Petit Mensonge (a little lie)

His eyes wrinkled as he sniffed, his nose wiggling as he inhaled some chocolate powder. His granddaughter giggled and swung her legs, still too short to reach the ground. The pair sat in the café’s prime seat, tucked into the bay window for optimal people watching.

“Papa! Why do noses wiggle?” Chloé asked, tilting her blonde head from side to side as she contemplated the possibilities.

“Eh! How else would they make room for all the smells inside?” He retorted, raising his bushy eyebrow as if to imply that was common knowledge. She nodded; her 6-year-old self-determining this to be a satisfactory response. The old man smirked as he watched her lean in to sniff her own cup, awkwardly wiggling her nose.

Each month he savoured their afternoon together. Today, they had spent time feeding ducks at le Parc Monceau. She had called him that week to send him, informing him he ought to procure some seed for her teacher had told her bread was bad for their stomachs. He had been sure the ducks seemed disappointed in them as they sprinkled seeds around the edge of the pond, probably wondering where they were hiding the bread. At the end of each afternoon, they came to this café to talk and have a drink, cold with ice in the summer and hot with cream in the winter. The chill of this January outing warranted full blown hot chocolate.

“Papa! Where do the ducks sleep at night?” She asked, spooning some melting cream into her mouth.

“Eh! Well, little one, you know the island in the middle of the pond we walk round? And you remember the grass around it.” He asked, receiving vigorous nodding in return. “Well, my dear. You should see inside the grass. It is full of wonderful duck houses, each one painted in the duck’s favourite colour. That said, most of them are green, which makes them hard to spot.”

She stared at him, as she did when she realised something was amiss. “Papa, are you sure?”

The old man held his chest in anguish. “Mais Chloé! You imply I would lie to you, my only granddaughter whom I love and cherish with all my heart!”

Chloé remained sceptical about the ducks but knew her grandfather loved her, and so decided to break the stalemate by putting cream on her nose and giggling more. He beamed and copied her.

“Papa!” She said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “Sometimes people do tell lies. I’ve caught them.”

“Oh?” The old man sat straight while he sipped his drink. “That is a serious accusation! Do you have proof?”

The girl sat straight, shuffling on her seat to try and get taller, her brow furrowing to show how serious she was. “Papa. I would not lie about this. It was the teacher.”

The old man looked shocked. “The teacher! It was not about the ducks, was it?”

“No. I think the duck thing was true. Bread does get bigger in water. I tested it in the bath.” She informed him. “But she lies about Marco. 3 days ago, I saw her put a sandwich in Marco’s desk.”

“A sandwich?” The grandfather leaned closer, intrigued. “Go on.”

“Yes! A sandwich! I came back to the classroom at breaktime for I had left my skipping rope. Before she saw me, I saw her lift the lid of Marco’s desk and put the sandwich in. I asked her what she was doing, and she said, ‘oh nothing.’ Nothing! Papa! I saw her!” The girl’s eyes were set.

The grandfather thought about this as he looked out the window. Two women pushing prams had stopped to talk in the street. One reached into her pram to tuck the blankets around the baby a little more, defending it from the cold air. “What type of sandwich?”

“Papa. I don’t think that is a very serious question.” Chloé replied most unimpressed. “It’s not just the sandwich, I’ve seen other things.”

“Oh? Such as?”

“I saw her tuck a pair of gloves into Marco’s pockets. I had been going to the bathroom and saw she had come out of the classroom to where we kept the jackets. Marco’s is the red thin one, too thin for the snow. I don’t know why his Mama doesn’t put him in a thicker one.” The girl said, taking great care not to spill her chocolate as she took a sip. “She told me he had dropped them, but he hadn’t been wearing gloves outside. And then there was the time she ticked his name on the list of people who paid for the zoo trip. He didn’t take his money to the front of the class, but she had ticked his name anyway. I said to her ‘teacher, there has been a mistake’ but she lied to me saying there was no mistake and told me to sit down.”

The grandfather nodded slightly. “I see. You have beady eyes, little one. Nothing escapes you.”

“Nope. I am like the story of the hawk you told me. My eyes are sharp.” She mimicked the soaring of a bird as she held out her arms.

“Tell me about this Marco. Is he a good boy?” The grandfather asked.

“Well.” The girl put her elbows onto the table and pushed her cheeks together as she thought about the boy. The grandfather could see her thinking about his merits. Ready to give her answer, she leaned back. “Marco is good at writing, but he always needs to borrow a pencil. He is very fast, so the others like to pick him first in sports. I think it is because he is skinny.”

The grandfather was impressed how perceptive Chloé was at just 6 years old. Nothing escaped children. On hearing more about the boy, he was sure he recognised him. Just to check, he asked. “The family name, it is Rochette?”

“Yes, Papa! Do you know him?”

“I know his mother.” He replied earnestly. She worked at the boulangerie near his home, a kind woman. They talked in snippets when he was shopping and, on realising Chloé and Marco were classmates, had exchanged details on this and that. She had 2 other children younger than Marco. The father had died in war. She took on laundry as extra income (the grandfather had made sure to take his suits to her in support, a gesture returned with a free macaroon tucked into his shopping bag).

“Little one,” The grandfather looked to her. “Do you feel like your teacher is being bad?”

The girl looked back confused, having not considered this before. “Well. Lying is wrong. But…”

“Yes?” He asked encouragingly.

“The things she does, they are nice things. Marco did need gloves. His hands had been blue when it snowed. He sometimes doesn’t have lunch with him.” The girl reviewed her evidence and came to understand her grandfather’s question. “No. The teacher is not being bad. But then why Papa? Why does she lie?”

“Ah, Chloé. You have come across something that adults do. We are not proud of this, oh no! But sometimes we do this out of kindness. We call it ‘petit mensonge’, to tell a white lie.”

“A white lie?”

“Yes, little one. Your teacher is lying, yes. But she is doing this out of kindness. She is helping Marco in secret as to not embarrass him in front of your whole class. How cruel it would be to shout ‘Marco! You have forgotten gloves again!’ in front of everyone! Some people need help sometimes, for Marco that time is now.” He explained. “She had not anticipated such a beady hawk as yourself will have noticed her actions, oh non. You are too crafty! Too clever! Little one, do you think we should we be angry at these types of lies?”

The girl hesitated and the grandfather could see the dilemma cross her face. She had always been told not to lie, the world had been black and white. He had introduced her a grey area, a whole new sea of morality to navigate. She answered slowly. “I do not think so. She is lying to look after him. The lies are not spiteful. It is not ideal. She shouldn’t have to lie, but if it to help someone out I suppose… then I will help her too. I will not tell anyone else Papa.”

He grinned at her. He was amazed at the wisdom children possessed. There was no malice, no underhanded reason behind her questions. Just curiosity. “I would agree with you. Come, let us finish up before the chocolate gets cold!”

They drained the cups, the grandfather paid their bill and bid au revoir to the café.

“Papa?”

“Yes, little one?”

“Do you think Marco would like a macaroon tomorrow at breaktime?” She asked him, sliding her mittened hand into his own.

“I think that sounds very kind, Chloé. Come, I know the perfect boulangerie.”