The Girl in red

The Girl in red-3

She glanced at the day’s suggestions, scrawled in the owner’s inimitable script in white chalk on a small blackboard near the entrance.

Antoine, the heavyset proprietor, wandered over and approved their choice, recommending at length the appropriate beverage, in this case his ruby red house wine, a very decent Cahors.

The girls hadn’t lunched together for a few weeks; they caught up as they awaited their order. While savoring her Kir (a white wine aperitif laced with a splash of black currant liqueur), Morgane launched into a description of the tasks she was undertaking lately in preparation for her latest art exhibit, scheduled for the following month. She then asked how her friend’s new school year was progressing. The answer, rather brief and devoid of the many details she expected, surprised her. She was about to continue, sensing something unusual in her friend’s attitude, when Antoine arrived with a tray. He served their first course, along with the bread and the wine, taking the time to add his usual caustic remarks about the state of the country and the world in general. The lunch mates were barely into the savory appetizers when Marine suddenly put down her fork. She felt the polite chitchat had gone on long enough.

— Listen, I’ve got to talk to you about something very weird that’s bothering me these days.

She apparently had her friend’s entire attention, so for the next quarter hour she barely touched her food, describing the bewildering story of Gwendolyne, her strange new pupil. Morgane had listened attentively throughout and had steadfastly continued her meal without interruption. She now spoke up.

— I suggest you eat your lunch while you finish your account. Your dish must be stone cold by now. Look, the wonderful cheese sauce has congealed already! We’d better ask Antoine to reheat it.

— Have you even listened to a single word I’ve said? Something is scaring the wits out of me and yet you sit there eating, more concerned about the food in front of us than about the little girl I’m describing to you! Not only is this child clairvoyant but she apparently also sees and hears a ghost!

Morgane chuckled without malice.

— And that’s what’s upsetting you so much? From what you’ve told me, there’s no reason to get yourself all worked up. Don’t you realize that we’re all a bit clairvoyant? Haven’t you ever experienced a déjà-vu? That feeling of having been somewhere when you know for a fact that you’ve never before set foot in the place? Or haven’t you ever had a premonition? Like… “Something tells me I mustn’t get on this bus.” Later, you hear that the bus was in an accident and that several passengers were killed! Tons of people have experienced similar things.

Impatiently, Marine nodded and admitted having heard stories of this type.

— Nevertheless, this is different, Morgane! Gwendolyne claims that a young girl, who is probably dead, enters into direct contact with her! She swears she sees and hears this adolescent perfectly well; she’s even described her! Admit this is a bit scarier than the two examples you just gave me!

Apparently undeterred by this reminder of the little girl’s strange powers, Morgane delicately dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and calmly put her hands in her lap.

— You told me yourself that a child psychiatrist had excluded the possibility of juvenile schizophrenia. I know that illness is sometimes responsible for symptoms similar to your pupil’s, namely, hearing imaginary voices. If we’re not dealing with this pathology, than why can’t you just simply accept that the girl really does hear voices in her head? She’s not the only one who does, you know! Aren’t you aware that there are hundreds of thousands of other people throughout the world who hear voices all the time?

Marine sighed and grimaced an ironic smile. Morgane took note of it and continued.

— I know exactly what you’re thinking of, with that smirk on your face! The story of our famous Joan of Arc, whose “voices” told her to go help the young prince, to get him crowned king, and then to throw the damn English out of France! We all learned about the brave maid of Orleans in school. Her and her voices… She got burnt at the stake as a witch, didn’t she? Well, there are many other individuals, well known and much more contemporary, who have also admitted they heard voices. Beethoven, Dickens, Freud, Churchill, Sartre… even in current days, the British actor Anthony Hopkins… they’ve all written about it. They’ve all affirmed that, at some time or other, invisible persons have spoken to them. You don’t believe me? Yet the list is long!

Marine was now openly staring at her.

— Am I starting to interest you? I was almost forgetting one of the most famous! While in exile on the isle of Jersey, the great Victor Hugo himself contended that he often heard his daughter Léopoldine speaking to him. Yet she had died a long time before, drowned in the Seine. There are even special associations that exist, with thousands of members who live in different parts of the world and who all certify that they hear voices too. Science hasn’t yet explained this phenomenon but so many people are involved – they can’t all be schizophrenic, can they? – that researchers are seriously studying the subject, trying to determine why and how this can happen. Apart from that, you must know that there are also many child mediums. These children communicate with the spirits of the dead. Thanks to the “ghosts” who speak to them, many of these kids have helped the police to solve crimes. They’ve even found missing bodies for them, guided by their “spirit”!

Marine nodded, not entirely convinced but apparently willing, at least for now, to accept what her friend was saying.

— So, what would you do in my situation?

— Look, the girl’s own mother doesn’t sound very disturbed by what’s happening to her daughter, does she? According to her, the grandmother had the same “gift of God.” I would advise you to just listen to the little kid. Be her confidante. It sounds like she really needs a person to talk to. Her peers apparently give her a hard time and it sounds like her mother is completely taken up with her housework and all her other tots. An old woman I used to know referred to psychic children like Gwendolyne as “eggs with two yolks,” meaning that they had two aspects of their personality: one normal and one paranormal. When your pupil doesn’t have her “big and little dreams,” I expect she’s pretty much like any other child. She’d like to have good grades and to play with all her classmates. Try to be there for her during the difficult moments when she feels abandoned.

Morgane smiled and reached over to pat her friend’s hand.

— As a matter of fact, isn’t that what her “voice” told her you’d do?

The teacher felt a chill run down her spine. Her friend had just unwittingly reminded her of another disturbing fact. Gwendolyne’s “voice” had promised that Marine would show up one day and that she would help the little girl. Did this mean she was known, out there somewhere in the realms of the dead… in Limbo, or wherever it was lost souls wandered? She paled at the thought and once again put down the fork with which she’d been listlessly toying with the remains of her meal. Seeing her reaction and determined to reassure the distressed young woman sitting across from her, Morgane proposed to change the subject for the time being.

— Calm down, won’t you? After all, the child is in no danger! For the moment, there’s nothing you need to do for her. Look! You’ve hardly touched your food. Let’s have some coffee and dessert and talk about something else. Like for example, your love life, which is starting to take on the looks of a long trek through the desert… without the manna!

She was rewarded by her friend’s sheepish grin.

— “…a long trek through the desert”, aren’t you exaggerating a bit? Let’s just simply say it’s taking me some time to recuperate from my last tumultuous and torrid love affair!

Both women laughed.

A few moments later, they were about to enjoy an apricot and almond tart, specialty of the house, when a man approached their table. He appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. “Tall, dark and handsome” seemed the appropriate description of the new arrival. He smiled and held out a hand.

— Morgane! How nice to see you!

— Oh! Our local author! How are you? Marine, I’d like to introduce Monsieur Civale, a writer who has picked Le Caylar as the place in which to write his new novel. Monsieur Civale, may I present Marine Thibeau, grade school professor and recently assigned to our village. Won’t you join us? We’re just about to have our dessert.

— Thank you, I’ve already eaten, but I’ll have a coffee.

He ordered at the bar and returned, drawing a chair from the next table.

— Please tell Marine and me how you came to choose Le Caylar to write your book.

— First of all, I’d be very happy if you’d both call me René. To be called “Monsieur” gives me the impression of looking like some old and tottering scholar to whom one has to show respect!

The two women smiled at his joke. Civale then proceeded to answer Morgane’s question.

— I’m not really a writer, ladies. For me, that term describes great men like Balzac, Dumas or Verne. In fact, I’m just an amateur, struggling with a first novel, hoping some small publishing house will accept it. You see, after losing my wife and both my parents in a terrible car accident, I needed to take a year’s sabbatical. Then, I prolonged that and traveled a bit. One day, by coincidence, I came upon this charming village and suddenly decided that, in this peaceful place, I might find the inspiration for a book. There are magnificent walks to take around here and if I haven’t really advanced that much in my writing, I can at least boast of having lost a few kilos thanks to my hikes. At this point, now that I’ve gotten into shape, I can actually go for two to three day excursions with my backpack and pup tent and not even feel the pain!

He laughed deprecatingly. Warming up to the subject, he then began describing some of his “memorable” experiences on the trails, such as the day he had come upon a couple, sitting on some rocks, unabashedly sunbathing in the nude. Perfectly at ease, they had greeted him and asked where he was bound. He had wandered off, much more embarrassed than they seemed to be.

A young gendarme in police uniform approached their table.

— Hey! How’re you doing, Morgane and Marine? Good afternoon, Monsieur Civale.

— See what I was saying, ladies? Here’s the proof that I really am an old geezer!

The girls burst out laughing, much to the embarrassment of the police officer who had no idea what on earth he had said that could have given that impression.

***

That evening, it was Marine’s turn to cook and she had decided on preparing a frittata. The easy recipe was an ever-changing Italian omelet that had the distinct quality of adapting to all kinds of leftovers. This had suited her very well, as she was still much too preoccupied with Gwendolyne’s story to concoct a complicated dish. After foraging in the fridge, she found exactly what she needed: eggs, leftover chicken, a slice of boiled ham, a tomato, an onion, a small zucchini and several rather wilted leaves of spinach. Together, the whole lot would do the trick. Thank heaven, Louise never insisted on gastronomical wonders! Once the vegetables were chopped and stir-fried, the meat cut into small pieces and browned, she’d added the beaten eggs to the pan, and had served a passable egg dish that the older woman had enjoyed.

The frugal repast over and the dishes washed, she’d then rushed to her computer and looked up “child mediums” and “premonitory dreams,” amazed at the quantity of websites available on the subject. Far from satisfied by Morgane’s casual answers, she’d felt she needed more concrete information. During dinner, she had brought Louise up to date. “I’m not so sure it’s all as simple as your friend would have you think!” was this one’s circumspect response. “It all sounds pretty unnatural and creepy to me… Imagine, a little girl conversing with the dead! There’s got to be an explanation!”