NEPHI PART II

CHAPITRE III-THE HOLY FAMILY
(El Greco, oil on canvas, 16OO.)

"Crab, you are under pressure, your nerves may play a dirty trick on you this week, and they may even bother you during your activities. Strains at home could provoke a slight emotional upheaval, all the more as Neptune's conflicting influences will bring you down! Try to turn the nefarious tide by taking a sound break, and by considering life as a game, not as a fight o as an endless tragedy."

We were now less than one mile away from Nephi when I nervously switched off the radio. I didn’t need to consider my life as a tragedy, since it was already a tragedy. That was the big difference. In the manner of Antigone or Andromaque , I was beat down by misfortune, this inevitable and unrelenting strength against which I could not fight.

“I’ve tried so hard. But holding out is vain
I give myself up blindly to this ecstasy.”

While arriving to this so-called promise land, the tragic dimension of my existence suddenly took a different turn when my eyes fell on the City sign. Decorated with three star-spangled banners and the engraving of a pathetic wooden cart, the City sign was proudly indicating: Nephi City, Juab County - The Friendly City at the Crossroads of Utah - Population: 5,408. Even if Karen, during the two weeks before our departure, had several times referred to the “city” of Nephi, I had naively believed her. Yet, it was far from being the case. Nephi wasn’t a city, neither a small town, even not a hamlet, but just a vast cultivated plain, crossed over by the Interstate 15. Lost on the right side of the roadway, a polystyrene snowman with a black top hat seemed to call the attention by rocking frantically back and forth. He was holding an ice-cream cone on which was written: Fros T Freez, the best ice-cream maker in the town. But the store seemed to have shut up a long time ago. The visitor in passing was only accompanied by this ghostly presence whose look was nearly begging, such as dogs abandoned on holiday roads. We stopped at the only two stoplights. The city center, a meeting point where a handful of food stores and farm machinery firms were fighting over the place, seemed unreal to me. On the walls of the City Hall, an old red-bricked structure, there was a sign giving notice that the following Saturday, a big re-enactment with costumes of the first Mormon pioneers exodus to Salt Lake Valley would take place. A fascinating saga with migrant convoys and handcart companies guaranteed a black and white poster on which could be seen two women wrapped in makeshift blankets and snuggled up the one against the other under the wheels of an old wooden cart. I was bombarded by a first anguish flash. I was expecting the set-designer to come up with his assistants and remove this pasteboard set, this badly reconstructed Godforsaken place in the heart of the American West, only populated with peasants wearing muddy boots and talking with a pronounced accent. The Hummer driving through the village became the attraction of the day. Most of the bumpkins had stopped their activities to watch the car drive up the main road, in ecstasy at the sight of this means of transport different from all the agricultural farm tractors, or manure spreaders. When two old toothless men waved at us as if they tried to establish a first peaceful contact, I nodded in vexation, and my attention was drawn by the Bed and Breakfast in the corner: a two-storey Victorian mansion which architecture was as fragile and flimsy as a wedding cake groaning under the weight of meringues. Just before leaving the city-center, my mother’s prospective place of worship stood up before us: a modern structure, a mix of wood and rocks bridged over by several sloping roofs. A big car park was meant to welcome the faithful, but at this time of the day, it was nearly unattended. While driving up to the North, the residential houses – pleasant maisonettes with pink roofs and surrounded by sober white gates – were becoming scarce. As far as the eyes could see, there were fields of cereals everywhere. So, Nephi, I concluded with resentment, was limited to a succession of agricultural parcels dotted with barns and to Mount Nebo, the mountain chain overhanging the village which snowy peaks rose to the sky as if they were trying to pierce it. Before the car left the main road to go into an uneven dirt track, my mother deemed necessary to tell me that Mormon pioneers settled here in 1851, and first called the place Salt Creek, name inspired from a brook flowing along the village, then renaming it Nephi, forename of a prophet in the Book of Mormon. Agriculture and livestock farming had always been important in the area, but the settlers, first of all, had worked the salt mines in the East.

“Fascinating” I said, sighing in an exaggerated way. “Maybe you should tell me about the last census report too?”
“Later” she answered, absent-minded. She kept staring at the thick spruce forest surrounding the path we had just taken.

Under the influence of the wind, black trunks, like threatening skeletons, were leaning the ones towards the others. It made me feel breathless. We arrived at nightfall; the sky looked sad, swept by a drizzle which had been falling since our departure from Kanab. The narrow and muddy path finally opened into a clearing; in its center, I managed to discern, in the growing darkness, a construction with a wooden façade. Quite imposing but harmonious, the house was composed of a central structure, to which had been added, as time went by, two lateral extensions. All the exterior walls had been washed in soft gray by rain and wind, and there were a lot of windows, bay-windows and skylights with thin white frames. An awning with large balustrades surrounded the house. I was quite baffled by the very traditional, if not blatantly, rustic style of the house. I was also anxious to see there was no civilization around. No close neighborhood; we only were surrounded by the forest opening onto a cold and dark sky. Two American rusty cars were parked behind the plastic greenhouses next to the house. In an enclosure, in the background, two horses were peacefully grazing. My hands were desperately stuck on the steering wheel and my eyes staring both at the thin layer of mist developing around the house and at the shadows I could distinguish inside. While Karen was bustling about taking the suitcases out of the boot, the front door half-opened in a sharp bang. Thanks to the lights of the car, I could identify a male silhouette, with pepper-and-salt hair, a prominent chin and vigorous arms strongly hugging my mother. I took the opportunity to take a discreet look at him. Quite tall, he had a bony face with expressive features; there was a large smile on it. With his bright white shirt and his dark blue corduroy trousers, he symbolized the very image of the devoted smiling puritan father, and the world champion of moral values. The kind of man sound in body and mind, socially integrated and for whom the notion of patriotism still made sense. When Kaiser saw those effusions of happiness, he finally showed up from the back seat, barking loudly. I was forced to get off the car to free the animal from his dog harness. Then I felt a firm and vigorous hand on my shoulder. Jacob made a slight gesture to hug me, but I stepped back as if I had undergone an electric shock.

“Blair, here you are, at last! I’m pleased to meet you” he exclaimed with joy.

Silent, I doggedly kept staring at the ground.

“This must be a sudden change for you, but my children and I will make the most for you to integrate our family” he added with a reassuring voice.
“Thank you sir” I mumbled.
“You can call me Jacob.”

He stared for a quick moment at my T-shirt dedicated to the Sex Pistols – there, Anarchy was written on it in blood letters – then he took some of our stuff out of the boot. Karen and he headed for the house while discussing the different stages of our journey. Trying to swallow my tears on the verge to run, I followed them inside. We entered a long corridor, not well-lit. The walls were papered with a green that reminded a hospital hall, and a lot of parkas and jackets were hanging from a dying hallstand. A double glass-door opened on the living-room: a spacious room where walls and the inclined ceiling – like in a cathedral – were decorated with cream-colored panelling and gave to this place an assured purity. Two rectangular windows surrounded the fireplace in front of me; a fire was smouldering in it. A pair of old oars was fixed above the hearth. A glass coffee table, on which were arranged numerous books, was separating two couches ornamented with several odd cushions. A worn carpet was half-covering the wooden honey-colored floor. Toys were dragging around the room. A curly hobby-sheep and a series of teddy bears had been placed next to a photo of the grandparents, I presumed. On the varnished wooden chest of drawers next to the door, a China statuette representing an angel blowing in a trumpet called my attention. It took me a moment to remind the Mormons did not use the Christian cross as a symbol, as the Latter-day Saints preferred the idea of Christ resurrected and alive. The most common symbol was the angel Moroni proclaiming the gospel. While I was inspecting everything, I could feel the bustle behind me. When I slightly turned around, I came face to face with the other members of the Wilkes family. They were all lined up, at attention, with their shining faces smelling soap and sincerity. Girls as much as boys were spotless, well-combed, and trim: They were looking like a living poster praising the merits of the Mormon religion. The very image of the American model family. Jacob made a slight smile and started the introductions:

“Blair, let me introduce you to the members of your new family. Ladies first, let’s start with my sister Mary who has been living with us for three years now.”

He pointed a little middle-aged woman; she was overweight and had a red and chubby face which showed she was curious about me. She made me think of the kind of women you can see on Botero ’s works: women with inordinate curves aiming to celebrate sensual pleasure. She quickly wiped her hands on her striped apron before grabbing mine and wished me a warm “Welcome to the family”. Her askew eyebrows raised up, stupefied as Kaiser went to sniff her ankles.

“Is he dangerous?” She asked me, without stopping watching Kaiser’s swinging tail with her round and anxious eyes.
“It depends” I answered, unblinking.
“On what?”
“On how often I feed him. If he eats less than once a week, the sight of flesh can give him unrestrained needs.”

When I saw her suffering in silence, I decided to put an end to this torture and asked Kaiser to come next to me.

“Baby, come here.”

When she heard that sweet name, Mary held back her surprise. For sure, my so-called baby was a carnivore with an impressive musculature.
Jacob, always blissfully smiling, went on:

“Alright. Here is my older daughter, Elisabeth, fifteen years old.”

Quite pretty, with her brown thick curls around her freckled face, Elisabeth gave me a courteous nod.

“Now, it’s Anna’s turn, the shy one” he went on while a small blond plaited girl wearing a shirt with a collar came timidly next to me.

She gave to me a portrait of Karen and I – that’s what I thought: a series of shapeless hieroglyphs on which I could barely distinguish any human shape.

“And finally, Maggy and Sarah, the twins, four years old recently.”

I could see, hidden behind Mary’s skirt, two cherubs with pink cheeks and malicious look. I waved briefly at them; I tried no to get closer, as the unpredictable reactions of those little things caused, most of the time, fear and distress.

“As far as the family male representatives are concerned, according to primogeniture, I’ll start with Joseph.”

Jacob proudly introduced him as being his second-in-command at home, his right-hand man, the one upon whom he could rely at anytime. He had a long face and brown clear dishevelled hair. Thick eyebrows came to outline his biting and severe steel-blue eyes. A slight scar could be seen at the arch of this left eyebrow. He briefly welcomed me without abandoning his inflexible look, which made me think of an undertaker. When I hold him out my hand, I saw him staring at the cross tattooed on my wrist and he lingered on it as if it was the seal of the Devil. He was the typical kind of boy whose only entertainment was to translate pages of Sanskrit or play “The Enchanted Christmas” on his flute. Then Jacob introduced me to Joshua, the youngest. He was a brown-haired boy with a baby face and bulging pectoral muscles. He smiled waggishly at me and kept looking at my pack of cigarettes coming up shyly out of my pocket, amused.The torture ended when Jacob asked Elisabeth to show me round the house. She complied with his request like a good soldier, happy to do a good thing for the community. Downstairs, there were the dining-room, the living-room, the kitchen, the parents’ bedroom and the twins’ bedroom.
The stairs, made of solid wood, started in the corridor and led to the second floor where there were Mary’s, Joshua’s, Elisabeth’s and Anna’s bedrooms. The fitting of the four bedrooms was exactly the same, that’s to say beds like hospital corners, shabby closets, pine chest of drawers and old ceiling lights. No unnecessary decoration, the bare minimum. Then another stairs, narrower this time, led to the third and last floor of the house, in the attic. One last floor with three rooms: a bathroom and two bedrooms – mine and Joseph’s. Mine, or rather the attic room I was supposed to settle in, could be summed up to a wrought iron bed with flaking off paint, an ugly and faded eiderdown on it, an unstable closet – which would only contain a quarter of my clothes – and finally a desk that seemed to have belonged to several members of the family, considering the colored marks on it. Two narrow and dirty skylights were the only lighting of this small room. I wasn’t used to such a sobriety. From then on, I would be accommodated in a cramped room like the ones they gave to servants or bohemian artists in France. I visited it as if I was in the christian Catacombs of Rome or the quarries of Paris. When the door closed behind me and I was by myself at last, a mass of feelings harassed me: anger, sadness and despair. Suddenly, I held a grudge against the whole world: against my mother for getting mixed up in this community, against my father for doing nothing to prevent her from doing so, against this Mormon and his family to impose me a uninteresting life. When I lay down on the bed, the gloomy grating of the box springs increased tenfold my silent cries. I remained overwhelmed on my bed, staring at the enormous sloping ceiling, and I thought of one of my father’s favourite quotations:

“Life itself, too, is forever turning an infinitely vacant, dispiriting blank side towards man on which nothing appears, any more than it does on a blank canvas. But no matter how vacant and vain, how dead life may appear to be, the man of faith, of energy, of warmth, who knows something, will not be put off so easily .”

The distant chiming of a bell resounded one hour later in the whole house. I cast a quick glance at my watch: it was around 7 p.m. I concluded this rural ring was the rallying signal for dinner, like the shepherd trying to gather his stray sheep. When I went downstairs to the dining-room, a few minutes later, the whole family was in a curious posture.Stiff as pokers around the table, arms crossed, head down, every one of them was totally engaged in private prayer. Joseph and his father presided over it. Jacob smiled at me and showed me the empty seat next to Joshua.
“Blair, I would like to tell you in a few words some of the precepts of our religion, which guide us in our everyday life.”

Jacob was used to, as I was about to find out quite quickly, launching into long didactic speeches on whatever subjects he considered as interesting.

“Prayer is a very important and vital belief of Latter-day Saints because it is how we communicate with God and how he sometimes communicates with us. We address Him as our Heavenly Father because He is the father of our spirits. After opening the prayer we tell our Father in Heaven what we are thankful for our home, family, health, the earth, and other blessings and we close the prayer by saying, "In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen”. If you wish” he said “you can join us and thank Heavenly Father for your arrival in our home.”

I hardly refrained from explaining what I thought of my arrival in this house, and the only thing I did was listening to the short oration they all delivered with one voice – included Karen. As soon as the prayer ended, Mary, who seemed to be responsible for the preparation of everyone meals, put on the table a red cast-iron stockpot out of which a queer smell came. Jacob felt the need to tell me something when he saw the gesture I couldn’t hide as I felt sickened.

“Blair, you must know we also follow some daily food restrictions. The first one is what we call the Word of Wisdom: a health code based on the scripture. The scripture discourages "hot drinks" such as coffee and tea, the non-medicinal use of tobacco, the consumption of wine or "strong drinks", and the consumption of meat, except sparing use only in time of winter or famine. The scripture also recommends the consumption of herbs, fruits, and grains”.
“Yes and scientific studies have confirmed the positive effects of obedience to the Word of Wisdom. The Church members who follow religious mandates barring smoking and drinking have one of the lowest death rates from cancer and cardiovascular diseases about half that of the general population,” Joseph added before sitting down too.

Once this litany on the beneficial effects of feeding in the Mormon country ended, Mary took off the dish top, such as an artist revealing her last work of art. A kind of thick magma was simmering inside.

“These are some home-made mashed broccolis” she proudly declared.

I remained stunned, staring at this foul mud steaming in my plate. While the twins seemed to enjoy this greenish mixture, I fiddled with the mashed broccolis with my fork without resolving to swallow a mouthful of it. They were talking about the countless wonders of Bryce Canyon. The breaking point was close. I wasn’t able to pretend anymore. Apologizing with a barely inaudible voice, I left the table and ran to find refuge under the porch, in spite of the piercing cold. A stranger without any landmarks or roots, that’s what I had become within forty-eight hours. I was like an uprooted animal meant to wonder on lands which were not mine. There were gusts of wind blowing from the depths of the surrounding forest, and they echoed back to my night complaint. I only got back to my bedroom once all the lights of the living-room had all been switched off. My first night in Nephi was troubled, regulated by the thud of the storm rumbling in the distance. The dribbling of raindrops on the roof refused to become a simple background noise. The breeze of the storm and the darkness of the night prevented me from sleeping nearly all night long. The daylight, showing through the shutters, served as an alarm clock. Still dazed by the sleepless night and a two-day trek, I had to make a big effort to concentrate and remember the reason why I was lying in this frozen piece of attic. The events gradually resumed their chronological order. I strained my ear. No noise could be heard in the house. Everything appeared to be quiet. Strangely quiet. I gave myself a few more minutes under my quilt before making up my mind and going downstairs to have breakfast. I was delighted to discover the whole “Saint Family” was at the church service on this Sunday morning, and they wouldn’t be home before noon, as the little note on the bar in the kitchen was indicating. I decided to take advantage of my brief solitude to dig out something correct to eat. The oatmeal cookies in full view in a plate were quickly swallowed despite their quite puzzling taste. Wondering in the kitchen like a wild animal searching for food, unabashed, I opened every drawer and door, inspected the fridge and finally ended up in the scullery in front of canned goods and water storage containers; this food was what the devotees had to stock at home in order to hold out against a possible apocalypse. So, the scullery looked more like a fortified camp than a simple room for canned foods stocking. We could have supported a siege in the midst of these stacks of food bags, these water bottles and tubs full of imperishable food.

An uncontrollable craving for a cappuccino with a cloud of milk dragged me out of this silent contemplation of overloaded shelves. I was a big coffee drinker, and from then on I had unfortunately to consider an intense weaning, which would not happen without any withdrawal symptoms. With a glass of milk in my hand, I finally cuddled up in one of the two couches in the living-room and grabbed a magazine (New Era) on the low-slung coffee table. There were notes on several pages; one of them was consecrated to the progress of Sunday services which the Wilkes family was attending this morning. I learnt the primary family worship service was called sacrament meeting. This meeting was held in chapels and lasted approximately one hour. It consisted of hymns, prayers, partaking of the sacrament and speakers and was preceded or followed by others Sunday meetings such as Primary meetings, Sunday school classes, Relief Society meetings or Priesthood meetings. Appropriate dress standards which included suits, sport coats, and ties for the men and dresses or skirts for the women were advised. While putting the weekly magazine down on the table, I wondered why Karen had had this sudden fit for faith. These late devotion and need to believe were surprising me somewhat. Maybe my mother hoped finding the answers to existential questions inherent to the human condition: the meaning of life, dread of death? For my part, just like Marx or Nietzsche , I compared religion to the expression of ignorance and credulity, a simple illusion supplying with human weakness and misfortune. When she came back from church, Karen found me standing in front of the chimney. She kissed me before asking me if I had had a good night. I nodded as an answer, while Mary bustled about cooking in the kitchen and boys, who remained outside, inspected the chromium-plated rims of the Hummer. When I saw Elisabeth laying the table, I offered to help her.

“You want me to give a hand?”
“Yes, thanks, plates are in the sideboard behind you. The service was fantastic this morning. We broached the subjects of obedience and sacrifice with Elder Andrew. He is such a brilliant and honest man” she added in a low voice.

My only answer was an absent smile.

“By the way, Elder Nathaniel is coming to visit us this afternoon. He is one of the church representatives, and he comes every month to look after our home teaching.”
“What is it about?” I asked her, suspiciously.
“Home teachers are in charge of the temporal and spiritual well-being of families in the community. They have to visit regularly members, show them affection, teach the Gospel and encourage them to open their heart to God. They also give aid to members stricken by illness, death, loneliness, unemployment or simply members who need anything.”
“Well, I happen to be in good health and have nice people around me. So I think I am in a position to abstain from a two-hour study of Scripture” I commented ironically.
“Anyway Blair, you’ll make us happy by joining us” Karen added, with a meaningful look in my direction.
“Indeed, the subject of personal sacrifice has been having a place of honor these days” I said, lining plates up on the table.

The dinner was less trying than the last one, and I managed to swallow a few mouthful of carrots gratin with cumin, cooked by our chef. Before Elder Nathaniel arrived, I decided to allow myself a cigarette break as I reckoned only smoking could help me face those approaching long hours. In spite of the cold, I went out under the porch and sat on one of the washed-out benches. The first puff relaxed me very soon. I closed my eyes and tried to leave aside the bustle inside the house. I felt someone next to me without opening my eyes. Joseph was staring at me, with a disapproving look.

“You shouldn’t smoke, it’s not good for your health.” he exclaimed.
“Hum, quite a good slogan, but you should insist more on the great numbers of cases of cancer, of cardiovascular disease and other lung disease which kill, every year, millions of people around the world, I answered, while blowing a thick cloud of smoke in his direction. And don’t forget to talk about danger of second-hand smoke: more than 5,000 deaths a year.”

Sarah’s cries interrupted this short dialogue. When Joseph disappeared inside, I sank down onto the bench, against the cushions. I noticed how much the forest gave that stifling sensation, as if the house and its people were held prisoner, without any connection outside. I remained there, gazing at the landscape, until a shower made me beat a retreat. While the storm started rumbling outside for a few minutes now, a wind gust made the front door open sharply. There stood an imposing shadow draped with a long black coat. At the same moment, a lightning struck the ground and casted a bright - nearly blinding - halo around the tall silhouette. This spectral spook seemed to me worth of a scene in “The Exorcist”, in which I had the main role: the little girl possessed by the Devil. Elder Nathaniel was responsible for getting rid of the Devil in me with holy water and reading extracts from the Bible. I could already imagine him invoking the protection of God almighty by agitating under my nose a talisman with miraculous properties, sulfur sticks or candles. Maybe he would be obliged to sacrifice one or two hens on the kitchen table to fight the supreme evil. Yet, as I could discover it quite quickly, Elder Nathaniel had nothing to do with an exorcist. He turned out to be as boring as virtue and as sad as rain. Short-sighted, with a slow and muffled voice, he began my religious education by teaching me the pious origins of Nephi. Staring at the kitchen clock – I had been isolated from the whole family – I tried by different ways to keep my eyes opened while Elder Nathaniel fondly launched into the lesson of the day:

“Blair, first of all, you have to know Nephi is the name of three characters in the Book of Mormon.”

My brain was on standby mode when the screed consecrated to prophets started. With an eye as sharp as the one of a young partridge at death’s door, I was watching Elisabeth and Joshua immersed in a ridiculous game of drawing from the Gospel whereas Karen and Jacob tried to answer to a very existential question: “What does “building upon the Rock of Christ” mean? Elder Nathaniel’s speech then centered on the key-passages of Mormon History, Joseph Smith’s visions and Brigham Young’s journey through plains in North America. Fortunately, his slight stuttering helped me not to fall completely asleep. When he finally left, visibly pleased with his action, he patted on my shoulders and gave me that enigmatic advice:

“In order to end that studious afternoon with you, I let you consider one of main precepts of our religion: the four C’s of the Mormon family: Chastity, Conjugality, Chauvinism and Children.”

His departure was a real relief for me. No more systematic head-shaking as a silent approval or no more blissful smiles to hide my boredom. Soon, I went up to my bedroom. The prospect of having to face my first day in class the next day did not exactly thrill me. My arrival in the middle of the semester in a new high school seemed to me one of the most traumatizing experiences for any ordinary teenagers. That night, I suffered from insomnia; my sleep was haunted by dreadful visions. Even Elder Nathaniel made a brief appearance. In the main scene, which took place in the bathroom, he kept my head under water in spite of my repeated pleas, screaming cleanness was close to holiness. The next morning, the alarm clock rang much too early for me. From the depths of my bed, I could distinctly hear the noises of the house getting up: slamming doors, clinking plates, rising voices. This early bustle put me immediately in a bad mood. I brought the old bedspread and the pillow over my head but it was no use. It took me over ten minutes to make up my mind, get up and rush in the shower. The bathroom door was wide open; which meant Joseph, whom I had to share the room with, had been there before me. I went in half-heartedly. The smell of male perfume filling the room made me feel I was entering a universe which was not mine. The bathroom, quite spartan, consisted of only one brownstone washbowl surmounted by a mural mirror, and a shower which curtain – with a delicate sea theme – was a real rag. A sliding closet and an ugly red plastic clothes hamper were the only furniture in the room. I finally got undressed as soon as possible and rushed under the burning hot water. My battledress had been ready since the day before: a woollen dress, a gray cashmere jacket and a pair of riding boots. According to me, the way I was dressed implied seriousness, kindness, courtesy and strictness. It meant: “No, I am not a stupid Californian girl with a breast bigger than the State of Colorado, and yes, I know the value of Pi”. Nearly reassured, I went down to join the rest of the troop for breakfast. Except the twins who were not awoken yet, the whole family was together around the dining-room table. Not feeling like blending in with this noisy gathering, I caught a cereal bowl and went to isolate myself in the living-room. Once the last nugget swallowed, I put back the bowl in the sink and grabbed my schoolbag. Outside, it was still drizzling; Consternation made way to the deepest dismay when I discovered the means of transport which was supposed from then on to drop me off in front of the high school gate every morning: a hideous leaf-green pick-up carved with many scratches and impacts. An imposing steal beast halfway between the tank and the super tanker. This was a model similar to our former gardener’s, José-Miguel, which he used to bring the dead branches to the dump. On the back window, I noticed a squalid sticker on which was written in golden letters: “In God we trust”. Stricken by the sight of the car, I did not hesitate to express my anger:

“There’s absolutely no way I can go to high school in a commercial van marked with a patriotic motto” I shouted.

My future fellow travellers stared at me as if I had just pronounced a virulent speech on social policy or if I had launched into a criticism of the basis of the Keynesian thought.

“Maybe my lordship would like me to tether the stagecoach for her, unless six miles on a draft horse should attract her more?” retorted Joseph, pointing out the paddock behind me.

I pretended not to hear his remark and shrugged my shoulders.

“Don’t you own another vehicle, more presentable than this wreck? Let me remind you the car is one of the main means to situate ourselves socially. On this day back to school, I really don’t want to look like a member of a beekeepers family, whose name would be Brittany and who would be forced to wait for welfare benefits to dress correctly.”
“Sorry, Cinderella, but times are tough… either you kindly get in our wreck, or you’ll walk to high school in the rain.”

Joseph did not give me any time to answer and vigorously got up into the old crate. Not having any choice, I sat down besides him in the front seat, and showed my dissatisfaction by slamming the car door very noisily such as a repudiated queen. While I was obstinately staring at the causeway, Joseph switched on the CD player. A first song with a celtic-folk tone invaded the car. First of all, I did not pay attention to the lyrics, but quickly a man with a crystalline voice, accompanied with a bass guitar, started singing the chorus:

“Let us sing a song for Jesus,
For the holy little one;
Let us bring a song of gladness
To our Heav’nly Father’s Son”

I grabbed the CD case in front of me. A best of rock-Christian songs: that was what I was listening to. A Happy Family, Follow the Prophets, He sent his son, so many titles entirely consecrated to the glory of God. I soon put an end to this inappropriate attempt of evangelism by switching off the CD player.
“Sorry, but I reckon I’ve suffered enough for the whole week. This co-called music for young modern Mormons is getting to my nerves.”
“Facts are so kindly presented…” said Joseph, amused, while glancing at his brother and sister in the rear-view mirror.The high school was only a few miles from the house. On the road, spread out perpetual cereal fields: a plain and monotonous landscape where the eyes could only meet the sky. We quickly arrived in front of an austere building with a patriotic flag and a ridiculous board on which a huge bee – visibly the symbol of the area – was posing as a super hero, and welcomed you to the high school of the Juab County. Square-shaped, with rigorous lines and angles, the façade of the building displayed a very bleak red-brown colour. A series of floor lamps surrounded the place like a watchtower in a prisoner camp. A few yards away, the sports ground was opening out in the middle of a verdant grass. In the background, Mount Nebo and its permanent snow kept watch over the area. The car park was already packed at this hour of the day. I left regretfully the overheated cabin of the car and followed Joseph and the others on the tarmac path, lined with shrubs and awkwardly cut hedges. Once the front doors crossed, we arrived in an endless hall where never-ending lockers were facing each other. On the ugly beige walls were the inevitable posters announcing, in a jumble, the very soon track meet between the Juab bees and the Richfield wild cats; a photography competition on the subversive subject of the beauty of fall and the last publication of the Clarion, the high school newspaper. The area was already swarming about: the deafening rumpus before classes began. Everywhere, pupils were bustling, chatting noisily, and shouting without reason. With its crumbing walls, its oily linoleum, its lockers dating from the last ice age and its often broken down coffee machine, this place seemed to me a combination of all the stereotypes linked to State high schools. From it came out an impression of sadness, a muddy melancholy which was constantly maintained by an endless rain. Even the few teachers I met in the halls seemed tired by those two-month classes since the beginning of the year. They trudged from one room to another like a group of walruses on the white ice-floe. As far as the students were concerned, those at which I dared looking, they turned out to be ordinary, of a stunning ordinariness. They were the very image of the average American youth, image of teenagers with white complexion who had never crossed the line of their own state, convinced that the Earth would stop rotating if they left Nephi and its vast wheat fields. Curious eyes – almost worried – stared at me when I headed for the admissions office to get my schedule and textbooks back. Such as Vasco de Gama discovering Indies and its remote tribes, I stepped in unexplored territories in the middle of wild children hardly civilized. Whereas Elizabeth wished me good luck for my first day in classes, the boys quickly joined up with their respective group of friends without looking at me. In the admissions office, two middle-aged women were standing behind the counter, enjoying a hot coffee. While I made my presence known by a subtle cough, far from interrupting their conversation, I heard the first one complaining about painful heartburns, placing the responsibility on the mutton eaten the day before. I waited patiently until the two gossips deigned to care about me.

“You are?” finally one of the two asthmatic vixens facing me asked me coldly.
“Aquarius, Pisces ascendant, third decan, to be precise” I answered in a bad mood.

Irritated, she sighed like a rhino ready to charge while drumming with her nails on the table, as if she was in a hurry.

“Blair Campbell. I’m the new registered student in your nice school and I’d like to get my schedule back.”

The red-haired woman with purple eyelids reminded me of the series of portraits by Andy Warhol: Ten Liz. We could see Elizabeth Taylor on ten different backgrounds, with a very pale face; only wearing make-up on her eyes and lips. Then the clerk rummaged through one of the drawers in the metallic closet on her left and took from it a pile of papers which was visibly for me.

“Well, the first two documents must be filled in and brought to me within the week, without fail. The blue paper is your schedule and the pink one is the map of the building.”

She stopped talking and injected in her left nostril the content of a pocket spray, then resumed her explanations.

“Thank you for not losing anything, as no duplicate will be delivered. Any questions?”

Without waiting for my answer, she sat down and resumed her conversation with her colleague.

“Thank you for your kindness ladies; looking forward to seeing you!”

Closing the door behind me, I wondered why the head office had put these two women at the admissions office whose sense of welcome was as high as a prison guard’s. Mysteries of federal bureaucracy! According to what was written on the blue paper, as understandable as a mono-alphabetical cipher, I had a history lesson in the room 7, level 1, building 2. I quite easily found it. Holding my breath, I stepped in, steady and decided, and headed towards Mr Muller, my history teacher. Without knowing why, I quickly likened him to this little mammal from Zaire, the okapi, of which I had caught a brief glimpse a few weeks before, in a wildlife TV report. His colorful suit and his disproportionately long neck reminded me of the striped rump and the giraffe-face of that animal. Absorbed by my observations, I barely heard him requiring silence.

“Young people, today I’d like to introduce a new student in our class.”

I was nervously fiddling the golden amulet hanging at my wrist before introducing myself.

“Hello, my name is Blair, I’m 17 and I come from Santa Monica in California.”

Timid welcomes came to me from the back of the class. This short scene gave me the impression to be part of an Alcoholics Anonymous support group. I almost added I had been sober for fifteen days but I abstained from any sarcastic remarks on that new school day. Mr Muller pointed out a seat in the first row and started his lesson on American Civilisation. Immersed in the Civil War (the battle of Bull Run), I jumped when the bell indicating the 45-minute lesson was over suddenly rang. A tall brown-haired girl with prominent cheekbones and eager lips came to sit in front of my desk. While skilfully handling her mobile phone, she stroke up a conversation.

“Hi, my name is Jane. I know what it is to introduce yourself in front of the whole class. I experienced it two years ago. Besides, I made a lot of nightmares. In the last one, Mr Muller had his chest as hairy as a toy puddle and licked his lips while staring at me. That must be an Oedipus complex hard to come to terms with.”
“Indeed!” I answered, bewildered.
“What is your next lesson?” she asked me, not letting any obvious logic leading our discussion.
“Maths.”
“Perfect. Let me escort you.”

While crossing the maze of halls, Jane explained she and her family had left Atlanta two years before to settle in Nephi where her father had opened a medical practice in the city-center. The way she dressed – a pink bustier barely hiding her ample bosom – and the way she used her make-up – a carmine lipstick and black kohl applied like an Egyptian sovereign – made me think that she was not part of the Mormons. This girl, very talkative, seemed to me nice straight away, and I kept hanging around with her, happy to have found a person quite wholesome in this high school. So, we went together to the cafeteria where an impressive queue had been formed in front of the self service.

“Do you mind eating with my brother and his friends?” she asked me pro-forma.
“Not at all, I’m so pleased to meet young people with sound mind!”
“Difficult family context? I know, don’t worry. Just a bad moment and it will be soon fixed.”

I was served a slice of chicken pie next to a crumble with a strange color, and followed Jane to one of the isolated tables near the emergency exit.

“Blair, this is Owen, my brother.”

She pointed out the taller boy sitting in front of me. Quite well-built, dull-faced, his hair wisely combed, Owen removed his sunglasses and winked intently at me. He made me think of a pale copy of those young Puerto Rican crooners who, during summer, were number one in charts, and swayed wildly their hips, with their shirt opened to the navel and singing “Muy caliente” without any reason.

“Welcome Blair” he said, still looking at me.

I answered by a discreet nod.

“The young and pretty girl on Owen’s right is Julie, his girlfriend, and finally the charming boy in front of you is my boyfriend, Sam.”

Julie was indeed a delicate blond-haired girl with a turned-up nose and piercing eyes that kept looking at me all meal long as if I was the reincarnation of Marie Curie or Joan Crawford .
As to Sam, clearly stout and with a sharp sense of humour, he was inhaling all his yoghurt by his nose. His flat face round like a cherub, and his blank stare made me think of the not very flattering portrait of Henri the 8th by Hans Holbein The Younger around 1536.

“Blair has just arrived from San Monica, she’s been in Nephi for only two days, so I’ll ask you to be very kind with her” Jane announced proudly.
“We’ll try!” Owen answered with a mischievous smile.
“Blair, tell us why exactly you ended up in the middle of nowhere!” Julie asked me.
“This is tragically simple: my mother has just married a Mormon who lives here with all his family.”
“Are you kidding?” Jane guffawed.
“Not really. I get the feeling I’ve only been praying and reading the Bible since my arrival.”
“What happens to you is really tough” Sam let out, with his nose covered with a milky texture.
“What’s your father-in-law’s name?” Owen asked.
“Jacob Wilkes.”
“You mean the honourable head of our ward, Joshua and Joseph’s father?”
“Himself.”
“I’m sorry for you. This is exactly the very family I cannot bear here. I already have trouble suffering Mormons and their ridiculous precepts, but them, it takes the cake! The two brothers constantly display scorn and contempt as if they considered the non-Mormons as corrupt and untrustworthy. And when they deign to talk to you, they speak with a condescending tone as if you were dumb. I cannot stand them; either them or any of their people.”
“Do you know those boneheads wear special underwear?” Sam added, roaring with laughter.” It’s said to symbolise their commitment with God. Most of them are white, symbol of purity, and they help the wearer to concentrate on their religion and realize the beneficial effects of faith” he concluded, with his hands joined in a meditative attitude.
“I hope they take them off before they actually do it!” Julie said.
“Speaking of the devil, look who’s sitting over-there…” Jane exclaimed.

Three tables from ours, I could see Joseph, as a central character, surrounded by ten persons. On his right, Joshua, leaning on his elbows, seemed plunged into a conversation with a blond-haired smiling girl. On his left, a ginger girl with flaming hair was staring at him with admiration. A kind of Mary Magdalene with a creamy skin and pleading look. Aside, two boys seemed to attract his attention by making large gestures towards the sky. On the table, there were spread out leftovers and strewn knives and forks. The five of us remained bewildered by this life-size re-enactment of the famous Last Supper , until Joseph finally noticed us. Notifying the people I was sitting with, he looked at me icily. I quickly turned my head from him and tried to concentrate on my crumble.

“At least” Jane told me when getting back to our classroom “you can count on me. I’ve always thought I was the most desperate girl of the town, but now I found you!!”
“Thanks for confirming my life is a disaster!”

Lessons followed on very quickly. I met my physics teacher, M. Mantegna, a man with a deathly pale face, as sinister as a portrait of Christ. I also met Miss Hogarth, my civics teacher looking like a Byzantine madonna who was resigned to endure her arduous condition of a Ministry of Education member. When she left, Jane considered it useful to give me her number and made me promise that I would call her if I needed it, like a call free of charge for teenagers in dire straits. When I reached the car-park, rain had stopped falling and a little crowd was gathering around the pick-up. Joshua and his brother were speaking with their ginger friend. I tried to get closer as discreetly as possible like Mata Hari trying to thwart the German guard watch, but Joshua foiled my plans.

“Look, here’s Blair. Let me introduce Violette, one of Joseph’s friends.”

The latter, without saying hello, only stared at my black slightly chipping off varnish on my nails. At that very moment, I had the impression of being an insidious freak or an approximate math result. Mary Magdalene kept staring at me while her long loose hair rose up in the air such as dead leaves swept by the wind.

“And here are Paul and Lucas, two classmates.”

Aside, I saw two boys with impassive faces. Their eyes simultaneously fall on me, betraying an obvious curiosity. Recognizing them – that was the group from the cafeteria – I nodded at them and got quickly on the car. When we got back, the house was in full swing. Karen asked me absent-mindedly how my first day in school had been just before rushing to the kitchen and taking out of the oven a series of burnt off cookies.

“Yes, all is perfect in the best world ever” I answered, irritated. “Can you explain what’s happening here?”
“I’m preparing the first Family Home Evening which we’re both going to attend” Karen answered in a significant tone.
“Let me guess…once again an activity centered on the elation of religious feelings?”
“Don’t you believe it! You’re wrong. The Family Home Evening is a tradition which aim is to reinforce the family relationships. It takes place every Monday evening at home; it gathers parents and children and the aim is to learn, advise and entertain each other. The Latter-day Saints have perpetuated this tradition since its creation in 1915 by John Taylor. He had promised peace, love, purity and happiness to the members of the church who would faithfully implement the principle of such an event.”
“Happiness and purity? But those conceptual ideas disappeared in the 50s!”
“Don’t be so negative, Blair. And let me explain how things will take place. The Family Home Evening generally begins with a song or a prayer. Sometimes, so as to be put in the right spiritual mood, families read the Scriptures or poems. The most important part of the evening consists in studying a subject of the Gospel and then the evening ends with a collation and a prayer.”
“A collation and a prayer? It seems to me that my life is as hectic as Saint Therese from Lisieux when she was fifteen, about to take the veil and enter the religious order of Carmelites…”
“But we don’t only read the Scriptures. We have also planned a big recreational activity for the whole family.”
“A what? »
“We’ll play a game, if you want.”
“Games such as those organized in Soviet youth camps which goal was to promote the individual excellence through the practice of activities sound for body and mind?” I guffawed.

I wondered if my mother was under the influence of an exciting substance; as she was bursting with enthusiasm at the thought of discovering, after a two-hour Scripture reading, who had killed Colonel Mustard with a candelabrum in the library. What had become of this free and independent woman I had known until now? This woman who had always refused any kind of subservience from men? She seemed to have vanished at the expense of this image of housewife she was sending off now: a woman who spent most of her time taking care of her home or organizing every detail of the perfect Mormon family week. Leaving my mother to attend her own business, I went up with my stuff and took the advantage of a silent bathroom to sneak in it. Standing in front of the mirror, I started to inspect my reflection. The lack of sleep since my arrival had provoked slight bluish rings under my eyes. My lion mane was undulating because of surrounding humidity, and was like a wave on the surface of water: I could not do anything against it. Before my white and still body, I suddenly thought of sketches from Degas noticed last summer, in a private gallery (“Woman at her toilette, Woman combing her hair”). A representation of woman, with curves and femininity, a vision of the body undressed, without any tricks, according to my father.

Suddenly, two yanks came from the bathroom door.

“It’s me, Joseph. I need to get my things back.”

My first reaction was to knot quickly a bath towel around my naked body. I opened the door, with a gesture as unconcerned as possible. With my back glued to the sink, looking up, I waited, arms crossed, for him to grab his pile of clothes on the basket. Maybe I had hallucinated, but I could have sworn I had seen him smiling while leaving the room. I dressed with a patch-up pair of jeans and a white cotton loose-fitting shirt and got down to the living-room as soon as the bell rang, at 6 p.m sharp.
The Wilkes family members were already split on the two couches and a gentle fire was crackling in the chimney. A pile of books was laid on the table glass coffee table, intended to be used for our Family Home Evening. While Joshua solemnly declared the evening opened, Anne started singing the first canticle: “God’s child”. Then, a short prayer made way to Jacob’s speech about the lesson of the day: Honesty.

“God commands that we be honest in all things. When we lie, cheat, or steal, we open ourselves wide to Satan's influence and close ourselves to God's influence. If we want to have the Spirit to guide and comfort us, we must be honest with God, with ourselves, and with other people” said Jacob.

Plunged into the contemplation of a surprising cream-colored mat on the table, I vaguely heard him asking his audience about his speech.

“Heavenly Father wants us to be honest and sincere at any time and in any place” Anna said.
“Indeed, you’re right” Jacob confirmed. “Now, let me tell you the following story. I think that it perfectly describes our sayings. After Jesus finished praying in Gethsemane, he awoke his Apostles, saying, "Rise, let us be going: behold, he is at hand that doth betray me". While Jesus was speaking, Judas, one of the Twelve, brought a large group of men that had been sent by the chief priests and elders. They were carrying swords and clubs. Judas had plotted with the Jewish leaders to betray Jesus, having agreed to lead them to him if they would pay 30 pieces of silver. Judas told the armed men who accompanied him, "Whomsoever I shall kiss, that same is he: hold him fast". Judas then came to Jesus and said, "Hail, master," and kissed him. Knowing that Judas had betrayed him, Jesus said, "Judas, betrayest thou the Son of man with a kiss?"Then Jesus stepped forth and asked the group of men, "Whom seek ye?" They answered, "Jesus of Nazareth." Jesus told them, "I am he." At this, the group stepped back and fell to the ground. Jesus asked them again whom they sought. Again they answered, "Jesus of Nazareth." Jesus said, "I have told you that I am he," and he asked that His followers be permitted to leave unharmed. He then allowed himself to be arrested. ”

Jacob remained silent for a short time and turned to me.

“Blair, can you give us your thought to the meaning of this anecdote?”

In the middle of soul-searching on the value of crocheted mats, I didn’t hear Jacob calling me again and again. Not knowing what it was about, I adopted the same posture as the statue “The thinker” – by Auguste Rodin – with my head bolstered up by my hand, and took a deceptively concentrated behaviour.

“I think… yes, I think that the recreational decriminalization of marijuana is a good thing” I declared, with the same tone as a staunch labor organizer.

Jacob gave up his usual open and light-hearted smile and soon pouted in obvious vexation.

“Don’t you have any remarks to make in relation with the history of Jesus?” Jacob insisted.
“Hum, not really, actually!”
“That’s a pity. Maybe on a futur occasion.”

Karen saved me from that endless moment by declaring it was time for family activity.
Some stress could be read on her face, as if she was about to carry out a heart transplant or a partial skin graft on a face. Two wicker baskets were arranged on the glass coffee table, each of them containing ten little sheets of paper. We had to split into two teams of three persons each and answer correctly to the greatest number of questions. Mary and Karen were playing the arbiter role and they constituted the teams. The first one consisted of Jacob, Joshua and Anna; the second Elizabeth, Joseph and me. The adverse party took out the first question about the Pioneers history. They answered quickly and received the first point. Then Elisabeth also took out a paper. The question was about the death of Joseph Smith, founder of Mormonism.

Joseph and Elizabeth consulted together.

“I hesitate between 1842 and 1844” the youngest declared.
“I’m sure it’s 1844” Joseph objected. “Blair, do you have an opinion on the question? Or maybe you would prefer commenting on the decision taken by OPEC about reducing the production of oil in the months to come?”
“Very funny!” I retorted, offended.

Joseph finally came to a decision and proposed 1844. We were scoring for the first time.

“Are there any questions to which the Non-Mormons – whom I embodied tonight – can answer?” I demanded.
“Yes, honey, don’t worry, I did not forget you!” Karen said.

Noticing Elizabeth’s baffled expression when she read the last question, I understood that my intervention would be needed.

“Which video clip by Madonna, shot in 1989, was subject to controversy because the singer, with stigmata on her body, had been directed in front of crosses on fire?”

Joseph and his sister turned towards me, as bewildered as I could be.

“Blair, I think that you’re the only person who can answer this question” Joseph pointed out with a mocking tone in his voice.
“And if I give you the right answer, what do I get in exchange?”
“The right to play this game once again next Monday.”
“I see. Given that I am really sleepy, I’ll put an end to this unbearable suspense: the answer is “Like a prayer”.”

My intervention had been major. It was 10.12 p.m and we had just won. That was how the evening ended, and so did my torture. The next morning, I met Jane during the physics lesson and I briefly explained what I did the day before.

“A Mormon Jeopardy!” Jane burst out. “What an overactive imagination! I bet Owen will appreciate.”
“My life is bordering on nothingness” I moaned, while in the first raw, a girl with a perfidious parrot head suggested us to shut up, with a great many “shushes” and exasperated sighs.
“I know what you’re going through, it’s tough, but keep your chin up. Owen and I are supporting you. By the way, I love your shirt, is that silk?”

Wandering in the halls of Building 3 to get to my literature classroom, I noticed the baffled expression on some student’s faces when they saw my clothes: a black, green and white lumberjack shirt, black leggings and a pair of biker boots – the latest fashion in Santa Monica. Was it too provocative? I wondered, looking at my reflection in one of the bay-window, before walking in the classroom. I bothered to introduce myself to Miss River, the literature teacher. When she checked through my clothes, her lips tensed up as if she’d just swallowed a bitter lozenge. A northern spotted owl: that’s exactly what Miss River made me think of. Her round head, flattened face, black dilated pupils and brown hair punctuated with blond locks reminded me of that nocturnal animal. I rushed to the last raw. Busy to search in my bag, I did not notice him coming. Joseph, with an enigmatic look in his face, came to sit next to me.

“But, what’re you doing here?” I exclaimed, maybe too loud.
“OK, let me explain. The building you’ve walked in this morning with me is called a high school, and the room in which you’re sitting is called classroom. Unless I got lost, this is where I’ve been coming for my literature lesson for two months now, every Tuesday. Do you have more relevant questions? Maybe you’d like me to teach you what those bulky books full of writings and images commonly called textbooks are made for?”
“No, thanks, that will do.”

To crown it all, my Mormon step-brother was my neighbor in class. Even in the high school, I was not left alone. I had not started this day the best way. I still was angry when it was time for lunch. Jane and the others were waiting for me at the cafeteria. I could feel that according to Owen’s insistent looks, my clothes fitted me perfectly. I let them know about my misfortunes while smashing methodically my spaghettis.

“Stop doing this!” Sam told me, taking my plate away from me. “If you don’t want them, think about others. And don’t worry, if he bugs you too much, I’ll make him swallow his sanctified underwear.”

I leant my head on his shoulder as to thank him, and tried to gulp down the so-called cheesecake we had for dessert.
The afternoon started with the economics lesson. I spent the hour brooding while our teacher, M. Rodriguez, protested against the irresponsible speculators and the subprime mortgage crisis which, according to him, guaranteed the failure of capitalism.

“Think of the thousands of families unable to face the loans taken out, and whose houses will be seized, he belted out. Don’t you think what our country is living at the moment is a real tragedy?”

The Kafkaesque dimension that my life had taken for a few weeks now prevented me from sympathizing with these poverty-stricken people from the middle-class, forced to give up the American dream and resell the Ranger Rover Sport, the brushed aluminium fridge and leave their villa with reversible air-conditioner. At 3 p.m, I slowly got back to the green stadium adjoining the car-park to attend the last lesson of the day: physical education with M. Rochester, the very archetype of the ordinary teacher, I thought when looking at his fitted white socks, his tracksuit trousers pulled up to his navel and his purple-bluish face. A man who surely spent his time either depressing or drinking whisky straight. When he limply constituted two teams to start a dodge-ball game, the lingering smell of his inebriated breath came to hit my face and I had to use my inner strength so as not to pass out cold on the tarmac floor.

“His wife left him ten years ago for a rich farmer in the neighborhood, a Mormon” Jane explained while we were trying to avoid balls from adversarial players. He never really got over it. My father monitors him for his addiction to alcohol. No use to tell you he doesn’t hold dear to his heart the Mormon religion”

An acute pain in the arch of my left eyebrow interrupted our conversation. Laughter, such as gloomy croaking came from all sides while I lost my balance and fainted on the floor. M. Rochester immediately interrupted the game by whistling for a time out.

“The aim of the game is not to maim your classmates, he said to the whole class. Blair, how do you feel? You’re bleeding a little. Do you want me to get you to the school infirmary?”
“No, thanks” I answered, still groggy.
“Jane, take the first-aid kit and apply a cold compress on her eye.”
“The ginger witch over there did it” Jane slipped in to my ears while I was slowly regaining the use of my legs. “I’m not surprised anyway. Ginger girls are often perfidious, even nefarious.”
“And to think that in France, during the medieval Inquisition, they were burnt alive” I added before casting a glance full of hatred to the culprit. Violette, far from apologizing, seemed to laugh at me unashamedly.
“I think she’s looking for an argument” said Jane, visibly amused by what had just happened.
“Is she? We’ll see about that!”
“If you want my advice, try to act in a place where there will be no witnesses. Be as discreet as possible. I bet two bills on you, my great friend, don’t deceive me!”

Such as Edmond Dantes working out his macabre revenge, from his slammer in the Castle of If, I spent the rest of the gym lesson sitting on a bench, putting together a plan to take revenge for this public insult. As soon as the bell rang, I rushed in the changing room. Like a determined Yakusa sure of his victory against the enemy, I slowly broke up each of my gestures, taking delight in the few minutes before the confrontation. Once in the car-park, I easily spotted her car. Violette was there, roaring with laughter with one of her classmates. When she saw me, her face changed from mirth to the most intense irritation.

“Well, girls, you’re having fun? Tell me Violette, I’ve been told you had serious problems to coordinate your movements. This ball should have never fallen on my head, don’t you think?”
“Your eye is really bad” she retorted while examining my eye amusedly.
“I truly need to teach you how to adjust your aim correctly”

Saying so, I grabbed her long ginger hair and stuck my nails in her cheek, scratching her beautiful freckles. She awkwardly tried to break free and finally fell on the floor, dragging me down with her. I succeeded to land on my feet, faster than she did, and took the advantage to pounce on her and hold back her next blow. Her screams rang out in the whole car-park; she sounded like a sow whose throat had been cut. A crowd gathered around us, and some of them were filming our epic battle with their mobile phones. Suddenly, I felt two strong arms lifting me from the ground and pinning me against the back of Violette’s car. Joseph, with distorted features was trying to drive us apart.

“Blair, calm down immediately!” he yelled several times.
“Step back, I’m going to knock that thumbtack down until she loses all her teeth!” I answered, trying to struggle.
“Stop that! Don’t force me to hurt you.”

Joseph ordered Paul to take care of Violette, still on the ground. Then, grabbing my arm, he did not have any trouble taking me into the van, pushing me vehemently.

“I can’t believe it. What are you playing at?” he exploded, with his traits distorted by rage. “Only two days in Nephi and you already have a brawl under your belt. What’s your next step? A big show in the high school halls only wearing underwear?”
“Stop dramatizing everything and mind your own business, will you?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to, but you and me are, from now on, part of the same family, and I’ll appreciate you avoid making a fool of yourself.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, really. I didn’t know the Mormon religion accepted the public humiliation of a person, without her responding. Turn the other cheek, had said Saint Matthew.”

Joseph let out a series of annoyed sighs.

“Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault” I kept repeating while hitting my chest as a punishment.
“Don’t overreact, please!” said Joseph while starting the car.

That night, I got home with a vile mood and an arc of my eyebrow cut into. Karen, always in her household chores, only nodded when I explained why I had that ugly puffiness decorating my left eye.

“Nevertheless, can we leave you alone tonight a few hours? Boys have to go to the church, Anna will be at her Primary meeting and as for me, I’ll be attending my first Relief Society meeting.”
“No problem. And if, unfortunately, I should lose the use of my right eye, I’ll text you so that your meeting won’t be disrupted.”
“Please, Blair, you’re always exaggerating! Some soothing balm, and tomorrow you’ll have a brand new eye.”
“If you say so but tell me, what are the Primary and the Relief Society? Are they secret societies with a tendency to conspiracy? ”
“The Primary”, Karen answered while emptying her handbag to find her car keys “is a Church auxiliary organization. It consists of a group service and age-oriented classes for children 3 through 11 years of age. The official purpose of Primary is to help parents in teaching their children to learn and live the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
“Hum, very interesting.”
“And the Relief Society is a philanthropic and educational women's organization. Her official purpose is to “assist priesthood leaders in carrying out the mission of the Church by helping women and families come unto Christ.”
“I see, a kind of huge Tupperware meeting, except that instead of singing the praises of food preservation in small plastic containers, you talk about God, which must be exciting too!”
“Please, stop blaspheming!”

I got up and locked myself in my bedroom. In a fit of rage, in front of my mutilated face, I threw away the texts in Latin I had to translate for the next morning – one of them was consecrated to Forgiveness. Once the house empty, I couldn’t help thinking of the Wilkes. My dinner, a pancake of chestnut squash and zucchinis was simmering in the frying pan. A religious silence was reigning tonight and it was completely contrasting with the usual bustle. As I had never known any stable family life, this image of a united family left me mused. It was clear to me that marriage and family were two Mormon priorities. Family, as Elder Nathaniel had explained, was an essential part in God’s plan concerning humanity. Parents had that sacred duty to teach their children how to love and help each other. The father had to preside over his house with love and fairness and the mother’s main responsibility was to raise her children. This vision of family life and parental authority was completely new to me; the notions of discipline, obedience and curfew had always been theoretical to me. But from now on, I had to follow the rules of my new family: no unauthorized moment out, and any afternoon or evening out was supposed to be under strict surveillance of a family member; compulsory contribution to household chores, and regular attending to any family activities. A strong smell of burnt zucchinis interrupted my thoughts. I grabbed my plate and headed lazily for the living-room. I depended on the film I had chosen tonight to take a break from my awful day. While my eyes scanned the whole room in search of a flat screen, I suddenly realized the tragic situation: there was neither television, nor DVD player. So I had to find a backup plan. My laptop computer would do. Once in my bedroom, with my duvet pulled up to my chin, I started watching “Persuasion”, the TV version of Jane Austen’s novel. That choice would have surely been reproved by my father, who liked to qualify Victorian literature as “feminist heresy to hide the plight of women in society at that time”. I fell asleep even before the return of the tribe; a sleep with a lot of long frilled shirts, smart tulle dresses and sword duels under centenarian oak trees.In the early morning, I had difficulty to wake up. I dreaded coming back to high school. Indeed, my eye had deflated, but not enough to go completely unnoticed.The application of a thick layer of foundation cream had just allowed a different shade of my bruise colour. I decided to wear my sunglasses despite the presence of thick persistent clouds. When I arrived in front of the van, Joseph and the others had already sat inside. My appearance soon made my fellow travellers laugh.

“Maybe some of you have any remarks or comments to make?” I asked, while taking off my glasses.

The only answer I got was a series of suppressed laughter. At the high school, the morning was to be consecrated to my first computing lesson. I would finally know complicated words such as operating system or transmission nets.
As soon as I walked in the classroom, I noticed we only were ten to have chosen this option lesson. Miss Solers, with her angled-bob, her bangs as straight as a road sign and her carmine lips, seemed to pay a glowing tribute to silent film stars of the 20’s.

“Alright, Blair” she said. “You’re going to work in pair with someone who’ll be responsible for summing up the main ideas of our lesson. At the end of the semester, you’re all supposed to hand me in a test which mark will be included in your final average.”

She ended our discussion by indicating my new partner: Ruth. I saw a hesitating hand rising in the back of the class. While getting closer, I discreetly scrutinize my future teammate: a kind of pre-Raphaelite beauty with a pale complexion and blond hair; an innocent virgin with her hair surrounded by gold. I kept staring at this sad Ophelia without succeeding to remember when I had already met her. She briefly smiled at me and switched on my computer.

“Hi Blair, my name is Ruth. Welcome! I hope you’ll like it here. Nephi is indeed a small town, but its atmosphere is very convivial and you’ll quickly establish strong relationships with all its inhabitants.”

While she was still praising the city’s charms on the same cheerful tone as a Tourist Office’s guide, a doubt wormed its way into my mind. The calm and controlled way she had to talk to me, this natural kindness, this angelic gentleness made me think of that style very specific to the Mormon community.

“Have we ever met?” I quite abruptly interrupted her.
“Maybe. I’m Joshua and Joseph’s friend. Maybe you saw me with them in the cafeteria.”
“I see.”
“I’m sure we’ll get on well with each other” she added.

I tried to concentrate on Miss Solers’ explanations concerning Excel and PowerPoint application programs, but I was still fuming. I was about to put up with a laughing Mormon girl suffering from an unbearable verbal diarrhoea and who would take delight in reporting my doings. Casting a glance in her direction, I saw that she kept smiling blissfully while typing.

“You’ve been lucky since your arrival. The weather is quite reasonable. Generally, at that time of the year, snow and cold are already there.”

I refrained from answering, judging it useless to precise the torrential rain falling since my arrival could not be considered as a good weather, from a climatological point of view.

“You must miss California, don’t you? Am I wrong?”
“That’s right” I let out while controlling the fit of anger rising in me.
“As for me, I’ve never been further than Salt Lake City, but as Mummy says: “Imagination is a good travel”.”

Hereupon, she let out a little discreet laugh.

“A slice of the squirrel cake?”

While putting me a kind of half-baked pastry under my nose, from which came up vague rounded shapes – hazelnuts, Ruth starting miming the gestures of this little rodent. I stared at her, filled with consternation.

“My mother baked it last night. She has given the squirrel nickname because it’s filled with hazelnuts and pecan nuts. Isn’t it funny? Be careful, it’s very fondant.”

I mumbled an indistinct thanks, swearing to give that dripping mixture to Kaiser, the only one capable of appreciate Mormon pastries. The morning elapsed as quickly as a high-speed freightliner. Lunch time was my merciful relief. I briefly nodded at my new classmate and rushed to the cafeteria where Owen and Sam welcomed me, laughing, threatening two of their classmates wishing to sit down to our table, to run after them.

“So, naughty girl, you gave a good trashing to an innocent girl at the end of the classes” Owen laughed at me when he saw my stunned face.
“You should know violence is not the solution” Sam added, shaking his head. Violence is bad!!
“I’d like to say I’m sorry about my action, but that’s not the case” I said while suppressing a smile.
“You’ll learn”, Owen added, “the joy of living and the love of your neighbour are now the only watchwords. Welcome to the wonderful world of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, a magic place where fighting and having sexual thoughts before marriage are forbidden.”

I burst into laughter and finally relaxed in their company. At 3 p.m, I met Joseph in the car-park. Paul and he seemed to be involved in an agitated conversation.

“Look, this is the star of the day, Paul let out on a deceptively light-hearted tone. Obviously, Joseph, your step-sister is…How shall I say? I can’t find the right word! »
“Full of unsuspected resources” Joseph added, smiling.
“That’s it! Unpredictable, or even completely crazy.”
“Constantly repressing your impulses is not the right solution, you know Paul ” I said still smiling. “In some cases, it can lead to serious physical problems, and notably, I was said, troubles of erection… But, I forgot! You’re not concerned for the moment, aren’t you?”
“Great, third-rate psychology now” Paul said. “I think that I appreciate you more and more.”
“Leave her alone, Paul” Joseph intervened with a mocking light in his eyes. “She only has to get her bearings and better choose her company.”
“Who exactly are you referring to?” I asked him straight away.
“We’ll talk about it later if you want” Joseph interrupted me, moodily.

Paul finally winked at Joseph before slipping away.

“Well, Joshua is busy at the Church and Elizabeth is rehearsing with her choral group. So, I am very happy to announce that we are both stuck with shopping tonight” he said while the van was heading towards the city-center.

The only shopping place in the neighborhood – the Nebo Market – was a store situated on Main Street, opposite a shabby pizzeria and a DVD rental agency. Quite spacious and clean, the shop made a good impression on me until the manager of the place, Mrs Hoover, an old harpy with a garlic breath and a sooty moustache, caught us in the sections. While Joseph was introducing me to her, Mrs Hoover kissed him greedily on his cheeks, taking good care to stroke the small of his back persistently. With a maternal affection look, the old big harridan explained she had known Joseph since he was a child and she nearly considered him as her son. Even if my experience of parents-children was limited, the way she pinned his hand against her opulent breast so that he could hear the troubled palpitations she was suffering from, seemed to me quite inadequate. Yet the situation amused me a lot, and when this substitute mother suggested to Joseph to spend a few minutes in the back-shop in order to weigh the Mexican watermelons she had just received, I jumped at the chance.

“Yes, excellent idea, Joseph. Go and have a close look to Mrs Hoover’s watermelons!”

He politely refused, explaining we were expected at home for dinner. Pushing me on the sections, he couldn’t help smiling before my mocking look.

“Such a human warmth is so rare nowadays” I commented laconically.
“You have a dirty mind. Mrs Hoover is simply very affectionate to me, that’s all.”
“And I bet she would love tucking you in your little bed at night.”

In order to cut short to the conversation, Joseph took out from his jean pocket a shopping list and gave me the delicate responsibility of finding two washing powder packets, around ten zucchinis and four cauliflowers in fifteen minutes. Immediately, I started searching, even if I had almost no idea of what I had to find, as shopping had always been Consuela’s job in Santa Monica. After half-an-hour of uninterrupted tracking, I had gathered what seemed to match with my list. Joseph was already waiting for me near the checkout counters and sighed impatiently when I showed him what I’d found.

“I can see that your lessons of life are not totally finished. Lesson number one: let’s learn to distinguish between washing powder and softener. The softener, as its name suggests, softens linen but in no case it washes it; so you can put these two packets back. Lesson number two: let’s avoid confusing zucchini and cucumber, even if I admit they really look like each other; and last step of our initiation today: cauliflower is not broccoli, even if they are both part of the Brassicaceae family. Next week, our fascinating odyssey through real people’s life will bring us to check out a covered market, and we’ll learn to give back change, respect queues and be polite with producers.”
“Is it a feeling of revolt from the proletarian mass?” I answered spitefully. Down with mass capitalism and dominant bourgeoisie! Fortunately, you and your family are here to help me discover the real value of things, the meaning of life.
“How can you live so disconnected from reality? You’re like a sleeping beauty just being brought to life, who discovers with astonishment the world surrounded her. After ‘Blair and the marvellous minimarket’, we could imagine ‘Blair learns how to use a limited credit card’. What do you think? He retorted while Mrs Hoover, with her arms crossed in front of the counter, stared at us with dazzled lemur’s eyes.”

Once the episode in the minimarket over, the rest of the week took place quietly. Yet, I did not know what the weekend held in store for me. Jacob, hoping to reinforce the coherence of this new family, had had the bright idea to plan a sportive weekend with outdoor activities like a two-day intensive trekking around Utah’s lake. The Wilkes seemed to appreciate life outdoors, the nocturnal hooting of the oak and the bell of stag early in the morning. As for me, the very mention of “padded backpack”, “electric ice-chest”, “thermos”, “multifunction compass” and “quill-pen sleeping bag” made me feel like cutting my veins with a jigsaw. So, sick at heart and wearing some elastane trousers with zip-up pockets lent by Elizabeth, I joined this group of experienced hikers on this foggy Saturday morning. Mary, who did not share the same tastes as her brother’s for outdoor activities, had decided to stay at home with the twins. While the car went into the Interstate 15 to Provo, I could already imagine what that ‘country scene’ would be like. A very naïve family portrait where Jacob and Karen would rave about the wonders of nature, Joseph would play a plaintive air on his harmonica around the camp fire and Joshua would enjoy roasting two-colored marshmallows. The programme of celebrations, set up by Jacob with a military precision, had had pride of place for four days in the entry hall, like a plan to attack the Vietcong secondary headquarters in the middle of Vietnam War.

November, Saturday the 14th, 2009:
- 11.30am: Arrival to the camp.
- 1.00 pm: Collective meal.
- 2.30 pm: Scavenger hunts.
- 6.00 pm: Return to the base.
- 10.00 pm: Lights out.

November, Sunday the 15th, 2009:
- 8.00 am: Waking up of the troops.
- 9.00 am: Boat activities on the lake.
- 3.00 pm: Departure.

When the car stopped in the huge car-park just before the lake banks, I was surprised to notice we were not the only lunatics to camp in the middle of November. Around fifty cars were already parked, and the area meant for recreational vehicles and other trailers seemed to be full. It took me a long moment to realize I was going to spend 48 hours in perfect symbiosis with nature, with the world surrounding me. The only thing I could see, when looking around me, was a vast expanse of water and the endless forest next to it. What was I supposed to do on the banks of this lake with an almost polar temperature, trek shoes extremely uncomfortable and no hope to fall upon a Starbuck Coffee nearby? As brutal as a slap in the face, a gust of wind made me lose my balance. Meanwhile, Jacob and the others were bustling feverishly about the car, emptying the boot of the numerous backpacks, ice-chests and folding chairs. I could hear someone talking to me, but I was unable to react, dread-stricken to the very idea of staying two entire days lost in the woods. I was not Christopher McCandless in search of a spiritual peace or a safe and pure paradise. Far be it from me to need an answer from any call of the wild or to wander in the big American spaces like a lonely character in Jack Kerouac’s books . What I wanted was being back in my bed, with my books, artificial warmth and some non freeze-dried food.

“Blair, do you hear me?”

Jacob was desperately waving his hands before my eyes.

“So, I was saying; take your belongings, and follow us.”

A black backpack was lying at my feet. I watched it without moving.

“Blair, are you still with us? Blink twice to say yes, and once to say no.”

I saw Joshua getting closer to me, visibly amused by my complete unresponsiveness. He grabbed my backpack and put it on my shoulders.

“Come on, one foot, then another.”

I tried to go with the flow despite the load clasping my poor shoulder blades. My whole body dangerously staggered as if I was inexorably attracted to the ground. I kept an unstable balance during the distance separating us from our future camp. The Alpha point, as Jacob called it, was a desert clearing surrounded by leafless poplars. Aside, a logged cabin contained the restrooms and the communal showers. I let myself slip to the floor, very happy to be freed from such a weigh.

“Very good, young trappers. Now, you have exactly half-an-hour to put up your tent before our first meal, said Jacob, with his face as shining as a neon light.”

At that very moment, I would have liked to pounce on his face and make this distressing blissful smile disappear. What was so thrilling about undergoing this forced isolation? Jacob was unaware of the annual statistics indicating a lot of campers in the American West had been found dead because of dehydration or also that campers are likely to fall upon dangerous schizophrenics on the run. Staring at the green plastic canopy sheltering the picnic tables, I thought of this Italian-Colombian film watched at nine years old on my father’s advice: “Cannibal Holocaust”. Directed in the heart of the Amazonian forest, the film dealt with the perenigration of four reporters in the jungle to shoot a documentary on Indian tribes. Confronted to cannibals, the journalistic team finished by being devoured.Since this apocalyptic film, I had kept deep inside me a natural mistrust of dense wooded expanses and vegetal formations likely to contain invisible threats. According to me, there was nothing like a massive logging of the forest ecosystem, a bloody deforestation which would make way to signs of the human race’s evolution: air-conditioned shopping-centers with background music and free parking areas, or a six-way highway. I was fiercely opposed to any idea of tropical or northern forest preservation, either wet or dry. The planet’s lungs frightened me more than anything else. Lost for fifteen minutes on metaphysical thoughts on the beneficial effects of progressive disappearance of the forest, I finally realized that I was the only one who had not put up her tent yet. I decided to settle slightly away from the group. Lining up methodically all the elements supposed to help me constituting my future shelter before me – a double top, a short and a long hoop, a bag of stakes and two stays with sliding guy ropes – I wondered how I could transform those plastic scraps and these metallic items in a tent worthy of its name. Such as Epeios ready to build his Trojan horse in order to conquer Troy, I grabbed the document entitled: “I can put up my tent in two minutes time” and got down to gather hoops and nozzles to get to “Congratulations! Your tent is now put up and ready to be used”.Forty-five minutes later, I did not know if it was due to the grammatical complexity of sentences or to my total incapacity to visualize geometrical shapes into space, but I realized that the unstable thing before me couldn’t be qualified as a tent. Maybe the qualification of clothesline or garden marquee could be more convenient. So, I didn’t have any shelter, and I was close to nervous exasperation. I rushed on my packet of cigarettes, hoping to calm down my sudden restlessness. I was, at that very moment, certain that among the numerous women and men lighting willingly forest fires should be hidden people like me, compelled to such boundaries because of tent assembly books misleading and totally beyond understanding. “Be strong, think positive, Yes, I can” I repeated to myself, like a mantra supposed to lead me to a beneficial effect.

“I won’t ask you if you’ve finished putting up your tent. Well, this idea you had to replace the top by the ground cloth and to stretch stakes every six feet is quite interesting” Joseph let out calmly.

I sighed.

“It’s not over. I was just having a break. I did not know I was racing against the clock.”
“Of course. Would you like me to give you a hand, just to be able to have lunch before the nightfall?” Joseph asked me, and without waiting for my answer, grabbed the stakes on the ground.
“Do as you please! I wouldn’t like to deprive you of any form of personal elation.”

I saw him smiling at my remark, not letting his face lose this expression of intense concentration before this hodgepodge of cloth which seemed to take shape with his well-skilled hands. Two minutes later, as the document said, my tent was right in front of me, proudly standing up in the middle of woods.

“One last remark, if I may: it’s strongly not recommended to smoke in a wooded massif covered with scrubs. I’d appreciate to go back home tomorrow with a clear conscience.”
“But I was unaware that Mormons were concerned with the preservation of their natural habitat! Yet, I prefer to inform you I do not have any ecological conscience. Besides, I think I’ve read many times that fire is seen as a rejuvenation process rather than a demolishing element. Thanks to the ‘controlled burning’ technique, fire would allow nutrients to get back to soil and create a safe ecosystem constituted with animal and vegetal different species.”
“Can I know which book you’re referring to, with such a questionable theory? “Diary of a Pyro” or “Merits of mass industrialization in wilderness”?” Joseph let out before grabbing my cigarette and put it out on a holed trunk.

Once by myself, I finished unpacking my things before reaching the main tent, in which all the meals would be had. There, I noticed only one theme was going to lead our meals: how to eat healthily without stove and without any washing-up ? The answer was simple: freeze-dried packets.
Thrill-seeker, I chose pork with caramel. On the red and golden packaging, there were photos of a skipper with a face blot by spray and a hiker with exaggerated muscular thighs. By gulping down the pork, I had the promise to turn into an Ann Bancroft or a Libby Riddles , the kind of women who went down in history by a remarkable sporting achievement, a useless conquest or a scientific exploit. But before landing up as Lara Croft in search of the cradle of life at the feet of Kilimanjaro, I added some simmering water to get a complete meal. While I tried in vain to identify the residue stuck at the bottom of my packet, I saw Karen, a few feet from there, hung on every Jacob’s words, visibly captivated by the lesson of environmental geography he was teaching her. By the little nervous laughs she was producing regularly, like signals on a warship, I understood they were at the heart of love crystallization . As the German neurobiologist Peter Strauss’s brilliant comparative study (“Sex pheromones and Sensibility”) explained it – I had read it in one stretch the summer before – mad and blind love was only a series of chemical reactions, a matter of uncontrollable hormones. Under the influence of oxytocin and vasopressin – the hormones responsible for this sudden blindness – Karen was compelled to idealize the loved one, to consider him as if he was the reincarnation of God on Earth. While Jacob had launched into a real conference on the origins of the Utah Lake, its precise location and the species living there, Karen was still string at him, smiling and nodding from time to time. Getting discreetly closer to the couple, I learnt, at the same time as my mother, the Utah Lake, 470 square yards, was the biggest natural freshwater lake in the West. The lake was composed of a small island – The Bird Island – situated in the South, around 2.5 miles from the North of Lincoln Beach. The area was well-known for the fishing of the channel catfish, white bass and black bullhead. In order to preserve my mental health, I finally walked away. Even if she looked intensely concentrated, I was sure that Karen did not understand a single word from her Al Gore husband’s speech. I set my heart on a banana vitaminized bar, which did not match at all with the caramel pork. Anyway I did not have time to enlarge upon this pathetic taste association, as Jacob already asked for our gathering.

“Young people, it’s now 2.30 p.m, time for us to start our hiking. I have formed two teams: the mouflons and the beavers. Each of them will have to rally to Beta prime point, thanks to maps and compasses. Good luck to all of you!”

Breaking ranks, Jacob made – what I guessed was – the well-known scout salute: three fingers – forefinger, middle-finger and ring-finger – and the thumb fold up on the little finger. He quickly indicated to Karen the folded thumb reminded of the chivalrous commitment: the strongest must protect the weakest, and the three fingers up reminded of the commitments of the triple promise:

1. Honour God
2. Help Others
3. Obey the Scout Law

The yellow and blue scarf Jacob gave me made me a member of the mouflons’ team with Joseph and Joshua. Karen, Jacob and Elizabeth were members of the adversary. With his big shot stick in his hand, Joseph lunged forward on the path, followed by Joshua. I brought up the rear, not really taken with the three-hour walk. As a mascot of the mouflons’ patrol, I was carrying the first-aid kit and the vitaminized drinks. I was as loaded as those poor mules in the high Himalaya. The path was bordering, at first, the banks of the lake, offering a fairy landscape. The snowy tops of the Mount Timpanogas, the only real glacier in Utah, were reflecting in the lake.

“My dear Blair, you must know that according to a local legend, this Mount outlined the profile of a sleeping girl, Ucanigas, an Indian princess who had thrown herself off those cliffs after the accidental death of her lover, Timpanac, a young Indian warrior, explained Joshua. To meet him in the hereafter, she had sacrificed herself to the Great Spirit by jumping.
“I really don’t care, Joshua. All I am asking is to go home in my bed. I want to feel warm, to eat real food and stop walking in a hostile place”.

Joshua smiled with discretion to his brother. Further on, the path was penetrating into the depth of the forest, green cathedral of a thousand uncertain sounds, suggesting prayer and meditation. We walked into a universe where everything was vibrating with invisible presences. My gestures were inaccurate; I was stepping over rotting trunks or vegetal garbage lying on the ground. In front of me, Joseph and Joshua moved on without any difficulties, as they were used to foil Mother Nature’s traps. Thirty minutes later, exhausted, I finally asked for a break. My feet were as heavy as if I had tied ball and chain to them and there were small beads of perspiration on my forehead. Usually, I had my skin as white as a dead person during a burial ceremony, but today, my face had the same aggressive color as the one on Stop road signs. To the repeated sighs of my two playmates, I could understand we were losing some precious time. But unwilling to make things easier, I remained a few more minutes lost in the admiration of the landscape.
When we finally reached Beta prime point, a headland overhanging the lake and its surroundings, my backpack got miraculously lighter. I had swallowed the content of two entire bottles of vitaminized drink and most of the proteined bars, taking good care to get rid of packaging in the surrounding brackens. I cast a vague glance to the landscape before falling on a pale rock.While Joseph and Joshua started a conversation about how to survive in a hostile land, I got rid of my dripping jacket and thought about the beneficial effects of a regular physical activity.

“ I don’t understand, I said loudly. How could this suffering encourage well-being and personal stability? Why did we always demonize inactivity, apathy, hours watching TV ? Why did we threaten of obesity naughty teenagers spending days slouching with a soda within their reach?”
“ My dear, you better keep your strength for the return”, retorted Joseph with a smile.

Chasing away a horrible ant trying to climb on the top of my shoes, I suddenly realized that, if we had come there, we necessarily needed to come back to Alpha point. The idea of facing again endless hours of walk – with the hope of eating a delicious lyophilised rabbit stew and sleeping in a Burkina Faso-colored tent - suddenly seemed too much for me. As I was expecting it, the way back was also painful and silent. When I finally distinguished the moving scout flag Jacob had had the good idea to pitch in front of our camp, I rushed under my tent without saying a word. I briefly made an appearance at dinner time, but I got back to my sleeping back a few minutes later to sink down into it for the night, wrapped like a mummy from the Antique Egypt in its sarcophagus. While I was sinking into a soft torpor, voices singing in unison interrupted my Rapid Eye Movement sleep. Apparently, the Wilkes had vowed to ruin my life. Their attempt to lose me in the woods had failed, so now they were using a well-known technique used by war prisoners: the deprivation of sleep, maybe with the vicious intention to drown me during the boat activities the day after. With my eyes wide open, lying on my back, I refused to give in to irritation and started to alternate between the different exercises of abdominal respiration which Sally’s mother regularly practised before reaching the Zen fulfilment. With my hand pressing against my abdomen, I let my stomach be filled with air and then breathed out with my mouth in order to provoke relaxation and relief which took time to come. Yet, I persisted in breathing, trying to convince myself that this week-end into the wild, punctuated by camp fires and swinging scout songs, should be worth doing for my future personal stability. I was even lucky to be surrounded by kind and smiling people, ready to give me a hand at anytime and who praised glory to God as soon as they sneezed.
Outside, the songs spreading good feelings were intensifying. I lost my temper for good when the sound of a distant recorder went to mingle with the ambient disorder. I emerged from my tent, with as much restraint as Napoleon Bonaparte ready to start his military campaign in Russia, and headed towards the troublemakers.

“I think I can talk on behalf of every hairy animal and other swarming insect in this place by saying: “Stop it, please, for pity’s sake, this is unbearable!”
“Sorry Blair, but you know, we scouts, whenever it comes to create a good ambiance, we’re not the last ones!” Jacob answered me, handing me a cup of hot herbal tea.

I remained voiceless, wondering if Jacob was being ironic to me, or if he really thought that scout songs by the fire at 9.00 pm were the prerogative of festive ambiance. Even if I noticed with satisfaction that, a few minutes later, my intervention got credit for stopping scout songs, clipped hooting coming from branches near my tent came once again to trouble my rest. Two hours later, with my flashlight pointed at the ground, I tried to resolve the Hungarian enigma of the Rubik’s cube. A strange man from Tennessee had calculated 29 moves allowing to put the cube in its right condition. I had barely reached level two when I heard around the tent footsteps and muffled whispers. Panic-stricken, I listened to this spreading noise, without knowing if it was the wind blowing, or the fruit of my imagination. In my head, I was remembering this Blair Witch scene, where you could see a girl wearing a blue bonnet, with a flashing light on her forehead, in the middle of an acute paranoia crisis.
Only listening to my courage, I opted for this plan: running away to the center of the camp. I was safe and sound when arriving before the put out fire. The place was empty. No Ellie Kedwards , nor any poltergeists on the horizon. Only me, on the verge of a breakdown, paralyzed with cold, in flannel pyjamas definitely not adapted to frosty nights on the banks of a lake in November. Crouched before the fire, I started blowing on the embers with the hope of rekindling flames. Suddenly, I saw a shadow appear to me. It was Joseph.

“So, you’re the pyromaniac wanted in the whole state since last year fire forests he said before arranging new branches in the hearth. Your technique seemed to me quite questionable. In order to rekindle the fire, you need to feed it”
“I’m extremely cold” I uttered with a mournful tone. “I hate nature, poplars, birches, weasels, beavers and all these hairy animals. And I can’t get a signal on my mobile; I feel like being in a bad Lost episode.”
“There’s nothing tragic, Blair. You’re cold and you just need some sleep.”
“You’re right. We always should put things on perspective. I could also have suffered from a colon cancer in its last stage ” I retorted, irritated.
“Go to bed” Joseph concluded, giving me his pullover knotted on his shoulders. “I’ll stand guard tonight and I can assure you no evil entity will drag you away from your sleeping bag to offer you as a sacrifice to the forest divinities.”

I slipped on the pullover and ran into my tent. I only woke up the next morning just before noon. I felt slightly jaded with a lingering odor of rabbit stew in my mouth. My hair was like a family of young partridges had just take up residence. This green trip has to stop, I said to myself putting my silver fox-furred hat on my head. I can’t stand the smell of the autumn forest, the grass and all those natural things. I finally reached the canteen, zigzagging between the raindrops. A general “Hi!” welcomed me in the central tent.

“Blair, that’s a real pity, you missed the pedal boat race this morning” said Karen, with a reproaching tone.
“I think I’ll get over it” I answered, with a chocolate bar stuck in my teeth.
“We’ll be forced to come back home earlier because of the rain” Jacob declared while piling up bowls and flatware in order to wash them.
“ God exists” I said.

A sudden sunny spell came to enlighten my sky in this sad morning. Farewell brackish lake, viscous catfishes, lyophilized food, nocturnal scrams and whispers! I delighted in getting back to the smell of asphalt, exhaust pipes gases, road signs, and street lightings. I folded my belongings in less than fifteen minutes and took up position next to the car, such as a young wagging dog happy to find his box and toys after a long journey in a dog kennel. We were coming back home.

CHAPITRE IV-THE EMBRACE
(Egon Schiele, oil painting, 1917.)

November, Monday the 24th – the worship of stuffed turkey had started.

Thanksgiving was approaching. In Nephi, most of the gardens, public buildings and places of worship were decorated with many pumpkins, squashes and other wheat sheaves. Even if that commemoration day meant, for most people, endless family meetings and gargantuan meals, my mother and I used to celebrate this day in a villa overwhelmed with loads of exotic plants ordered for the occasion and with acquaintances who hastened to rush at the buffet of molecular food as if the end of the world had been announced. Karen had always succeeded to avoid invitations from her close family, giving as a pretext that she had unexpected professional emergencies or that she was suffering from very contagious illnesses. Being born in the heart of Nebraska – the country of ox – was for Karen a kind of disgrace she had always had difficulty to admit. My paternal grandparents, Stew and Donna, were nice people retired from school administration. Stew used to be a school supervisor, bearded and short-sighted. As for Donna, she was a kind secretary assistant, wearing pastel cardigans and using hair curlers. I had rarely spent time with them in their cosy house in North Platte but during those brief meetings, Donna always enjoyed showing me her garden decorated with nasturtiums while Karen kept her ear screwed on her mobile phone.
So this week I was about to discover the real meaning of family meetings. The hostilities started in the kitchen, when Mary tasked me straight away with the baking of the numerous desserts intended for the thirty guests. Happy to be entrusted with such a major mission, I did not mention that my only culinary skills were limited with taking the top off sodas’ cans or opening a tacos packet with my teeth. My first mission fell on Wednesdays after school. I would have to manage the baking of a pecan pie for eight persons while Elizabeth would deal with the turkey stuffing. When all the ingredients were spread with care on the kitchen worktop, I tried to understand as calmly as possible the technical terms unfolding before my eyes (sifted flour, baking paper, blind baking), as if I had to decipher a gothic parchment in order to seize the Holy Grail. To my puzzled look, Mary understood the monumental task she had asked me to accomplish.

“Blair, I’m not asking you to choose between the blue and the red wire to defuse a neutron bomb. I’m only asking you to make a pie. Stop thinking and go ahead! This recipe is one of the first we teach to little girls attending the church cooking lessons. Most of them are eight, so I reckon you’re well capable of facing such a challenge.”
“Don’t overestimate me. You don’t know what I’m capable of in a kitchen!” I answered, irritated.

Like a Camille Claudel working vigorously on her clay, I mixed all the ingredients mentioned in the recipe and kneaded it with a firm hand. One hour later, my pie was ready to be put in the oven. Its general aspect – an ocean of French pastry cream from which came up here and there thin pecan nuts – seemed to me in every way the same as the one on the cooking book before my eyes. I went out proudly of the kitchen and rushed to the bathroom to get rid of any flour and egg yolk pieces in my hair. After my bath, when the doors of my closet opened in a gloomy creaking, I remembered that, the evening before, I had to promise on the book of Mormon to be pleasant and polite with all the guests, as Karen was about to be introduced to all the members of the Wilkes family. I briefly hesitated to wear the outfit of the model little girl: a reassuring dress with smocking and sober white ballet shoes, but I decided to wear a hippie strapless bandeau dress with a pair of fuchsia sneakers. Two leather Tibetan bracelets – symbolizing life longevity and happiness on Earth – would complete my clothes.

The next morning, at 8.00 am sharp, the entire Wilkes family was at the ready. Barely awoken, I slipped into a pair of jeans and went down to give a hand. In the living-room, Karen was finishing decorating the table with a autumnal-colored flower arrangement, while alarming sounds came from the kitchen as if a jigsaw was trying to slice a resistant material. At 10.30 am, one of our rare neighbors, Mr Snow, appeared on the front door, as if by magic, with a TV screen lent for the day so that guests could watch the traditional football match (The lions from Detroit against the Cowboys from Dallas) broadcasted on Thanksgiving Day.
Guests came in waves between 11.00 am and noon. The house soon was invaded, resounding with screams and children yells for whom numerous activities had been planned all day long. Everywhere, little blond heads skidded a few inches from the buffet or chased each other in the crowd.
My mood was between exasperation and utter despair. I saw most of the Wilkes’ cousins. The first cousins (Bob from Wyoming, Ted from Kansas…), second cousins (Beth and Esther from Georgia…) and even very distant cousins (Caleb from Montana and Darius from Minnesota). I shook hands with every one, courteously smiling, but I forgot their names as soon as they were out of sight. To grow and multiply, that was a commandment the Wilkes had followed by the book. After my endless goings to and fro between the living-room and the kitchen, I awarded myself a few minutes break before lunch. Silently sitting in a corner, I was gazing at this bustle.

“Already tired?” Joseph asked, handing me a glass of punch.
“A little” I sighed. “I’m not really used to that kind of excessive family event.”
“The Wilkes family is big!” he admitted, smiling, “but you’ll get used to it!”
“If you say so…”
“By the way, two persons would like to know you, if you’re willing to follow me.”

I nodded. Joseph escorted me next to the fireplace, where a mature-aged couple were having a conversation with Jacob. Joseph’s grandmother, wearing a canary-yellow dress and a cardigan with golden buttons, made a good impression on me. Her hairdo, very voluminous and fluffy, reminded me of the TV series Dynasty.

“Here you are Blair! I was looking forward to knowing you. My husband and I have heard a lot about you” she said while kissing me on my forehead.
“Really!” I only answered, staring at Joseph, enquiringly.

I was about to ask him for more information when Joseph turned on the man supposed to be his grandfather. His welcome was the same as a chief of state in the middle of the Cold War: icy and confusing.
Quite tall, balding, with a searching look, he was wearing a series of military badges on the lapel of his jacket. I could deduce from his posture – dignified and self-mastered – that M. Wilkes Senior was a former member of the armed forces. He was certainly a Vietnam War or Korean War veteran, and he was the kind of man only guided by his religious convictions and blinded by his own beliefs on life. He inspected my clothes as my dress had the unfortunate tendency to slide as soon as I moved about. His gaze stopped briefly on my red-colored nails, my eyes made up with black and my disrobed shoulders, as if he was a member of a disciplinary hearing having to hand down a decision on the admission of a defiant teenager in a reformatory. Once the review over, he deigned to shake my hand, with a grin of irritation. We did not say a word. I used my being needed in the kitchen as an excuse for slipping away as soon as possible.
Jacob and his father’s brief prayer announced lunch was ready, around 3.pm. The buffet was quickly mobbed, and the feasting – which had needed a very long preparation – was already very much eaten into.
I found refuge near the glass door and watched the comings and goings of guests. With a plate in their hand, they moved from one group to another, skipped from one subject to another.
An excessive laugh – my mother’s – resounded in the hall. As strange as it could be, Karen seemed to be like a fish in water, smiling or shaking hands as often as possible, like a candidate in the middle of an electoral campaign. She had impressively changed. That woman who used to – a few months before – spend her time fantasizing on our closest neighbour’s Equatorial gardener, was now a model of virtue and decency. On that very Thursday, wearing her dark high-necked dress, Karen had the same austere look as a former housemistress’s. Once my glass emptied, I tried to make my way through the crowd to the buffet. At that moment, I felt Joseph’s hand on my shoulder. He drew me in to him, amused.

“Your pie is very interesting, Blair. Its texture is… let me think… quite compact. It’s a personal recipe, I presume!” he laughed at me while I was becoming disconcerted.
“Let’s say this is my first attempt” I answered, amused by Joshua’s wink when he tried to swallow a mouthful of my pie.
“Yes, this is the logical conclusion we came to, Joshua and me.”
“To be honest, this was my first time in a kitchen as a cooker.”
“I see…” he said, filled with consternation. “Who was cooking in Santa Monica? Was it your mother?”
“No. Karen only knows how to switch on a toaster. Our private cooker was preparing our meals.”
“A permanent cooker, that’s a luxury not many people can afford nowadays. And delegating every day chores to a person responsible for your bedroom cleaning, your linen washing and ironing did not bother you?”
“Absolutely not. If you knew all the things we can do with an offshore account and Mexican immigrants eager to work in the USA….But let me reassure you, our employees were fed every two days and we even gave them their passports back for Christmas holidays. Long life to the American dream!” I laughed before his appalled look.

Joseph quickly moved away. Alone in front of the buffet, I suddenly felt irritated by that superior look the Mormons always had. They all behaved as if they held the absolute truth, as if they were vested in a divine mission, giving them the role of guardians of the last moral values in this decaying world. The day ended on that half-hearted tone, reminding me the road to my integration within my new family would still be long and tough.The next days, rain – my almost daily companion – made way to snow. December settled down slowly. With hindsight, this first month in Nephi seemed to have lasted for ages, even if I began to get used to the Wilkes’ way of life. So, to every day of the week corresponded a religious activity for every member of the family. Monday was consecrated to Family Home Evening; Tuesday to Relief Society meetings for Karen, Primary’s for Anna and Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Association’s for the boys. On Wednesdays, the choir was rehearsing. On Thursdays, men of the family were used to meet near the church to work on its land, and on Sundays, everybody was gathering in the chapel during three hours. Every three weeks, young girls and boys of the community shared an activity like the collect of tins or the making of meals for homeless people. To finish with, once a month, every home was visited by the home teacher. Besides, we were waiting for Elder Nathaniel on that Sunday afternoon. Punctual, as usual, he arrived at 3.00 pm with one of his colleagues, Elder Rodney. When the latter’s cold eyes fell on my dark-red tights and my jeans short, I had the impression to be confronted to a Medieval Inquisition judge. Soon, Elder Rodney took the rest of the family with him and they immersed themselves in the building of a model Temple with long narrow wood strips; this was the kind of activity organized in psychiatric unities in order to stimulate the brain activity of patients. I remained alone with Elder Nathaniel.

“As I told you last time, Blair, I’d like to consecrate the next few hours to the study of moral principles regulating the everyday life of Latter Days Saints’ church members. If you don’t mind, let’s isolate ourselves and get into this new theme in a quiet place.”
“Perfect, Elder Nathaniel, perfect”, I repeated as if trying to convince myself.

I followed him to the kitchen. Considering the theme chosen that very day, I was preparing for the worse. I knew that Mormon stances on the topics we were about to discuss clashed with most of my personal opinions.

“Alright, I’m going to outline as clearly as possible the fundamental beliefs concerning chastity and homosexual relationships. I think these are subjects which concern you directly, with regards to your age. Once my talk over, I’d like you to give your opinion on each subject. Don’t hesitate to write things down, he said while handing me a spiral bound notebook on which my name was written. Alright! Let’s start with a detailed study on what we call the law of chastity.”

Taking out from his saddle bag a big notebook, the man opened it on a crossed-out page and started reading with a barely inaudible voice, as if he was telling me a shameful secret:

“The law of chastity means, Blair, that the Latter-day Saints believe sexual relationships are sacred; on the one hand because they allow procreation, and on the other hand because they strengthen the existent affection. That’s why they must be set aside for marriage. God expects his children to deal with sexuality respectfully. So, sexual relationships outside marriage are an offence to God’s orders and a slowing-down in spiritual progression.”

He shortly paused, straightening on his nose his steamy glasses and resumed his speech.

“So, we all should try to control our own desires and only use them when God allows us to do so. In 1955, the Council of the Twelve Apostles highlighted the importance of marriage and family.”

Soon, he handed me a leaflet entitled: “The family: A proclamation to the Word” and asked me to read out loud an extract from it.

“The first commandment that God gave to Adam and Eve pertained to their potential for parenthood as husband and wife. We declare that God’s commandment for His children to multiply and replenish the earth remains in force. We further declare that God has commanded that the sacred powers of procreation are to be employed only between man and woman, lawfully wedded as husband and wife.”

Elder Nathaniel put out his hand to interrupt me.

“Respecting the law of chastity”, he said, “brings peace of life. But breaking this order is a very serious matter and people breaking this law have to repent and ask God for forgiveness. Here you are Blair, for this first approach. Now let me know what you think.”

I took a deep breath before speaking.

“To make it short, let’s say that I completely disagree with all of these precepts. They seem extremely questionable and not adapted at all to the world around us. According to me, intimate relationships outside marriage should not be a problem as far as two consenting people really love each other. Moreover, I don’t think the Church should meddle in young people’s relationship to sexuality. To finish with, Mormon texts give rise to a debate. According to them, sexual relationships are good and granted by God in only one precise setting: marriage. Out of this setting, texts talk about sin. Why should sex be banished outside marriage, and as though by magic, be accepted once people are married?”

Once my speech over, I looked up from my notes and saw Joseph leaning against the kitchen door.

“Blair, this is not about magic” he said, getting closer to the table. “The difference lies between the learning of self-control and respect of the other person. The difference is also in the very meaning of sexual relationships. Sex is what is most intimate in each of us and allows creating a connection. This connection is positive within marriage because it lies in a climate of safety, trust, commitment and social acknowledgment, allowing transparency and vulnerability. Yet, it is negative if it exists outside marriage because of the absence of one or several of these elements. Sexuality requires an emotional safety. It’s neither a game nor a distraction.”
“I’m sorry” I interrupted, “but I think that lauding sexual abstinence, and particularly before marriage, maintains people in the ignorance of their sexuality, deprives them of controlling their desires and their body, and also makes women submissive.”
“You’re wrong. Waiting until marriage allows the couple to have a more solid basis”.

Elder Nathaniel nodded.

“When two persons attract each other, they should be able to have sexual relationships without feeling guilty” I concluded dismissively.

While Joseph sat down in front of me, Elder Nathaniel cleared his throat and started the last part of his speech.

“Let’s speak now of homosexuality. In our church, homosexuality is officially perceived as a set of thoughts, feelings and behaviors; not as an unchanging condition. So the church teaches us that homosexual feelings can and must be controlled” he declared while rearranging the collar of his shirt. “Yet, the members of our community having an inclination for homosexuals can remain within the church if they abstain from any sexual relationships. All antique and modern prophets have taught homosexuality is a serious sin. Besides, our late lamented president, Gordon B. Hinckley, had declared the community did not consider itself as anti-gay, but rather as a pro-family. The heterosexual marriage is one of the necessary conditions to enter the highest degrees of glory of the heavenly kingdom.”
“Once again, what I hear saddens me extremely” I flew into a rage. “You have absolutely no idea of what it is to grow with homosexual inclinations within your community. It must be a constantly tormented life and self-hatred. As for you, only the persons who succeed to overcome their homosexuality are worth being part of your community – thanks to their faith and their self-control – but being gay is not a sin, neither an illness nor a choice. It’s not something they should regret or be sorry for. Homosexuality exists, that’s all.”
“Our church” Joseph affirmed, shaking his head vigorously, “does not condemn what we call feelings, inclinations or temptations when they are not followed by acts referring to Christ’s temptations. Members having homosexual inclinations can take part in cult – as well as the other members – in so far as they remain single or they marry someone from the opposite sex. Homosexuality is not an easy affair, and the managers of our church are aware of the great difficulties homosexual persons encounter when they want to practice their faith.”
“You advocate a cause you don’t seem to understand the stakes of. Stop hiding behind the teachings of your church, and think for yourself. Are you at least conscious that behind your nice speech are men and women suffering, unable to practice their faith because of their sexual tendency?”

The clock in the dining-room showed 6 p.m when Elder Nathaniel, somehow stunned by the liveliness of our conversation, quickly said goodbye and rushed outside to meet his colleague.

“What an interesting debate!” Joseph declared, drying up the glasses on the kitchen table.
“I’m delighted you liked it.”
“Are your ideas always so uncompromising?”
“Usually they are” I answered, looking up.
“Who can predict that behind this angel face hides a resilient person?” Joseph let out while I was putting my hooded jacket on.

I went out to get some fresh air. I was weakened by the long hours of discussions. Sitting on the steps, I clutched my jacket against my body, trying to forget the cold nipping at me, and let myself go to melancholic daydreaming, a nostalgic spleen in which Santa Monica and my former existence seemed to hang in the distance. Closing my eyes, I could almost hear the squawks of seagulls flying over the pier. A metallic bell – bracelets Jane had offered me that week – made me think of that girl who had become a faithful friend within a few weeks. I met her with pleasure every morning in front of the coffee machine in the cafeteria. Her outspokenness and emancipated aspect allowed me to let go within few hours. The study room in the first floor had recently become our rear base. That’s where we could loudly speak about pointless matters, which incurred Charity Goodman’s wrath two weeks before :

“Would you mind respecting other people’s work?” Charity had moralized, with a constipated look on her face.
“Give us a break Snow White, will you?” Jane had let out, without even looking at her.
“I’d like to study peacefully if you don’t mind.”
“You? Study? But what for? In two years time, you’ll have married one of your sort and will be about to give birth to monozygotic twins! So, if you take time to think about it, the only one career open to you in the years to come is a housewife and a mother whose only concern will be to add chocolate spread on bloody slices of toasts, so get out of my way!”

Charity, like a disgraceful dog with his tails between his legs, had gone back to her seat, without further ado. Even if it could be surprising, I also began to become fond of my smiling partner of computing lessons. Ruth, very different from Jane, had succeeded, thanks to her kindness and consideration, to make me appreciate her. She really worshipped food, and could spend whole weekends trying new unlikely recipes.
Ruth did not say much about her personal life, in particular her family life. From the brief descriptions she had made of her father, I had understood he was extremely severe and did not tolerate any breach of religious precepts to which his family and him obeyed every day. She preferred mentioning plans for her future which, unlike mine, were very precise. Her registration form to Brigham Young University had already been filled and was waiting in her chest of drawers, ready to be sent back. Brigham Young University was the main university of the community. I had been astounded to hear that every student and teacher – whatever their religion may be – was required to accept a Code of Honor including some rules concerning chastity, clothes, good appearance, drugs and alcohol. Ruth wished to continue her studies in History, with a specialisation in genealogy.The cold swept under my clothes and made my teeth chattered violently. I rushed near the chimney to warm me up while Jacob, in equilibrium on the stairs, was trying to remove a running spider.

On Monday, in the high school, the week started with the installation of Christmas twinkling decorations in all the buildings’ first floors. Mr Ripert, our assistant director, a stout man with gray bushy hair, was trying his best to make his building look like an amusement park. In the already over-decorated halls, he had not hesitated to hang a series of leaping reindeers and fat-bellied Santa Claus. The spirit of Christmas was floating in our mind with Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby’s mellifluous voices during lunches in the cafeteria.

“If they let me hear one more Jingle Bells, I’ll puke my steak on the table” Owen started to lose his temper while I sneezed twice.
“Only dumb people can appreciate that kind of music dripping with good intentions” Sam added, looking, bemused, at Paul and Lucas who were singing Silent Night’s chorus. “Look at them both; they look as if they were on ecstasy!”

Even the cafeteria waitress seemed to have been taken over by the same fever and had the good idea to serve us with a ridiculous Miss Santa’s costume.

“No wonder the old guy prefers to have sex with this reindeers” Jane commented, switching her earphones on. “Her costume is almost obscene, with fat jutting out everywhere.”
“Even totally drunk, I wouldn’t be able to have sex with her!” Sam let out while swallowing his fish cakes, half-hearted.

I let out a wilting sigh and stared at the thick snow layer half covering the stadium lawn through the bay window. Temperatures were then below zero, and every morning, a streak of short-lived flakes followed us to high school. I only tolerated their presence because they forecasted Christmas and all these unchanging rituals I was fond of: the choice of the Christmas tree, the countdown with the Advent Calendar, stockings hanging at the chimney. But for me, this year, there was no way I could see the Ocean Avenue palm trees take on a Christmas spirit and get beribboned with white lights, or attend wild parties in the seafront pubs. On Friday morning, whereas my alarm clock had been ringing for a few minutes, an oppressive emotion seized me as soon as my bare feet contacted the parquet. I felt a little queasy during breakfast, and completely sick during the drive to high school. As the History lesson started, Jane pointed out I looked like a junkie having withdrawal symptoms. I put it down to the sleepless nights I had lately spent and tried to immerse myself in the Treaty of Paris. I flagged when the teacher spoke about George Washington; my head fell on the desk and walls began to whirl considerably. Very soon, M. Muller asked one of my classmates to bring me to the infirmary. Cooper Stevenson, eminent member of the chess club – also nicknamed ‘The Dauphin’ by Owen because of his delicate and frail silhouette – was proud to receive this perilous mission. With his blond hair cascading down over his shoulders and his aristocratic walk, Cooper looked like young men from the European gentry painted by Van Dyck . We could easily imagine him, wearing a delicate suit with blue highlights, posing next to an elegant Afghan hound.

The infirmary was on the first floor. Completely dingy, this little room was filled by a smell of lingering formalin and plunged me into anxiety and intense tension. My uneasiness strengthened at the sight of the pale walls, the raw bulb hanging dolefully and the lined up camp beds. A woman with enigmatic features, almost male features – worthy of Tamara de Lempicka’s androgynous portraits in the roaring twenties – welcomed me as warm-hearted as a bird of prey. Without looking at me, she put her cold hand on my burning hot forehead and grabbed her stethoscope, with an irritated look on her face.
The big jellyfish also checked my blood pressure and, for a short time, I suspected her of getting a wicked pleasure to pumping up the strip around my arm more than necessary.

“Alright, miss, your blood pressure is OK” she said with a German accent which made her more intimidating.

I nearly asked her the way to Kommandantur when she noticed I was scantily clad on that icy morning.

“So, how many sex partners recently?” She asked me with indifference.
“Sorry but what does it have to do with my symptoms?” I retorted, stunned.
“I’m just asking you to answer my question.”
“OK…If we consider the firemen squad chief and our career counsellor, that makes twelve!” I answered, pretending to count on my fingers.

She rolled her eyes and picked up her phone. Too tired to understand what she was mumbling, I finally lay on a bed camp – as welcoming as a mass grave during an epidemic period. I remained laid, nearly dying, until I heard Joseph’s voice resounding in the room. He was standing before me, questioning the nice fraülein on my symptoms.

“Blair, can you walk to the car?” He asked me, helping me to sit down.
“Yes, I think so…” I hardly uttered.

Putting his arm around me, Joseph grabbed my schoolbag. The nurse’s piercing eyes followed us on the desert halls.

“I’m really sorry to make you miss your lessons. This was the only thing I could tell him before my legs gave way under me.”

I was constrained to stop before the high school front door. Joseph took the opportunity to put his hand on my forehead.

“You’re burning hot!”

Beyond hesitation, he lifted me up and ordered me to put my arms around his neck. I put my head on his shoulder, nuzzling up against him like a sick animal. While Joseph was walking to the car park, I could feel his skin against mine, his breath on my face.
He sat me gently on the seat of the car and gazed at me, removing my locks from my forehead. It was very hot inside the car, like in a cocoon. I could feel my sick body floating in this sultry heat. I closed my eyes while the silent car was moving forward. The fever made me doze off for a few minutes, and when I came round, we were in front of the house. Joseph opened the door and drew me to him. He only let me go once before my bed.

“I’ll call the doctor” he said softly.
“Jane’s father practices in town” I told him. “Doctor Ted Spencer”.
“We do have a very good general practitioner within our community. He has been taking care of the while family for ages.”

I hesitated for a few seconds.

“What’s the matter, Blair?”
“Is this a real doctor with qualifications?”
“Yes, Blair. I’m not going to put you in a shaman or a hypnotizer’s care, even if it’s not that I don’t want to…” he retorted, closing abruptly my bedroom’s door behind him.

One hour later, Doctor Martt was there, diagnosing an acute bronchitis. I was prescribed a seven-day intensive break and an impressive quantity of yellow and blue pills to swallow every day for a complete recovery. There I was, compelled to remain inactive while Christmas preparations would be in full swing. A rush of fever quickly brought my desires down and made me totally unable to get up or even eat. I spent most of my time sleeping, and from time to time I could feel Karen’s reassuring presence next to me. When I was finally able to stand up, the next Saturday, my first reaction was to rush to the bathroom. The illness had left clearly visible after effects, I noticed while my hands lingered on my prominent cheek-bones. I stared at that bony, hollow and thinner body as if it was someone else’s. When I succeeded to put off my T-shirt, Free Tibet, I waded into the shower to make the last stigmata of my forced stay in bed disappear. Once washed and dressed up, I succeeded, not without difficulty, to go down to the kitchen, hoping to find some food. Busy to mend one of Jacob’s trousers, Karen only noticed my presence when I stood up before her and kissed her.

“Honey, you frightened everybody these days. The doctor even talked about hospitalizing you if your temperature did not decrease.”
“I think my time had not come yet. I’m starving to death” I declared, opening the fridge.
“Good! But while I’m preparing you a heart breakfast, we have to discuss about a serious matter. You just can’t keep on going out in such a cold dressed like that.”
“I don’t have much choice! Where do you want me to find a decent wardrobe?”
“That’s why, in two weeks time, you and me will spend the day in Salt Lake City. We’ll buy you adapted clothes and we’ll take the opportunity to deal with Christmas presents.”
“Why not…” I mumbled, surprised by the suggestion.
“By the way” Karen added, “tonight there’s a family meeting in the living-room at 6 pm. Jacob would like to talk about Christmas preparations.”

Once my breakfast swallowed in one go, I went upstairs to catch up with my lessons. My desk was overflowing with books and notes written by Jane to my attention. My afternoon was spent to do the homework I was supposed to hand in and to set my lessons in order. When the bell rang 6 o’clock, I put on my loose-fitting pullover, my jeans and a headband, and went down to the living-room. The family was discussing about the next ward ceremony. Every one of them looked up in my direction as I was getting closer, as if I was a miraculous spook. Shyly smiling at them, I remained standing with my back on the chimney, hoping to warm me up.

“A ghost!” Joshua let out, mocking. “We thought we had lost you for good. Thanks Christmas for its miracles!”

I answered by sulking and focused on the ground cloth.

“Alright. Now that we are all relieved to see you’ve recovered” Jacob said with his eternal half-moon shaped smile, “we can focus on the festivities to come. Blair, let me explain in a few words the meaning of Christmas celebration in our community. Even if Christmas day does not coincide with, according to our doctrine, the real Christ’s birth day – on April the 6th, day when the church was re-established – we still celebrate this tradition. Christmas spirit with all its values, forgiveness, love and tolerance, is essential for us”.

While Jacob followed his endless speech, I discreetly glanced at Joseph. He was concentrated on his father’s sayings. His face, on which I could see slight rings, seemed to be tautly and quite upset. His cold eyes suddenly came to stick into mine. We remained a few seconds staring at each other in an attitude of reciprocal challenge. Jacob called me to order.

“Blair, do you have any questions?”
“No, no, I think this is very clear” I lied with self-control.
“Perfect. So now let’s use the random drawing. Blair, here’s one last detail about our ways and customs for Christmas. You have to know that during this period of the year, we give an important sum of money to the church, that’s what we call the tithe. Each family must pay one tenth of their incomes to access the Temple.”
“A tithe? How original! I thought this feudal tradition had completely disappeared with the French Middle-Age. But, let me know something, you don’t knight each of your new members, do you?” I let out, sardonic.

Visibly not getting the sarcastic meaning of my last sentence, Jacob resumed his explanations.

“So, because of the tithe payment, each member of our family offers, according to random drawings, another one a gift of his or her choice. No more than one gift per person. So, we gather every year two weeks before Christmas to determine who will give what to whom. You also have to know that within most of the families of the community, children, as soon as infancy, know the origin of gifts for December the 25th. They do not believe in such a thing as Santa Claus.”

This time, I kept my comments about that cruel practice silent. Then Karen brought on the table a red iron box containing pieces of paper on which were written our forenames. When my turn arrived, I grabbed the first paper and read Anna on it. According to the random drawings, Joshua had to offer a present to his brother.Then Joseph grabbed a paper. He paused for a moment when he discovered the name written, but finally read mine out loud. When he left the place, a few minutes later, I saw him, in the reflection of the mirror, tearing up the piece of paper and throwing it into the fire, irritated.

The following week, whereas the facades in the center groaned under the weight of miles of neon tubes, only a few candles appeared on the mantelpiece, at home. Anna and Elizabeth decided to throw themselves into the conception of a pine tree-shaped table centerpiece while the twins were in charge of drawing a portrait of each of us. Those portraits were supposed to be framed and be hung in the entrance. Even my mother, yet not very dexterous, decided to play a part in this creative leisure activity and chose the execution of snowmen-shaped place-markers. A series of superb handmade creations which would be a background decoration to my first Christmas in Nephi. On the morning when Mary was in charge of placing the portrait gallery created by the twins, I was constrained for fifteen minutes to rave about the awkward sketches on which the ten of us was supposed to be drawn. It took me a few seconds to identify myself. From my head – much bigger than my body – sprang black wriggling streamers. My face, with a purplish color, could be summarized by two dark eye-sockets. I had no orifice to breathe or to hear. To finish with, my right arm reaching out to the sky – with the same gesture as a fascist salute – seemed to point out the multicolor sky. But I could not complain. Jacob, with a bony bump in the middle of his face, looked like the poor Joseph Merrick, best known as Elephant man. As for Mary, suffering from a sudden hormone disorder, she had long hairs on her chin, making her resemble Barbara Urstein, a well-known bearded woman from the 16th century. This nice gallery of freaks ended with a brilliant self-portrait of the twins. Their two heads stuck to one another seemed to make just one, like Siamese children who were shown to the public during the 20th century like freaks of nature.
Mary and Karen remained blissfully happy before those works of abstract art, proof of the twins’ obvious artistic predisposition. I left those two critics to their subtle observations and rushed to call my father about his coming to Nephi for the festive season. In the high school, we counted all the days separating us from holidays. Jane seemed to be particularly enthusiastic about welcoming some members of her family, and brimming over with speeches about her two female cousins. A big party had even been especially organized for both of them, on the 31th, at Santaquin, a village situated a few miles from Nephi. On Wednesday morming, Owen hastened to invite me to this little party.

“Blair, you absolutely have to come. For once, there’s something exciting going on here!” Jane moaned, glancing at me with the same look as a dying spaniel.
“Stop staring at me! If you think it’s fun for me to be virtuous all the time…I can already imagine my father-in-law’s reaction when I’ll tell him :“I’m about to go out with a group of non-Mormon young people to party all through the night in Santaquin”.
“Alright! Desperate cases call for desperate measures. You’ll explain to the charming Ingalls family that Owen and I have invited you to celebrate the New Year at home, where you’ll stay overnight. And there you go!” She rubbed her hands, with a machiavellian look.
“Give me a few days to think about it, will you? I feel like accepting your invitation, but I need to ponder on all the parameters.”
“Jane’s right. You have to misbehave a little, or you’ll end up like her” said Owen, finger-pointing Charity. “You’ll have a Bible screwed on your hand and always be virgin at 42. And that would be great to spend the evening with you, I would really like it, he added, looking at me ambiguously.”

I promised to try something with Karen and Jacob as soon as possible. The thought that I could loosen up for a moment seemed to me very interesting. For more than one month now, I only went back and forth between high school and home, and sometimes I made quick escapades to the mini-market in the neighbourhood. Nothing very thrilling! I started to suffocate, and Joseph’s attitude towards me did not help matters either. Without knowing why, I could feel Joseph had been distant for a few days. He seemed to avoid me, moving away as soon as he saw me. On morning, our relations were limited to brief hellos, in the presence of the other family members, and to an embarrassing silence in the car. From now on, he acted as if I was transparent, and seemed to ignore me.

Back home, I locked myself in my room and cross-legged on my bed, I began to think about a plan. Few hours later, whereas the whole family was sleeping soundly, I couldn’t close my eyes. My future escapade in Salt Lake City during the weekend prevented me from sleeping. Lost in my thoughts, hesitating between a pair of leopard gloves and a cashmere flowered scarf, I suddenly heard a vague whisper from the living-room. I sat down on my bed, on the watch. The noise stopped straight away. The clock rang 2 am. While the image of a sleeveless ostrich-feathered jacket and of a military coat with loads of golden buttons was floating before my eyes, I got the sudden impression someone had brushed against my door. It occurred to me Kaiser could be the author of that bustle, as he often came to doze off in front of my doorstep.

This idea reassured me and I lay down again. But maybe that night, it was written that I wouldn’t sleep. The strange noises in the first floor resumed. I decided to go down and check by myself what was happening, certain that my Rage Against the Machine T-shirt would frighten anybody. My heart was beating fast. There was no light from downstairs. It was completely dark except the faint glow of live embers in the chimney. Several things happened at the same time. While I was groping my way to the button switch, my hand knocked over something, but the thick ground cloth deadened the noise of the crack. Two arms swooped down on me with such strength and such speed that I didn’t react. I found myself on the floor, with the weight of my attacker on mine. The glow of the fire came to light up our both faces. I remained motionless, Joseph’s eyes piercing mine, our both breaths in accord. He glanced at my lips for a few seconds and then put an end to this constrained hug by unsticking my body from his, with a cold expression on his face.

“Sorry” I finally mumbled, awkwardly sitting up, “but I heard a noise from the living-room and…”
“It’s your dog” he interrupted me coldly. “I took him out, he was sick. And for pity’s sake, next time you’ll follow an intruder, try not to burst into the room the way you did. This could have ended in disaster!” He added before picking up the fragments of vase and leaving the room.

I got back to my bedroom, shook by an undefinable emotion. Hoping to get back to sleep, I started counting sheep, but only the twenty last pages of the “l’Assommoir ” – pages concerning Gervaise’s descent into hell - helped me get it over with my sleeplessness. The next day, Miss River’s lesson – the last one before holidays – was only made of hullabaloo and clamor. While Charity, standing on the platform and grave like a soldier, was trying to end her reading of The Scarlet Letter, Miss River belted out at the class, threatening us of immediate retaliations if we didn’t remain silent in the minutes to come. Our Literature teacher only needed a whistle and a black military cap to be compared with a meter maid on a Parisian crossroads. When, at 4 p.m, I opened the front door of our house, my only thought was to free my mind and spend all my money in Salt Lake City. Karen, pointing me out a plate of cookies filled with a viscous treacle, smiled at me apologetically, as if she was about to announce I had been swapped with a leader gipsy’s daughter.

“Blair, honey, Mrs Levingston called me early this morning, and believe it or not, her son suffers from chicken pox.”
“What a tragedy! But I don’t know this woman, and I don’t care if her son has got the scarlet fever or if he doesn’t” I answered, with my fingers spattered with treacle, as if I had just gone through a record of fingerprints.
“Not the scarlet fever, honey, the chicken pox. Well, anyway, I was trying to explain that Mrs Levingston was in charge of organizing a special meeting of the Relief Society this Saturday. But as her son is ill, she asks me to replace her tomorrow. I can’t refuse, that’s a great honor to me, you know.”
“So, your own daughter keeping on wandering half-naked in Nephi streets does not bother you at all. Perfect! I’ll keep on going out in windy or snowy conditions until I die.”
“Calm down honey. Don’t worry: I’ve just asked Joseph and Joshua to bring you there tomorrow, and they agreed. Isn’t it cool?”
“Cool ? You want to know if I find it cool? No, I don’t. I can even tell you that sucks, that really sucks!”

In anger, I had squashed with my fist a poor cookie which heart slowly spread on the white cloth. I was left indifferent by Karen preferring to organize her damned meeting. But the thought of spending a whole day with Joseph horrified me. My day as a “Pretty Woman” had suddenly been transformed in “Fear in the night” or “Day of the dead”. Devastated, I climbed up the stairs to seek refuge in my bedroom. The next morning, the departure was planned at 9.30 am. Snow had stopped falling during the night. Dressed as warmly as possible, I knocked a bonnet leant by Mary on my head and pretended to be cheerful while sitting at the front of the pick-up.

“Well, I think we’re going to spend a great day!” Joshua exclaimed when he saw my face. Hopefully, I’ll leave you together as soon as we arrive.”
“Where are you going?” I asked, already overcome with edginess.
“I’ll spend the day to the Temple, with two other friends” he answered, “but you won’t be left by yourself as Joseph comes with you. Besides, he looks completely delighted to show you round the trendiest stores of the capital. You have to know my brother has been a tourist guide for two summers, so he’ll sure be able to make you discover the town from every angle. Right, Jo?”

Joseph looked daggers at his brother and started the car. I spent the two-hour trip damning my mother. We did not have any difficulty entering Salt Lake City. The traffic was rather moving freely in this early weekend.

“Blair, before my beloved brother show you round our beautiful capital, you must absolutely know some history reference points on the city birth” Joshua chuckled.
“That’s really not necessary!” I interrupted him.
“Yes, of course, I insist, dear! The city, located between the Great Salt Lake and the Rocky Mountains, has been built on a land once recovered by Lake Bonneville.”
“Joshua, please!”
“Pioneers guided by Prophet Brigham Young founded it in the 19th century. Salt Lake was quickly nicknamed ‘The Holly Land’.”
“Stop it now.”
“Now, you should know the cultural life is lively: the Sundance film festival, Utah Arts Festival. The background is exceptional: three ski resorts in less than one-hour drive. In 2002, the city even received the 19th Winter Olympics.”
“Thanks Joshua for those essential details!” said Joseph, rolling his eyes.

While Joseph stopped the pick-up in one of the streets near Temple Square, my eyes scanned the houses that lined the first snow fields, the red and white streetcar zigzagging through the city center, and the snowy Twin Peaks Mount.
Salt Lake seemed to be a quiet city, with its well-maintained lawns, its clean streets lined with plum trees and poplars, and its large families strolling in public parks.

“Well, that’s where I leave you, dearest friends” Joshua declared, gloating over my contorted face. “I’m not wishing you a good day; I already know it will be incredible. Let’s meet at the car at 5 pm.”

I watched Joshua walking away while Joseph, leaning back on the door, shook his head in despair.

“Listen, I’m as much delighted as you are, considering the sequence of events. So, in order to save us from spending a painful time, I suggest we split up here and meet at 5 pm as agreed upon” I said, as a last resort.
“It’s unfortunately out of the question” Joseph answered sharply. “Your mother expressly asked me to watch you closely today. So, even if don’t jump for joy at the thought of spending my day in the city stores, I’ll keep my promise and will follow you around like your shadow, whether you like it or not, sister.”
“What a magnanimity! Your sense of duty honours you, but anyway, I refuse to be subject to a bodyguard all day long” I retorted, pretending to walk away.

Joseph quickly caught me up, and pinned me against the car, with his face very close to mine.

“Dear, I won’t say that again: either we remain in perfect adequacy until 5 pm, or I’ll be delighted to send you at the back of the pick-up and bring you back to Nephi.”
“You must know I’m totally blind to psychological pressure, so keep your vaguely threatening look and your provocations to yourself.”
“Maybe you need a proof?” said Joseph opening the door of the car.
“Alright!” I exclaimed, reluctantly. “I lay down my arms. I surrender. O Captain, my Captain! I accept your steps following mine, your shadow becoming mine until the hands of time come to ring our mutual relief.”
“What a poetic tirade!” he sighed. “Meanwhile, here’s what I suggest so as to organize our day the best way. We could spend the first two hours of morning visiting the town, and in the afternoon, I promise, unlimited shopping! What do you think?”
“OK for the guided tour this morning. Do I need a colored map or an audio-guide?” I asked him tersely.
“No you don’t. You’re with an expert of the capital of Utah.”

Joseph took me to Temple Square. The historical center of the town was packed with people at that period of the year. On the ten acres, embellished with landscaped gardens, was rising a series of monuments.

“Blair, to begin with, you must know Temple Square is a place belonging to our church. There are several essential structures: Salt Lake Temple, Salt Lake Tabernacle, Salt Lake Assembly Hall, the Seagull Monument and two visitor centers. In 1847, when Mormon pioneers arrived in the Salt Lake Valley, Church president Brigham Young selected a plot of the desert ground and proclaimed, "Here we will build a temple to our God." When the city was surveyed, the block enclosing that location was designated for the Temple, and became known as Temple Square.”

We stationed in front of a massive granite structure, topped with six acute arrows. One of them carried the golden statue of Angel Moroni. Behind this quite pompous neo-gothic architecture was hidden the Temple. Towering above the square, the imposing structure claimed to be the witness of pioneers’ faith and devotion. The Temple evoked King Salomon’s and was oriented towards Jerusalem. As Joseph told me, Mormons had two places of worship: chapels and temples. The chapel was the place where generally the weekly service on Sundays was held, and temples were the other place where members searched for advice concerning their goal in life and their relationship with God. The designing of temples allowed several rooms, each of them being consecrated to different ceremonies like weddings or baptisms. Inside temples, people only wear white clothes symbolizing purity and respect.

While I was starting to climb up the stairs, Joseph stopped me.

“Only members of the church can get into the Temple. So, unless you wish to become a Mormon in the hours to come, you cannot enter.”
“Unfortunately, I have other plans for today!” I said, smiling.
“It’s a real pity.”

Joseph’s hand discreetly grabbed mine while we were making our way in front of the Tabernacle. From the outside, it gave the impression of a huge egg-shaped saucer laid on a white-stoned base, and it was built on the same axis as the Temple. Its curbed roof was covered with aluminum, and its monumental doors seemed as intimidating as Alcatraz’s.

“In front of you stand the Tabernacle. This vast oval structure listed national heritage and can contain more than 6,000 people. It has been built in such a way that a public speaker may be heard by each member at a time where audio amplifiers and loudspeakers had not been invented yet. This room became the best attraction of Temple Square after anti-seismic works of renovation and modernization in 2007.”

Inside, I observed a room with vaulted ceiling where I could see rows of wooden benches, circular balconies and big luminous basins which colors could vary according to the music performances.

“In order to show the fabulous acoustics of this room, they drop a pin every fifteen minutes: the soft noise can be heard from the other end of the room, which means from almost 200 feet. This structure is both a leap of faith and a cultural center of very good quality. Concerts are regularly held, dedicated to classical music and religious songs. The Tabernacle greets the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, composed of 360 members who have attended the inaugural speech of five American presidents and sung for several special events.”

A dense crowd, with video cameras in their hands, was massing in front of the very attractive organ, one of the most imposing of the world, with its 11,600 copper pipes. Located at the very end of the central alley, it drew everyone’s attention as it was towering the present assembly by its height. Joseph succeeded to bring me in front of the security cord separating tourists from the instrument. With firmness, his arms placed me with my back against him. While he was describing me in a whisper the mechanical working of the organ, I could feel his breath in my neck, his body touching lightly mine, at the mercy of the crowd. I finally let my whole body go at the touch of his, unable to concentrate on something else than his voice and warm presence behind me. When his fingers, in an imperceptible movement, went to caress mine during a few seconds, I tried to focus on the wooden console in front of me, but the crowd was such that we were forced to give up our place to the newcomers. I followed him outside, still embarrassed by that brief physical contact. As for him, Joseph did not show his trouble and suggested me to carry on our escapade by the visit of the Church History Museum. We went through the Temple gardens under the fixed eyes of a pioneer couple dragging a cart with their children and their meagre luggage inside: a statue symbolizing the exodus of the Mormons. From Church History Museum, I only remembered the series of paintings, tapestries and stained glass windows consecrated to the Old Testament on the first floor, and on the second, the portraits of all the prophets.

My personal Salt Lake guided tour ended by the visit of the two official apartment blocks where Brigham Young and his family live. The first one, the Beehive House, was built in 1854 by Young to exercise his functions as a governor. Its name came from the beehive drawn on one of the turrets and symbolized the enthusiasm of community members. It was, from 1855 to 1918, the official house of the Mormon president. The plush interior, with a 19th century decoration, contained the numerous musical instruments, as Brigham Young attached much importance to this practice. His 27 wives and 57 children lived in the Lion House, a long villa with green stores which name came from the stone statue of a lying lion in the main entrance.

“27 wives! Which man would not appreciate to be the king in such a harem!” I sneered, in front of the austere portrait of the master of the house.
“It’s quite excessive, you’re right.” Joseph answered, gazing at me sardonically. All I need is one.”

When we got out of the Lion House, my legs refused to carry me more. I finally collapsed on the closest bench.

“Sorry for imposing you such a rhythm” Joseph apologized. “I reckon I got carried away by my desire to show your round our charming capital.”
“I must admit my stomach would appreciate a lunch break.”
“Alright…” he started thinking. “I know! I’m bringing you to the place where I used to go when I was a guide.”
“You’ll have to carry me! I can’t stand up.”
“Come on, you can do it! We’re only a few feet away.”

He put his arms around my shoulders and we headed for South Temple, the area of big avenues. Joseph’s restaurant turned out to be a vast bakery with seats at the back. The waiters seemed to be friendly in a quite relaxed mood. The concept of the place, relatively original, consisted in making your own sandwiches from the choice of home-made bread to the ingredients inside the sandwich.

“Do you like it?” Joseph asked me while I squinted on the mass of different bread shown in the window display.
“All of this looks savoury!” I answered before falling on one of the padded seats.

Hardly had I taken off my coat that I heard a delicate voice pronouncing Joseph’s name many times. A brown-haired girl, as frail as chinaware, soon came to station herself in front of our table. Wearing an elegant white coat, the young lady, with her cheeks slightly red by the cold and her hair delicately pulled back, made me think of a portrait painted in 1805 by Ingres, Miss River’s.
Her almond-shaped eyes kept staring at Joseph, with an open pleasure, like a snake charmer in the middle of a taming sequence. She was listening to him very carefully when he explained our morning journey. Joseph introduced me to her without ranging over our family relationship. Juliette – that was her forename – bombarded him with innocent questions to which I listened with only half an ear, until a precise subject was tackled.

“By the way, congratulations! I heard your father had just remarried. So, what does your new family-in-law look like?”
“Vast subject you’re tackling here” said Joseph, contemplative. “Karen, my mother-in-law, is…, let me think, very refreshing. For someone who used to live on the west coast, I must say she perfectly managed to adapt to our way of life.”
“A reformed fan of fitness centers and sun-bed sessions?” she joked.

Without interrupting her inquiry, Juliette sat down on the padded seats, next to Joseph.

“You have stepsisters or stepbrothers?”
“Just one stepsister.”

I suddenly focused on the bay-window overlooking South temple.

“And??”
“And what?” Joseph repeated.
“Tell me about her, come on!”

I saw him hesitating for a few seconds.

“It’s not easy, she’s quite elusive.”
“I see.” Juliette answered, glancing at him, puzzled. “What does she look like? Is she pretty?”

I felt Joseph’s discreet eyes on me while Juliette remained hung on his every word.

“Yes” he admitted in a low voice, “she’s very pretty.”

An embarrassing silence made way to these unexpected confessions. Juliette, still smiling, finally slipped away, asking Joseph to give news soon.
Unable to utter any word, I kept staring at the traffic light and the line of cars next to it. At the wheel of a black Cadillac, a man was straightening his striped tie in his rear view mirror. Joseph, in a weary gesture, finally stood up. When he went past me, he took my hand and brought me to the bar without saying a word. I ordered mechanically my lunch and got back to my seat, trying to find hopelessly a conversation subject suitable for the next hour. When he put his tray in front of mine, I asked the first question that came to my mind.

“So, which prestigious university will greet you next year?”

Even if my question was unimaginative, Joseph looked relieved to hear my voice again.

“For the time being, I’m not going to any university. In fact, I’m leaving with Lucas for two years in Australia, as a missionary.”
“A missionary? To convert savages and lost souls?”
“Well, something like that. The missionary work is a fundamental principle within our church – which is, to a large extent – based upon proselytism.Very young boys, members of the community, are encouraged to leave to preach the scripture as soon as they’re 18, during two years in their own country or abroad. Young women don’t have the same duty towards the missionary service, but if they apply, they’re called for 18 months.”
“And who decides where you’ll assign?”
“The members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles examine the numerous applications. The church organization assigns missionaries to any country in the world, as far as their governments allow preaching. According to the assignment, missionaries will be sent in a missionary training center to follow intensive foreign-language courses, study the Scripture and learn how to teach. After a few weeks training, the assigned set out on a mission.”

I watched very briefly the curls of smoke on my cup of hot tea.

“I suppose those two years must be expensive. Who subsidizes them?”
“Young people in the church are encouraged to save money throughout their childhood and teenage years to pay for as much of their mission as they can. They are also helped by a missionary fund introduced by the church.
“And how are your days far from family and friends?”
“Time is mostly spent on proselytism, teaching the Scripture, and being useful to the community. A missionary day is very structured. His schedule is the same every day of the week, except for a day, called preparation day, saved for activities like shopping, washing, sports, writing mails and tourism.”
“And how do you keep in touch with the family?”
“Even if they can send a weekly letter, missionaries can only call for Christmas and Mother’s Day. They have to set everything aside, except their spiritual development. Being called up is a privilege and an honor. A lot of former missionaries describe their two-year time as the most difficult experience in their life but also the most rewarding.”

Loud bursts of laughter from the table next to us interrupted our conversation. I tried clumsily to set my tray in order while Joseph stared at me silently.

“What about you? What are your future prospects?” He let out, with a falsely light-hearted tone.
“To tell the truth, they are quite vague” I admitted reluctantly. “Even if my father only wished to see me back in France to study Art History, Karen would prefer me to enter the architecture and design department of UCLA.”
“Art? I did not know you were interested by Art.”
“Actually, my father belongs to an important bloodline of French Art merchants. I caught the virus during my several stays in Paris. But for now, I still find it hard to make up my mind. I’ll let time take its course as I have a few months to take a decision, and maybe I’ll come with you and Lucas to help you convert thousands of faithful!”
“I had not thought about that” said Joseph, smirking. “But definitely your wrestling skills may help us to rally future members behind our cause much faster. Meanwhile, it’s time to go now if you want to go shopping!”

Outside, the shy sun barely showed up through the cloudy sky on that winter afternoon. Joseph went first, pensively, while we went past Richmond Park where a street choir tried to lighten the atmosphere by singing classical winter songs. Silent, we reached the Trolley Square shopping arcade. When we arrived before the emblem of the place – a 97 feet high water tower adapted to a weather beacon, whose blue neon light indicated a cloudy sky for today – Joseph explained, absent-minded, the arcade had been built on the ruins of former Trolleybus warehouses.
Listed on the city heritage, the red-bricked buildings contained more than 80 stores, restaurants and playgrounds.On the car-park, a washed-out red trolley, relic of the past, welcomed visitors. The architecture of the place was characterized by vast paved arterial streets, centenarian trees and charming wooded terraces. I entered the first store and went hunting for the two first elements essential to my wardrobe: a parka and a pair of fur-lined boots. The two winter months I had just braved had finally convinced me of buying such clothes. Joseph sat down in a corner and started watching me out of the corner of his eye. Choosing my pair of boots was quite easy, but it was different for the parka. Selecting three models, I set about trying them. Joseph seemed to be amused by my going back and forth between the fitting room and the mirrors next to the checkout counters.

“What do you think?” I asked him, hesitating.
“The last one”
“Are you sure ?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure. Look, Blair, I have to deal with a few things before we get back home. Do you mind if you’re left alone for an hour or two?”
“No problem” I said, surprised.
“Promise me you’ll be well-behaving. Raise your right hand and say: “I swear”.”

I took the oath with a solemn gesture.

“Relieved?”
“Not really! If an untrustworthy stranger invites you home to show you his stamp collection, what do you answer?”
“That he’ll have to pay for 100 $ for full service.”

Joseph looked intensely unhopeful when he came out of the store. Half an hour later, with my purchases under my arm, I was wandering in the shopping arcade. While my eyes were strolling on the front stores with envy – each of them reminding that Christmas was near, thanks to a great number of snow and glitters – my mind remained set on the events of the day. Even if I was slowly becoming aware of that confusion Joseph aroused in me and that reciprocal attraction, I couldn’t forget who he was and what the limits not to cross were. Passing in front of one of the bookshops in the arcade, I decided to devote my energy and my last hour looking for Anna’s present.Getting back to the car, just before 5 pm, I was weighed down by my numerous parcels. The operation ‘new dressings for Christmas’ had had a resounding success. I was a few minutes early, so I took the opportunity to satisfy my nicotine addiction and started watching the luminous blaze livening up Temple Square at dusk. I remained long minutes gazing at those pointillist illuminations, this urban fairy attracting attention in an almost hypnotic way. I did not see him coming near. Joseph, in an obvious annoyed gesture, grabbed the cigarette I had in my hand and threw it in the gutter.

“Blair, I thought I had been clear on that subject. You really fancy hurting yourself, he moralized me. Tobacco is a serious perversion and I do not want a member of my family to take up smoking.”
“I see…And what kind of perversion would you like me to practice exactly?” I let out, with a mocking expression on my face.
“Not this one” he answered, pushing me towards the car.

Joshua joined us a few seconds later.

“I can see this shopping day has been profitable for everyone” he said before looking at his watch. “Alright, everybody in the car, it’s high time to come home.”

The house was resounding with happy shouts when the three of us came back. Anna rushed towards me to know if I had found her present, and Sarah asked for a hug from Joseph as soon as she saw him. As for Karen, such as a customs agent tracking down an ordinary an illegal entering, she inspected thoroughly each of my purchases before considering them as satisfying.

During dinner, Jacob enquired with great interest about the monuments visited in the morning. I gave him the details of every visit, turning from time to time to Joseph when a name or a detail escaped me. I concluded the capital of Utah was a captivating city. Then Jacob’s face lit up; he smiled like a dying man whose last wish had just been granted.

That night, I slept peacefully, rocked by images of my day in Salt Lake City.
The next morning, respecting the principle of Sunday break, I took the advantage of family absence to sleep in. It was only when the bell rang noon that I decided to go downstairs and have breakfast. Laying the table, I started thinking about my plan of action for December the 31th. Once my strategy drawn up, I waited for the end of the afternoon to isolate Karen in the kitchen and took the offensive.

“I had completely forgotten to talk to you about it: Jane invited me to spend the New Year’s Eve party in her house with her family. I would stay there overnight and Mr Spencer would bring me back the day after.”
“Jane? The doctor’s daughter?” Karen asked me while folding meticulously the linen on the kitchen table.
“Exactly! It’s a family meeting. Her two female cousins will be there, and she wants to introduce them to me.”
“I need to talk about it with Jacob. He’ll certainly be disappointed to hear you won’t be there with us.”
“I know, but Jane is one of my closest friends here, and I think I’ve been beyond reproach since our arrival in Nephi.”

Soon, Karen interrupted my long complaint with an authoritative gesture of her hand.

“I got it Blair. I’ll have a word with Jacob about it tonight.”

I got back to my bedroom, proud of myself regarding my perfect skill in the art of lying and being cunning.

In the beginning of the week, Jane jumped for joy when she learnt my stratagem had worked. I had been given a break, and I fully intended to make the most of that evening. But if the New Year’s Eve party was looking very promising, Christmas was about to be quite disappointing. I was waiting eagerly for my father’s arrival, but he finally told me he couldn’t come because of professional reasons, and had to postpone his stay in Utah. An exceptional selling at Christie’s in London, he told me. He could not lose the opportunity of unique items from the Qing dynasty . And to paint a more negative picture of the situation, I had learnt the Christmas meal would be eaten at Jacob’s parents’. The idea of spending my whole day under the roof of a former military leader – spending most of his time staring at me as if I belonged to the enemy camp– erased my pep. I was then nothing but anger, frustration, resentment and bitterness. The poor volunteer who showed up on the last Tuesday before Christmas holidays – to collect money for the fight against infant diabetes – considerably bore the brunt. Ted introduced himself as a former prisoner trying to reintegrate society thanks to this voluntary work within several organizations. With his slight squint and irregular teething, Ted was the perfect punching-bag: I got everything off my chest and explained to him there would be less diabetic children in the world if irresponsible parents gave them less sweetmeat saturated with vegetable fat and synthetic additives. After more than fifteen minutes of a pleading during which Ted could not get a word in edgeways, I ended by slamming the door in his face. An oral release which had no positive effect on the state of exasperation I was in. Locked in my bedroom, I was waiting for December the 25th as Saint Blandine, a virgin and a martyr, ready to be given to lions. Jacob’s parents lived in Provo, 15 miles from Nephi. Very early, on the 25th morning, the house already resounded with laughter and rushes from the twins. When I got down, Karen and Mary did not know which way to turn, bustling about between the bags of food and respective presents.

“Hurry up and help us, Blair!” Mary shouted at me while I was sorely waking up. “We need more helping hands!”

I isolated myself in the kitchen, and, while swallowing the content of a glass of milk, I watched through the window the boys piling the parcels in the boot, just like workers from Ancient Egypt piling block stones for the building of the Kephren pyramid. As soon as I heard Mary in the hall being short of breath, I edged out in the stairs so as to avoid another morning scolding. As this day had lost all its interest, I planted myself in front of my closet and put on the first clothe at reach: a white silk sleeveless dress – an old model of haute couture I had found on the internet – on which I put a dark blue stole. Once ready, I grabbed with an irritated gesture my nailed bag in which I put Anna’s present and went downstairs. Hardly had I walked on the creaking parquet boards that Mary ordered me in a peremptory tone to bring the two bags in the hall outside. Like a fall out soldier, I complied and lifted the first bag which I succeeded, not without difficulty, to put in front of the car. I tried twice to lift the bag to the boot, but gave up because of the weight. Joseph, with his head immersed in the depths of the car, got impatient.

“Blair, please, hurry up! We haven’t got all day!” He started shouting.
“Sorry for not being as strong as an eastern swimmer under anabolic steroids. The bag is much too heavy for me, and if you’re not satisfied, you can do it yourself!” I retorted, irritated.

Sighing, Joseph finally got out of the car and planted himself in front of me.

“You’re afraid to dirty your beautiful dress, aren’t you, princess?”
“Not at all, and stop calling me princess, this is ridiculous.”
“I can see you’re in a good mood today, for Christmas Day. I thought angels had a lot of patience” he let out while staring at my spotless dress with a mocking look.
“Not every angel” I answered, walking away.

This morning, I noticed travelling with ten persons – among them two young children – was a high-precision team work. The two cars, completely full, finally dashed forward on the highway. The only things missing were powerful warning lights to complete the image of “wide or dangerous load” we surely conveyed. The family had been split into two groups for the trip, and I spent two hours stuck between Anna and the ice chest at the back of the pick-up, silent.

The evening before, Jacob had explained to me that his father, a former serviceman, spent most of his time tracing the history of his hometown, Provo. “My father is very attached to his town, and the conversations, you’ll see, only deal with Provo”, he had said, smiling. As I was longing to know more about Provo history, which I supposed would be fascinating, I wouldn’t be disappointed…
The place of my future torture was located aside from the city center, in a private housing estate, where houses were lined up in a very suburban middle-class way. The strictness of the exterior of the residence – spruced-up lawn, borders very well cut, garden gnomes placed in right angle under the pine tree – seemed to me the exact reflection of the owner’s personality. Rigor and military accuracy were the key-words there. Even the hound-dog on the threshold seemed to be standing at attention, with his muscles flexed and his muzzle pointed straight ahead. He only loosened up when his female owner patted on the bottom of his back. Mrs Wilkes welcomed us with a delighted smile on her face – too much powdered.

“Come on in, quickly, my children! It’s very cold today. Karen, you’re gorgeous! said Abigail with a smile. Boys, bring the provisions to the kitchen. Your grandfather is struggling with the roasting of beef.”

If Abigail hastened to congratulate the choice of my dress, she worried by its small size on such a cold winter day. Her remark intensified my uneasiness. Once inside, I was on the lookout for M. Wilkes senior’s coming, while discreetly looking over the interior decoration of the living-room. A brown paint, in the style of pine tree bark, was covering almost all the walls. On the ceiling, thick wooden beams strengthened the impression of heaviness coming out of this little room. In front of me, a recreated stony chimney was occupying the central space and an elk head hung on the wall as a hunting trophy was staring at me with a horrified look.
The furnishing – probably set by the mistress of the house – would have deserved a double central page in a weekly newspaper consecrated to fans of crochet and cross-stitching. From the curtains to the arm rests, including the table runner, everything was made of wool, lace and trimmings. Only the two armchairs in calfskin had escaped to this unpredictable customization.
On the walls of the hall, I discovered a series of pictures; most of them dealt with M. Wilkes’ years of service within the US Army. On one of the group pictures, he illustrated himself in the midst of those uniformed men, with an assault rifle in his hands and the proud look of someone unacquainted with doubt. I remained a few seconds dumbstruck before the gun room next to the grand piano. A succession of guns and rifles, and some handguns – with different brands and sizes – were proudly shown. Such artillery in the house of that veteran didn’t much surprise me. Like most of middle-class Americans, Jacob’s father surely reckoned that having a gun at home was the absolute symbol of the American identity, and was inseparable from the Constitution and the functioning of a modern democracy. The proximity of those arms exerted on me an unhealthy fascination and prevented me from noticing M. Wilkes entering the room. His discreet cough diverted my attention. Shaking my hand coldly, he walked to his son.A few moments later, Jacob, whose enthusiasm did not seem to have any limit on that Christmas day, stood up to raise a toast before Abigail served us the traditional Egg Nog.

“I’d like to take the opportunity of everybody gathered here today to thank God the Father for all the godsends of the year” he said. “I’m talking, in particular, about knowing Karen and her coming within our church and our family.”

Jacob looked at Karen, full of emotion, and everyone, children and adults, raised their glass, to show their agreement. As I did not share the same enthusiasm, I refrained from thanking anybody for our coming to Nephi. While men started discussing the future polls coming soon in Provo, Karen, Mary and Abigail headed for the kitchen. I followed them, for lack of anything better. The kitchen, strategic room of the day, was located at the other hand of the house. When I pushed, with a feverish gesture, the double swinging door, it took some time for my poor eyes to get used to the almost aggressive color of the walls, a psychedelic yellow. The room was decorated with lined up cupboards in solid walnut tree, and ridiculous red satin sheer curtains hanging from the window. In front of the bar, two tripod stools waited to be sat on. The room, as narrow as the living-room, seemed to be an odd crossbreeding between a former brothel in New Orleans and an Old West saloon: at anytime a sheriff and his deputies could come in.
On the laminated counter, I saw, in the midst of a sea of flageolets, the much-talked-about piece of beef stuck with garlic and cloves, the sacrificial offering on that special day. As soon as Karen started discussing about the pyrolysis oven’s different techniques of cooking with Abigail, I decided to get back to the living-room and sat next to the piano where I gazed at the chinaware miniature.

“Look, Grandpa, I think Blair doesn’t know Provo’s history very well” Joshua said, winking at me briefly.
“I wouldn’t like to interrupt your conversation!” I answered before looking daggers at the traitor.
“Don’t be shy! Come and join us!” Joshua retorted, gesturing me to get closer. A bit of local culture won’t harm you.”

I heard the thudding groan Joshua made when I took great care to crush his foot while sitting on the coach between him and Joseph. I succeeded to remain concentrated the first five minutes during which I learnt Provo used to be called Fort Utah, that it was then nicknamed Provo in 1850 in tribute to Etienne Provost – a French-Canadian trapper who arrived in the area in 1825. I surrendered when M. Wilkes senior started mentioning a murky story of a fight between the Utes Indians and the Mormon settlers. One of the chinaware cats on the piano soon drew my attention. It was a cat which surprisingly did not have any artistic talent, but seemed rather to devote itself to chimney sweeping with its ladder and its hedgehog brush. Not without difficulty, I succeeded to intercept the conversation between Joseph and his grandfather about the Brigham Young University located a few streets away from there.

“What about you, Miss? Have you planned to go to university?” M. Wilkes asked me in a condescending tone.
“Honestly, I don’t like studies. My father keeps repeating I have a low IQ. I would prefer to go in for a career in body piercing, with a tendency to extreme scarification. I’ve heard this is an expending sector in time of crisis.”

Gesturing a brief salute, I moved away without missing Joseph’s devastated face and the slight smile Joshua had tried to hide behind his glass of punch. I crossed the hall in an altered state of mind and headed for kitchen. Karen, Mary and Abigail were struggling with scampi fishtails and stuffed crabs claws. Mindlessly, I offered to help them and was requisitioned to finish laying the table. A pile of flowered plates under my arms, I headed for the dining-room. With my throat tightened, I started laying the plates on the table while reminding my sayings a few minutes earlier. Joseph suddenly barged into the room.

“Your speech was great, Blair. My grandfather appreciated it” he said, snatching the forks and knifes from my hands. “If you had yelled “Glory to Satan, Prince of Darkness”, this would have had the same effect!”
“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me, but as soon as your grandfather raises his eyes on me, I have the impression to be the embodiment of evil” I mumbled.
“No less! You should stop thinking you’re permanently pestered. Nobody means you any harm. Quite the contrary.”

Joseph took the opportunity to get closer to me and wiped, with his fingertips, the tears beginning to moisten my face. While we kept staring at each other, I felt his fingers touching my face, then my half open mouth. He first touched them lightly, following precisely their outline; then his caresses became more insistent. I closed my eyes while holding my breath, and let Joseph coming closer to me. Suddenly, we heard voices approaching. He quickly set our embrace loose and took great care to make me move back so as to retain his dignity. Karen and Jacob, followed by the rest of the family, entered the dining-room with different appetizing dishes.The meal lasted three hours, but I only remembered a few things from it. I heard the prayer said by Jacob and his father at the beginning of the meal, the conversations in which I did not take part started here and there, dishes coming and going before my eyes. Nothing succeeded to make me forget the feelings Joseph had aroused in me.Only the twins’ bursts of joy – when it was time to open the presents – helped me taking heed of what was happening. The handing out of presents started in hurly-burly. While Anna was discovering the collection of adventures stories I had found in one of Trolley Square bookshops, I saw Jacob clasping a superb bead necklace around Karen’s neck who was much moved. After kissing briefly her husband on his cheek, she came next to me and handed me a white envelope.

“It’s from your father” said Karen. “He called yesterday evening to wish us a Merry Christmas. He sends you lots of love.”

With my back against the windowsill, I read the note that came with a generous cheque on my behalf. In a few lines, my father was apologizing for not being there and maintained the whole family thought of me. He also promised me a big compensation in the days to come. Mindlessly, I started looking for Joseph’s presence. Soon he appeared, hiding two parcels behind his back. Without saying anything, he handed them to me, visibly waiting for my reaction. When I saw the stamp on the cover of the two books, I understood why Joseph had been absent a moment in Salt Lake City. The first volume, quite thick, was consecrated to 18th century French painting. Leafing though it, my eyes fell on « The anxious lover » , « The stolen kiss » and « Rape of the Sabine women» . I gave him a faint smile when I skimmed through the short bibliography of Simon Joseph Dewey, the painter to whom the second book was dedicated. Religious painting, family portraits and scenes seemed to be his field of expertise.

“If you leave for Paris next year, the only thing you could do to remember your year in Utah is to open that book.”
“Mormon painting, that’s a good idea, thanks!” I said, smiling. “But many other things will remind me of my stay in Nephi” I added before kissing him on the cheek.

Around 5 p.m, Jacob decided it was time to go. While Abigail and Mary started tidying plates and flatware, the boys dealt with the loading of both cars. I cast a quick glance through the window. A thin layer of snow already began to cover the gardens in the neighborhood.