Revolution Baby (8 page)

“Yes, of course, go ahead.”

“So, here we go. We will start by preparing a plot of land in the park near the pond, where everyone will have their own plot of roughly twelve square meters. Obviously, you will all help to prepare the terrain. In roughly three weeks, you'll be able to start sowing and planting. Before that, you'll have to come to me with your questions and read books about gardening. I have a few right here. I will provide the fertilizer, the soil, and the garden tools. I should have a few plants I can share at the beginning of spring and some bulbs and seeds I don't need, so there will be enough for everyone. Feller, do you have anything to add?”

“No. What about you, children, do you have any questions?”

“I was wondering if it would be possible to take normal plants . . . well, what I mean is, the wild plants that grow on the property here, or in the ditches along the roadside?” asked Rolande in her quiet voice.

“I don't see why not. What do you think, Feller?”

“On the grounds of the orphanage, that's fine. Plants from outside, that might be more difficult. But then, why not? Though I wouldn't like to see you heading off with a huge shovel every time we leave the grounds on an excursion. Is that clear?”

We nodded. Feller called an end to the meeting, and the gong for dinner went just then, so we got up without saying thank you or goodbye, and rushed to the refectory. I already had a few ideas for my garden. During dinner, Marcel regaled us with an imitation of Gros Pierre. He adopted his most sententious air and came out with his finest rolled
r
's: “We are going to plant the garrrden, with the earrrth and the tools. It is verrry difficult. You'll have to rrrread books. Marrrcel, do you think you can?” He was a real idiot, that Marcel, but he did have a gift for imitating people.

My mother was due to visit two days later, so I decided I would order my seeds through her; as she always came to the orphanage by bus, I couldn't ask her to bring anything too cumbersome. I'd already begun leafing through Gros Pierre's gardening books. I was very excited about the contest, and after that first official meeting I began looking closely at all the gardens on the way to school, obliging myself to form an opinion about each one: “I like this one,” or “That one is pretty but a bit too tidy,” or even “That is exactly what I do
not
want to do.” Since all the children at L'Avenir Social went to the same school, all I could use these gardens for was inspiration, without copying anything, because that would be too obvious and diminish my chances of winning.

For the first time since I had come to L'Avenir Social, I was looking forward to my mother's visit. I had made up a list of the seeds I wanted her to get for me, in decreasing order of importance: “Poppies, pansies, zinnias, campanula, asters, and cosmos,” to which I added yellow or orange dahlia bulbs. I wanted a country garden, with bright colors.

My mother's visit went fairly well this time; I was the one who did nearly all the talking. I showed her the garden, and explained the rules of the contest. I don't know how much she understood, but thanks to my list, where everything was clearly indicated, she couldn't go wrong. The only time I got a little bit annoyed was when I asked her to come back within four weeks and I could tell from her somewhat vague reaction that she wasn't taking my request very seriously. Her usual “
Oui
,
oui
” really annoyed me, and I insisted and explained that otherwise she might as well not come at all, because it would be too late for the contest. She promised she'd be there “as soon as possible.” The way she put it was not precise enough to my liking, but there was nothing more I could do, other than to hope she would prove to me that I could count on her, in spite of all the lies she had told me when I was little.

So I was immensely relieved when roughly five weeks after this meeting, Arnold informed me that Lena would be coming the very next day. I had begun to think that she had forgotten all about me . . . but she hadn't, and I felt bad about not trusting her.

“Hello, my little Julek.”

“Hello, Lena. How are you?”

“Fine, fine, and you?”

I resigned myself to joking about this and that with her; I would wait a while before referring to the matter that truly interested me. After a while she was the one who brought it up.

“I have this thing for you. You want?”

“Yes, of course!”

Lena took a little paper package from her big canvas bag. She handed it to me. I took it. And opened it. Little chocolate sweets . . .

“But you have my seeds, too, don't you?”

“
Oui
,
oui
,” she said, somewhat surprised by my reaction.

“So where are they?”

She just stared at me.

“The seeds, remember, I gave you a list, flowers, the names of flowers on a piece of paper?”

“Ah,
oui
,
oui
, flowers! But I have chocolates. Flowers, after. Next time.”

I felt my ears go warm. I wanted to stand up, and take her by the shoulders, and shake her very hard. But I went on sitting there, not saying a thing, waiting for something to make this woman disappear from my sight. Since she didn't know what else to say, Lena soon decided that it was time for her to leave. She gave me a kiss—how annoying—and smiled at me—how annoying—and gave me a hug—all right, is that it now?—and turned around and left.

I was furious. I went out into the park and ran to hide in my secret refuge. On my way I gave a kick to a huge rock. Ouch! The pain had a calming effect on my mind. I curled up in a ball and spent a long time mulling over all the reasons I had to be angry with Lena, and there were plenty of them. “I can never trust her. You can't count on her, she doesn't do anything I ask her to do, but she always says, ‘
Oui
,
oui
,' because she doesn't even have the balls to say, ‘You know, I don't give a damn about your garden thing,' which is the truth, because she doesn't give a damn about anything concerning me. Well, she won't get away with it, just because she's too stupid to remember a little teeny tiny favor doesn't mean I can't still have the most beautiful garden in the contest.” I had to find a solution, and fast, because the planting period had already begun.

And suddenly the solution came to me, in all its splendor, its logic, and its simplicity.

 

The very next morning, straight after breakfast, I went down to the bottom of the garden, behind the pond, where the tall shrubbery concealed a stone wall. Clinging with all my strength with my little fingers to the few protruding stones, I hoisted myself to the top of the wall. Without even looking behind me, I jumped down to the other side, landing on an uncultivated plot of land between two houses with their gardens nicely arranged. No need to look any further on my first sortie. I headed to the right, keeping my eyes on the little white house half hidden by tall trees. This was perfect. I blended in with the shade of the trees, and no one could see me.

It became trickier when I got to the garden, which was located right out in the sunlight. I observed it from a distance, and gave some thought to what might interest me. As I hadn't taken any tools, I would have to choose something I could dig up with my hands. Then I thought, I know, I've got it: irises. I recognized their long flat leaves in a shadier part of the garden. I glanced once again at the house, took a deep breath and rushed forward, practically crawling, as if I were about to ambush someone. First of all I tried to dig up some big iris plants, but the soil where they were planted was hard and compact, and I couldn't get my fingers under the bulbs. I looked all around: in an airier corner of the garden that seemed to have been recently planted, I saw some little irises with very pale leaves, and crept toward them. This time, it worked! I dug up three or four at first and was getting ready to leave, then changed my mind, reasoning that it would be better to make the best use of the risk I was taking. I chose four more, which didn't go with the rest of that garden anyway . . . and while I was at it, why not an additional three, and I buried them deep in my pockets.

Just as I was about to head back, I heard a door slam. Darn! I tried to disappear behind a little bush. I could hear a little girl talking. She seemed to be having a long conversation . . . The voice was coming closer, and before long I could make out what she was saying. “And if you disobey me one more time, you will stay in a drawer all summer long. Do you understand, Mathilde? In the meantime, I am taking you out to the garden to be punished.” I could hear the stifled sound of an object falling into the grass. “I'll come back later to see if you have calmed down.” I waited a little bit longer. The door slammed again. I got up quietly, and stole slowly into the shade of the trees, and then I made a dash to the wall, climbed over, and soon I was back home at L'Avenir Social, and no one the wiser!

 

The next day I went through the same rigmarole again, and the day after that. Each time, I “visited” a different garden to make sure I would have a nice variety of flowers. I was getting better organized. I took a little bag with me, and a little garden shovel, with which I could dig up some of the more delicate plants. On my fourth expedition, I was on my way back to the orphanage, being very careful not to damage the pretty anemone plants at the bottom of my bag, and when I reached the spot where I had to climb over the wall, I looked up, and there at the top, watching me, arms crossed and a half smile on his face, was Arnold.

“Good harvest?”

I was speechless.

“Come on, show me what you have hidden in your bag.”

I obeyed.

“Those are nice plants you have there. I don't know much about them, can you tell me what they are?”

“Uh . . . anemones.”

“And they'll grow into pretty flowers?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, wouldn't you know, I've had some complaints from people in the neighborhood saying that one of our children has been raiding their borders. They're none too pleased, as you can imagine, right? Well, we won't make a huge thing about it. I want you to swear that you will never get up to these shenanigans again, that you will never steal any plants or anything else from the orphanage's neighbors.”

“I swear.”

“Perfect. Now go and plant your little leaves whose name I've forgotten, and we won't mention it again.”

In this whole garden contest business, the thing that made the strongest impression on me, besides Arnold's surprising leniency, was the fact that I didn't win the contest, in spite of the originality of my little garden. I didn't even get second prize. I can't remember who won, but I thought it was very unfair that I was not one of the finalists. It was only years later that I understood that I had been disqualified for having resorted to an illegal procedure.

I recovered quickly enough from my disappointment, and a year later I was the only contest participant who was still tending his little garden. Maybe it had something to do with my thieving from the neighbors' yards; maybe I felt some sort of responsibility toward my plants, because I wanted to give them as good a life as they would have had if I had never kidnapped them.

Ever since our vacation on the Île de Ré, I had been dreaming of becoming an animal trainer. Now I had found a new vocation: veterinarian. This was even better, because it would mean truly helping animals, instead of using them for the amusement of humans. This was driven home to me one day when I found a wounded creature on the grounds of L'Avenir Social. And it was no ordinary creature, like a squirrel, or a tit . . . It was an owl. When I found him, he was hiding in the bushes. There was something wrong with his wing, and he held it stiffly alongside his body. There was no blood, just a little patch on the wing where some feathers were missing.

I looked after my little owl—baptized the Grand Duke—for nearly ten days. In the beginning, I acted the hunter: I found worms for him, and frogs; I even brought him a dead mouse which one of the neighborhood cats had left almost intact. After a while I opted for a simpler solution: scraps of raw meat from the kitchen, obtained thanks to my imploring gaze as an adoptive father. As soon as he was better, I would let him venture out of the cage from time to time. Gros Pierre agreed to lend me his toolshed for a first trial run at setting him free. Roger was chosen as my partner for the operation.

Roger and I were walking home from school, and I would have liked to discuss the matter with him, but I was afraid of prying ears. I didn't want the Grand Duke's stroll to turn into a show.

“It would be better if we keep the lights off while we watch the aristocracy go by.”

Roger didn't say anything.

“Don't you think?”

I was trying to speak code language to Roger, but visibly it wasn't working. The fact is, we had just had an exam about the French Revolution at school, and Roger was not very pleased with his answers. My subtle message must have his anxiety at being a very mediocre pupil flooding back.

When we got back to the orphanage, we rushed to see the Grand Duke, who was asleep in his cage. I spoke to him quietly. He moved a bit, but he still seemed drowsy. That didn't matter, Roger and I lifted the cage and carried it into the toolshed.

“We're going to open your cage, your Royal Highness, but it's just so that you can take a little walk, and after that you'll go back in for the night. If everything goes well, we'll try it again.”

He was listening attentively. He seemed to approve of the plan. I was still hesitating. Roger looked at me, impatiently. Okay, all right . . . I opened the cage.

Nothing happened. The Grand Duke did not seem to grasp the new possibilities open to him. After a few moments, Roger and I looked at each other, disappointed.