were finishing dinner two rooms away; Dr. Bonjean’s sonorous laugh echoed down the hall, and Maman’s snorty giggles followed it. Mathilde was in the kitchen aligning wedges of cheese on a flat wooden board and helping herself to slices of Saint Paulin from Brittany, as she usually did. Babette squeezed his penis. Jeanot yelped. She said, “Quoi? Does it hurt? Hubert really likes it when I do this.” Hubert was Babette’s twelve-year-old cousin who was away at boarding school in the Pyrenées. “He likes it a lot!” She curled her hand around him, squeezed rhythmically. Jeanot felt a hint of pleasure rise, hidden among the panic.
Maman liked to check on him every twenty-or-so minutes when she entertained. She could be at the door any moment. He peered at Babette who was now concentrating on squeezing and moving her hand back and forth. She was looking down at her work, biting her lower lip. Jeanot sensed imminent disaster but couldn’t pull away. Then Babette stopped, shook her head. “You’re not old enough. T’es trops petit… Hubert is much bigger and more fun to be with.” She wiped her hands on her skirt, took her panties off and threw them on the bed. Then she raised her skirt to her hips, lay back on the floor. She opened her legs. “Touches-moi.” She took his right hand, placed it over her juncture, pushed his small middle finger down. “Comme ça. Doucement…” Jeanot held his breath, listened for footsteps. She slapped his arm. “Concentre toi!” So he did, moving his finger here and there. Babette’s hand relaxed on his. She smiled slightly, opened her mouth, licked her lips. After an eternity she sat up, pushed him away. “Assez.”
Jeanot removed his finger, disappointment and relief sharing space. She retrieved her panties, he buttoned his pants. A minute later, Maman cracked open the door. Jeanot and Babette were sprawled on the floor looking at an illustrated fairytale book. Maman smiled, closed the door. Jeanot exhaled like a cannon shot.
Chapter 7
A month later, Jeanot prepared for his birthday party aware something was afoot. He first became suspicious when Maman came up with an American theme for the party. Jeanot was as fascinated with les États Unis as any ten-year-old French boy might have been; he believed cowboys and Indians were in constant battle and that all Negroes played the banjo, an instrument for which Jeanot discovered he had an odd liking. His Maman laughed, but maybe it was true. Maybe they were like gypsies who all played guitars, or Africans with their jungle drums. For all Jeanot knew, the streets of America were peopled with banjo-plucking Negroes.
He’d read that one state, Texas, was the size of France. His mother had doubts, but Jeanot was adamant. “There are three cities there that are each bigger than Paris!” That, in itself, was amazing. He’d thought Paris was the biggest city in the world. “And,” he added, “There’s even a Paris in Texas. I don’t think they speak French there, though, or at least not French like us.”
There would be flags, costumes, American foods and music at the party. Maman would show a Disney film—an amateur cinematographer friend of hers had several—and she assured Jeanot this would be an event remembered by all.
Jeanot paid little attention. He had found his life’s calling in the latest Tintin magazine. Like Albert Schweitzer, Jeanot was going to go to Africa to cure the leopards. The illness sounded dreadful and it was not fair that the sick leopards weren’t allowed to mix with others of their kinds. There was a picture in the magazine of Schweitzer wearing an explorer hat and looking both kindly and sad, with skinny natives surrounding him; hired help, Jeanot figured, to catch the leopards. The sky was cloudless, it looked warm, and the black people were obviously friendly if very, very thin. Maybe working with leopards had its difficulties.
Jeanot had met a few black people in Paris. They were always pleasant with their strange accents and startling white eyes, and they looked nothing like the ones in the photo with Dr. Schweitzer. Obviously coming to France from Africa was a beneficial experience—maybe it was the weather, Jeanot thought, or the air in Africa was somehow different. Certainly, the air in Benodet near the sea had little in common with the sooty-smelling stuff in Paris, and Jeanot noticed that whenever he left town for a day or two, the bothersome scratch at the back of his throat vanished. Maybe the air in
