Chanson

By Allison Serff

In 1930’s France, Chanson is a seven-year-old film star who acts beside his mother in all of her films. Following a train crash and long illness, he must navigate a life of emotional turmoil and physical degradation. Chanson is bombarded with change after change, moving from a life of stardom in the cinema’s Golden Age to life as a humble shepherd.
Just as the thickness of a brush stroke on canvas cannot be deciphered in its entirety, this child’s shrinking family cannot be vulnerable unless you peel away at each layer of paint. Only then will you see the grief, burdens, fears, and love hidden in it all.
Amidst upheaval and want for security and hope, Chanson’s story forms an impressionistic painting of joy amidst mourning, love, and the healing message of God’s redeeming grace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Sep 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798385003143

Allison Serff

Allison Serff is a daughter, sister, and nanny living in colorful Colorado. Even as a native to the state, her jaw still drops whenever driving through or hiking the vast Rocky Mountains. When not writing she enjoys caring for little ones, playing with her siblings and dogs, drawing, or reading a good classic book.

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Copyright © 2023 Allison Serff.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by

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without the written permission of the author except in the case of

brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

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and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Interior Image Credit: Allison Serff

Scripture quotations are taken from the New King James Version. Copyright

© 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 979-8-3850-0312-9 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-3850-0313-6 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-3850-0314-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023913326

WestBow Press rev. date: 09/14/2023

Contents

Book 1: Chanson

Chapter 1     A Kind of Happiness

Chapter 2     Maman’s Smile

Chapter 3     Louis-Etienne

Chapter 4     Monsieur Garrigues

Book 2: Wholeness

Chapter 1     The Country

Chapter 2     Hope

Chapter 3     Papa

Chapter 4     Secluded yet Known

Chapter 5     Blessed

Chapter 6     Heaven

Chapter 7     Curtis

Chapter 8     No Words

Book 3: Wandering

Chapter 1     Maman and Papa

Chapter 2     Covent Garden

Chapter 3     Something so Simple yet so Important

Chapter 4     In London

Chapter 5     The Deroche Home

Chapter 6     Curtis in Paris

Chapter 7     Grand-père

Book 4: The Reach for Hope

Chapter 1     Burdensome Words

Chapter 2     Maman

Chapter 3     Goodbye, Hope

Chapter 4     Reunion

Chapter 5     Monsieur Garrigues’s Advice

Chapter 6     The Sussex Countryside

Chapter 7     Being Loved

Chapter 8     An Unspeakable Telegram

Chapter 9     A Sigh

Chapter 10   A Chance

Chapter 11   A Child’s Letter

Chapter 12   God’s Mercy and Grace

Chapter 13   The End

Book 1

Chanson

Chapter 1

A Kind of Happiness

Allow me to tell you a story about someone who was enfolded in the arms of pure, heavenly bliss. Such a thing is so valuable, although this earth can blow it away in one meager gust of wind—even in a breeze so small you would hardly feel it.

There was a meadow.

The meadow was vast, in a foreign countryside. The grass was short, corrupting nothing, with flowers popping here and peeping there. Its beauty was seared into the memories of those who had found it. Everything flourished in this meadow, and whoever went to picnic there had a good time. Glad hearts and smiles surrounded the entire area, rosy cheeks glowed from the sunshine, and an energy existed that could not be conceived anywhere else. Above this meadow was a blue sky saturated with a fresh aroma lacking anything impure. This was not the Garden of Eden; in fact, this place had no name. It was only the place where a certain family would park their picnic blanket during the midmorning of Wednesday.

Wednesday, what a lovely day—not because the week was half over but because it was the day they could run off to spend time together. In France, affection floats through the air, no matter where you are. This affection has a spirit of romance and fatherly love. Some may not see it, but it is soaked into one’s skin on such a lovely day.

The birds were chirping, and the breeze swayed the grass intricately. The air was warm, and the sun kissed the skin. Merriment and cheerfulness were the only moods. A lady beetle crawled along the picnic blanket. A tree provided shade. A lace parasol shaded a mother who forgot the busyness of routine from home and the stress involved. The clouds floated by slowly, emitting calmness. Without a gate, fence, or building for miles, only the meadow and grass reached out into the vast distance. Complaints were forgotten. Laughter from the deepest point of the pleasurable heart was evoked, kindling a fervor of robust stimulation for rolling down the hills. Shouts without echoes followed, but shouts went away and away into the sweeping meadow. There were hills and hills to run up and down for the lovers and the children. Remorse was not even in the back of the mind; purity took its place altogether with kindness. Children made boundless leaps from one wildflower to the next to make a bouquet for Mother. Laughter and smiles lingered for so long that even the sun beamed brighter. They wore their best hats and shined shoes, if only to please society. Their hair was combed for virtue, faces were washed for clarity, and teeth were brushed for the color of doves. Doves drifted overhead now and again with their own family of birds in enjoyment.

There could have been nothing more beautiful to the eyes of a child; it was a scene of pure loveliness.

Now, what do we see?

A woman with fine, curly, short black hair peeped from underneath a brimmed hat with pale pink peonies in detail. Her cheeks were rosy. She sat delicately on a worn-out quilt. Her hair made one think she was Italian, though that heritage was generations ago in her bloodline. She simply had the beauty of a Parisian flower girl. She was simple. Her eyes were enormous and as round as marbles, their color a pale blue. Freckles speckled her face in a kindness her smile facilitated. She reached her right hand out to another who had freckles speckling from one cheek to another. He was a representation of her, impressing features of her round face and black curls. His eyes mirrored her own, pearled in the palest blue. This was her youngest son, standing in front of her, putting his seven-year-old hand into hers. She smiled in a motherly way at him; he smiled back gaily. There was nothing that could separate their darling hearts.

Looking up, the child saw his papa laughing at a comment the older son had made on a flower. Its petals were reaching out to everything and to nothing, with intentions for it all. The father was tall, with slightly wavy blond hair. His face was justified and formed as clay. His laugh was strong, in a mimic of his clearly pronounced voice. Each member of the family had a clear voice and lungs capable of speaking to thousands.

The older son tossed the flower only to pick another with a seemingly brighter color. He had the round, marbled eyes of his mother, though he had taken the brown color from his father. His hair also stole an impression of his papa’s, being blond but quite curly, in large locks.

The older boy saw imagination in everything, with logical temperaments.

The father saw the deeper meaning emotions exude both intentionally and dramatically.

The mother saw rhythmic adoration.

The youngest son saw everything, with an observing eye of thoughtful harmonies and tuned originality.

They were a happy family breathing in 1933, dear in their own sentimental way, steering toward the virtue of contented bliss—the depths of sheer joy. As Ecclesiastes 8:15 states, I commend the enjoyment of life, because nothing is better for a man under the sun than to eat and drink and be glad. Then joy will accompany him in his work all the days of the life God has given him under the sun. To this family, it meant that work corresponded with joy, forming gladness while they worked and while they played.

My Chanson, the mother said, holding her youngest son’s hand in her warm palm, turn your head to the right. He did so. Now to the left. He did so. Ah, I see your smile reaches to either side of your face. This makes me glad, Chanson. His name was pronounced Sh-on-son, meaning Song in French.

The child did not let his smile shrink or grow; he only thought on this compliment. Your smile has not left you since we put the blanket down, Maman.

Surely, you’re right. I’m always happy on Wednesdays. She pulled him onto her lap. She wore a white lace dress. Do you know why we go out on Wednesdays, dear? The child shook his head. Because you were born on a Wednesday; it is a day of melody. Of course, this Wednesday is more than special. Do you know why? The child shook his head of robust curls again. At this, the mother quickly rolled her face around to his. Because, kid, today is your seventh birthday!

The boy tilted his head to see her eyes better. Maman, do the birds celebrate their birthdays?

Certainly! Do you wonder why they sit in large groups on the steps of the library, chattering away as though they’re at a party?

But they are there so often.

Indeed. They’ve got many birds to celebrate! They sing their songs and bring crumbs as gifts. She settled her chin on her son’s head but noticed something on his shirt. My dear! You have torn a hole in your new shirt!

The boy, who played with vivacious aptitude, as all boys did, looked down and felt the hole that happened to be on his torso. Oh, I’m sorry, Maman. You see, it was a rather challenging battle with that pesky pirate. His tactic was to thrust his sword at my torso, which—he sighed—was unfortunate for my shirt.

The mother laughed, knowing the marvelous extent of her child’s imagination. Then, allowing herself to let the torn shirt go, she snuggled her child tighter in her arms. What do you admire most in the world?

He nodded slowly as he said, Your smile.

You think often on smiles. What do you make of them? She knew her husband talked about smiles around their children often.

Chanson was silent for a few moments, his eyes staring in what his mother saw as such a thought-provoking stare. Translucency conceptualized his pearly eyes as his mind thought. Letting light soak into those eyes during his pondering allowed him to think without distraction. He said finally, If your lips are smiling, you’re feeling or seeing some kind of happiness.

When your heart is brimming with glee, surely you cannot help but smile. She kissed his head. Mm, you make me glad, my dear!

Maman?

Hm?

Does Papa always wear his hat backward?

The mother looked up at her husband quickly; he surely did have his best hat on backward. There was nothing to be in despair of, though a hatmaker would have noticed instantly. The mother laughed. Louis-Etienne!

What? The man spun around, having been tossing a ball with the older son. The way in which he turned was quite comedic. His hips turned first, although his torso and legs caught up much quicker than he anticipated. His eyes shot out from his skull, and the only thing he knew was to say, Yes, my dear?

His wife laughed even more, with Chanson joining in on her lap. Your hat is on backward!

Well, if I never! Louis-Etienne picked the hat off his head with two hands, held it above his head to look inside and examine where the tag was sewn, and spun his body around instead of his hat to perch it back on his hair. He was no longer facing his wife and youngest son, but he turned around in time to be hit in the stomach by the ball. The poor man did not topple over but smacked his buttocks on the grass with a thud everyone would remember with awed compliments.

The mother and two sons were instantly on him with their caring, tender hearts, saying things like Oh, Papa! I hope you’re not hurt! How many fingers am I holding up? Can you stand alone? Take my hand. Poor, dear Papa!

That did not last long, even though it should have. Following their remarks, the father replied, Don’t worry, my dears; I’m as fit as a fiddle! They leaped on him with wiggling hands, knowing exactly where each of his ticklish spots was. Louis-Etienne scrambled around on the grass, and in a huffing tone, he called out his family’s names, begging them to stop. He laughed robustly. His sons and wife all giggled in unison.

Each hand ceased when Louis-Etienne pointed above them. Look! A butterfly!

Each turned up his or her head gullibly, sharply asking, Where? but there was no butterfly above their heads, nor was there one in the surrounding area. Chanson leaped back onto his papa, though instead of using his tickling hands, the child reached his arms out to embrace him.

Louis-Etienne grinned, as he always did when this little song gave his heart this warmth. I love you, my Chanson!

I love you, dear papa!

Perhaps you would like to see another place? Yes? All right.

Through the large wooden doors of one of the elegant apartment buildings near Jardin du Luxembourg and down a corridor was the tenant entrance. Once through, one had the option of going up six flights of stairs. Curiously, happy murmurs combined with harmonious pitter-patters. The sounds came from the first level and straight down the hall, where a door stood charmingly, painted hazy blue. Because you are reading this book and peering into all that is going on, you may enter the home without permission from the tenants.

Inside, the floors leading through the apartment were far from pristine, and there was nothing traditional about the design. Indeed, when stepping into the home of the Fortescues, one would firstly turn his or her eyes upward, encapsulating imagination. Hanging from the tall ceilings, going up two stories in the foyer, following a spiral staircase, were pirate ships, airplanes, and birds attached to long strings. Hung upon other strings were bunches of cotton, representing fluffy clouds. The walls were painted with whimsical watercolor illustrations of animals, and the ceiling was a hazy blue color. Within the fabrication of each surface was imbedded the most beautifully detailed moldings handcrafted in the late 1800s in Paris, when and where the apartment had been built. The delicately masterful designs of flora and fauna were intricately molded as though God’s hand had drawn them in the care that only He could give. It was like a plastered Garden of Eden. There were fireplaces, and the floor was a herringbone parquet design; the rugs were lavishly sheepish, as most of them were fur. Flowers always found a habitat in the house, set in massive vases and scattered everywhere. A grand portion of the bouquets came from performances and premieres. The cordiality planted inside the atmosphere of the home was the notion that everything pleasantly honored childhood while whimsically initiating artistically elegant imagination.

Dear Chanson, with an airplane in his hands, reached over the spiral stair railing to land the plane upon one of the cotton clouds in a down-to-earth fashion. The cloud was nearly a foot and a half away from the railing, though, which made the child’s reach a rather grand effort. In the midst of all this, the child mumbled airplane noises in a lively volume.

Curtis was seated at the top of the stairs with a basket tied to a string, planning on lowering it, as if he were going to form a sort of treehouse game to play with his brother.

Chanson, though, was quite occupied. Oh dear! Captain Randolf! Oh-Um. His voice changed for each character. We seem to have run out of fuel—and the pirate ship is gaining on us! This cloud cannot hold us for much longer! Reaching slightly farther for the cloud, he barely rested the plane upon it. Beware of ice in the cloud, Captain. Don’t worry; our motor will melt it. Huh? Ah!

The airplane was made to fall directly onto a pirate ship; the child made a plunk sound with his lips. Small boys have a marvelous habit of forging realistic sounds while playing. Sh. Perhaps we can jump off the ship before anyone comes. The pilots exited the aircraft to ready themselves to jump to some kind of safety.

Hold on there! a pirate voice said. It was the pirate version of Louis-Etienne, who’d joined his son on the stairs. Argh! What have you got inside that plane, you magicians of the sky? What’s your cargo?

I’m afraid we have no cargo! Chanson spoke for the pilots. We simple ran out of fuel, and—

Aha ha! Argh! If Black Beard’s nostrils were small, he would still sneeze better than you lie!

Chanson turned to his papa with raised eyebrows. What?

Louis-Etienne chuckled. You heard me! Open up that plane, and show us what you’re carrying!

No! Not ever! Chanson grabbed the airplane, making an engine noise, and flew it down the stairs, landing it directly in front of the door. He drove it on the ground like a car, and then it attempted to lift off, but to no avail. Puff, bluff. It drove once again and tried to fly yet failed another time. The child must have known the third time was usually the charm, because the airplane took off. Vroom! Zoom! Vreeem! Chanson made the propeller noise, flying down the corridor, and landed it on the kitchen table, where Lys had just laid out a plate of sliced pears. Oh! Are we safe from the pirates in here, Maman? Chanson snatched a pear slice.

Lys quickly wore a serious face. Those are the pirates who keep ravaging upstairs? Her son nodded. You’re safe in here; don’t worry. She nodded in assurance while wiping her hands on a tea towel.

Louis-Etienne dashed into the kitchen with the pirate ship off the string, forging cannon sounds horrendously. Clouds can no longer hide you, argh-he-hargh-argh! Ha ha!

Ah! Lys screeched. You’ve led them here! She jumped upon a chair, waving a wooden spoon at the toy ship.

Papa, oh! They’ve spotted us! We must break open the cargo so we can fight back!

Louis-Etienne paused. What is your cargo?

Chanson whispered, Pistols, of course. And only the best kind. The pilots will shoot from the windows.

They can’t open their windows while flying. The father tried to educate, taking the plane for a moment. If they did, everything would be sucked out! he said, dashing his hand repeatedly from the small window and away, making a harsh blowing-wind sound to give his son the picture.

Oh. Chanson considered while examining the plane. Well, I suppose I’ve run out of fuel anyway. So the plane can’t fly. He shrugged.

Louis-Etienne chuckled while plopping a pear slice in his mouth. The bell rang just then. That will be Monsieur Pognon. Monsieur Pognon was Curtis’s piano instructor. Come on then. We’ll take it all over to Monsieur Garrigues’s and play there. He kissed his wife. See you later.

What we’ve seen is that nothing was wasted; each moment was spent in a cherishing endeavor. Wednesdays were beautiful things, loving things, caring things, enduring things. Those cherished times endured in Chanson’s and Curtis’s hearts steadfastly. One would think that happiness such as this could not end. However, even something this beautiful can conceivably become like crumbs of bread when least expected. When people contemplate happiness, they tend to wonder on what the foundation of their happiness is. Happiness is a short-lived sort of thing. It is not an emotion, and it cannot abide forever. Happiness is like a blanket, soft and warm, that comes down from heaven to bless you or to ease any pain or grief you’re feeling. The memories of these heavenly blessings continue on for eternity; the love enfolding them never ceases, never fails to care, and never forgets. But the loving happiness of the beautiful family we have observed could end within moments; it could be choked and blocked and hobble along despondently. It could come to a point where all they can do is reach their hearts out to feel the same happiness, all the while losing more of it every time