The Baker's Secret(57)

But no. This was her life, her only life, and so it would always be. The occupying army would never leave, the Allies would never come, and all a person could do was endure. Emma collected herself, steeled her spine, made a spiteful face at the Goat. “I am too damn hungry to listen.”

She pushed against her harnesses, and was surprised to feel the wagon considerably lighter. Emma looked back and Mémé had climbed off. She was holding the bird cage, its cover removed, the dove swinging on his perch like a little ornament.

“Grandmother, please. Can we go in now? You’ll feel better when you’ve had your egg.”

Mémé ignored her, inching toward the Goat with the cage held high. Monkey Boy came to see as well. “Coo,” Mémé said. “See the coo?”

Now it was the Goat’s turn to dance, hopping from foot to foot while he held his head with both hands.

“Perfect.” He stomped his feet. “Mémé, you are perfection, thank you, God in heaven.” He seized her hand and kissed it. “I heard rumors that they were dropping messenger pigeons to us, but did not believe it. This little fellow could not come at any better time.”

“See the coo?” Mémé said.

Monkey Boy poked his smallest finger between the bars of the cage. The bird sidestepped closer on its perch, and pecked the boy’s fingertip twice.

“Bit me,” Monkey Boy cried, leaping away. His face alight, he held his pinkie in front of Emma’s face. “Bit by a bird.”

The Goat sidled up to Mémé. “I know this is a lot to ask. But could I please have that dove? I promise to take good care of it.”

She turned sideways. “Mine.”

“Of course it’s yours, Mémé. Yes. But this is a special kind of bird. It needs special care, because it can do special things.”

“Mine,” Mémé said, taking several steps away.

“No, no,” the Goat said. “You can trust me. I won’t take it from you, not a chance. But I am asking you to give it to me.”

“Mémé,” Emma said, sighing in her harnesses. “I’m not interested in what he wants. But we don’t have anything to feed a bird like that.”

“You see?” the Goat said.

“You feed?” Mémé asked him.

The Goat shuffled his feet a moment. “No. To tell the truth, I won’t be feeding him. What I will be doing is setting him free.” He spread his arms wide. “I will do some special things with him, and then I will let him go home.”

Mémé narrowed her eyes. “Let him go?” She marched past him, toward the barnyard door.

“Mémé, wait.” The Goat jumped ahead, holding her arm. “You have known me since the day I was born. You knew me when I was Didier, back when I had a name.” He fell to his knees. “Please.”

“What is this ridiculous drama?” Emma asked.

But Mémé’s expression softened. She laid a calm hand on the Goat’s shoulder, as if she were knighting him. “Baptism.”

“That’s right.” He nodded emphatically. “My mother said you were the only person at my baptism who was not a family member.”

Mémé smiled at him. “One hundred and two.”

“I know you want a pet to keep you company,” the Goat persisted. “But I promise, there is an excellent reason for you to give me this bird. Please. It could help us defeat the occupying army.”

“Enough exaggeration,” Emma said. “This day has been endless, and I need badly to eat and lie down. Can we please go home?”

Mémé lifted her hand, and the Goat did not speak further. Then with great dignity, she set the bird cage on the ground.

“God bless you,” the Goat cried, jumping to his feet and kissing her on both cheeks. “Thank you.”

Rolling her eyes at Emma, Mémé waved a hand in front of her face, as if to fan away the odor.

The Goat snatched the bird cage and scampered off into the hedgerows. Monkey Boy grabbed a low limb of a nearby chestnut and began to climb. Emma could hear him cooing as he vanished upward into the leaves.





Chapter 30




By nine o’clock that night, Pierre had heard all he needed to know. The familiar thing, oddly enough, was not the noise of explosions, though they had been roaring every minute or so since the sun sank into the sea, and though he recognized the sounds from memories he had tried to bury as deep as his ancestors’ graves. No, it was the feel of the earth, as bombs tore into it. It was the electricity of the air, as if lightning were about to strike. He remembered.

But to be certain, he needed to see. And of all his riverside acreage, only one spot would do. It was no place for an old man, but in those times, the same could be said of his entire country.

The ladder was rough and dusty in his hands, when Pierre carried it from the back of the barn. Once he turned Apollo free, he had no further need to climb for hay. Now he tucked his pipe into a pocket of his old wool vest and set aside a tin of rat poison. When the dog bit Marguerite, when Guillaume killed the dog, when the captain killed Guillaume, how could Pierre not poison the dogs? He regretted their suffering, and that of the women forced to shovel Dog Hill. But this was a war, and he had never stopped being a soldier.