Free The Music School by John Updike Page A

came several rapid sentences that he did not understand at all. She repeated slowly, “
Monsieur
,” pointing at him, “
travaille
,” scribbling with her hands across an imaginary sketchbook.
    “Oh.
Oui. Bon. Merci. Et les enfants?
”
    From her flurry of words and gestures he gathered an assurance that she would take care of them. But when he did go outdoors with the pad and paintbox, all three, led by Vera, the two-year-old, irresistibly followed, deaf to Marie’s shrill pleas. Flustered, embarrassed, she came onto the patio.
    “
C’est rien
,” he told her, and wanted to tell her, “Don’t worry.” He tried to put this into his facial expression, and she laughed, shrugged, and went back into the house. Fort Carré was taking the sun on one chalk-yellow side in the cubistic way that happens only in French light, and the Mediterranean wore a curious double horizon of hazed blue, and Nice in the distance was like a long heap of pale flakes shed by the starkly brilliant Alps beyond. But Vera accidentally kicked the glass of water into the open paint tray, and as he bent to pick it up the freshly wet sketch fell face down into the grass. He gathered up everything and returned to the house, the children following. Marie was in the kitchen mopping the floor. “I think we should have a French lesson,” he announced firmly. To Marie he added, with an apologetic note of interrogation, “
Leçon français?
”
    “
Une leçon de français
,” she said, and they all went into the smoky living room. “
Fumée—foof!
” she exclaimed, waving her hands in front of her face and opening the side doors. Then she sat down on the bamboo sofa with orange cushions—the two homosexuals had a taste for highly colored, flimsy furniture—and crossed her hands expectantly in her lap.
    “Now,” Kenneth said. “
Maintenant. Comment dites-vous—?
” He held up a pencil.
    “
Le crayon
,” Marie said.
    “
Le crayon
,” Kenneth repeated proudly. How simple, really, it all was. “Nancy, say
‘le crayon.’
 ”
    The girl giggled and shuttled her eyes between the two adults, to make sure they were serious. “Luh crrayong,” she said.
    “
Bon
,” Kenneth said. “Charlie.
‘Le crayon.’
 ”
    The boy was four, and his intelligence had a way of unpredictably sinking beneath waves of infantile willfulness. But,after a moment’s hesitation, he brought out “
Le crayon
” with an expert twang.
    “And Vera?
‘Le crayon
’?”
    The baby was just learning English, and he did not press her when she looked startled and said nothing. The lesson continued, through
le feu, le bois, la cheminée
, and
le canapé orange
. Having exhausted the objects immediately before them, Kenneth drew, and Marie identified, such basic components of the universe as
l’homme, la femme, le garçon, la jeune fille, le chien, le chat, la maison
, and
les oiseaux
. The two older children took to bringing things from other parts of the room
—un livre, une bouteille d’encre, un cendrier
, and an old
soulier
of Charlie’s whose mate had mysteriously vanished out in the yard among the giant cactuses. Nancy fetched from her room three paper dolls of great men she had punched from a copy of
Réalités
left in the house. “
Ah
,” Marie said. “
Jules César, Napoléon, et Charles Baudelaire
.”
    Vera toddled into the kitchen and came back with a stale cupcake, which she held out hopefully, her little face radiant.
    “
Gâteau
,” Marie said.
    “Coogie,” Vera said.
    “
Gâteau
.”
    “Coogie.”
    “
Non, non. Gâteau
.”
    “
Coogie!
”
    “
Gâteau!
”
    The baby burst into tears. Kenneth picked her up and said, “You’re right, Vera. That’s a cookie.” To the other children he said, “O.K., kids. That’s all for now. Tomorrow we’ll have another lesson. Go outside and play.” He set the baby down. With a frightened backward look at the baby-sitter, Vera followed her brother and sister outdoors. By way of patchingthings up,