Tita Read Online Free

her light-green bathrobe; she sits in a wicker chair in the middle of the bathroom, and I dry her hair with a towel. I comb it, shake the bottle of Pétrole Hahn and sprinkle the lotion onto Mother’s hair then massage it into every part of her scalp until she says it’s enough. I have mixed feelings about Pétrole Hahn, the way it smells: nice and fresh on the surface, bergamot, I think, and lemon; but a pungent fetor underneath, which Mother says is what makes it effective. Against dandruff, and for sparkle.
    I hold the hair dryer with one hand while, with the other, I comb Mother’s hair. It’s auburn, shoulder-length, and slightly curly. I have to brush it from underneath, to give it what Mother calls “volume”. Mother’s hair is completely different from ours. It never tangles up, and lends itself painlessly to comb and brush. A beautiful, docile possession, which changes color with the light, and shape with her movements or the wind.
    When I’m done, Mother covers her hair with a pink scarf. She moves to the easy chair near the window, and I spread the cucumber cream on her face and neck. There’s some left, and Mother wants me to smear it on my face, but I won’t. I rub my hands with it, then rinse them. 
    Time to join Coralie, who all this time has been sitting in the bedroom in Father’s armchair, with her feet on the coffee table next to a heap of Pieds Nickelés . She loves these comic books about three lazy crooks who play tricks on the pompous and the rich. But we need to go on with our little soirée. In the alcove, Mother settles against a large pillow on the outside of the bed, next to the lamp, with a few issues of Jardin des Modes . I climb into the middle to share the magazines, and Coralie joins us on the inside with her Pieds Nickelés .
    Once in a while, she has a question for me. “What is Ribouldingue saying to the lady with the hat?” “Why does the policeman have to let Filochard go?” There’s a lot of text in these stories, a whole narrative, not just dialogue. Mostly she can make it out for herself, from the drawings. I find this amazing. I’m exactly the opposite: I read only the text, forgetting that these are comics, and after a while I don’t understand what’s happening. Sometimes I try to go back and look at the drawings, but usually I just give up.
    Mother studies the latest fashions and critiques the models as well as the dresses and coats. One has horrifyingly thick ankles, another practically no waist, yet another a microscopic nose. “Just look at this!” she says. I look. But I can’t get too interested in these women’s physiques, or their outlandish costumes. Amid the fragrance of cucumber and almond, I read the descriptions: alpaga, zibeline, dentelle rebrodée de ruche, mousseline de soie, georgette de laine. Mysterious words, which I’ll look up tomorrow.
    By the time Mother gets up from the bed and goes to the bathroom to take off the cucumber paste, Coralie is asleep. Mother, when she comes back, takes her in her arms and carries her to our room, but I’m allowed to stay. And stay. Mother critiques, I read, it could go on for ever. She won’t need to carry me to my bed, because I won’t fall asleep.
    When she decides to turn off the light, I kiss her and go to our room, black and filled with Coralie’s rhythmic breathing. In my bed, I try to hang on to the bergamot, the cucumber, the quiet of the alcove. But I can’t help looking towards the future: the days to come, the weeks, their arcs of relief and disquiet.
    Tomorrow evening, at least, our parents will play Pharaoh with the Pujols. In our house.

 
     
Champagne
    Today I’m tasting the host. Anne-Claude compares it to paper, Justine says it feels more like cotton wool. Intriguing.
    I get to church half an hour before the ten o’clock mass because we have to rehearse our hymns and movements one last time. When the congregation comes in, we stand at the back of the church; then we all walk