Free Silent Bird by Reina Lisa Menasche Page A

eyes.
    I felt a flutter in my throat , like the dam was going to break. I didn’t want to cry. Didn’t want to experience anything but unfiltered joy. “Jeannot…this is so perfect. So beautiful. But…I didn’t know…we never discussed…"
    “ Marriage? Chérie, we have been living in a time warp, loving each other and not thinking about the future. That will end now, yes? I want you to be my wife. You can stay with me here in France.”
    A deep silence fell around my ears. I found myself remembering my suitcase in the huge armoire that squatted in the corner of Jeannot's bedroom. Our bedroom.
    Imagine living in Montpellier forever! I would shop for fresh baguettes and homegrown vegetables twice a day, and come back here every night. I would take permanent refuge in this life, his life that had no villain: that beat calmly. Jeannot’s world seemed so sensual, simple, and soothing—an old TV show with music instead of a laugh track.
    I could stay here safe and loved forever. Right? With Jeannot I could do that.
    “ But…what about visas?” I asked. Fiancé visa? French green card? Marriage license? “Don’t I have to apply for permission?”
    Jeannot said: “I know: we will begin the long process with immigration. But I have heard that when you marry a citizen”—a shrug—”these things get resolved.”
    “You make it sound easy.”
    “Nothing worthwhile is easy. But as you like to say about my music, all things are possible, yes?”
    He doesn’t know me , I thought out of the blue. How can he love what he doesn’t know?
    “ Stay in France,” I murmured, trying it on: not the ring, but the idea.
    “ When we marry, you can have a full life here. We can have a full life. You will get your license and drive. You can work, if you wish, or study. Or you can concentrate on your art. I know you want that, Chérie , more than you say. We will plan everything together, your dreams as well as mine.”
    He glanced at the light blue wall over the desk where we’d hung a flyer for his upcoming piano performance. The debut concert that Jeannot finally, finally received permission to put on at the Brazilian restaurant. The concert that he diligently practiced for day and night, as if this single event would make or break his future. Yet here he was thinking about my dreams too, my art. God, I loved this man. I respected him. Who could ask for more than that?
    Jeannot whispered, “ Chérie , will you marry me?”
    “ Oui, ” I blurted—and then repeated my answer in English. “Yes!”
    Nodding solemnly th ough his eyes were shining, he placed the ring where it belonged. “ Voilà. C’est parfait .”
    This is real , I thought with another skip in my heart. The ring felt surprisingly heavy.
    “ Are you scared?” he asked. “Me, too. This is normal, I think. But you came to this country by yourself, without knowing anyone or speaking a word of French. You are brave, yes?”
    I nodded: yes, yes, so brave. Why not? I preferred to think brave than crazy.
    Then my stomach let out a ferocious growl as if voicing its own opinion.
    Jeannot laughed. “Excuse me?”
    “ Sorry, I am hungry.” In French, that translates to “I have hunger.” I wondered whether that would go on forever too, all the translating, so that “I love you” always hinted of “I you love.”
    “ I'm going to eat a petite fromage ,” I said, giving Jeannot a kiss hard on the mouth. “Do you want one?”
    “ Bien sûr. Merci .”
    And he’s polite , I thought, as I browsed in our refrigerator past the available flavors of yogurt-like cheese, hoping to find an opened banana. Out of luck. Jeannot disliked it when I opened a new eight-pack before finishing the old one, so I carried two cups of strawberry to the bedroom.
    After eating, he reached over to brush something off my face. “You are beautiful even with petite fromage on your head,” he said, grinning crookedly.
    We laughed about that. Then we discussed how I would meet the