“I accept your invitation. Now what laws do we break?” He tried to sound casual.
“Markus! I’m so glad you’re here!” She rushed forward and gave each of his cheeks a little kiss before bouncing back into her seat.
“I am glad, too. You and I will work very well together.”
She looked so polished, wearing a demure cream-and-blue eyelet dress with impeccable cream-colored high-heeled sandals. He couldn’t help but notice that while others in the first-class car seemed drab and vaguely disheveled by comparison, this golden goddess sat coolly composed, her tailored dress effortlessly skimming her firm body here and there. He was on an illicit adventure, and he made no effort to hide the enthusiasm he was feeling.
“I have shown you mine.” He said seriously. “Now you will show me yours. It is your turn to tell me everything.”
“I’m so excited to get started…I feel like I’m vibrating.” She released the clip from her hair and tousled the strands with her fingers. “I’ve been sitting here with my design swirling through my head.”
“Tell me about this massive art piece.”
“It’s called Star Fall. I’ve already made a prototype, but this will be big. It’s an arching web made of hollow steel arms, inset with copper curlicues and inter-joined glass spindles.” Making delicate movements with her fingers, she outlined the general shapes and patterns in the air for him.
“Glass spindles?”
“Oui. Each spindle has two compartments.” She glanced around the car, then slipped into the seat next to him and put her lips against his ear. “One compartment contains hydrogen, and the other contains irrodium.” It was a whisper that enveloped him in her lovely perfume and made the hairs on his neck tingle. She pulled back and her eyes searched his for a reaction.
He maneuvered to place his mouth to her ear. “This irrodium…it is what is illegal?”
She nodded and her hair stroked against his cheek. “Uh-huh, and when we mix the two chemicals, the vials glow.”
“Green like in mad scientist movies?”
“No, a kind of a blush-rose color.”
“It sounds beautiful. Is it dangerous?”
She pulled back and waved her hand dismissively. “We can’t get any on us.”
“Then we will be careful. So, we are going to your real home?”
She relaxed against him and took his hand, which made him feel more excited than he cared to admit. Intertwining her fingers naturally with his, she looked contentedly out the window.
“Uh-huh, I was born there. It’s been in my family for generations. But everyone else is gone now, so it’s mine.”
“To pass down to your children.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What happened to your family?”
“If it’s all right with you, I’d prefer not to talk about it.”
“Let us talk about something else, then. I have never seen your hair down before.”
“Mmm…right, I normally wear it up. Do you like it?”
“Very much.”
“You’re really good at changing the subject.” She smiled and ran a hand through her hair.
“So I still have a hope of finding a wife?” He knew he was being self-deprecating, but he couldn’t resist.
“With skills like changing the subject smoothly? Absolutely.” She laughed and nodded.
The train picked up speed as it left the city behind, and Markus felt like a schoolboy, giddy to be holding a girl’s hand. He recalled the last woman he’d taken to bed, and realized he was more excited at this moment than he had been while actually having sex. He had better keep his wits about him, and remember Giselle was only friend material.
He enjoyed passing the time on the train talking about art. The subject could have gotten tiresome for any other two people, but he found that she was endlessly engrossed in all manner of artistic style and expression. When he tried to change the subject she became monosyllabic and then maneuvered the conversation back to art. He barely glanced over to register the splendor of the Champagne region’s landscape racing by just outside the windows.
It was early evening when they arrived in Aiglemont. The old station was nestled amidst a handful of quaint eighteenth-century buildings connected by stone lanes. Markus retrieved his bag and discovered that Giselle was only traveling with a little purse. Stepping onto the platform, he found a porter and claimed the wooden chest he had checked, before he and Giselle left the station together. Her happiness was contagious, and he found himself feeling buoyant and free as he walked alongside her.
“So, what’s in the wooden box?” She arched a brow at him.
“My glass cutters, lead wire…you know…art supplies.”
“A man after my own heart.”
“Da. Like you, I am always working on something. Where is your irrodium? You did not have it shipped with the rest of your supplies, did you?”
“No, the spindles are in an insulated case that was delivered to my home by a courier company that specializes in transporting dangerous live specimens.”
“Live specimens?”
“Oh, you know…viruses, vipers…dangerous things.”
“I cannot even think of how much insurance one of those couriers would need to have.”
“Probably a lot.”
Just steps from the station, they ducked into a building that functioned as a hotel and restaurant. Staff members called out, “Bienvenue, Giselle,” as they went about their business. A man who looked to be in his thirties and a dark-haired woman in her twenties were behind the counter, working and chatting. They looked up as Markus and Giselle entered, and Giselle called out, “Salut! Henri! Fauve!”
“Ah! Giselle! Let me get your keys!” Henri cried as he simultaneously blushed, sucked in his gut, and tried to look taller. Fauve darted around the counter, grabbed Giselle, and spun her around in a hug.
“B’jour, chérie! I told the gang you’ve invited us over for cards tomorrow. Oh! And you’ve got to hear the latest news! I swear marriages are ending left, right, and center around here!”
Henri approached. “Not all marriages can be as solid as Giselle and Vinny’s.” He planted a friendly kiss on Giselle’s lips. “Now, you two are a couple for the ages.”
Fauve stopped her verbal barrage when she noticed Markus. “Well, hello there. Are you with Giselle?” When he nodded, she looked him over from head to toe and glanced back to Giselle, silently communicating her appreciation. “I’m Fauve,” she reached for his hand, “Giselle’s best friend. And you are…?”
“Markus. Enchanté, Fauve.”
Holding his hand, she reached for his bicep and pretended she wasn’t checking him out as she appraised him with her hands. Giselle took the keys from Henri and stepped over to make introductions.
“Fauve, Henri, this is Markus. He’s an artist I’ve been studying. He’s going to help me with my sculpture.”
Markus smiled. “Bonjour, Henri.”
“Judging from the sheer number of crates and the stacks of metal Giselle’s had delivered up at her château, it’s going to be enormous.” Henri stepped forward to shake his hand. “Call me, I’ll help if you need me. And don’t let her get hurt. Her property’s a long way from a doctor.”
Markus nodded.
“We’re going to go get settled.” Giselle started toward the door and waved the keys. “See you tomorrow night.”
“Oui, bonsoir!” they called back.
Markus followed Giselle back out into the warm evening and watched as she paused on the sidewalk just outside the hotel to kick off her heels. She picked them up and walked barefoot, swinging her shoes by her side in a loose-limbed way that was touchingly childlike. He followed her around the back of the building and into a garage where she unlocked a huge, old Renault truck that seemed vaguely military. This was turning into his kind of adventure.
She had seemed happier on the train than she’d been since Markus had met her. Then, another layer of reserve had fallen away w
hen they arrived at the station. And now, at the door of this antique truck, she was a woman he didn’t know. She handed him her Prada sandals, hiked up the hem of her dress, climbed into the cab, and bounced lightly on the worn leather seat.
Carrying her shoes he went moved around the back of the truck and as he dropped his luggage into a cargo slot in the truck’s flatbed, she turned the key and revved the big engine. He walked around to the passenger side and climbed in. Giselle backed the monster truck out of the cramped stone garage and into the alley with one masterful movement, then fluidly shifted from reverse into drive. The powerful old beast ran smoothly, and she drove it with total command, as though it was an extension of her body. Occasionally returning waves from local pedestrians, she cruised straight out of town and onto deserted country roads.
“It’ll take us a little while to drive out to the property. When we get there, I’d like to take a quick shower, and then we’ll have dinner. Does that sound good?”
“Da, me too.” He had to make himself stop staring at her.
“Markus, I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re here.” She reached over and smacked his thigh affectionately. “Over dinner I’ll show you the Star Fall prototype, my sketches, and the sculpture schematics. I hope you can teach me how to move with more confidence in my assembly.”
“Hmmm, da. With your dangerous chemical, that would be helpful. You drive with confidence, so I think it is natural to you in art as well.”
“This was my grandfather’s truck, and I’ve been driving it as long as I can remember. He taught me how to drive when I was too small to work the pedals, so he’d hold me on his lap and let me shift and steer.” She caressed the steering wheel before gripping it with both hands to take a bend in the road at full speed. “I call it the Tank!” She let out a whoop.
“It looks to be from the late nineteen forties.”
“Nineteen forty-three. My grandfather helped out in World War Two, and you can’t imagine the adventures he had with this Tank, here.” She waved her hand, gesturing fondly about the truck.
He nodded and looked around the truck’s cab with more appreciation.
Turning on the radio, Giselle sang quietly to a medley of songs by France Gall, and Markus sat back to enjoy the ride. He turned, looking at the quiet farms and fields as they sailed past his window, and watched the countryside shift from the groomed fields of the Champagne region toward the primordial wildness of the Ardennes Forest.
Finally with a spray of white gravel, they turned off the rural road and started down a driveway that disappeared into a long tunnel of arching tree limbs. Wafting through the open windows, the mixed smells of mossy forest, green fields, and night-blooming jasmine filled the truck. Markus looked over at Giselle’s hair blowing around her shoulders, and she tossed her head to flick it out of her eyes. Not that he didn’t adore the buttoned-up, chic city woman who was his friend, but this natural girl beside him was even more to his taste. His attention was captured then as the trees finally retreated from the driveway to reveal an imposing three-story building made of white stone.
“Your family home is a castle?”
“It’s not a castle, it’s a château.”
“Those round parts on the sides are turrets. Why is it not a castle?”
“In 1647 when my family built it, King Louis visited for a hunting party and called it a château.”
“What is the difference between a château of this size and a castle?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if a king didn’t live in it, or it wasn’t a seat of power, it wasn’t called a castle.”
“No king has ever lived here?”
“Only my ancestors have lived here, and they weren’t royal.”
“Well, now you are a countess through marriage.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s well established as a château at this point. I don’t think I can go around referring to it as a castle without sounding pretty silly.”
As they swung into a grand flagstone courtyard, other buildings on the property came into view. The door of the great house opened, and an energetic tomboy-of-a-woman wearing a t-shirt and faded jeans came trotting down the steps and jogged toward them.
Giselle called out the window as she pulled the truck to a stop. “Selma! Comment ça va?”
Selma jumped onto the running board. “So glad you’re...two?” She was staring at Markus. “Hell-oh.” She looked back at Giselle and raised her eyebrows in question.
“I’ve brought an artist to help me with my sculpture. This is Markus. Markus, meet Selma. She and her mother, Veronique, take care of my home while I’m away. Selma, he’ll be using the workshop for his own art, so please put him in the stable house.”
Markus smiled. “Bonsoir, Selma.” He handed Giselle her shoes and stepped down onto the flagstone drive.
Selma nodded her greeting and jumped down from Giselle’s side of the truck.
“Sure. I’ve got to run, but I’ll open the stable house and workshop for…er…Markus.”
“Let me guess. You’re off to see Fabrice.”
“Oui, we’re watching a retrospective of Dustin Hoffman films.” Selma sounded pleased.
“Fun! Is tonight Marathon Man?” Giselle asked while putting on her shoes. “Now that’s an intense film.”
“No, Tootsie.”
“Isn’t Bill Murray in that one?”
“Oui, and Jessica Lange.”
Arriving around the other side of the Tank, Selma clapped Markus on the arms with both hands, feeling his muscles unapologetically.
“Well Markus, you’re going to need all of your strength. I can’t imagine how big this sculpture is going to be, but I’m guessing very large based on everything she’s had delivered.”
She turned and called back to Giselle, “By the way, a crane was delivered this morning, and I just took delivery of your armored briefcase. It’s locked in the cabinet just as you asked. I’ve shopped for you, and your favorite dinner goodies are already set up in the kitchen.”
Giselle climbed down from the truck. “Ah, merci. And tell your mother that because of our guest, the guard dogs need to be kept off the main property.”
“Oui. I’ll see you for cards tomorrow night, chérie.”
“Can’t wait.”
Selma turned back to Markus. “Come with me, and I’ll show you your place.”
Giselle was moving away toward the sweeping steps of the château, then stopped mid-stride, calling, “Markus, after you’re showered, come find me in the kitchen and we’ll eat dinner.”
“Da,” he called as he collected his things from the bed of the truck.
Selma moved at a brisk pace, and he had to catch up to her as she sped across the drive, then behind the château and down the lane to the stable house. Apparently “his place” was nowhere near where the young countess slept, even though that château must have enough rooms to accommodate the entire population of Gernelle.
After unlocking the heavy oak door, Selma led him inside a house with an open floor plan, clicked the light on, and then turned abruptly to face him.
“So, are you a friend of Vincenzo’s, too?”
“No, I have not met her husband,” Markus replied blandly.
Selma gave no response as she turned away from him and went to the armoire to retrieve sheets. Together they set about preparing the bed.
“So, has Giselle had other artists come out here with her?” he couldn’t help asking.
“Oui.”
Ah, apparently I am not special, if she has asked other artists to stay here.
Selma gestured to a large door on the other side of the room.
“The workshop is just through there. There’s a smaller studio beyond it, but those spaces are way too small for whatever she plans to build this time. So she’s got her work area set up out in the courtyard, over by the greenhouse.”
Markus liked Selma’s no-nonsense manner. They made the bed in silence, and then she handed him a key and walk
ed out the door with a cheerful, “Bonsoir, Markus.” No idle small talk or inquisitiveness.
He took his wooden chest to the adjoining workshop. It was a perfect place for him to work, well maintained with basic tools and good lighting. It was a happy discovery to be given a place to work on his art, rather than having to improvise his own work space. On one side of the workshop was an antique loom, which someone was still taking care to dust and maintain. He wondered whose it was.
Returning to the living quarters, he turned his interest to the beautiful little stable house as he hung his clothes in the armoire. There were no interior walls, except for a brightly painted partition shielding what must be the bathroom, and the areas of the house were delineated by the furniture groupings. The main area was a living room decorated by someone who must have loved to lounge around. There was a worn velvet sofa, a settee the size of a small bed, in addition to a giant easy chair and matching ottoman that were made for a much larger room. He could picture people sprawled about, relaxing away lazy afternoons. It was rounded out with tables here and there, and a desk over by one of the windows.
The sleeping area had large slanting windows hung with heavy brown velvet curtains, shelves stacked with an array of old books, a collection of antique canes displayed on a wall, and mismatched pewter lamps were set here and there. A big bed took up most of the bedroom space, and Markus guessed its polished wood frame was probably hewn from nearby trees. He tested the mattress; it was yielding and topped with a featherbed added by someone determined to sink up to their ears in comfort. The small kitchen was outfitted with an old soapstone sink, butcher-block counters, and a worn stone floor.
He undressed, leaving his clothes on a chair, and walked behind the brightly painted partition into the sizable bathroom. Dominating the space was an over-sized Moroccan-tiled showpiece. It was almost a swimming pool, and could easily bathe six people at once. An elaborate swan head fixture overhead aimed its open beak at the center of the tub, which had no curtains surrounding it. The whole affair was completely open and looked like something designed for a bathhouse.
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