“This drawing,” I begin, after taking a small sip. I turn to Aunt Vivienne. “You said something about Degas?” I don’t want to ask outright if she has an extremely valuable piece of art hanging in her living room.
Before Louis has time to translate my question, Madeleine shakes her head at her mother. “Maman! Qu’est-ce que tu as dit à Mia?” Mom! What did you tell Mia?
Mother and daughter bicker in French for a while. They speak pretty fast, so Louis gives me only the highlights. “Madeleine is annoyed because she thinks Vivienne told you the drawing is a Degas, when everyone knows that’s not true. Vivienne said you wanted to know about the drawing because it’s so lovely, and that it doesn’t matter what she said.”
“So is it a Degas or not?” I ask Louis, realizing that I care about this a lot more than I thought.
Louis shrugs, and continues to listen in to the conversation, but Madeleine heard my question. She looks at me across the table and says, “It is not real. Don’t listen to Maman. She just…How do you say? Her grandfather bought it at an…antiquaire—an old store. He joked that it was real, and then people forgot that it was a joke.”
Even though Madeleine was speaking in English, Aunt Vivienne looks like she understood Madeleine’s speech. She shakes her head and puts her hand on Louis’s arm. “It is real. Tell Mia it’s our ancestor, the danseuse étoile.”
“N’importe quoi,” Madeleine says, rolling her eyes. Rubbish.
Louis looks over to check if I got that, and I nod. I’m still confused, though. Mom’s words resonate inside me. How she said that some people have chosen to believe the legend, some have chosen not to. That the truth is irrelevant, because we’ll never know. I try to smile, to hide how disappointed I am. I don’t want this to be some nice little story. I want ballet to really be in my blood, in my ancestry.
Madeleine asks me to help her with dessert, so I follow her into the kitchen.
“Tu es triste…uh, you’re sad,” she says. “I see it on your face.”
I shake my head, looking away. I feel tears coming, which is silly, I know. I can’t let this get to me. There’s more to life—that’s what Mom would say.
Madeleine washes a handful of strawberries and places them in a glass bowl. Meanwhile, I fill up the dishwasher.
“I am sorry,” she says. Her English is basic, but at least it’s clear, and it’s still better than my French. “That thing is not real. I took it to a person, how do you say, to have proof, many years ago, to make Maman happy. He, uh…what’s the word, laughed. He said there are a lot of people who copy art, and some are very good. Nobody can know if this was done by Degas.”
I nod, trying to take it all in. There’s no way to prove it, so that’s it. If an expert couldn’t figure it out, then we’ll never know for sure if my ancestor was one of Degas’s ballerinas. My shoulders slump.
“I…，” I start, but I’m not sure what to say. And Madeleine probably wouldn’t understand me anyway.
“Dis-moi,” she says. Talk to me. “We are family.”
I gulp, feelings bubbling up my throat. “Being a ballet dancer is my dream,” I say slowly, checking that she follows. She encourages me with a nod. “I want it more than anything else. But it’s so hard, so competitive. This legend…it helps me believe that I can do this, you know? That it will happen for me. It gives me hope. I…need it to be true.” I look down at my feet. I’ve never thought about it like that before, but, now that I’m saying it out loud, I realize that this is how I’ve always felt about Grandma Joan’s story.
“Mia, regarde-moi,” Madeleine says, lifting my chin up with two fingers and forcing me to look up. “You should believe what you want to believe. If this legend inspires you when you dance, then believe. If it makes you feel something, then that’s what’s important.”
I wipe a tear with the back of my hand. I hadn’t even noticed it was making its way down my cheek.
* * *
It’s almost dark outside after dinner. I realize we’ve been here a long time and pull out my phone to look at the train schedule. “The last one leaves at 11:05 p.m.,” I tell Louis.
He checks his watch. “Vivienne just said she wants to show you some family photos.” He must notice the anxious look on my face. I should go home and rest. Will Monsieur Dabrowski announce the roles first thing in the morning, or will he make us wait all day? “It’s fine, Mia,” Louis says, pushing my thoughts away. “We have plenty of time.”