I wait awhile to bring up the drawing again. I don’t want to make it sound like it’s the only reason I came here. Instead, I spend most of the meal catching up Aunt Vivienne on Grandma Joan and Mom, whom she’s only met a couple of times, before I was born. I also learn that Madeleine has two sons who are in their late thirties. One of them just had a second child with his wife, and Madeleine is thrilled to be a grandmother again. She pulls out her phone to show me a picture and puts a hand on her heart.
Then, noticing my empty glass, she refills it. I’m feeling a little tipsy already, but I nod anyway. This is the French way, and I shouldn’t pass up an opportunity to learn about the culture.
“This drawing,” I begin, after taking a small sip. I turn to Aunt Vivienne. “You said something about Degas?” I don’t want to ask outright if she has an extremely valuable piece of art hanging in her living room.
Before Louis has time to translate my question, Madeleine shakes her head at her mother.“Maman! Qu’est-ce que tu as dit à Mia?” Mom! What did you tell Mia?
Mother and daughter bicker in French for a while. They speak pretty fast, so Louis gives me only the highlights. “Madeleine is annoyed because she thinks Vivienne told you the drawing is a Degas, when everyone knows that’s not true. Vivienne said you wanted to know about the drawing because it’s so lovely, and that it doesn’t matter what she said.”
“So is it a Degas or not?” I ask Louis, realizing that I care about this a lot more than I thought.
Louis shrugs, and continues to listen in to the conversation, but Madeleine heard my question. She looks at me across the table and says, “It is not real. Don’t listen toMaman.She just…How do you say? Her grandfather bought it at an…antiquaire—an old store. He joked that it was real, and then people forgot that it was a joke.”
Even though Madeleine was speaking in English, Aunt Vivienne looks like she understood Madeleine’s speech. She shakes her head and puts her hand on Louis’s arm. “Itisreal. Tell Mia it’s our ancestor, thedanseuse étoile.”
“N’importe quoi,”Madeleine says, rolling her eyes.Rubbish.
Louis looks over to check if I got that, and I nod. I’m still confused, though. Mom’s words resonate inside me. How she said that some people have chosen to believe the legend, some have chosen not to. That the truth is irrelevant, because we’ll never know. I try to smile, to hide how disappointed I am. I don’t want this to be some nice little story. I want ballet to really be in my blood, in my ancestry.
Madeleine asks me to help her with dessert, so I follow her into the kitchen.
“Tu es triste…uh, you’re sad,” she says. “I see it on your face.”
I shake my head, looking away. I feel tears coming, which is silly, I know. I can’t let this get to me. There’s more to life—that’s what Mom would say.
Madeleine washes a handful of strawberries and places them in a glass bowl. Meanwhile, I fill up the dishwasher.
“I am sorry,” she says. Her English is basic, but at least it’s clear, and it’s still better than my French. “That thing is not real. I took it to a person, how do you say, to have proof, many years ago, to makeMamanhappy. He, uh…what’s the word, laughed. He said there are a lot of people who copy art, and some are very good. Nobody can know if this was done by Degas.”
I nod, trying to take it all in. There’s no way to prove it, so that’s it. If an expert couldn’t figure it out, then we’ll never know for sure if my ancestor was one of Degas’s ballerinas. My shoulders slump.
“I…,” I start, but I’m not sure what to say. And Madeleine probably wouldn’t understand me anyway.
“Dis-moi,”she says.Talk to me.“We are family.”
I gulp, feelings bubbling up my throat. “Being a ballet dancer is my dream,” I say slowly, checking that she follows. She encourages me with a nod. “I want it more than anything else. But it’s so hard, so competitive. This legend…it helps me believe that I can do this, you know? That it will happen for me. It gives me hope. I…needit to be true.” I look down at my feet. I’ve never thought about it like that before, but, now that I’m saying it out loud, I realize that this is how I’ve always felt about Grandma Joan’s story.
“Mia,regarde-moi,” Madeleine says, lifting my chin up with two fingers and forcing me to look up. “You should believe whatyouwant to believe. If this legend inspires you when you dance, then believe. If it makes you feel something, then that’s what’s important.”
I wipe a tear with the back of my hand. I hadn’t even noticed it was making its way down my cheek.
It’s almost dark outside after dinner. I realize we’ve been here a long time and pull out my phone to look at the train schedule. “The last one leaves at 11:05p.m.,” I tell Louis.
He checks his watch. “Vivienne just said she wants to show you some family photos.” He must notice the anxious look on my face. I should go home and rest. Will Monsieur Dabrowski announce the roles first thing in the morning, or will he make us wait all day? “It’s fine, Mia,” Louis says, pushing my thoughts away. “We have plenty of time.”
Luckily, there’s no curfew at our dorm. I was surprised when I learned that students over sixteen can pretty much do whatever they want. Maybe it’s a French thing, or a big-city thing, to treat teenagers like adults. As long as we show up to class on time—and perform well—we’re the masters of our own destinies outside of school.
Still, an uneasy feeling gnaws at me as my great-great-aunt gets up and opens the imposing wardrobe in the corner to retrieve a few thick albums. I hesitate for a moment, but Vivienne looks so delighted, and I don’t want to disappoint her. I help Madeleine make tea, and we settle down in the adjacent living room, where the four of us can’t even fit on the sofa. Louis stands next to it as Madeleine and I sit on each side of Vivienne. I force myself to forget about the drawing and smile. I’m still glad I came here today.
We kiss Vivienne goodbye an hour and three albums later, and Madeleine drives us to the station. But as soon as we arrive, before she has even parked the car, I know something’s wrong. It’s dark and very quiet.Tooquiet.
Louis and I rush out of the car and run up to the station door. It’s locked.
“It’s not possible,” I say, my heart beating loudly in my chest. “I checked the schedule! There’s a train at 11:05p.m., I’m sure of it.”
Louis runs his finger along the timetable taped behind the glass. “That’s on weekdays. The last weekend train back to Paris left twenty minutes ago.”
My stomach drops. Louis and I stare at each other in silence. What on earth are we going to do now?
