The Virgin Blue (23 page)

When we crossed the bridge over the Tarn into town I sat up. Even at three in the morning some decorum seemed necessary. Jean-Paul lived in an apartment on the other side of town from me, close to where the countryside began. Even so it was only a ten-minute walk from my house, a fact I was working hard to push from my mind.

We parked and got out, then snapped the roof back on together. The surrounding houses were dark and shuttered. I followed him up a set of stairs on the outside of a house to his door. I stood just inside while he switched on a lamp, illuminating a neat room lined with books.

He turned around and held his hand out to me. I swallowed; my throat was tight. When it came down to the final deciding moment, I was terrified.

At last I reached out, took his hand and pulled him to me, put my arms around him and clung to his back, my nose in his neck. Then the fear vanished.

The bedroom was spare but contained the largest bed I'd ever seen. A window looked out over fields; I stopped him from closing the shutters.

It felt like one long movement. There was no point when I thought, Now I'm doing this, now he's doing that. There was no thought, just two bodies recognizing each other, making themselves whole together.

We didn't sleep until the sun rose.

I woke to bright sunlight and an empty bed. I sat up and looked around. There were two bedside tables, one covered with books, a framed black and purple poster for a jazz piano concert on the wall over the bed, a coarse woven mat the colour of wheat on the floor. Outside the fields behind the house were bright green and extended far back to a row of sycamores and a road. It all had the same air of simplicity as Jean-Paul's clothes.

The door opened and Jean-Paul entered, dressed in black and white, carrying a small cup of black coffee. He set it down on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed next to me.

‘Thank you for the coffee.’

He nodded. ‘Ella, I must go to work now.’

‘Are you sure?’

He smiled in reply.

‘I feel like I didn't get any sleep,’ I said.

‘Three hours. You can sleep more here if you want.’

‘That would be strange, being in this bed without you.’

He ran a hand up and down my leg. ‘If you want you maybe wait until there are not so many people in the street.’

‘I guess so.’ For the first time I heard the shouts of children passing; it was like kicking down a barrier, the first intrusion of the outside world. With it came the unwelcome furtiveness, the need to be cautious. I wasn't sure I was ready for that yet, or to have him be so sensible.

Pre-empting my thoughts, he held my gaze and said, ‘It's you I think of. Not me. It's different for me. It's always different for a man here.’

It was sobering, such straight talk. It forced me to think.

‘This bed —’ I paused. ‘It's way too big for one person. And you wouldn't have two tables and lamps like this if it was just you sleeping here.’

Jean-Paul scanned my face. Then he shrugged; with that gesture we really did re-enter the world.

‘I lived with a woman for a while. She left about a year and a half ago. The bed was her idea.’

‘Were you married?’

‘No.’

I put my hand on his knee and squeezed it. ‘I'm sorry,’ I said in French. ‘I should not have mentioned it.’

He shrugged again, then looked at me and smiled. ‘You know, Ella Tournier, all that talk in French last night has made your mouth bigger. I am sure of it!’

He kissed me, his lashes glittering in the sun.

When the front door shut behind him everything seemed to change. I had never felt so strange being in someone else's house before. I sat up stiffly, sipped the coffee, set it down. I listened to the children outside, the cars passing, the occasional Vespa. I missed him terribly and wanted to leave as soon as possible, but felt trapped by the sounds outside.

Finally I got up and took a shower. My yellow dress was crumpled and smelled of smoke and sweat. When I put it on I felt like a tramp. I wanted to go home but forced myself to wait until the streets were quieter. While I waited I looked at his books in the living room. He had a lot on French history, many novels, a few books in English: John Updike, Virginia Woolf, Edgar Allan Poe. A strange combination. I was surprised that the books weren't in any order: fiction and non-fiction were mixed up and not even alphabetized. Apparently he didn't bring his work habits home with him.

Once I was sure the street was clear, I felt reluctant to leave, knowing that after I'd left I couldn't come back. I looked around the rooms once more. In the bedroom I went to the closet and got out the pale blue shirt Jean-Paul had worn the night before, rolled it into a ball and stuffed it in my bag.

When I stepped outside I felt like I was making a big stage entrance, though as far as I could see I had no audience. I ran down the stairs and walked quickly toward the centre of town, breathing a little easier when I reached the part I often walked in during the morning, but still feeling exposed. I was sure everyone was staring at me, at the wrinkles in my dress, the rings under my eyes. C'mon, Ella, they always stare at you, I tried to reassure myself. It's because you're still a stranger, not because you've just – I couldn't bring myself to finish the thought.

Only when I reached our street did it strike me that I didn't want to go home: I saw our house and a wave of nausea hit me. I stopped and leaned against my neighbour's house. When I go inside, I thought, I'll have to face my guilt.

I remained there for a long time. Then I turned around and headed toward the train station. At least I could get the car first; it gave me a concrete excuse to put off the rest of my life.

I sat on the train in a daze, half sweet, half sour, barely remembering to change at the next stop for the Lavaur train. Around me sat businessmen, women with their shopping, teenagers flirting. It seemed so strange to me that something extraordinary had happened, yet no one around me knew. ‘Do you have any idea what I've just done?’ I wanted to say to the grim woman knitting across from me. ‘Would you have done it too?’

But the events of my life made no difference to the train or the rest of the world. Bread was still being baked, gas pumped, quiches made, and the trains were running on time. Even Jean-Paul was at work, advising old ladies on romance novels. And Rick was at his German meetings in a state of ignorance. I drew in my breath sharply: it was only me who was out of step, who had nothing else to do but pick up a car and feel guilty.

I had an espresso at a café in Lavaur before returning to my car. As I was swinging the car door open I heard ‘
Eh, l'américaine!
’ to my left and turned to find the balding man I'd fought with the night before coming toward me. He now had three-day stubble. I pulled the door open wide and leaned against it, a shield between him and me. ‘
Salut
,’ I said.

‘
Salut, Madame
.’ His use of Madame was not lost on me.

‘
Je m'appelle Ella
,’ I said coldly.

‘Claude.’ He held out his hand and we shook formally. I felt a little ridiculous. All the clues of what I'd just done were set out for him like a window display: the car still here, my rumpled dress from the night before, my tired face, would all lead him to one conclusion. The question was whether he'd have the tact not to mention it. Somehow I doubted it.

‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘No, thank you, I've had one already.’

He smiled. ‘Come, you will have a coffee with me.’ He made a gesture like he was rounding me up and began to walk away. I didn't move. He looked around, stopped and began to laugh. ‘Oh, you, you are difficult! Like a little cat with its claws like this –’ he mimed claws with stiff, bent fingers – ‘and its fur all ruffled. All right, you don't want a coffee. Look, come sit with me on this bench for a moment, OK? That's all. I have something to say to you.’

‘What?’

‘I want to help you. No, that's not right. I want to help Jean-Paul. So, sit. Just for a second.’ He sat on a nearby bench and looked at me expectantly. Finally I shut the car door, walked over and sat down next to him. I didn't look at him, but kept my eyes on the garden in front of us, where careful arrangements of flowers were just beginning to bloom.

‘What do you want to say?’ I made sure I used the formal address with him to counter his familiar tone with me. It had no effect.

‘You know, Jean-Paul, he is a good friend of Janine and me. Of all of us at La Taverne.’ He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to me. I shook my head; he lit one and sat back, crossing his legs at the ankle and stretching.

‘You know he lived with a woman for a year,’ he continued.

‘Yes. So?’

‘Did he tell you anything about her?’

‘No.’

‘She was American.’

I glanced at Claude to see what reaction he was expecting from me, but he was following the traffic with his eyes and gave away nothing.

‘And was
she
fat?’

Claude roared with laughter. ‘You!’ he shouted. ‘You are – I understand why Jean-Paul likes you. A little cat!’

‘Why did she leave?’

He shrugged, his laughter finally subsiding. ‘She missed her country and felt she didn't fit in here. She said people weren't friendly. She was alienated.’

‘Jesus,’ I muttered in English before I could stop myself. Claude leaned forward, his legs apart, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. I glanced at him. ‘Does he still love her?’

He shrugged. ‘She's married now.’

That's no answer – look at me, I thought, but didn't say it.

‘You see,’ he said, ‘we protect Jean-Paul a little. We meet a pretty American woman, with much spirit, like a little cat, with her eyes on Jean-Paul but married, and we think –’ he shrugged again – ‘maybe this is not so good for him, but we know he won't see that. Or he sees it but she is a temptation anyway.’

‘But –’ I couldn't argue back. If I countered that every American doesn't run home with her tail between her legs – not that I hadn't considered that option myself in my more alienated moments – Claude would just bring up my being married. I couldn't tell which he was emphasizing more; perhaps that was part of his strategy. I disliked him too much to probe.

What he was unarguably saying was that I wasn't good for Jean-Paul.

With that thought – combined with my lack of sleep and the absurdity of sitting on this bench with this man telling me things I already knew – I finally cracked. I leaned over, elbows on my knees, and cupped my hands around my eyes as if shielding them from strong sunlight. Then I began to cry silently.

Claude sat up straight. ‘I am sorry, Ella. I did not say these things to make you unhappy.’

‘How else did you expect me to respond?’ I replied sharply. He made the same gesture of defeat with his hands as he had the night before.

I wiped my damp hands on my dress and stood. ‘I have to go,’ I muttered, brushing my hair back from my face. I couldn't bring myself to thank him or say goodbye.

I cried all the way home.

The Bible sat like a reproach on my desk. I couldn't stand being in a room by myself, not that I had much choice. What I needed was to talk to a female friend; it was women who usually saw me through moments of crisis. But it was the middle of the night in the States; besides, it was never the same on the phone. Here I had no one I could confide in. The closest I'd come to a kindred spirit was Mathilde, but she had enjoyed flirting with Jean-Paul so much that she might not be too pleased to hear what had happened.