Tita by Marie Houzelle Page A

eight-year-old who lives happily in the country with his mother and their cow. They never need to eat meat because the cow, who is their friend, gives them everything they need. They never see the father, who’s a stonecutter in Paris. Then the father gets hurt while working, he needs money for a lawsuit against his boss, and they have to sell their cow. “No more milk, no butter! In the morning a piece of bread, at night some potatoes with salt.”
    On the evening of Shrove Tuesday, Rémi’s mother has a surprise for him: she’s borrowed butter and milk from her neighbors to prepare the traditional pancakes. Just as she slips the butter into the pan, and Rémi watches it melt and splutter on the fire, a man comes into the room. Rémi doesn’t know him, but it’s his father. No more pancakes! The man wants the butter for an onion soup.
    He doesn’t look happy to see Rémi, and he sends him to bed. But the bed is in a corner of the kitchen, and Rémi, who can’t sleep, listens to the couple’s conversation. He finds out that he’s not their son, but a baby the man found in Paris “on a step”. The man has lost his lawsuit. He doesn’t want to keep Rémi, and plans to take him to the Foundlings’ Home the next day. The woman says he’s exactly like a son to her, but she’s not the one who decides.
    Rémi is frightened, shocked that the woman he’s always loved is not his mother, but happy that this horrible man is not his father. I fall asleep wondering what it feels like to be hungry, to be excited about pancakes, to have no father.
     
    The next morning we all go to high mass, and in the afternoon to the rugby match. Philippe is even more enthusiastic about rugby than about toy cars. He has a notebook where he keeps tabs on each player, and on umpires too. He draws plans of the field at decisive moments, showing where all the players are, what they’re doing, and what else they could have done. I don’t always understand the fine points of his explanations, but I admire his impartiality. People around us loudly support one team or the other, yelling at the umpire when he rules against their side. Meanwhile Philippe takes notes, devises alternative strategies, and reflects.
    “All this chauvinism is pathetic,” he says as we leave after the match. “Why would the fact that you live in Cugnac or in Carcassonne obfuscate your judgment?”
    Coralie and I join Father outside the stadium and walk back home, where dinner is unusually relaxed. Coralie, after gambolling around the rugby field with her friends, concentrates on the food. Grandmother asks Father about the match, and tells him about her older sister in Nantua, with whom she has spoken on the phone. When Mother’s around, you hardly ever hear Grandmother at mealtimes except about practical matters. Tonight, she also has news about a neighbor’s nephew who is becoming well-known with his songs in Occitan. When she notices I’ve stopped eating, she doesn’t fuss but negotiates: if I finish the mashed potatoes, I can leave the rest of the fish.
    I borrowed Sans Famille from Philippe, who said, “Yes, it’s a good book, with a monkey and a dog.” I read it in bed to Coralie, starting again from the beginning. Coralie is already asleep when I get to Chapter 3 where, instead of being sent to the Foundlings’ Home, Rémi is sold to a travelling musician and animal trainer.
     
    Over Monday lunch, Grandmother and I compromise again: if I eat half a stuffed tomato, I won’t have to touch the roast. Later, as I’m holding a spoonful of petit-suisse in front of my reluctant mouth, I offer a more comprehensive deal: every evening, for a whole week, I’ll voluntarily swallow one of these gluey white cylinders; in exchange I’ll be allowed to go to early mass on Wednesday. She agrees.
    I already go to early mass on Fridays, that’s my jour de garde as arranged with mademoiselle Pélican. We all have a jour de garde — a morning when we undertake to