Marcel pounded out the dough, scarcely noticing the sun rising over the Mediterranean across the promenade from his father's boulangerie. After all, it was a sunrise like any other, no matter what the vacationers made of it. Soon, they would be overcome by hordes of English. They always came this time of year, more every year, it seemed. He had no time for sunrises.
Soon, he would be too busy trying not to laugh at the pitiful, halting attempts of aristocrats to order his tartes in French. He found himself wishing he'd learned English like Papa had wanted, if for no other reason than to butcher their language as they did his.
He hadn't always hated them so. Like his father before him, he had made a good living selling them pastries. But after what they had done to Hélène…
"It was just one of them," their father had said, bouncing the little English baby on his knee. "Let Papa forgive," he muttered. "I will not."
The day passed as any other until she came, two minutes after he had sold the last of his wares. Petite, almost fragile, her pale green bell-skirt nearly a perfect match for eyes that he was sure hid a cleverness he'd not seen in any of her kind. Her voice had a musical quality unfit for her harsh language, he thought. Not that it mattered. He didn't understand a word she said.
Marcel shrugged, speaking as slowly as he could, explaining he had nothing left. She held his gaze for what seemed entirely too long, waving back a stray chestnut curl that refused to be herded, either into her high-piled bun or the wide-brimmed hat perched in front of it.
She must not speak French, he concluded as she slumped her shoulders. He tried not to watch as she walked off, and had to look away quickly, feeling his face flush when she glanced over her shoulder. "No matter. She's just an English girl. No doubt I will not see her again."
The next day, she came again. A little later, but still two minutes, perhaps three, after he had sold his last. Again, she held his gaze. Again, she spoke, an unintelligible melody. Again, Marcel shrugged, trying not to return her gaze. Again, she glanced over her shoulder as she walked away, stray curl refusing to be tamed, the salty morning breeze teasing the bottom of her skirts and the ribbon around her hat.
It was the same the next day, and the one after. But on the fifth day, he did not look away. On the fifth day, it was her turn to blush.
"Marcel!" Papa said, wiping the last of the crumbs from the display. "Don't gawk at the ladies. It's bad for business."
"Clearly," Marcel said, pointing his thumb at the empty shelves. "Anyway, she's just a dumb English girl." Still, the eyes stayed with him. At night, he saw them in his dreams. And, truth be told, he didn't need to close his eyes to dream of them. "Just an English girl," he repeated. And, like all the English here, high-born.
That night, in the family's apartment, Marcel sat at the table, sipping vin noix with Papa and Hélène as Maman moved the omelet from the stove to the oven and brought the salad to the table, mixing it in olive oil and serving the family before seating herself beside Papa.
"So, what's that silly grin for?" Hélène arched an eyebrow, as she always did when she knew the answer to her own questions.
"It's nothing."
"And what is this nothing's name?"
"It's no one!" Marcel regretted banging the table immediately as the wailing echoed down the hall.
"I'm sorry," Hélène said, heading to her room.
"Can't we eat a meal in peace? Is it not enough we cannot show ourselves in public?" Marcel muttered.
"Bah, ça suffit!" Papa said, staring him down as his sister, holding back her own tears, brought the squalling infant into the room. Papa reached out his hands for the child.
The baby, of course, would not be consoled. Not through Papa's best efforts. Certainly not through Hélène's. Marcel, doing his best to ignore it, was the only one who touched his salad.
"Fine, give him to me," Marcel said as Maman laid out the main course. It was not like he would have been able to enjoy it anyway.
"Here, here, John," he said, holding the boy close to his face. "Tschtt, tschtt." Why did she have to name the boy after that English bastard? The name sounded harsh, foreign on his own tongue. The child, of course, calmed immediately, as he always did, and reached up for his uncle's ear, cooing. Marcel did his level best not to smile.
Hélène stifled a giggle. "He likes you best."
"Always the lucky one," Papa added, winking at Hélène, "but not so lucky with the English girl he's been ogling. She comes by the stand to tease him every day. It's almost as if she waits, watching until we have sold the last."
"I've no use for the English." Marcel tried to get a bite of omelet, his favorite. But the child would have none of it. He would have all of Marcel's attention or none of it. And, if none, he would doubtless start crying again. Marcel resigned himself to eating cold eggs later, noting the sad look in his sister's dark eyes, the same eyes he, too, had inherited from Maman.
Thankfully, she knew better than to bring up the child's father again. For months, she had wept, every night at the table, insisting that he would come back and, when he knew he had a child, he would take them away. At first, Marcel had tried to be consoling, but he knew better. Even if the Englishman came back, it would not be to care for the bastard child of a working-class French girl, no matter that it shared his English nose, his green eyes. Hell, if he did return, Marcel would follow the man, a regular customer the two summers past, into the nearest alleyway and make sure he never came back.
"Not so lucky with the English girl," Marcel muttered the next morning as he laid the tartes in rows behind the glass-enclosed counter. "Well, I'll show you who's not so lucky."