by The Weather Baker's Son [Dreamspinner, World of Love MM] (retail) (epub)
She sat half-upright, reflecting on the last mundane conversation she and her husband had had on that fateful morning, chatting over a cup of coffee on the hotel room balcony. Robert, her husband, brought up Peter’s future. “He is very talented in languages. Hopefully he will decide to undertake studies in Quebec. I will sit down with him when we get back to Vermont. What do you think. Should we discuss it over dinner tonight? I had better run now as I need to catch my bus!” And with that he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and squeezed her arm and was out the door. So many plans for a future that never came. Yet in a morbid twist of fate, his death provided the life insurance that had enabled Peter’s university studies.
Continuing along its way, the breeze entered Peter’s room at the bergerie. He dreamed he was standing atop the Saint Jean gate to the walled city of Quebec, glancing down at the animated street below. Cars were entering the old city as people passed by him along the pedestrian parapet on either side of him. Peter was looking outward, outside the walls, where just across the way stood a great cinema, with a bus stop in front. It was the end of the fall term, and he was waiting for François to step off the bus and meet him as they had arranged. Over and over again the bus stopped, and the crowds came out, but no François. It was 9:00 p.m. He looked up again, and the crowds from the bus descended, but no François.
Somehow it was 9:00 p.m. again! He looked up again, and the crowds came out, but no François.
Over and over, and then his dream turned to that much-earlier night atop the nearby citadel. François approached among the group of people from the Plains of Abraham and held out a sort of stem or flower to Peter and said, “I am poison.” Turning over and over, he kept seeing François again and again, extending his hand and uttering, “I am poison.”
His dream turned back to the bus stop. The bus was stopped again.
It was still 9:00 p.m., and now an endless stream of people descended, laughing and chatting as they set out in all directions, through the cinema doors or farther up the street or in a file below Peter and into the city. There was no François.
It was as if a thousand people were now descending out of a single bus, a steady stream, and Peter struggled to perceive François among them… no François.
Then he saw François’s friend Martin descend, and as he descended he was staring up over at Peter. Suddenly a ghostly Martin was standing next to Peter atop the city wall and putting a ring in Peter’s hand. He said, “François has left.”
Peter struggled to understand. François has left… what? Where was François?
Martin repeated and was saying François had left, to Montreal or some other place, but before he left had asked Martin to give Peter his ring back, a ring Peter had left with François as a token of affection.
“No commitments” was François’s last message as imparted by Martin.
Peter stared at the ring and said to himself, It is I who am poison, and the ring fell into the street below and rolled off somewhere unseen.
Peter climbed down the city walls to retrieve the ring and, dumbfounded, found himself holding the ring in his hand. He felt paralyzed, and the walls seemed to stretch farther and farther in front of him as he struggled to pick up his feet, which felt like two lead blocks. The ring… the ring! The walls of Quebec dissolved around him, and he was walking somehow atop the stone garden courtyard walls of the bergerie in the moonlight. As he stepped along, he suddenly perceived himself now magically atop the stone arch attached to the weather baker’s shop in town, staring across at the bakery terrace. In front of him—uncharacteristically, for it was night—was Padie, Gaston’s dog, stretched out on the arch. He should not be there at night, he thought. He rubbed his eyes, and Padie’s shape transformed itself into the vision of Peter himself and François entwined naked, like that only night they embraced in Quebec City. He could not step around this sight to get to the terrace where he hoped, in his dream, to enter Gaston’s room. He tried to step forward, and the entwined figures transformed again into Padie, who let out two woofs.
Across the way at one of the two glass doors onto the terrace, a male shape appeared. Peter strained to see Gaston. Padie again woofed, and then Gaston’s face appeared more clearly at the door. Peter had his hand outstretched, holding the ring to give to Gaston, but was unable to move forward… whereupon he awoke and sat in troubled silence upright in bed for a long time before falling asleep again. However, a new dream arose. He was with François, the night after he lay with Peter, and François turned to him and said that he would never lay with Peter again, stating that he did not know what he wanted. Peter was startled; he had let the dams burst after so many years of pent-up desire and could not readily rebuild the broken walls around his emotions. They had briefly had free rein only to be crushed, ground under the rejection of future intimacy by François. It was all too much for him to bear. François indicated it was not Peter’s but François’s problem; that he, François, was poison. Peter wondered, Is he just being kind and is the real reason that I am not good enough? If I were attractive enough, would he not want to be with me? Perhaps I am not smart enough? Am I not the real reason for his rejection? He moaned in his sleep, “I was not good enough.” Impetuously he had wanted to give François his class ring, but François had refused, so Peter had left it behind in the hope François might dwell on it and change his mind.
Peter tried to keep it going, had eventually the promise of an encounter, but François did not show. Perhaps it was a way to get away while Peter was distracted elsewhere.
The persistent breeze sifted through the lattice shutters of Mario’s room in town. Mario was moaning as he slept. He was caught in a dream in the gym shower room. He was naked, and his teammates were showering in a circle around him, all of them aroused and laughing at him. They were saying, “You did not know?” “How could you not know?” and pointing at one another’s arousal and back at Mario. Mario twirled and twirled around, being mocked no matter which way he turned. At the same time a slightly curtained window would open in the shower room wall through which he could see Gaston’s aroused, naked figure folding Mario’s pants over a chair, and then he would be distracted again by his teammates laughing and smirking at his innocence, disturbing Mario by their arousal. Again and again windows opened and shut, revealing Gaston, until finally Mario managed to push himself through one, tangling his arms in the curtains as he lunged forward and into the darkness beyond. He wanted to throw himself at Gaston, to push Gaston away, push him again and again by the shoulders, but he was held back by the folds of the curtains. He heard laughter in the shower room behind him. He pushed forward more… and more again until Gaston, who was also laughing at him, fell back and down into an abyss. Mario awoke with a start to find himself turned round in his bed, his blanket twisted over and over around his arms. Disentangling himself, he was troubled by the dream and troubled also by the fact that Gaston was aroused.
The breeze next found its way to Gaston. Gaston’s head pulled forward in his sleep, away from his pillow as he moaned. Unconsciously he was running his left hand up and down the length of his outstretched right arm as the breeze enveloped him. Up and down and into the palm and lightly over the fingers, then he would recoil his hand again, only to start the process all over. He saw himself at the bottom of a deep well staring upward at a swirling firmament of stars that could be seen at the top of the shaft. He could not climb out. It was at least fifty feet above him. He felt the shaft on all sides; it was moist, and his hands slid down against the sides when he tried to get a hold on them. He heard Padie barking and saw his intent face look down at him from way above. He barked again, and in his place appeared Peter’s face. Peter was reaching his arm down to him. Peter was wearing a bright white shirt that was open at the chest and fluttering behind him in a breeze. He was like the moon with white clouds breaking and revealing his face then passing over again momentarily. Gaston felt the brush of Peter’s fingers in his hand, but how could that be? His arm was so
far above. He stretched out his hand toward Peter again and again and recoiled each time at the sensation of Peter’s fingers, but Peter’s actual hand was not there. He sensed he must overcome his instinct to recoil. He needed to accept the hand. It was the only way to climb out of this well, to escape the prison he found himself in.
Padie was lying on the floor beside Gaston’s bed. He was unable to sleep as he watched his master extending his hand in his sleep and running it along his arm. It was extended toward the open terrace door, where the white lace curtains shifted softly in the moonlight. Padie let out an occasional bark in reaction. He did not know how to comfort his master and at last barked twice as if to signal the arrival of Peter, always a sure way to gain the interest of his master. But despite repeated attempts, the scene repeated itself over and over until Gaston fell back into an exhausted sleep.
In her room, Céleste’s sleeping face was bathed in moonlight as she dreamed that she was greeting imaginary clientele with her usual broad smile, her hair lightly blowing in the breeze. She grew troubled in her dream at the presence of the moon and not the sun as the customers bounced through the shop door. She fretted over their boundless optimism as they entered, whistling as they greeted her. One said, “Eh, Céleste, an easy forecast today, is it not? A bright blue sky!”
Indeed, through the moonlit window, there did appear to be a bright blue sky. How could this be? The moon and the sun both so bright? She wanted to warn her customers that there was something wrong, that there were signs of an impending storm, yet the blue sky contradicted her. “The moon, the moon,” she tried to say. “It foretells a storm!” But the customers whistled on and laughed at her silliness, at her futile warning. She saw Gaston leaving the shop, looking out after a stranger; his bare feet slapped the threshold as he stepped out, and he could be heard plodding up the street as he went on his way. He had an ominous frown and a determined face as he left. She called out, “Gaston, where are you going?” but he did not look back. There remained but the sound of heavy steps as he turned a corner….
Late that same night, Marguérite sat awake in her back, courtyard garden behind the candy shop under the dome of stars. A soft breeze rustled the plants near her, enveloping her as if she were in a cool blanket. The innumerable points of light above her would normally make her feel lost, more alone as a single human heart since Coralie’s passing. However, this night she felt oddly comforted, as if the stars were the ones who were alone, not she. She had her memories to warm her. She did not need to fold her arms to ward off any cold. Rather she smiled as she envisioned Coralie’s radiant face among the brightest of the stars, a vision of Coralie’s younger self, with her golden curls framing her sweet face, as she was long before the gray hairs came. Marguérite let her arms fall softly to her sides as she imagined Coralie’s perfume enveloping her. She wanted to let herself go gently by Coralie’s side into the night. It would be the right time, a magic moment. Why not now? The poems she read were full of such divine departures. She lifted her face so that it was bathed in the moonlight and expectantly wished for the breeze to take her breath away with it on its travels ever higher. Sadly the moment passed, and Marguérite was still sitting in her chair. Our wishes are not always fulfilled, and she cried softly as she watched the stars twinkle blankly back at her.
Gathering clouds
THE PRESENCE of an unknown but strapping blond youth created a minor sensation late that fateful Saturday afternoon in town. The townsfolk who crossed his path as he cycled into town were taken by the wide smile and brilliant teeth, the happy, sparkling blue eyes, the sense of wonder and excitement he exuded. He had the forceful presence of a youth now turning to a man, drinking in the sights around him, exulting in the freshness of the world, breathing in deep the fresh air and cycling toward what could only be a bright, invigorating future.
Dressed in a tight spandex cycling outfit from head to toe and holding a helmet in one hand, he came across the weather baker’s shop a few minutes before the usual late closing that day and bounded in, easily soaring in height among the other clientele. He waited patiently his turn and did not answer Gaston directly when Gaston spoke to him in French but rather he pointed at what he wished to buy with the occasional word of what appeared to be German. Gaston’s attention was caught by the manly presence.
At that moment Peter walked in, hoping to see Gaston, but caught him off guard staring at the blond youth. Gaston flinched involuntarily and frowned at Peter in his dismay at being noticed so enthralled by the young man. His frown was not due to any dislike of Peter himself. Mario, who was sorting goods with his one good hand to one side of Gaston, caught the sudden consternation, but his gaze settled on Peter. The blond young man thumped out of the shop with his purchases, and Peter, who interpreted Gaston’s frown as one of disapproval at his presence, left soon after without making any purchases. Gaston, unaware that he was being observed by Mario, leaned out the door to watch Peter as he walked quickly and determinedly down the street. The blond youth, now on his bicycle, was turning the corner in the distance toward the washhouses. Gaston lost sight of Peter as he too turned the corner. Padie on his customary perch observed all the happenings without his usual woof of approval, and Gaston did not look up at him but seemed rather lost in his thoughts. Remembering Marguérite’s advice, a bold determination flooded over him; he wiped his hands on his apron, which he quickly folded away, and then he left the shop, jumped on his own bicycle, and was gone. Watching Gaston cycle off, Mario was caught suddenly by a long, low whimper let out by Padie, and he glanced up to see Padie with his head lying flat on the arch, a look of fear on his face, a fear that seemed to have no immediate cause from anything around him—perhaps a fear of anticipation? Mario rushed into the back of the shop and asked to be excused. The weather baker was startled but let him go and stood pondering the now-empty shop around her. She sensed a rising wind, a foreboding in the air. She rubbed her arms that felt oddly chilled in an otherwise warm air, goose bumps spreading on her arms beneath her palms as she rubbed them up and down.
Among the pines
FROM THE main road, a dirt lane ran up to the bergerie after first servicing a house farther down the hill. When his mother was away, Peter liked to explore the lane, which ascended higher still, beyond the house, and disappeared at a small pine woods. Early on, on a trip up the lane, he had noted a small concrete cistern filled with goldfish, which had caused him to wonder who tended them and what the property above was used for. There were just open meadows before one arrived at the woods. There he gathered kindling from the ground, fat pinecones among beds of pine needles fallen from the great trees all around. He loved to walk alone through this warm, velvety, pine-scented terrain, listening to the gentle crush of dry needles beneath his feet and the cheerful songs of unfamiliar birds in the trees. There his thoughts had ample room to grow, and he could gain insight into matters that might be troubling him.
So that evening, after storming out of the bakery, Peter went in search of quiet among the pines. Sitting on a rock, turning a pinecone over and over in his hand, Peter began reminiscing about Quebec City, thoughts that pursued him often whether asleep or awake. Pain dulls slowly over time, and the pain of unrequited love dies slower still. He did not understand what he had done wrong; indeed, he did not understand either whether he had even done anything wrong. Unfortunately he had resolved over many months that he was too open, too freely giving of his love, so he must keep his love closer to his chest, to dole out any concessions with reluctance, to remain aloof as much as possible. He could be bold and aggressive, freely giving of sex, but he would not concede a deeper love too easily; his pain had hardened him, scarring over his former optimism. He was damaged. It is like a person who has found freedom after a longtime suffering of abuse, but knows nothing other than the abuse and is condemned to repeat it on himself and others.
But how had Peter become so hardened when he should be enjoying the full optimism of his youth? His thoughts brought him
back and into the vast labyrinthine network of tunnels underneath the suburban university campus in Quebec City. Long, wide tunnels connected the modern campus buildings, necessary for the lengthy, snowy winters, allowing for easy passage by the students during their courses. Boldly lit with arcs of different colored neon lights every ten feet, the tunnels were vast, interminable affairs that abruptly turned corner here and there to disgorge students at the buildings they sought. Peter saw himself at the end of one such tunnel, and at the other end he saw what appeared to be François far ahead, facing away from him and walking with someone, occasionally putting his hand round that other man’s shoulder, the two laughing and chatting with each other as they progressed further along. Peter was shocked by what he saw; their intimacy made a mockery of what he had hoped himself to have with François. He tried to quietly catch up from behind and observe more closely, to understand better what he was seeing. He eventually called out, “François, wait….”