maid, Jeanine, who got married last spring, was often in a bad mood; she yelled at Coralie, and quarrelled with Justine.
As soon as we come through the garden door, I feel queasy. Veal blanquette. The smell of the sauce, creamy, vealy, makes me want to run away. Instead, I wash my hands and enter the dining room, where my parents are kissing against the central-heating radiator. The radiator is cold and if they wanted heat, which they probably don’t on this warm day, they could stand in the sun at the other end of the room, near the windows. But they always hold each other and kiss in front of the radiator. It’s a large radiator, as tall as Mother’s shoulders. Its top part is a cabinet that’s supposed to hold plates and dishes to keep them warm but it’s now full of old newspapers for the stove. For we also have a small wood stove, which is needed when it gets really cold. Eléonore’s grandmother told me that our house was the first one in town to get central heating, which is why our ancient radiators don’t produce much warmth. Mother says it’s also because the house is too big and too drafty.
“Where’s Coralie?” Mother asks. But I can hear Grandmother in the next room urging my sister to dry her hands more thoroughly.
After the asparagus, which I don’t mind, Loli brings the main dish and sets it in the middle of the table. When mother takes the lid off, I stop breathing. She lays two pieces of veal on my plate. “It’s very lean,” she says.
I examine the stringy fibers, the gelatinous texture. “Please, no sauce,” I whisper. I’ll eat the rice, at least the side of it that hasn’t touched the meat or the sauce.
“Just a little meat,” Mother says, cutting it up for me. “You know how important it is to eat meat. If you don’t, you’ll catch another ear infection. Or throat infection. You don’t want to be ill and miss school again, do you?”
Luckily she forgets about me as she starts telling Father about the wonderful crocodile handbag André gave Cami for her birthday. This is hardly news: Cami turned thirty-one more than a month ago, and I thought her friends were done with the oohs and aahs by now. Not to mention the fact that Father has never shown any interest in handbags. “André got it in Montpellier,” Mother goes on, “at Maxence & Fils, avenue de Pézenas. That’s where Estelle got her beautiful suitcase too.”
This must be the beginning of a campaign. Mother’s birthday is April twenty-sixth, in hardly more than a week, and she wants her own crocodile. But I don’t think her approach is going to work. Father has been different for a while. Preoccupied. Everybody says that our local wines don’t sell as well as they used to. Eléonore’s parents are even talking about bottling theirs instead of dealing wholesale. It’s the sensible thing to do, they say. They wouldn’t need their two tank trucks, then. Father has three. Sometimes, for short errands, I’m allowed to sit next to one of the drivers, high above the netherworld of the streets. But when I happen to see one of these trucks in town, I cringe at my name out there on the back and sides of the tanks, green on yellow, bold and huge.
“Maxence & Fils, avenue de Pézenas, just after the Crédit Lyonnais,” Mother repeats.
Heedless of crocodiles, Father slowly savours a new wine and considers. For him, Mother is babbling; he has no idea what’s at stake. Every lunchtime, he brings three or four small bottles to the table. All morning, in the tasting room, he’s been sampling a dozen or two that various brokers came to submit, each with a handwritten label (grower’s name, broker’s name, date). Here are the ones he’s interested in — he’s written his opinion of them on index cards. Before buying a wine, he likes to taste it with food.
Coralie’s plate is empty. She points towards mine — I’ve dealt with the rice but haven’t grappled the veal at all. I nod,
As soon as we come through the garden door, I feel queasy. Veal blanquette. The smell of the sauce, creamy, vealy, makes me want to run away. Instead, I wash my hands and enter the dining room, where my parents are kissing against the central-heating radiator. The radiator is cold and if they wanted heat, which they probably don’t on this warm day, they could stand in the sun at the other end of the room, near the windows. But they always hold each other and kiss in front of the radiator. It’s a large radiator, as tall as Mother’s shoulders. Its top part is a cabinet that’s supposed to hold plates and dishes to keep them warm but it’s now full of old newspapers for the stove. For we also have a small wood stove, which is needed when it gets really cold. Eléonore’s grandmother told me that our house was the first one in town to get central heating, which is why our ancient radiators don’t produce much warmth. Mother says it’s also because the house is too big and too drafty.
“Where’s Coralie?” Mother asks. But I can hear Grandmother in the next room urging my sister to dry her hands more thoroughly.
After the asparagus, which I don’t mind, Loli brings the main dish and sets it in the middle of the table. When mother takes the lid off, I stop breathing. She lays two pieces of veal on my plate. “It’s very lean,” she says.
I examine the stringy fibers, the gelatinous texture. “Please, no sauce,” I whisper. I’ll eat the rice, at least the side of it that hasn’t touched the meat or the sauce.
“Just a little meat,” Mother says, cutting it up for me. “You know how important it is to eat meat. If you don’t, you’ll catch another ear infection. Or throat infection. You don’t want to be ill and miss school again, do you?”
Luckily she forgets about me as she starts telling Father about the wonderful crocodile handbag André gave Cami for her birthday. This is hardly news: Cami turned thirty-one more than a month ago, and I thought her friends were done with the oohs and aahs by now. Not to mention the fact that Father has never shown any interest in handbags. “André got it in Montpellier,” Mother goes on, “at Maxence & Fils, avenue de Pézenas. That’s where Estelle got her beautiful suitcase too.”
This must be the beginning of a campaign. Mother’s birthday is April twenty-sixth, in hardly more than a week, and she wants her own crocodile. But I don’t think her approach is going to work. Father has been different for a while. Preoccupied. Everybody says that our local wines don’t sell as well as they used to. Eléonore’s parents are even talking about bottling theirs instead of dealing wholesale. It’s the sensible thing to do, they say. They wouldn’t need their two tank trucks, then. Father has three. Sometimes, for short errands, I’m allowed to sit next to one of the drivers, high above the netherworld of the streets. But when I happen to see one of these trucks in town, I cringe at my name out there on the back and sides of the tanks, green on yellow, bold and huge.
“Maxence & Fils, avenue de Pézenas, just after the Crédit Lyonnais,” Mother repeats.
Heedless of crocodiles, Father slowly savours a new wine and considers. For him, Mother is babbling; he has no idea what’s at stake. Every lunchtime, he brings three or four small bottles to the table. All morning, in the tasting room, he’s been sampling a dozen or two that various brokers came to submit, each with a handwritten label (grower’s name, broker’s name, date). Here are the ones he’s interested in — he’s written his opinion of them on index cards. Before buying a wine, he likes to taste it with food.
Coralie’s plate is empty. She points towards mine — I’ve dealt with the rice but haven’t grappled the veal at all. I nod,