Castle of Water: A Novel(71)
He thanks his art dealer, tells him he’s stopping by New York next month on the way to the farm and that he would love to catch up. Thank you again for everything, we’ll talk soon, and he pauses just a moment before hanging up the phone. He smiles and shakes his head, a smile that’s bewildered and content and still pursed by that same tender sadness that visited him by the arch, that trails him as doggedly as his gratitude and his guilt … the wonder of it all, the unknowable mystery, to serve as fleshy custodian to such a fragile flame. More than anything, though, he just misses her—far more than oils and canvas will ever express, often more than his old heart can bear. He still dreams of her, the island as well, and in those dreams he holds her and tells her about their daughter. She’s wonderful, he says to her, beautiful, just like her mother. But when he tries to tell her that she should have been the one to make it home, not him, when he starts to ask if she can ever forgive him, she silences him with a smile. The waves roll, the palms whisper, and they continue to do so, even upon waking.
But enough of that for now. The man cocks his ear toward the bedroom; the shortwave has gone quiet, there’s no more French pop music, and he suspects she knows that he’s home from his walk. He pads across the carpeted hallway and raps gently at her door. There’s a stutter of socked footsteps and the door swings open.
Bonjour, Papa, she says, and gives him a hug.
Bonjour, ma chérie, he says, and he kisses the warm part in her chestnut-brown hair.
What’s in your jacket?
Oh, that? It’s just a tartine.
Papa, you can leave the leftovers on the plate. You don’t have to always take them with you.
Yes, I suppose you’re right. Old habits die hard.
Did you go to see Maman et Petite S?ur? she asks.
Oui, he says. I went to say hello.
And they are well?
They are wonderful.
Can I go to see them with you next week?
Of course you can, my love. We can go whenever you’d like.
Are you painting today?
He considers it for a moment, furrowing his brow and pinching his chin through his beard. It is a Sunday, and a glorious morning to be at work in his studio, but he can do that anytime. His daughter, on the other hand, won’t stay twelve forever. No, he says finally, I have something else in mind. Quelque chose de plus américain.
She grins mischievously. Le baseball? she asks.
Oui, he answers, le baseball.
Comme les Indiens de Cleveland? she asks.
Oui, he answers, comme les Indiens de Cleveland.
She claps her hands and rushes to retrieve the gloves and the ball from the closet, trundling down the stairs and urging her father to follow. Allons-y, Papa! she calls up to him from the front door. He starts to tell her that it’s cold and she needs a jacket but remembers those first spring days from his own childhood and the futility of that request on a day such as this.
The man follows her outside, punching a pocket into the chapped leather of the glove, and steps into the street, where she is already tossing the ball into the air and catching it in her mitt. Okay, he tells her, let’s see that fastball, and put a little mustard on it.
La moutarde? she asks, laughing at the absurdity of his idiom, just as her mother did not so very long ago.
Yes, he says, it means to throw it hard.
D’accord, she says, un fastball avec beaucoup de moutarde, pour mon Papa chéri.
She is in the midst of a comically exaggerated windup when she stops, evidently distracted by something past his shoulder. His first thought is that a car is coming, as they sometimes do on this street. But he sees upon stepping aside that someone is watching them. A girl in bangs and blue jeans. She is standing on the sidewalk, mouth agape and frozen in place—not that throwing a baseball in Paris is an everyday occurrence, but she appears utterly confounded by the sight of them.
Tu la connais, Papa? his daughter asks.
Non, ma chérie, je ne la connais pas.
Should we ask her if she wants to play?
Sure, says the man. Why not. Would you like to play catch with us? he shouts from across the street. We have an extra glove inside if you do.
The girl with the bangs and blue jeans is caught off guard by the question but responds with a hesitant nod.
Persinette Caroline scampers back into the apartment, reappearing moments later with an oversize first baseman’s mitt that she tosses the girl’s way. See if it fits, she says in perfect English.
Their line grows into a triangle, and the spring air, already ringing like rubbed crystal with the songs of fruit vendors and the knelling of church bells, is enlivened even further by the whistling of fastballs and the crisp snap of leather as two and a half Americans share a game of catch in the tenth arrondissement of Paris, on a little stretch of cobbles called Chateau d’Eau.
Acknowledgments
Contrary to what bylines might have you believe, completing a novel is never a solitary affair. And this novel, in particular, owes its existence to some extremely generous and talented people. I would like to extend a heartfelt thank-you to Jim Fitzgerald for stewarding it along from start to finish, Brendan Deneen for providing crucial guidance throughout the editorial process, Nicole Sohl for tightening it up in its final stages, and Will Anderson, especially, for believing in it from the very beginning. Without their help, it would be nothing more than words in a drawer. Last, and with the utmost gratitude and humility, I’d like to thank my wife, who deserves far more than a dedication or acknowledgment for the innumerable ways in which she has saved me. She is my compass and she is my home.