Tita by Marie Houzelle Read Free Book Online Page B

and come back onstage twice. That’s the most strenuous part.
    Father doesn’t talk to madame Robichon after the show. Everybody presses in to congratulate and exclaim. In the car, Mother says, “You have good muscles, Coralie, but you need to exert yourself.”
    “I want to play rugby,” Coralie says.
    “If you work hard,” Mother says, “I’ll make a new tutu just for you.”
    “I could go to La Patriote.” Coralie says. “With Nicole, and Roseline.”
    “What is La Patriote?” Father asks.
    “An athletic club,” Mother says. “On the place du Marché.”
    Coralie bounces up and down. “They do asymmetric bars, springboard, vaulting horse!”
    “Isn’t this a good idea?” Father says.
    Something has happened. Father has spoken up for once. And Mother is a sportswoman. It must be obvious to her that Coralie will be good at this, will be able to make her proud, for a change. Coralie might be freed!
    “Coralie is enough of a tomboy already,” Mother says. “And the children at La Patriote are a mixed lot.”
    So we all know there’s no hope.

 
     
Lyon
    Mother likes to talk about me. I might even be one of her favorite topics. Along with dresses, coats, hats, shoes, rings and handbags. There isn’t much difference, for her, between me and a scarf. That’s because I’m quiet.
    “This one?” she says, when people ask how I’m doing — tradesmen, visitors, neighbors. “This one is a dream! She never makes a sound.” Unlike Coralie, noisy Coralie who clamors for candy, juice, toys, playing outside on the street.
    My impression is, I was born a listener. I only speak up when there’s a reasonable chance of achieving a result, while many people keep flaunting their feelings and opinions, and seem to enjoy expression for expression’s sake. I am odd, in quite a few ways. 
    But how odd? This afternoon (Thursday, so no school) Mother is having tea in the sitting room with her friends, and I’ve just finished passing the petits fours. The women are admiring my smocked dress (Mother’s latest masterpiece) and exclaiming over the fact that I always look so neat, spotless and wrinkle free. I stop listening, as this is the kind of prattle I find embarrassing, not to mention terminally dull. But something in the air warns me that they must have moved on to another topic.
    “Two months!” Mother has just proclaimed in her clear, buoyant voice.
    Everybody’s staring. At her, not me — I’m sitting on a low stool now, pretty much out of sight.
    Estelle Vié smacks her cup down on the enamel table. “My God,” she says. “That child must have been a total prodigy.” I can hear, in her placid, slightly raspy voice, a hint of irony. “None of mine,” she goes on, “were out of diapers before their third year. I thought it was because the first two were boys, but Mireille was no different. She sat on the potty quite happily, but nothing much happened until she was two.”
    Among Mother’s friends, Estelle is one of my favorites. She always wears interesting little scarves on her head that she ties at the nape of her neck. She keeps them on all the time, even inside, even in her own house. Mother says it’s because her hair is so thin she’d rather hide it. “She’s not quite bald, but nearly,” I’ve heard her say quite a few times. I wonder how she knows.
    “Yes,” Mother goes on breezily, “with some children, it takes a lot of time and effort.” (She should know: Coralie still has accidents pretty often.) “But this one was marvellous. From two months old she never dirtied a diaper again. Not once! All I had to do was hold her above the toilet once in a while. I never needed to use a potty. She immediately knew what a lavatory was for.”
     
    Probably just another lie, I reflect as I retreat to our bedroom, where Coralie is lying on her bed face down, hands between her legs, doing what Mother and Grandmother don’t want her to do.
    I sit at my desk and remember Mother saying, “I