We shared a long look.
“But since we are here, I suppose I should initiate some stimulating conversation.” Franck’s eyes glinted. “Who is your favorite French philosopher?”
I had certainly never gotten together with a guy and then had him ask me about philosophy.
“Sartre,” I said. “Rousseau is a bit extreme—you know the bit about sending your kids out in the woods to bring themselves up. In Canada, you see, the problem with that is that we have bears and cougars in the woods.”
“Really?” Franck was riveted. “That sounds intriguing.”
“Not if you encounter them in the wild. They get hungry, and small children move and sound like forest animals.”
Franck’s lips twitched. “That would be a problem.”
“Yes. So I would have to say I prefer Sartre to Rousseau.”
“You know about French philosophers,” Franck looked impressed.
“Yes. I suppose you do too?”
“Oh yes. I studied at the Sorbonne for two years. I did my first two years in Dijon, but then a friend and I went up to Paris.”
“What did you study?”
“My degree was in communications, but I did a lot of philosophy courses.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, skeptical. This was exactly one of those instances I had experienced so many times since arriving in France when people tried to make me believe stuff and then, as soon as I bit the hook, teased me for being so gullible. Thibaut was one of the worst for this. The Sorbonne was one of the most prestigious schools in the world. Was Franck just teasing me about having gone there?
“You went to the Sorbonne?” I clarified. “The one in Paris?”
“Is there another?”
“I don’t know but…that’s the one you attended?”
“I just told you I did.” He leaned back in his chair, looking amused rather than offended. “You don’t believe me?”
Now I was really uncertain. Was his amusement because he was lying and I believed him, or was it because he was telling the truth and I didn’t believe him?
“Stéphanie,” I called down the table to her. “Did Franck really go to the Sorbonne?”
Stéphanie exchanged glances with Sandrine and started laughing. Now I was even more confused. Were they all playing a joke on me?
“Tell me.” I said. “Please.”
“Why would you think he hadn’t?” Sandrine asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just such a prestigious school—”
“I’m not stupid.” Franck laughed. “Some teachers actually thought I was quite smart.”
“That’s not what I meant.” I lowered my head to the table in exasperation.
Franck squeezed my hand. “Not that it matters in the grand scheme of things, but I really did go to the Sorbonne. But you don’t have to believe me yet. Are you finished your coffee?”
I looked down at my empty cup. “Yes.”
“Will you come for a drive with me?” Franck asked.
I hesitated a moment. Franck was almost five years older than me, and even though I had become an expert at playing like I was far worldlier than I actually was, I did not suffer from a surfeit of actual experience with boys, or more accurately in the case of Franck, men. I didn’t know him that well. Besides, what about that “No Dating” Ursus rule? With Thibaut, I was always secure with the knowledge that I could put forward a convincing argument that whatever weird thing we had going on between us, it couldn’t be called “dating.” With Franck, though, things already felt much more…unambiguous.
Franck was waiting for my answer.
The desire to be alone with him pulsed within me. I was teetering on the top of something very tall and I wanted to jump. “Yes,” I said.
“Can I borrow your car?” Franck asked Olivier, his hand already out for the keys.
Olivier passed them over without blinking an eye. “Don’t be so hard on the clutch this time,” Olivier said.
“We’ll be back in about an hour,” Franck said. “Then we can all head back to Villers. I have to catch a train back to Dijon by four o’clock.”
Olivier raised an eyebrow at me. “I’m trusting you to keep an eye on the time Laura,” he said. “That has never been one of Franck’s talents.”
I got up from the table, my legs a bit unsteady. “It does happen to be one of my talents.” I brandished my wristwatch.
Franck took me outside, holding my hand and casting me a complicit look that I couldn’t help but share.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll see,” he said.
Nerves battled with curiosity in my gut.
“Can I trust you?” I got in the car and Franck shut the door behind me before walking over to his side.
“That’s a good question. I’m not sure what to answer.”
“You should answer yes.”
Franck studied me as he turned the key and revved up the motor. “To be honest I don’t even know myself if I can trust myself around you. You are extremely séduisante.”
I stared at him as he busied himself with backing the car out without hitting any of the other insane drivers whipping through the streets or running over a villager. No man had every called me seductive before, certainly not in that way that made it sound as though he was merely stating the obvious.
He drove quickly out of the village and back up to the beautiful village perched on the hillside. “What did you say this village was called again?” I asked.
“Pernand-Vergelesses,” he answered. “There’s a special spot here I want to show you.”
So, at least he wasn’t dragging me to a hotel room or something. That reassured me…a bit.
Franck drove beyond the village on a steep road that dropped off vertiginously on one side as a slope of vineyards. Finally, he spun into a clearing.
I bit my lip. Where was he taking me?
Franck pulled up the parking break and looked over at me. He reached over and took my hand, studying my face.
“Are you scared of me?” Already the solid, warm feel of his hand was anchoring me.
“A bit,” I admitted. “I mean, we just met. I don’t know you.”
He reached over to brush some stray strands of hair behind my ear “I’m not so sure about that. I feel like we do know each other somehow.”
“Part of me feels like that too,” I said. “Still…”
“You never need to be afraid of me. Will you remember that?”
I nodded.
He led me across a field of grass that still smelled like earth and spring rain. In the distance I saw something large and carved out of gray stone.
“Is that a statue?” I couldn’t help feeling a bit amused. It was not at all what I had been imagining.
“Yes,” he glanced at me sideways. “Well, that and the view. I just wanted to bring you here. It’s always been a special place for me. Maybe you’ll think it’s silly.”
“I don’t,” I said.
We walked around the front of the statue, and I realized that the hill we were on provided a bird’s eye view down the valley that led from Pernand-Vergelesses all the way over to Beaune, and the row upon row and slope upon slope of vineyards, now bright green with the budding leaves of spring.
I looked up and saw the unmistakable form of the Virgin Mary holding Jesus in her arms towering over us.
“You brought me to a statue of Virgin Mary?” I asked in disbelief. Sneaking away for wild sex had obviously not been in Franck’s plans.
Franck glanced up at Mary’s serene stone face. It was an exceptionally beautiful statue. The carving was exquisite. Nevertheless…
“Oui.” Obviously he didn’t see anything odd in this at all. Above the stone figures were the words, etched into the stone above the Virgin’s head, “Priez pour Nous.” Pray for us. Indeed. Whatever Franck ended up being, he was radically different from any other guy I had been with before.
I turned back to admire the stunning
view. “It’s beautiful.”
Franck took my hand and led me over to the foot of the statue, which had a base made up of three stone stairs. He pulled me down on his knee.
“It’s beautiful down here too.” He took my face in his hands. We fell into a deep, long kiss.
I finally broke away to catch my breath. “I wonder what the Virgin Mary thinks of that,” I glanced up at her serene countenance.
“I’m sure she approves,” Franck assured me, easily. “She’s all about love, après tout.”
I hoped she did approve, because Franck and I couldn’t stop kissing. It was like we had invented kissing. Our mouths fit together in so many endless ways and permutations, and I soaked up every second of feeling so safe yet alive in his arms. Finally, I said faintly, “What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” Franck said between kisses. He was caressing the trail of my vertebra. His hands had mysteriously made their way up the back of my sweater. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t really care.”
“We promised Olivier…”
“Olivier’s a good friend. He’d understand.”
“Not that I want this to end because, believe me, I don’t, but didn’t you have to take the train back to Dijon? ”
Franck moaned. “You’re right. The French military is, sadly, not as understanding as Olivier. The punishment for reporting back late is restricting future leaves.”
“I have to get back too,” I said, doubt descending on me again. “The Lacanches will be wondering where I am.”
Will I see Franck again? I knew I wanted to, and he didn’t talk like he was only interested in this weekend, but then again he had never brought up Thibaut again either. Was that because he didn’t remember, didn’t want to bring it up, or didn’t care? That last possibility pierced my heart.
“So…” I began to get up. “It was nice meeting you.” I cursed myself. That came out in French sounding so awkward and formal—so not what I wanted to say—despite the fact that we’d been kissing a few seconds previously. Still, I thought of Thibaut and how many times I had misjudged his intentions.
“You say that like you are saying good-bye,” Franck said, pulling back to examine my face. “Do you not want to see me again?”
“I do! I just didn’t know…you know…if you had a lot of time, with your military service and everything.”
“I’ll make the time.” Franck fixed me with his hazel eyes. “Even if it means having to be on time for the first time in my life. Can I see you next weekend?”
“Yes.” I was still feeling at a loss for words, so I leaned down and began kissing him again. He responded in kind, and it was several more minutes until we surfaced. Why was this kind of communication so easy, and the verbal kind so difficult?
“What about that other guy?” Franck asked.
Relief washed over me. So he hadn’t forgotten about Thibaut and he did care. “It’s over. I just need to tell him.”
Franck’s lips were making their way down my neck, making my breath come short and quick. “I’m glad to hear that.”
I could only conjure up a vague impression of Thibaut in my mind. What Franck was doing seemed to obliterate all thought.
Franck picked up one of my hands and turned it over, giving me a gentle kiss on the tender skin on the inside of my wrist before examining the time on my watch.
“Merde! I am going to miss my train if we don’t hurry.”
I hopped up, and hand-in-hand we ran back to the car and sped back to Savigny, stealing kisses whenever possible. I felt like I was flying, amazed and a bit terrified to think that I may have met someone who filled that vacant place in my soul.
CHAPTER 26
The next day at school I didn’t see Thibaut until lunchtime in the cafeteria. Sandrine had already sat down beside me, determined not to miss the show.
“Has Franck called you yet?” she asked.
“Not yet,” I said, “but he warned me he wouldn’t be able to until later in the week. The base has crazy rules about phone calls.”
“Stéphanie said that on the way back down to the train station, he stopped talking about you only long enough to take the odd breath. Complete coup de foudre.”
I was so engrossed in pleasant memories that I didn’t realize Thibaut had come to sit down beside us. “What’s this about a coup de foudre?” he asked. “You Sandrine?”
Sandrine shook her head, mischief written on every feature. “Laura,” she clarified with no small amount of satisfaction.
“What?” Thibaut demanded, confused. I knew he was thinking of how we had been making out in the Philosophy class on Friday during a film on Voltaire in our usual covert fashion. “Laura? Un coup de foudre? That’s impossible. Unless you mean with me.”
“No,” I said, in measured tones. “Don’t you remember what we learned about Pascal in Philosophy class? Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît pas.” The heart has reasons that reason does not recognize.
“What’s his name?” Thibaut demanded.
I answered with a perfectly gauged French shrug.
“I don’t believe it,” Thibaut declared. “I think you and Sandrine have just concocted this story to tease me.”
“Believe what you like,” I said.
Sandrine started laughing with delight. “This is too good! I can’t wait to tell Stéphanie.”
“Laura, I’m warning you,” Thibaut said, and now the entire table of our friends was paying attention. What had happened to him being so secretive about us? “If there is another guy there will be no more kisses from me.”
I took a spoonful of my crème brulée dessert and gave him a sweet smile. “Don’t worry yourself about that Thibaut,” I said. “It just so happens that I’m not in need of your kisses anymore.”
Later on that day, Thibaut seemed to be getting desperate and, as I was standing beside Sandrine waiting for the bus back to Nuits-Saint-Georges, sent over Maxime as an emissary.
“What you said to Thibaut at lunch wasn’t very kind,” Maxime chided me, but at the same time fidgeting with the strap on his backpack, not looking entirely confident in his role.
“Are you serious?” I said. “What about Thibaut’s behavior?”
“What do you mean?” Maxime’s eyes were like that of a trapped animal.
“I mean,” I said, “making out with me in secret but then wanting to hide it so as to keep his options open for several months. That wasn’t very kind of Thibaut.”
Maxime scuffed one of his long sneaker-shod feet on the ground. “I never understood why he was doing that. We all knew anyway.”
“It was hardly flattering.”
Sandrine smoked her cigarette, nodding.
“What happens if things don’t work out with this new guy?” Maxime asked.
The question was a valid one. This thing with Franck was so brand new—what if he didn’t call me, and all I would ever have was last weekend?
I knew the answer. Just that weekend, even if nothing more came of it, gave me hope that what I yearned for in the depths of my romantic heart might truly exist. I could never go back to the paltry compromise I accepted with Thibaut. I wanted more. I wanted it all.
I couldn’t help but listen for the phone over the next few days. There were only two in the Lacanche’s house—one in their bedroom, and one for the family, which sat in a place of honor on the shiny, black piano in the living room, which Monsieur Lacanche was wont to play when he had had a few too many glasses of wine. Because my bedroom was upstairs beside the massive church bell, I was always the last one to hear the phone ring, and the last one to get to it as well. How was I going to explain that a man was calling me? Every time the phone rang when I was downstairs in the main part of the house, my heart leapt to my throat, and I became paralyzed until I overheard the conversation long enough to know it wasn’t Franck on the other end.
Finally, on Thursday night at around nine o’clock, just when I was about to go upstairs to my church bell hideaw
ay, the phone rang. Goose bumps prickled all over my skin. It was him. I knew it.
Madame Lacanche glided over and picked up the phone. “Bonjour, j’écoute!” she said in her usual chipper voice.
She listened for a few seconds and then turned to me slowly, her thin blond eyebrows raised almost to her hairline.
“Laura, it’s for you,” she said. “It’s a person named Franck. A man.”
“Ah bon?” I tried to look surprised. “Merci.” I scuttled over and took the receiver, my palms sweaty and my heart pounding.
The entire family was sitting on the two couches watching a French variety show featuring a woman with a pet monkey who could dance the can-can. Anyone who labored under the misconception that the French were all unrelentingly highbrow just needed to watch a few minutes of the enormously popular variety shows.
“Bonjour,” I said into the receiver, eyeing the family, who were now all watching me instead of the television. Watch the monkey! I felt like yelling at them. It’s a monkey in a can-can dress for goodness sakes!
“Laura,” Franck’s voice warmed me to my toes and brought back a wash of memories. “It is wonderful to hear your voice.”
“Ah…it’s the same for me,” I said, aware of five sets of eyes on me.
“You sound strange,” Franck observed.
“Ahhhh…non,” I said. “Tout va bien.”
“Are you alone?” he asked.
“Non,” I answered, emphatic. “Not at all. Like, really…no. Definitely not.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Oui. That’s it.”
“This weekend? Can we see each—”
“Yes. I’d like that.”
Franck laughed. “Good. Can I pick you up in Nuits-Saint-Georges on Saturday morning when I get in from Dijon?”
“What time?”
“Ten o’clock. Is that too early?”
“Non, non.”
The Lacanche’s nine-year-old daughter, Alix, began tugging at the phone cord. “Is he asking you out on a date, Laura? Who is it? Is it your amoureux?”
“Alix!” Madame Lacanche beckoned her back, but Alix wasn’t listening. For an angelically fair little girl, she could certainly act like the very devil.
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