The Girl in the Blue Beret - Bobbie Ann Mason [38]
“I’m not much of a correspondent,” Marshall said, explaining that his failure to answer Pierre’s letter was a faux pas that jumped over the years.
“C’est la vie. Nevertheless, it gives us great pleasure to host you in our country again. Gisèle, get the Calvados.”
Pierre poured the aperitifs. He raised his glass. “A toast to your son, le petit Albert, and to your return to your friends in France.”
“You remember.” The phrase le petit Albert was still fresh in Marshall’s mind from rereading Pierre’s old letter.
“That gave us such joy when you wrote of your marriage and your son. Do you give the French pronunciation—no, of course you do not.”
“They don’t speak much French in New Jersey,” Marshall said. “And I’m afraid Albert is not much interested in the meaning of his name—or in the war.”
“Ah, the young. Give him time.”
“It is the greatest honor to us that you give him our name,” said Gisèle, who began gathering dishes from a cupboard. “Don’t derange yourself. You know that I don’t accept help in my kitchen.”
Marshall hadn’t thought of offering help, then was sorry that he hadn’t, then relaxed, knowing any exertion would have been inappropriate.
Gisèle laid out dishes on an old wooden table that was sticky with sugar crumbs and spills. “We have a simple lunch,” she said. “But Nicolas demands his favorites.”
“Maman is the best cook in France.”
“Angeline is a superior cook!”
“My wife,” Nicolas said to Marshall.
In a while, Pierre uncorked a bottle of red wine, and Gisèle served slices of a vegetable terrine adorned with bits of radish. As they ate, Marshall told them about his life after the war.
“I’ve had a cushy life,” Marshall said. “Cushy—facile, luxueuse? The worst thing that ever happened to me was crash-landing the B-17.” Immediately, he thought perhaps he should have said the loss of his wife.
“Marshall, you were very frightened when you came here!” said Gisèle. “You were so disturbed about your airplane and your friends.”
“You flew the grand airplanes,” said Nicolas. “In the war and after too!”
“I wish I could have flown more missions,” Marshall said. “I really regret that.”
“Everyone has his part, Marshall,” Pierre said, finishing a tidbit of toast.
Gisèle cleared the plates and served a heavy stew, with the baguette.
“It’s a feast,” Marshall said.
“This is no longer wartime, dear Marshall!” said Gisèle, spooning stew from the bulbous tureen into a dish for him. “There is much food now.”
“People forget the deprivation,” said Pierre. “Marshall, you know that after war there is a grand forgetting.”
“That is normal,” said Gisèle.
“But now the people of our country have forgotten too long.” Pierre poured wine and recorked the bottle.
“All of France has amnesia,” Gisèle said, gazing out the window.
“It has to be finished,” Pierre said. “Oh, you know France has had a terrible history. Terrible.”
“The collabos know who they are,” said Gisèle bitterly.
Pierre said, “Too many of those—but they have to live with their shame.”
“You made a tarte Tatin, didn’t you, Maman?” asked Nicolas.
“Bien sûr.” She nodded. “I have beautiful apples,” she said to Marshall. “Remember the apples we ate in 1944?”
“Yes, I believe I do.”
“We had few apples, and we had to make use of every small part.” Gisèle wrinkled her brows.
“You were generous with me,” Marshall said, the warmth of the wine easing him.
Pierre shrugged and tore another piece of baguette. He said, “When the fleets of the B-17s went over, with the streaming rows of cloud like breaths on a cold morning, we rejoiced. We loved the sound. When we heard the bombs drop on