Трейси Шевалье - The Virgin Blue

Monsieur Rougemont spoke for a long time about Christ's sacrifice and the need to live a pure life.

– God has already chosen who among you will follow His son to heaven, he stated baldly. Your behaviour here indicates His decision. If you choose to sin, to persist in old habits when you have been shown the Truth, to worship false idols – Isabelle dropped her eyes to the ground – to carry evil thoughts, you will have no chance of gaining God's forgiveness. But if you lead lives of purity, of hard work and simple worship, you may yet prove to be one of God's chosen and be worthy of His son's sacrifice. Let us pray.

Isabelle's cheeks burned. He is speaking to me, she thought. Without moving her head she glanced nervously at Etienne and Hannah; to her surprise she saw on their faces looks of fear. She looked the other way and, except for the serene faces of the children, saw the same expression all around her.

Perhaps none of us is chosen, she thought. And we know it.

She looked up at the Virgin.

– Help me, she prayed. Help me to be forgiven.

Monsieur Rougemont ended the service by bringing out the cup of wine and thin wafers for Communion.

– The children first, he said. Blessed are the innocent.

– Go. Isabelle gave Marie a push and she, Jacob and Petit Jean joined the other children kneeling before the minister.

While they waited, Isabelle rested her eyes on the Virgin again. Look at me, she pleaded silently. Show me my sins have been forgiven.

The Virgin's eyes were cast down, focused on something below her. Isabelle followed her gaze to Marie. Her daughter was kneeling patiently, waiting her turn, her black dress pushed up around her legs where she knelt. Underneath, though, there was no white undercloth. It was blue. Marie was wearing the cloth.

Isabelle gasped, turning the heads of her neighbours and of Etienne and Hannah. She tried but couldn't take her eyes off the blue.

Others began to see it too. Nudges and whispers spread quickly through the chapel. Jacob, kneeling next to Marie, glanced back, then down at Marie's legs. He made a move as if to tug Marie's black dress back down, then stopped himself.

When Etienne finally saw it his face went white, then red. He pushed his way through the crowd to the front and pulled Marie to her feet. She looked up at him and her smile disappeared. She seemed to crawl inside herself. Etienne dragged her through the congregation to the door, where they disappeared outside.

Jacob had gotten off his knees and stood motionless in front of the kneeling children, his eyes fixed on the church door. As Isabelle turned to follow she caught sight of Pascale: she had begun to weep.

She pushed her way to the door. Outside Etienne had lifted Marie's black skirt high to reveal the blue one underneath.

– Who gave this to you? Who dressed you? he demanded. Marie said nothing. Etienne pushed her to her knees.

– Who gave it to you? Who?

When Marie still didn't tell him he hit her hard on the back of her head. She fell forward onto her face.

– I gave it to her, Isabelle lied.

Etienne turned.

– I should have guessed you would trick us, La Rousse. But not anymore. You won't be able to hurt us. Get up, he said to Marie.

She sat up slowly. Blood had run from her nose to her chin.

– Maman, she whispered.

Etienne stepped between them.

– Don't touch her, he hissed at Isabelle. He yanked Marie up and looked around. Petit Jean, viens , he said as their son appeared at the door.

Petit Jean walked over to him.

– Pascale, he announced to Etienne. It was Pascale, Papa. He took Marie's other arm. They began to march her away between them. She turned her head and looked back at Isabelle.

– Please, Maman, she said. She stumbled; Etienne and Petit Jean grabbed her arms more tightly. 204

Hannah and Jacob had appeared in the doorway. Jacob came now to stand next to Isabelle.

– The pebbles on the ground, she said without looking at him. They were the outline for the dress.

– Yes, he answered quietly. It was meant to protect her. Like the pedlar said. From drowning.

– Why was your father counting those pebbles too? Why would he want to know how big Marie is?

Jacob stared at her with wide eyes.

– I don't know.

I flew from Toulouse to Geneva, then caught a train to Moutier. It all happened fast and easily: there was a flight, there was a train, and Jacob sounded more pleased than surprised that I wanted to come on such short notice. Very short notice: I called him at noon; at six the train pulled into Moutier.

On the train from Geneva my mind began working again. I'd sat in a daze on the flight from Toulouse, but now the rhythm of the train, more natural than a plane's, shook me awake. I began to look around.

Across from me sat a sturdy middle-aged couple, he in a chocolate blazer and striped tie, reading a carefully folded newspaper, she wearing a grey wool dress and darker grey jacket, gold bows clipped to her ears, Italian shoes. Her hair had just been done, puffed out and newly coloured a reddish-brown that wasn't so far from my own except that it looked synthetic. She held a sleek leather handbag on her lap and was writing what looked like a list in a tiny notebook.

Probably doing her Christmas card list already, I thought, self-conscious in my limp, wrinkled linen.

They didn't say a word to each other the whole hour I sat across from them. When I got up to change trains at Neuchâtel the man raised his eyes briefly and nodded. ‘ Bonne journée, Madame ,’ he said with a politeness only people over fifty manage gracefully. I smiled and nodded to him and his companion. It was that kind of place.

The trains were quiet, clean and punctual. The passengers were also quiet and clean, soberly dressed, purposeful in their reading, deliberate in their movements. There were no couples making out, no men staring, no skimpy dresses or barely covered breasts, no drunks lolling over two seats – all common sights on the train from Lisle to Toulouse. This was not a lolling country; the Swiss never took up two seats if they'd only paid for one.

Maybe I was looking for such order after the chaos I'd left. It was typical for me to pinpoint national character traits after only an hour in a country, to come up with an opinion I could tinker with as I went, altering it to encompass the people I met. If I really wanted I could probably have found sordidness somewhere on those trains, torn clothes and raised voices, romance novels, someone shooting up in the toilet, some passion, some fear. Instead I looked around and clung to the perceived normality.

The new landscape fascinated me: the solid mountains of the Jura rising steeply away from the train tracks, the banks of dark green firs, the sharp lines of the houses, the crisp order of the fields and farms. I was surprised that it was so different from France, though logically I shouldn't have been. It was a different country, after all, as I had pointed out to my father. The real surprise was realizing that the French landscape I'd left behind – the gentle hills, the bright green vineyards, the rust colour of the earth, the silver light – was no longer strange to me.

Jacob had said over the phone that he would meet me at the station. I knew nothing about him, not even how old he was, though I suspected he was closer to my father's age than to mine. When I stepped onto the Moutier platform I spotted him immediately: he reminded me of my father, though his hair wasn't grey but brown, the same colour mine had been. He was very tall and wore a cream sweater stretched out of shape across shoulders that sloped down like a bow. His face was long and thin, almost gaunt, with a delicate chin and bright brown eyes. He had the energetic look of a man in his late fifties, still driven by work, not yet part of that group who have relaxed into retirement, but knowing he would join them soon and wondering how he would cope with so much freedom.