by The Weather Baker's Son [Dreamspinner, World of Love MM] (retail) (epub)
Peter knew that he would seek out “accidental” encounters with François over the next days, and indeed over time a familiarity grew between them. Shared courses in French literature and mutual friends ended up bringing them together at all kinds of different times, and eventually they sought out each other’s company in the cafeteria or attended university film retrospectives together. In the theater, their shoulders would touch as they sat jammed in with the other students, and Peter would dream of a day when matters would go further, relishing for now the close heat of François’s masculine body. On one such occasion, François waved to friends who had sat in the row behind, leaning over Peter’s shoulder as he spoke to them, his hand at one point resting on Peter, and as he turned around to face forward once again, his hand slipped down Peter’s chest and onto his lap. “Pardon,” muttered François as he pulled his hand away. Peter looked over at François, as the movement seemed anything but innocent. However, François was now looking intently forward at the beginning of the movie as if nothing had ever happened, seemingly oblivious to Peter. Peter was left trying to understand whether the incident meant anything, whether it was just a mere accident, or perhaps that François was a big tease. Peter was not fully innocent in sexual matters, but he was unused to the kind of behavior François exhibited. His infatuation, however, got the better of him. He knew he was smitten and wanted to lessen his usual caution. Eventually, he lost any resolve to be cautious whatsoever.
So it was that one night François invited Peter back to his place in a shared set of rooms slightly down the hill over the northern walls, to talk about their studies, of course. The area was littered with quaint stone town houses, high-pitched roofs to cast off the copious winter snows, and commercial streets lined with handsome limestone premises.
The two young men sat animatedly discussing the merits of Gargantua as serious literature or the poetry of Lamartine. Peter learned more and more about François, whose father had been a professor at the old ornate campus in the walled city now housing just the faculties of theology and philosophy. François had led a golden childhood, moving with his family from their native Quebec and from university town to university town, most recently having lived in France, where his father was still a visiting professor at the University of Montpellier.
François is so much more worldly than me, thought Peter, and François had an ability to easily meet and acquire new friends. He seemed to know dozens of people, but none of them seemed to matter all that much to François. They orbited about him like captive moons, but he seemed indifferent, always on the lookout for the next adventure down the way. Peter naively thought he was different, that he had a special entry into François’s heart, due to a unique inclination that the others did not share. He was willfully oblivious to all the signs that might say otherwise, gathering hope from false signals of his own imagining. Wanting François for oneself was like trying to catch the passing breeze in one’s hand. He was fleeting and soon gone, not tied to any one place or time. Like the wind he was also indifferent, passing over any object in his path, void of malevolence, innocent in nature.
So as the young men were left alone in the communal room of the apartment, when François’s straight roommates had retired to their separate bedrooms for the night, he reached over the top of the couch where they were seated and played with Peter’s hair. Peter sat rapt, and François leaned over and kissed him on the neck.
“You know, for a small-town boy, you are very handsome,” said François.
Peter was caught. He had been reeled into François’s net and could only be led further along. Or perhaps more fittingly, he had jumped willingly into this net. He did manage to say in a stammering voice, “So, why would there not be good-looking guys in small towns?”
“You are right, you know,” said François. “It is just that they usually do not dress so nicely. They do not show their bodies as well as you. Their droopy jeans hide their nice young asses, and they have tattoos all over them. You, however, have a nice firm ass. I can see it well the way you wear your jeans. And your stomach is so flat and hard, don’t you think?” François was by then rubbing Peter’s belly with his hand and sliding his fingers down the top of his pants. Peter felt François move his hand farther down in his pants and cup his growing erection, grabbing him hard.
Within moments they were in full embrace on the couch, with François now holding Peter’s head with both hands on his cheeks. François kissed Peter’s lips and parted them, their tongues meeting in the heat of passion as over and over they kissed. Then François pulled on the willing Peter’s arm and led him to his room, where Peter experienced pleasures he had long wanted to fulfill. Peter felt himself with a future of unquestioned joy with François. In the muted light coming from the street, Peter lay looking at François, who was by now asleep, and felt so close to another human being, closer than ever before. In his imagination limitless days of human warmth seemed to spread out before him. François was oblivious to this admiration and would have deemed it a mere crush if he had been aware. The next morning he quickly ensured they set about parting before his roommates were up, dressing in a calm, detached, and efficient manner devoid of emotion, but which Peter assumed, in his innocence, to be justified in the circumstances.
Peter said, “Are you worried your roommates will be upset if they know a guy stayed with you last night?”
“Not at all,” said François. “They are cool guys. It is just that we respect each other’s privacy, and since this is their place too, I make sure they have it to themselves when they are up.”
François and Peter parted. A few moments later, both of François’s roommates had entered the now-empty living area, one of them noting to the other with a gesture of amusement, “Third one in two weeks,” and they set about making their breakfast, shaking their heads as they did so.
Boulangerie Latourelle
IN THE dusty little southern French town was a bakery. One of those wonderful small bakeries found throughout France where one could buy fresh chocolate buns, flaky croissants, baguettes, pizza slices, and assorted other delights.
As each customer entered the shop, Céleste, the dark-haired lady behind the counter, would engage in small talk and inevitably end up making some comment on the day’s weather prospects. When she would say, “Il va faire beau aujourd’hui,” indicating a beautiful sunny day typical for the region, one may easily think that she only stated the obvious and did not deserve her nickname as the weather baker among the locals. However, she had an uncanny knack of sensing any impending change before any radio or television forecast. She could feel it in the mood of the customers and would peer outside, gauge the passing clouds, the hint of rain or of approaching wind, and judge just how many more hot rolls would be needed that day to warm the stomachs of the clientele.
Her son, Gaston, occasionally worked the shop front when Céleste went to pick through fresh trays of baked goods in the back of the shop where Gaston toiled away at the ovens. Although Gaston usually brought the new tray loads up front, the weather baker wanted at times to evaluate which additional supplies she felt needed to be baked and the stock of ingredients required to do so. When Gaston was up front, there was not as often a weather forecast as Gaston was somewhat quiet—shy, one might say—and therefore had not developed his mother’s abilities. He would usually nod an assent upon a client’s order or perhaps let out a muffled “Oui,” but not much more.
That is why it was unusual the day he engaged in a weather discussion with a client from a vacation house. Truth be told it was the stranger who had asked Gaston what the weather was to be like, causing Gaston to hesitate briefly as he handed the client his change, briefly enough for his fingers to rest slightly in the palm of the stranger before being hurriedly pulled back. The momentary connection was enough, however, to form an event. This could not be just a transitory touch—both men internally remarked upon it. This event was not as unwelcome to either of them as such events normally can be am
ong men….
But what preceded this exchange? Peter, the stranger, had previously visited the bakery about a half-dozen times—he had at those times accompanied his mother, who was absent shopping in Avignon that day. It was one of those little habits vacationers take on when in a new locale, wanting to take advantage of the local delicacies. Indeed, all the guidebooks heartily recommended the morning custom of paying a visit to the baker’s to buy fresh baguettes or buttery breakfast croissants, and to stock up on crusty bread in anticipation of luncheon sandwiches of ham, Dijon mustard, and local greens. So it was on this particular day that Peter approached the shop alone. He had previously recognized the baker as being the lady who had a stall at the market on Wednesdays. He had not seen the youth he had noticed on one of those market days since, there being other helpers in the company of the baker. He had entered the shop with the hope that perhaps that intriguing young man might be about, whoever he was.
As he approached the shop, two gray doves were scouting for lost crumbs by the door, performing a sort of dance as they celebrated their finds. Peter found himself so distracted by the gallivanting doves that he took the two steps through the entrance quite quickly, bumping unexpectedly into the very young man he had been hoping to see, who was up front wiping shelves. The abrupt encounter disoriented them both, with Peter accidentally reaching out and steadying himself with one hand against the young man’s firm side. It was all over in one second, with both men retreating a few steps back, muttering, “Pardon!”
The weather baker’s son retreated behind the counter to await the customer’s order, and Peter made himself busy looking through the assorted items. Both men that day were painfully aware of the earlier connection at the market, it being painful because each one ascribed meaning to it, more meaning than a simple happenstance should have. Each still wanted to look at the other and seemed aware or at least hopeful of such desire by the other, but neither was able to bring himself to look directly at the same time.
“How may I help you?” inquired Gaston, making an effort to sound businesslike rather than eager.
Peter busied himself with looking at the displays of baked wares on the countertops and in the vitrines. His eyes passed over the little tags with their names and prices, but they might as well have been turned upside down, for he could not focus on them. He could see the young man’s midsection through the top of the glass vitrines and out their back sides, causing him to linger on the man’s taut jeans more than the cakes and breads. Blankly he pointed at a number of items as his purchases with no real idea as to what he had ordered. Clearing his throat and with a slight tremble to his voice, he announced his selections with his head still bowed. “I’ll have three of those and four of those striped things there and those coconut things, yes, maybe five of those.”
Gaston said, “Of course, as you wish,” to each of Peter’s requests. He had some difficulty keeping up with the orders as Peter blurted them out nervously and repeated an order a couple of times.
“I have already selected for you five coconut macaroons, have I not? Do you wish five more?” stammered Gaston at one point.
“Sorry,” said Peter. “No, just the five.” And he lowered his head toward the shelves to hide his embarrassment.
He heard the crinkle of paper and wrapping as Gaston assembled his purchases. Feigning examination of the glass cases through the glass tops, Peter had his head raised far enough to be able to observe Gaston’s rugged hands rolling and wrapping, his strong fingers set with short black hairs. Fingers that Peter longed to kiss.
It was only with the exchange of money that each looked up, the exchange briefly drawn out by Peter blurting as indicated before, “Will it be a nice day today?” and Gaston being startled by the unexpected question, causing his fingers to linger in Peter’s palm. His abrupt pulling back of his hand revealed more than any words would have, as if a mental spark had caused him to flinch. Gaston hastily said, “My mother thinks the day will start nice but will turn stormy later.” He fidgeted nervously with a gold ring he wore, pushing it back and forth as if it had transferred a shock from Peter.
Peter drank up the new information that this was the baker’s son. He also noted the masculine voice of this handsome dark-haired youth, the row of beautiful teeth, and the fleshy lips. He was determined to make the encounter last longer, drawing upon an inner reservoir of courage that could be fleeting but useful.
“Stormy, you say?” said Peter in his best French.
“Indeed, monsieur, my mother is rarely wrong!”
Peter continued, “Your mother indeed appears to have a better sense than the radio forecasts!”
“Indeed, monsieur,” said Gaston, “she is reputed for it throughout town.” Gaston noted the slight wave in Peter’s hair and how the rays of sun beaming through the window behind him caused his hair to glow.
Peter was struggling to find more topics in order to linger longer. His eyes settled on a sign that noted free deliveries of baked goods for the evening meal. Peter therefore asked about that and what number he should call should he want to place an order. Gaston wrote down the number for Peter, and at that moment Gaston’s mother returned up front, curious from hearing her son speaking so much to a client, something he was not known to do. She recognized Peter as of one the new tourists, greeted him, said, “Gaston, there is a fresh tray of biscuits ready for display,” and without further ado busied herself behind the counter, not without noting the odd assortment of packages the client had. The two strapping young men faced each other awkwardly, their muscular arms hanging at their sides. They both longed to wrap their arms around each other, but they kept them hung impotently in this situation. They looked over to the weather baker and then back to each other, whereupon they both lowered and turned their heads as if breaking out of a spell, with Gaston heading back into the bake room and Peter scooping up his purchases and heading out the door.
Peter walked off out of town and into the countryside. He was carrying the baked goods, but more importantly he was carrying a new treasure he had, a name spoken out loud by the weather baker, and that name was Gaston. Back at the bergerie, he absentmindedly plunked down his purchases in the kitchen for Hélène, who, once she returned, shook her head in bemusement at the odd assortment of baked goods he had brought home.
Gaston waited day after day for the stranger to reappear, constantly peering out from the bake room into the front of the shop, catching unwanted glances back from his mother, who had noted the unusual behavior, the apparent sudden need to be engaging with the clients, and finally his intense interest in one particular new face. A sensation of gathering clouds formed in her mind as she pondered the situation. But these clouds were not of the darkening variety, obscuring from her the light of the sun. No, because the joy she felt in Gaston’s voice as he chatted with the tourist did not allow the clouds to linger; rather, like a ray of light breaking through, a realization was forming in her mind. This was a new pattern for her, something that was not the customary feelings she sensed in her son. From the back bake room, she began to steal occasional glimpses of the interactions in the front room and the way her son stood tall and manly across the counter from the equally handsome stranger. Or rather across from the handsome friend, for they did not appear to be strangers anymore. An easy form of greeting and exchange of smiles had developed between them, and Peter lingered much longer than was ever necessary to make purchases. Céleste one day was just a couple feet behind Gaston, unbeknownst to him, and watched as Gaston leaned out the door, waving at Peter as he went on his way. She saw that day Marguérite, the candy shop owner, also looking out from the candy shop door, and she could swear Marguérite nodded to her. It was more than a nod of greeting but rather a nod that seemed to say also, “Let it be so.”
The famous perching dog
THE WEATHER baker’s dog, Padie, was famous among the locals.
Each morning he lay, his long golden body stretched along a flat-topped stone arch one story
up, lazing in the sun with one eye slightly open to the goings-on in the street below him. The stone houses along the narrow street followed closely its gentle curve, and at this point an arch thrust out from one house on one side and joined against its opposite house on the other side of the street at the highest spot of the ground floor. This created a buttress to firm up the old walls of each from buckling out, not an uncommon sight in France. Padie discovered early on that he could amble off the small terrace above the bakery and park his long frame strategically on the flat top of the arch to catch the full rays of the morning sun and view all the people passing in the street below. And as a bonus, he could be admired at this spot by the wakening villagers and tourists too—what more could be asked?
The passersby amiably called up to him as part of their morning ritual, “Padie, bonjour, mon vieux!” “Hey, old fellow!” Each new visitor to town quickly joined in the local ritual and greeted the old perching dog on their way, Padie always responding with a lone muffled woof or “ouah” of acknowledgment.
This routine was so expected that it caught some locals off guard when they noted Padie had started to bark twice from time to time. They would turn as if compelled to understand this new thing—perhaps he had barked more than once in the past, truly they could not say that it would be unusual for a dog to do so—but ingrained habits told them this was a change.
Padie had noted in particular how lately his master’s son would half lean out the door of the bakery to catch a glimpse of a departing stranger, a stranger who frequented the shop or seemed to linger nearby more often than one might think necessary to make one’s purchases. This happened an increasing number of times, and to him it was an event worth digesting. Gaston was not always up front when the stranger was near or ordering goods from Céleste, but Padie noted that whenever Gaston served the stranger or noted his presence, Gaston would endeavor to follow the stranger’s progress back down the street by feigning to sweep by the door or arrange wares at the window. Often he would look up and smile at Padie with a different sort of smile than Padie was used to, a smile that had his usual tenderness but contained an additional note of love. Padie liked this new smile, and when Gaston had retreated indoors or left the window, Padie would stretch out further, reveling in the warmth of the sunbaked stone and dreaming of Gaston’s smile and this new visitor who caused Gaston’s happiness.