Drawing Lessons

by Patricia Sands

  Frustrated and feeling close to tears after little more than an hour, she gathered up her things. Hoping no one noticed, she slipped away to her room.

  In her spacious bathroom, along with the old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub, there was a porcelain sink. A small separate WC adjoined the space.

  Arianna filled the tub to the top after adding some of her favorite bath oil that she had brought along. She opened the nearby window with its clear view across the olive grove and vineyard. Her thoughts drifted, picturing Vincent setting up his easel in a setting like this.

  The relentless chirping of cicadas filled the room. A warm spring breeze carried in a perfume that seemed to float into every corner. Breathing in deeply, she let the sweet, fresh air of the countryside fill her lungs.

  A long soak in the bath had always been her favorite way to relax. Never more so than since Ben’s diagnosis, and often more than once a day.

  Slipping under the water up to her chin, she closed her eyes as tears squeezed out between her lashes and ran down her cheeks. She felt herself fill with doubt and sorrow, like so many times before.

  Purposeless. That was how she had described herself to her friend Gloria when they’d met for lunch shortly before Arianna had left for France. Purposeless.

  Gloria, her BFF since high school. Arianna treasured their friendship. She felt lucky to be able to talk without explaining and know Gloria would understand whatever the problem was. Her support had carried Arianna through many dark hours with Ben’s illness.

  She had also encouraged Arianna to take this trip.

  Gently swirling the water around in the tub, Arianna recalled their conversation from that day.

  Over coffee after lunch, Gloria had said, “Faith told me the doctors were glad to hear you were doing something for yourself as they have been suggesting.”

  Arianna let out a long sigh now. The memories were vivid.

  She had told Gloria, “They keep stressing I am dealing with grief. I keep saying I still have a husband, and they gently remind me ‘in name only.’”

  She recalled how she had twisted a tissue in her hands and confessed to Gloria how broken she felt. “I’ve tried to keep up a brave front for my mom and the kids, for our friends. But, honestly, I feel like I am disappearing into an empty shell. On the outside I appear almost normal, but when I look inside, I see nothing. I feel completely vacant. Hopeless. Purposeless. Intellectually, I understand I will heal. Who knows when? Emotionally, I can’t imagine it.”

  Gloria had held her hand. She had offered Arianna comforting, supportive words. Arianna loved her and appreciated all the help she tried to give. Arianna also knew that Gloria realized at that point it was falling on deaf ears. But like the good friend she was, she would not give up.

  It had been Arianna’s hope that, while she was on this trip, she would be able to move away from those feelings she’d expressed to Gloria. Apparently, it was not going to be easy.

  After topping off the hot water a few times, Arianna stepped out and wrapped herself in a soft, large bath towel. She then lay down on her bed and promptly fell asleep.

  CHAPTER TEN

  At seven p.m., the group was transported by van to a restaurant in Arles. The chatter was nonstop, as everyone compared notes about their afternoon of silence and introspection.

  Concerned inquiries were made about Arianna’s absence that had been noted when they had gathered for apéros. Most of the group assumed she had found a very private place to paint.

  She explained that a migraine had caused her to retreat to her room. Then she asked a lot of questions, encouraging others to talk so she did not have to create any other falsehoods about her day. After all, she rationalized to herself, she had stuck to part of the instructions and not communicated with others.

  What worried her was that she had come away from her afternoon of introspection wondering if she should really be there. She was afraid her artist’s soul might truly be gone . . . lost along with all the other parts of her life she could not find.

  She had spent the last year or so of her life inside the secure cocoon of her family, rarely having anything more than cursory interactions with other people, medical staff aside. She felt herself being gripped by anxiety that her social skills had disappeared. How could she interact normally with these people? Did she really even want to do so? And her art?

  She had gone so far as to check with the airlines about changing her return ticket to Toronto. It was possible—with a hefty penalty, of course. She’d decided to give herself another day but felt a certain relief at knowing she could slip away if her disconnect continued.

  For the moment, Arianna pulled herself together. Even if she had made a mistake in coming to the course, she could at least make the effort to enjoy a pleasant evening out.

  The challenge of the afternoon seemed to have been a very powerful experiment for everyone else except Bertram. He had apparently fallen asleep after several glasses of rosé under an olive tree that hadn’t provided quite enough shade. Sunburned from head to foot, he was obviously uncomfortable and embarrassed.

  “We’re just a ten-minute drive from the magical heart of Arles,” Juliette told them. “You can actually walk there almost as quickly on a lovely hiking path from the property. Driving takes so long because of our convoluted country roads.”

  “We will be the first arrivals, since Gaston, the owner, is opening half an hour earlier than normal for us. We know most of you are still not ready for late nights.”

  Maurice acted as driver and tour guide. “Juliette gave you an excellent overview of our wonderful Arles and its romantic history. Once you spend time here, I know you will agree it’s a unique town. Centuries ago it was a kingdom, and in some ways we locals still see it that way!” He paused and chuckled. “While we have you as a captive audience, we will do our best to make you a vrai Arlésien or Arlésienne. The French tend to be very loyal to the communities we call home.”

  The country lanes twisted and turned. Bertram interjected comments from time to time, noting the “crepuscular light” as the sun had just set. He appeared delighted when some didn’t know what he was talking about and he was asked to explain.

  Suddenly the van was on a paved road with the river on one side and town on the other. “Voici le Rhône, one of Europe’s major rivers. Just south of Arles it flows through the Camargue and into the Mediterranean. So you can see why this was an important area for the Gauls, the Greeks, and the Romans . . . And they left us many reminders. That’s the first thing to think about when you visit this town.”

  He pulled into a parking spot as heads swiveled, taking in the striking setting. Stepping into the midst of structures that had stood for centuries, people commented on the bizarre sense of going back in time.

  Maurice finished his remarks. “After dinner we can split up for a short while and explore.” He gestured to a stone wall in front of them. “We will meet here after dinner, but if you get separated, don’t worry. These are the remains of some of the original Roman gates to the town; everyone knows where they are, if you have to ask. The restaurant is just a five-minute stroll from here.”

  As the group followed behind him, there was a collective gasp as the street curved slightly. At the end, up a slight incline, was a dramatic view of the Roman amphitheater. The evening lighting on the symmetrical limestone arches created an enchanting effect that seemed to bring history alive.

  Although she appreciated the ancient history, what it meant to Arianna at this moment was that Vincent had been there, drawn it, painted it. She was walking the same streets he had walked—or raged—through. His angry behavior had been well documented. Her pulse quickened.

  “Two thousand years of history, more or less, right in our faces,” Bertram announced. “One of the largest Roman amphitheaters in the world.” And he began to list the few comparable ones.

  “Yes,” Maurice replied, with good humor, when the Englishman finished his spiel, “Les Arènes, we call it.
But it is the largest amphitheater in Arles, and that’s what counts for us. We’re proud of how it is still used to this day. The season began with our exciting Feria de Pâques, Easter, last month. That’s the first of the tauromachies—bullfights—but not just that. It’s an exciting festival filled with the music and dance of our culture.”

  “Bullfights!” shrieked Joan. “They have those here? I thought that was only in Spain! Yikes! No way we’re going, John!”

  John held up his hands in submission.

  Maurice chuckled. “They’re a big part of the history and culture of this area. We have two kinds of bullfights, so you could see one where the bull is not killed. There might be one of those . . . courses camarguaises . . . but I believe it’s the weekend after our program ends. I will check.”

  “That might be exciting, Joanie,” John cajoled his wife.

  “No blood, John. No blood! Be kind to the bulls. That’s the rule, okay?”

  John patted Joan’s knee and planted a loud smooch on her cheek.

  Bertram looked at them in disgust and muttered something unintelligible.

  The group arrived at the front door of a charming two-story building with blue shutters and window boxes overflowing with a colorful mix of annuals. Spring had come early to Provence this year, and the gardens, pots, and planters were already putting on shows.

  A classically attired waiter in a white shirt, black pants, and long black apron greeted them in a reserved manner, as he indicated a long table by the front windows. A mouthwatering blend of garlic, butter, and other cooking aromas wafted from the open doors of the kitchen. Delighted murmurs were exchanged as the group entered.

  “Oh, this is perfect! Look at the view we have of the amphitheater!” Cecilia exclaimed to the group as they were seated.

  Bertram launched into a flow of information about the Roman ruins in Arles that would have been interesting had he not had such a blustery, obnoxious way of speaking.

  Arianna was delighted to see she was seated across from Barbara and her granddaughter, Cecilia. They had only spoken briefly before, and she was eager to get to know them better. But then Bertram briskly pushed his way around the table to take the seat next to her, breathing heavily, and she shivered a bit.

  “I’m so glad to be sitting with you!” he wheezed, a strong odor of whiskey accompanying his words. His chair scraped on the tile as he moved closer to her than she would like.

  Arianna smiled weakly.

  She was relieved when Cecilia jumped in and began a conversation, including everyone at their end of the table. “You’ve probably noticed me taking notes nonstop. I travel quite a bit for my work, but most of my trips have been in North America and Asia, since I live on the West Coast. This is my first time in the South of France. How about the rest of you?”

  Bottles of the local vin ordinaire, red and white, were placed on the table as menus were handed out.

  Bertram had a way of inserting his opinion into every topic of conversation. In spite of his often brusque, rude manner, however, he appeared to have a tremendous depth of knowledge, particularly about the history of the area. But he also drained his wineglass faster than anyone else.

  He loudly explained to the table that he was a scientific researcher and historian by profession. But within minutes, he caught everyone’s attention when he described his involvement in the retrieval of the two-thousand-year-old Roman boat that had been raised from the silt in the Rhône and was now on display in the Arles Archaeological Museum.

  Surprisingly, he proved to be a gifted storyteller, taking them into the polluted depths of the Rhône as he described a diver finding a large section of wood sticking out of the muddy bottom in 2004.

  He paused for dramatic effect, his arms spread wide, clearly enthralled with his subject matter. His face glowed with enthusiasm, and his personality seemed to soften.

  Clearing his throat, he took a long sip of wine as he continued the amazing story.

  There were exclamations around the table urging him to keep talking. He obliged, all the while topping off his wineglass.

  He brought suspense into the details of his story as he explained the knowledge that, within minutes of being in the open air, the ancient wood of the boat might begin to disintegrate. “If indeed they could even raise the boat! And besides, there was no money to pay for such an undertaking. So there were many issues at hand.”

  Suddenly the waiters appeared with the first course on trays raised shoulder high. Maurice stood to announce with a grand flourish, “Soupe de poireaux et pommes de terre! Or in Julia Child–speak, Potage Parmentier! Traditionally served during the cooler months, it’s such a classic that we wanted to present it to you tonight.”

  Bertram sat down. “Enjoy your soup, sir,” John said. “But promise you will finish the story, please.” The others all concurred as baguette was passed around to accompany the soup.

  Arianna chuckled as Joan gave her a little kick in the shins. Within minutes, Bertram had inhaled his soup and was back on his feet, apparently enjoying the spotlight.

  Wiping his face with his napkin, he looked around for approval and then continued with his story. Arianna wondered if his face was increasingly flushed from wine or from excitement at being in the spotlight.

  “So! No funds in Arles, right? Then Julius Caesar himself—who had once personally conferred Roman citizenship on the people of Arles—old Gaius Julius saved the day! In 2007, an amazing marble bust was also discovered in the river. It was identified as the old man himself.”

  Indicating with his hand for John to replenish his wine, Bertram could barely contain his enthusiasm. “An exhibition built around the bust brought hordes of visitors to Arles, and, from what I’ve been told, that was the start of funding becoming available! The project could move forward! It was incredibly exciting . . . and unbelievably challenging!”

  Maurice murmured a comment about how French bureaucracy sometimes moved at a snail’s pace, before Marti stood and raised her wineglass. “I propose a toast to Julius Caesar!”

  Voices and glasses were raised and cries of “To Julius!” filled their corner of the room. Other diners peered over to see what the hubbub was all about.

  More bottles of wine appeared on the table. Cecilia had pulled out her ubiquitous notebook and was scribbling frantically.

  “So what happened?” John asked.

  “Well,” the Englishman said with a distinct tone of pride as he puffed out his chest, “that’s where yours truly came into the picture, playing a small role along with other scientists. There’s an amazing video on YouTube about this entire undertaking. Watch it! No . . . wait . . . there’s an excellent short film here at the museum where the barge is. Make sure you go and watch it! I urge you! I’ll take you! It’s such a fantastic story!”

  Bertram’s brow glistened with sweat now, and he mopped it with his napkin while he paused to catch his breath. He looked around the table to see faces glued to him.

  “Let me finish by saying we were told it was an impossible task, timewise. That it simply could not be completed before the barge just disintegrated. Again the gods—or Julie, old boy—were with the team.”

  Arianna smiled to herself, somehow pleased to see this side of the fellow she had thought curious and rather revolting. She could see he was becoming quite inebriated, though, and dinner had not even been served.

  Animated and surprisingly emotional, Bertram related the end of his story, describing how the most unpredictably mild winter weather played a vital role. “That, combined with the passionate dedication of all involved, who faced tremendous challenges, resulted in the success of this historic project.”

  He looked around, picked up his wineglass, and drained it. “Here endeth the story! The gods were with us!”

  There was applause all around as each person thanked him sincerely for such an interesting story. The Englishman appeared overwhelmed by their admiration. He nodded to the waiter that a refill was desired. “Another glass
of this puissant red, s’il vous plaît, monsieur!”

  Maurice told them that a trip to that museum was also on the agenda during their course. “Merci, Monsieur Lloyd-Goldsmith, for those details. Arles is so proud of this barge and the amazing team that saved it. And now we can thank you personally. Sérieusement! Bravo!”

  Glasses were raised toward Bertram. He blushed furiously and his eyes teared up. “It truly was one of my proudest moments.”

  Maurice looked toward the kitchen and barely motioned with his hand. Waiters appeared with the main course. Two choices had been presented to the group earlier in the day for this meal. Some had picked a classic coq au vin and the mussel lovers chose moules-frites. Everyone expressed their satisfaction in murmurs of delight throughout the dinner.

  There was much ongoing chatter throughout the rest of the meal. Bertram was plied with questions, appearing to relish the attention even as he spoke quite modestly now. His blustery demeanor softened as the evening went on.

  She had to admit the man could be interesting, his normally pompous attitude notwithstanding, until he overdid the alcohol.

  Looking around the table, she could see the group already beginning to gel. Bertram appeared to have settled into a more contemplative mood as he chatted quietly with Barbara.

  Juliette spent time with each of them, while Maurice paid attention to the delivery of the food. He quipped with the waiters with a familiar ease. From the laughter and bonhomie that flowed among them, it was obvious he was well known and well liked.

  When the last morsel of crème brûlée had vanished from each diner’s colorful pottery bowl, Barbara stood and gently tapped her knife on a glass. “Attention, please! I would like to offer our compliments to the chef and all the restaurant staff. This was a delicious meal!”

  Everyone stood and applauded as the chef appeared from the kitchen and gathered the waiters around him. Their beaming faces mirrored their pleasure.