A French Affair (38 page)

To her delight he was pointing her towards a stand full of art books, and within minutes she'd uncovered two treasures – one documenting life in the Bateau-Lavoir published in 1933, and the other containing some high-quality photographs of Modigliani's nudes.

‘You know, it's never been established whether or not he slept with his models,' she said, flicking through the slightly dog-eared but still glossy pages, ‘apart from Jeanne and Béatrice of course, whom they say he never painted nude anyway.'

‘But would it be possible for a woman to imitate that expression,' he wanted to know, stopping her at
Reclining Nude with Loose Hair
, ‘if she hadn't just been made love to?'

Jessica frowned as she considered it. ‘To me she looks more as though it hasn't happened yet, but she
knows it will. Do you see where her hand is? Resting between her legs. I think it's unlikely she'd strike that pose with such a saucy expression if she was already sated.'

Nodding, he said, ‘I guess that makes sense. Now this one,' he said, stopping her at
Nude with Necklace
, ‘is one that's always inspired me in an odd sort of way. Is she meant to be a prostitute, or a goddess?'

‘Mm, I don't know, what do you think?'

‘I'm not sure either, but there's something about it that makes me want to complete the beauty that he's only captured in part.' His eyes started to twinkle. ‘Am I getting above myself?'

‘In thinking you could improve on a master?' she said. ‘Mm, yes, that could qualify if it were one of his best, but as it's not . . .' She pondered it for a moment. ‘I can see why it makes you feel that way, because her beauty is very apparent on the left side of her face, and there's a shapeliness to her body that's almost sexual, but not quite. I wonder who she was.'

‘If you're writing part-fact, part-fiction, you could be at liberty to give her an identity,' he said. ‘Perhaps she's a rival of Jeanne's that he was deliberately trying to make less appealing.'

‘Or a woman who was resisting him, so he took his revenge by sending her off to eternity looking gorgeously grotesque. Or, at the very least, he was paying her back by making her lie in a very uncomfortable position.'

He appeared amused by that, and laughing too, she closed the book, paid the stallholder, then strolled on to the next stall where Luc was already leafing through a collection of nineteenth-century poems. ‘Here is a complete version of de Lamartine's
Jocelyn
,' he told
her, as she joined him. ‘From this we can find out how accurate we were in our recitals yesterday.'

‘Are any of his other poems there?' she asked, looking over his shoulder.

‘Only
Le Lac
, which is actually one of my favourites. It also contains Baudelaire's
Black Venus –
another great work inspired by a woman called Jeanne.'

‘Both the poem, and Manet's portrait
La Maîtresse du Baudelaire
,' she reminded him, as he continued to turn the pages. ‘You're an admirer of Baudelaire?'

‘I certainly find some of his arguments interesting.'

‘Do you mean the one in which he holds that vice is natural, while virtue is artificial because it calls for us to restrain our natural impulses?'

‘Precisely. An intriguing viewpoint on human nature. I'd also like to read again some of his poems that were inspired by Goya's etchings, but it doesn't appear that any of them are here. Nevertheless, I think I will take this book.'

After paying for it, he took her parcel, slipped his own inside and carried all three books around the fair, adding to them here and there as she bought gifts for Charlie and Fernand, and he found a highly prized – and priced – history of Mogul miniatures for Lilian.

By the time they returned to Valennes they were in deep discussion about Modigliani's caryatids, which might have continued had his mobile not rung as they drew up outside the cottage.

‘My father,' he told her. ‘
Oui?
' he said, clicking on. He listened for a moment, then said, ‘
Oui, tu as raison, j'avais oublié. Je lui dirai.'
After ringing off he said, ‘I had forgotten my father was playing in the tournament again today, but he tells me he has prepared a lunch for us anyway. Would you like to come?'

Jessica's eyes were dancing. ‘Of course,' she replied, and relaxing back in her seat, she gazed happily out at the vines as he drove them up to the house.

‘I was thinking,' he said, as they got out of the car, ‘perhaps we could take our meal over to the lake. It'll be cool there, beneath the trees, and if you are willing, you can continue to tell me about your book.'

‘The lake and the trees sound irresistible,' she responded, ‘but I'm sure you've had enough of my book by now.'

With a wry smile, he said, ‘I'll go and fetch the picnic box from my studio. Maybe we can take some towels too, in case we decide to swim.'

Half an hour later Jessica was standing barefoot on the pebbly shore of the lake, gazing out across the shimmering, silvery-green surface with its undulating reflections of sun-sparkled leaves and rich blue sky. It seemed as though the world had forgotten this sleepy vale where the reeds grew tall and the fields on the far bank sloped gently up to the horizon. Everything was quiet and still, even the crickets sounded sluggish, and though larks and blue tits twittered about in the trees, and jays soared through the empty skies, the sense of tranquillity was unbroken.

Luc was spreading out a blanket in the shade of a horse chestnut behind her. He then set up the picnic box as a table, and opened a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé ready to pour. After a while she sensed, rather than heard him coming to stand beside her, and as she continued to absorb the beauty around them she began to recite the opening verse of de Lamartine's
Le Lac.

His voice came in to speak the next lines with her,

She turned to look at him, wondering if the words were creating the same resonance within him, and feeling almost afraid that they were. Then, trying to overcome the tremors in her heart, she said, ‘Do you think it's possible de Lamartine might have had this lake in mind when he wrote the poem?'

‘It could be,' he replied, though they both knew he hadn't.

She smiled and might have turned away then, but his eyes seemed to hold her to him and as she continued to look at him she could feel herself becoming strangely light-headed, almost as though she was floating. There was no escaping the attraction between them now, it was there like an entangling force refusing to let either of them go.

‘Would you like to swim?' he asked.

She took a breath that was a small gasp, then said, very softly, ‘Yes. Yes, I would.'

He moved behind her and as he began to lower the zip of her dress the shock she felt didn't seem to connect to the reality of what he was doing, only to the
sensation it was creating. It rippled from her centre to the very extremes of her. She felt slightly dazed, even disoriented, for she knew this shouldn't be happening, yet she could find no will to resist it. It was as though her mind and conscience had turned away through the trees, taking their judgements and fears with them, leaving her exposed – and free to move shakily, yet inexorably into this dream.

She was barely thinking, or even breathing, as he eased the straps from her shoulders. The softness of the chiffon was like the whisper of a breeze as it cascaded down over her body to pool at her feet. She was naked now, apart from a silvery-blue thong.

She waited for him to touch her, but he didn't. The only sensation on her skin was the sun burning it fiercely, and the air embracing it. She was aware of no dread of what was happening and where it might lead, for she knew she had nothing to fear.

Feeling his eyes on her back, she stepped away from him and waded into the water. As it lapped around her ankles, then her thighs, she could feel its silky coolness like milk on her skin. When it reached her waist she gave herself to it entirely and started to swim. It was as though she was moving through a lake of glistening sunlight, for all around her the surface sparkled and rippled in an ethereal white glow.

After a while she turned onto her back and let her arms rise up. As she floated she thought only of how wonderfully restful this felt, as though time had taken a pause, and the world beyond this vale was simply fading away. The only reality was the moment she was in, so perfect and still, so gentle and pure. She wanted to stay here for ever, feeling as liberated and unburdened as she did now.

Eventually she began to swim slowly back to the shore. He was standing beneath the horse chestnut now, watching her. Still she knew no concern, nor even a sense of wrong, yet she could almost feel the presence of those they loved, as though they were ghosts on the other side of the horizon. They were there, but unreachable, indefinable.

As she stood up and waded onto the shore, she felt tiny droplets of water running over her body like pearls. His eyes stayed with her as she came closer, and it was as though she was moving through an oasis, suspended in a dream that was more beautiful than she'd ever known, more elusive, and yet so very real.

When she reached him he passed her a drink and looked deeply into her eyes. Her lips parted slightly as she looked back, for she could read his desire as deeply as she could feel her own, yet strangely it seemed to need no physical contact or even expression. It was simply there between them, powerful and invisible, both pulling them together and keeping them apart.

They tasted the wine at the same time, savouring the coldness and flavours, allowing them to roll over their tongues before trickling into their throats.

‘Honey, cherries and orange,' she said huskily.

‘Perhaps a hint of lime?'

She waited a moment, then felt the after-tang and nodded.

They sipped again, then putting his glass on the small table he'd set up at one end of the blanket, he took off his own clothes and started towards the lake.

She turned to watch the litheness of his limbs as he walked, the width of his shoulders, the slenderness of his hips. His masculine power seemed as intransigent as the hills around them. It was as though he was a part
of the landscape, as rugged, as beautiful and almost divine.

As he entered the water, she picked up a towel and dabbed it over her arms and face. He'd hung her dress from the branch of a tree, a lime green wisp like ivy, or moss. She walked over to it and resisting the urge to remove her thong so she was as naked as him, she put the dress on. Then she went back to the blanket and sat down with her wine.

She was trying to make some sense of what was happening inside her, to give some substance to the emotions, but there was only the movement of his arms as they carved a path through the glittering lake, and the perfection of being here.

When he walked back she took in every part of him, registering his desire and feeling it too, and even when he stood over her to dry himself she didn't look away. Then her eyes went up to his, but with the sun behind him she wasn't able to see his expression.

‘Are you hungry?' he finally asked, wrapping the towel about his waist.

‘I'm not sure,' she replied.

Kneeling beside the hamper he started to unpack, handing small packages to her to unwrap and set out on the makeshift table between them. When everything was ready he refilled their glasses, then leant on his side in a way that made her smile.

‘You look like a Roman centurion,' she told him.

He laughed, and saluted her with his glass.

They ate mostly in silence, spreading thick wedges of terrine onto small chunks of bread, savouring each mouthful, before preparing some more. He offered her a small cherry tomato and as she bit into it, the juice dropped onto the upper slope of her breasts. She felt
him watching her as she wiped it away with a finger that she then lifted to her mouth to lick clean. When her eyes came to his he held them in a way that sent more waves of desire rippling softly through her.

After a while he offered her grapes and goat's cheese, which she ate from his fingers before feeding him apricots and brie. All the time she was conscious of the magnetising tension between them, feeling it in ways that was sometimes making it difficult to breathe.

‘Do you think Jeanne Hébuterne might have picnicked with Modigliani somewhere like this?' he asked, when they'd finished eating and were simply gazing out at the lake.

‘They might have,' she replied.

‘So will you add it to your book?'

‘Why not?'

He turned to pick up the wine and poured the last of it into their glasses. Then lying down on his back, he said, ‘She must have loved him very much.'

‘You mean to have killed herself when he died?'

‘Could you imagine yourself doing that, if you were nine months pregnant?'

‘No, but I can imagine loving someone enough to want to die with him rather than go on living without him.'

When he said no more, she turned to look at him, but his eyes were closed, so she lay down too, stretching her legs into the dappled shade of the tree and inhaling the sweetness of the grass.

Some time later she raised one knee and felt her dress slip down over her thigh to expose her legs. She was thinking of Modigliani and the nudes he had painted in necklaces and hats, some standing, others kneeling or reclining. She wondered what the women
themselves had really meant to him, with their soft curves and sumptuous flesh. Were they simply objects of sensuality and shape for him to capture with his eye and his gift? Or was he joining with them completely before, after, even during his process of creation? She tried to imagine how it might feel to be one of those women. Was it possible to be naked with a man that way and not feel the need to make love with him?