L'Amerique. Thierry Sagnier

door. The parents were finishing dinner two rooms away; Dr. Bonjean’s sonorous laugh echoed down the hall, and Maman’s snorty giggles followed it. Mathilde was in the kitchen aligning wedges of cheese on a flat wooden board and helping herself to slices of Saint Paulin from Brittany, as she usually did. Babette squeezed his penis. Jeanot yelped. She said, “Quoi? Does it hurt? Hubert really likes it when I do this.” Hubert was Babette’s twelve-year-old cousin who was away at boarding school in the Pyrenées. “He likes it a lot!” She curled her hand around him, squeezed rhythmically. Jeanot felt a hint of pleasure rise, hidden among the panic.

      Maman liked to check on him every twenty-or-so minutes when she entertained. She could be at the door any moment. He peered at Babette who was now concentrating on squeezing and moving her hand back and forth. She was looking down at her work, biting her lower lip. Jeanot sensed imminent disaster but couldn’t pull away. Then Babette stopped, shook her head. “You’re not old enough. T’es trops petit… Hubert is much bigger and more fun to be with.” She wiped her hands on her skirt, took her panties off and threw them on the bed. Then she raised her skirt to her hips, lay back on the floor. She opened her legs. “Touches-moi.” She took his right hand, placed it over her juncture, pushed his small middle finger down. “Comme ça. Doucement…” Jeanot held his breath, listened for footsteps. She slapped his arm. “Concentre toi!” So he did, moving his finger here and there. Babette’s hand relaxed on his. She smiled slightly, opened her mouth, licked her lips. After an eternity she sat up, pushed him away. “Assez.”

      Jeanot removed his finger, disappointment and relief sharing space. She retrieved her panties, he buttoned his pants. A minute later, Maman cracked open the door. Jeanot and Babette were sprawled on the floor looking at an illustrated fairytale book. Maman smiled, closed the door. Jeanot exhaled like a cannon shot.

      Chapter 7

      A month later, Jeanot prepared for his birthday party aware something was afoot. He first became suspicious when Maman came up with an American theme for the party. Jeanot was as fascinated with les États Unis as any ten-year-old French boy might have been; he believed cowboys and Indians were in constant battle and that all Negroes played the banjo, an instrument for which Jeanot discovered he had an odd liking. His Maman laughed, but maybe it was true. Maybe they were like gypsies who all played guitars, or Africans with their jungle drums. For all Jeanot knew, the streets of America were peopled with banjo-plucking Negroes.

      He’d read that one state, Texas, was the size of France. His mother had doubts, but Jeanot was adamant. “There are three cities there that are each bigger than Paris!” That, in itself, was amazing. He’d thought Paris was the biggest city in the world. “And,” he added, “There’s even a Paris in Texas. I don’t think they speak French there, though, or at least not French like us.”

      There would be flags, costumes, American foods and music at the party. Maman would show a Disney film—an amateur cinematographer friend of hers had several—and she assured Jeanot this would be an event remembered by all.

      Jeanot paid little attention. He had found his life’s calling in the latest Tintin magazine. Like Albert Schweitzer, Jeanot was going to go to Africa to cure the leopards. The illness sounded dreadful and it was not fair that the sick leopards weren’t allowed to mix with others of their kinds. There was a picture in the magazine of Schweitzer wearing an explorer hat and looking both kindly and sad, with skinny natives surrounding him; hired help, Jeanot figured, to catch the leopards. The sky was cloudless, it looked warm, and the black people were obviously friendly if very, very thin. Maybe working with leopards had its difficulties.

      Jeanot had met a few black people in Paris. They were always pleasant with their strange accents and startling white eyes, and they looked nothing like the ones in the photo with Dr. Schweitzer. Obviously coming to France from Africa was a beneficial experience—maybe it was the weather, Jeanot thought, or the air in Africa was somehow different. Certainly, the air in Benodet near the sea had little in common with the sooty-smelling stuff in Paris, and Jeanot noticed that whenever he left town for a day or two, the bothersome scratch at the back of his throat vanished. Maybe the air in Africa was worse, which would explain why the people helping Schweitzer with the leopards all looked skinny and ill.

      Jeanot told his father about the leopards. “Look, Papa!” He opened the Tintin to the center pages and pointed to a photo. “I want to work with the leopards too, just like Doctor Schwe—“ He had a hard time pronouncing the string of consonants.

      Papa said, “Schweitzer,” and then laughed so hard he made choking sounds. He swept up his son and carried him to Maman, where he told him to repeat the story. Jeanot did so with a little less confidence.

      “I want to be like Doctor Schweitzer.” He pronounced the name right this time. Papa was still smiling. Jeanot shot him an arch look. “Why are you laughing? There are very sick leopards in Africa!” He didn’t think ailing leopards was a funny subject at all, and when Maman tried to explain the leopards were fine, it was the people—lepers—that the good Dr. Schweitzer tried to heal, Jeanot was certain his mother was wrong. The people didn’t have spots on them and looked fit if a little thin, but he chose not to argue the point. He did, though, ask about the African air. Both his parents had been in North Africa during the war. “Do you think people breathe differently in Africa? Is the air bad there?”

      Papa, who’d contracted malaria while serving with the Free French in Algeria, thought about it for a moment. “I think, maybe yes, Jeanot. I think there are little animals and bugs there that we don’t have here.”

      “And we breathe them in?”

      “Yes. Or maybe you eat without washing your hands, or the little bugs get into a cut…”

      “Really?” Jeanot always had some sort of scrape or cut and he wasn’t that good about handwashing. After the leopard discussion, he went to the bathroom and scrubbed himself pink, including under the fingernails. No African bugs were going to get him.

      There were fifteen children at the party, including Babette and Dédé Bourillot who, as always, smelled like raw onions. Papa glared every time Dédé or his parents passed by, but Maman seemed unperturbed. Babette was unexpectedly friendly with Dédé, and Jeanot, although uncomfortable with this new development, was confident that of the two of them, he was the more mature. Babette quickly tired of anything she considered childish; Jeanot had nothing to fear.

      Papa had removed all the paintings from one wall of the sitting room and the cinematographer friend set up his projector on a high table. He was a fat man with a mustache and he laughed a lot; too much, Jeanot thought, since they hadn’t seen anything amusing yet. He kept promising the children a wonderful time—he would be showing Disney’s Fantasia—and there would be ice-cream and candy during the intermission, just like at a real movie house.

      Dédé whispered, “We went and saw it a week ago! Wait until the dancing mushrooms come out!”

      Babette, who’d also seen the movie, made a face.

      Jeanot looked at her. How silly was that? Dancing mushrooms, really. He didn’t like mushrooms; they tasted like dirt. “I read that they have dancing hippos,” he said, throwing his two centimes into the conversation. He’d seen photos of the hippos in another magazine, the weekly Mickey. It irked him that Dédé, whom he really didn’t much like, had already seen Fantasia.

      Babette said, “Shhh.” The fat man turned off the light, started the projector and, satisfied the reels were rolling smoothly, left the room to rejoin the adults. A six-foot rectangle of light appeared on the wall, thin black lines running through the middle like animated snakes.

      With no warning, a woman wearing a Nazi uniform strode onto the screen, whipping a riding crop against her booted leg. There was no sound save for the projector’s fan. Dédé said aloud, “I don’t remember this part,” and was shushed by Babette.

      Jeanot whispered, “Germans! Why are there Germans? Papa’s going to get angry.” He knew what Germans were and what a swastika was; everyone in France knew that.

      Babette nudged him and said, “Shhh!” again.

      The