by The Weather Baker's Son [Dreamspinner, World of Love MM] (retail) (epub)
François half turned, seeming to see Peter in the distance, and with a slight laugh of nervousness he turned his attention back to the young man he was with and they quickened their pace.
The two rounded an abrupt corner in the tunnel, and by the time Peter could get closer, they were no longer visible as masses of other students entered here and there from side tunnels, cloaking and enveloping them in their multitude. Peter walked forlornly and aimlessly, the tunnels like a vast underground tomb with no outlet for him, no gaiety brought about by the humming neon lights and the passing laughter of the other students. He fled and took a bus to the old city, where he stood once again at night on the top of the walls of the great citadel like the fateful night when he first met François there. All around him, cascading like a velvet cloth inlaid with stars, the lights of the old city undulated over the surrounding hills. A wonderful breeze ascended the vast stone fortress walls to bathe him in the fragrance of the fresh evening, but this pleasure was lost on Peter.
The floodlit windows of the fanciful city armory across the way poked their spires into the sky. There was the hum of people taking in the night air and strolling along the paths above the city walls, crossing over the streets below by the bridges formed by each elegant entrance gate, a dreamy sight for such a modern world, seeming out of place and out of time.
Peter remembered that in the past he had felt he was a part of the prospect from this point, an observer being a central part of the whole. However, this night, under the crush of stars, he felt lost, only one of a million points in the vast universe, lost and small. François had turned his interest to other people and was giving him the cold shoulder; he could not understand why. Weeks of developing friendship had led to a single night of warm embrace and exploration that was exploding back into his mind but which he was too fraught to recall fully again. Why then had François almost immediately afterward started avoiding him? Why? Perhaps there could never be an answer—perhaps things were just what they were and closed to further scrutiny.
Shaking his head as if to dispel the image, Peter brought his thoughts out of their dark reverie and back to the sunny pine woods, where he noted he had crushed the pinecone he had been twirling in his hands. Never again, he thought, will I follow. I will not allow things to happen to me. I will be the one who decides.
It was there at that moment among the pines that Gaston observed Peter from a distance. He had approached the bergerie silently by bicycle, leaving it down the road. He could not leave matters unresolved. He needed to connect with Peter, the memory of Marguérite’s voice like a whisper in his ear, repeating, “Take small steps.” He was not sure what he was going to do next, uninvited and unexpected at Peter’s house, but he was drawn there, drawn by a need to see Peter, to finish what they had begun. He had seen Peter leave the gate and start wandering up the road. Peter had not seen him at the lower end. Unbeknownst to Gaston, however, was the fact that Mario likewise had followed Gaston on bicycle, observing him from a distance as Gaston was intending to observe Peter.
Peter sighed and looked up, perceiving Gaston’s figure in the distance, off the side of the trail. He immediately stopped himself from giving any indication that he had noticed Gaston and, in line with his recent thoughts, went into an automatic and calculating mode. He had been upset when he saw Gaston at the bakery, enthralled by the presence of the blond stranger. Gaston had seemed to be annoyed when Peter entered. Already it seemed Gaston’s interests had moved away from him, much like François had moved on. He would not be the fool this time. Things would go his way or not at all. He acted as if he were merely preparing to get up, as if he were alone, and casually brushed himself off where he sat and slowly got up, the crushed remnants of the pinecone falling from his hand like a cascade of discarded miniature hearts. He set aside his earlier anger toward Gaston, but only outwardly. One part of him now viewed Gaston as prey and was suppressing with difficulty his older romantic inclinations. Nonchalantly he began his trek back down the hill and passed the spot where Gaston had concealed himself. Mario, unobserved by both, remained hidden farther below but attentive to the unfolding scene. When Peter was about to have fully passed Gaston’s spot, Gaston made a sudden move forward out of the woods, exclaiming, “Oh, it is you, Peter from the bergerie. Hello! I am looking for mushrooms in the woods. I come here often to collect them, usually with my dog Padie but today alone.”
And so the dance began, Peter and Gaston engaged in amiable bits of conversation like small dance moves, a mental twirl here, a half step back there, trivial verbiage that was not the main maneuver. Gaston maneuvered by offering to show Peter which mushrooms to pick. They managed to locate a couple of handfuls in the now-fading sunlight, and Peter maneuvered by inviting Gaston to stop at the bergerie to scrub them and show him how they are prepared.
Thus the two entered the bergerie with their meager finds, and Gaston stopped at the kitchen sink in order to wash the mushrooms, not with much conviction as he anticipated Peter’s next move behind him. He felt he had made the essential move of getting them back to the point of the prior unfinished business. He was unaware, however, of Peter’s recent resolution to not give freely of his heart. Peter was not so interested in the mushrooms; emboldened by his recent resolve to exploit only his bare sexuality, in one motion he clasped Gaston around the waist from behind, turned him round, and kissed him firmly. Gaston was startled for a moment only and in a rush of passion clasped Peter as firmly back and willingly participated in a full-body embrace.
Peter pushed Gaston down onto the top of the long trestle table. They pressed their clothed bodies against each other, reveling in the firmness of each other’s physique, sighing as they caressed each other’s sides. They explored the muscular crease of each other’s hips, the shape of the thighs and the muscular ribs undulating through their shirts.
Broad-shouldered frames in unison, the smell of young skin as they undid each other’s buttons, belts, zippers….
Once unclothed, they delighted in each other’s naked presence for a long time, feeling the press of groin on groin, chest on chest, cheek stubble gently scratching as they kissed mouths, eyebrows, ears, necks.
They lit a fire in the vast hearth, remaining naked in each other’s embrace before it, drinking from glasses of red wine Peter poured for them. Peter noticed a pile of pinecones by the hearth, collected a few days back, and remembered the pinecone he had earlier crushed while lost in thought on the rock. He threw several cones into the fire, expecting that this might be a release from his dark thoughts, but they were slowly gathering back as he sat there, and he was already starting to think of ways to protect himself and to ensure he was not hurt by Gaston.
Unbeknownst to them, through a slight opening among the folds of the curtains in an adjacent window, in the darkness outside, Mario could see them sitting naked together. Mario had waited outside the bergerie for a very long time, anticipating that Gaston would come out at any time, but eventually gave in to his curiosity and approached the window after Peter and Gaston’s passion had been spent. He now saw the scene within, which as the evening fell, was now more fully lit up by the crackling pinecones and logs in the fireplace.
Mario was transfixed at seeing the two naked together. He was both appalled and curious at the same time. He was not sure, as he had not been looking in earlier, but was there more that had happened than this? He fought the idea that Gaston might have had sex with Peter. But he was naked! What else could have happened? he thought. He struggled to understand how Gaston might have come to be this way. He felt some disgust but also felt “other” and sidelined after years of friendship with Gaston—did Gaston have a side to him that he did not know? In his attempt to comprehend, his mind turned to the recently arrived stranger, Peter. Peter must have led Gaston down this path. How could it be otherwise? Mario had known Gaston for years. How could he have missed this inclination—or was this new? A corruption brought on by Peter? Mario started to view Peter as an evil force t
hat had come between him and Gaston, and he began to formulate a plan—a plan to remove Peter somehow and restore Gaston to the right path.
He tore himself away from the window, pushing back with his hands, causing a jab of pain from his recently injured wrist. In doing so he stumbled over logs that were stacked to one side. He let out a muffled cry of pain and hurriedly slipped away into the darkness.
Inside, Peter and Gaston heard the sound and became alarmed. They grabbed for their clothes, retreated to darker spots in the room, and hurriedly dressed. They eventually took a cautious look out through the door and noted the scattered logs.
Peter stated, “Perhaps it was an animal that had come by,” but internally both of them were convinced they had heard a muffled human voice but did not know whose.
Gaston was sick with fear, fear of what this might lead to. He quickly said an awkward good-bye to Peter. The passionate evening had turned to one of pain, and Gaston set out for town, his emotional being now topsy-turvy. From a blossoming and openness, he was suddenly shut tight again, perhaps even tighter than before. He cursed himself for what he had done, regressed into self-loathing, and was half determined never to see Peter again as he rushed out.
Enter Hélène
THAT SAME evening Hélène sat sipping a drink at a sidewalk bistro on the grand square, the Place de la Comédie in Montpellier, the famous university town, an hour south from the bergerie. She was looking forward to attending a lecture that evening at the university. She had often dreamed of the colors of Provence as a child growing up in the blinding white winters of Montreal, so a lecture on Van Gogh’s time in Provence attracted her by way of the vibrant yellows and blues of a painting illustrated on the brochure.
She had told Peter she would be back after midnight, as there was to be a wine and cheese discussion of the lecture among the audience afterward, so he might as well not wait up.
She surveyed the comings and goings of the pedestrians and those sitting around her. Occasionally she heard the voice of an American tourist exclaiming how beautiful everything was or a passing German couple delighting in the warm evening. Just in front of the bistro, a city bus would stop to disgorge its load of passengers. She was content to watch the young mothers alight with their children, who were wearing straw hats, or the young men at the end of a long work day off to rejoin their wives in nearby apartments. As she sat a handsome older gentleman with slight silver streaks in his hair stepped off the bus and looked left then right up the street. Hélène felt a sudden tug in her heart as she caught glimpses of his profile through the crowd, and suddenly his eyes locked with hers as he looked around. The image of Robert, her husband, looking toward her from the bus in Thailand flashed into her mind and penetrated her like a knife. However, for the French stranger the glance was only momentary, as the actual woman he was seeking slid up to his side. He gave his lady friend a kiss, and they walked off arm in arm to some unknown destination.
However, Hélène’s mood had undergone a sea change. The colors of Provence dimmed about her. She was lost back in Thailand, and the din of the passing cars of Montpellier faded to the sound of the crashing of waves. She pulled herself out of her reverie and robotically wandered off to the lecture, where she sat lost in controlled anguish lest she disturb the other attendees. She resolved to flee back to the bergerie as soon as the lecture was done and forego the wine and cheese discussion afterward. So it was that at the end she called for Peter on her cell phone to tell him she would be back early, but there was no answer, whereupon she set off for the hour’s drive in gathering darkness back to the bergerie.
The side road up to the bergerie was now in darkness as she entered it. The poppy-fringed fields glowed in the lights of her car as she slowly followed the gently curving road. Suddenly the shape of a man on a bicycle slid past her a few feet ahead in the road, her headlights catching sight of the bottom half only of his frame. Startled she swerved, and her car turned and ended half off the side of the road in a clutch of poppies, the bloodred petals half-lit by the car lights pressed against her side window, staring in at her with their black eyes. She was momentarily confused as to what had happened. And the pop of the air bag had disoriented her even more.
A few minutes later, Gaston, hurrying down the road on his bicycle in his anxious flight from the bergerie, came across the sight of the car half-embedded in the field, its headlights illuminating the vegetation in a pool around its front. He could see Hélène at the wheel in the car, moving her head, facing away from him, and in torment felt he had to ensure she was all right. His mind was in agony, as he did not want to make his presence known. How could he explain what he was doing here? But his inner goodness dictated that he must come to her aid, as to do otherwise would be unforgivable. Before he could get off his bicycle, however, he heard Peter’s voice calling from up the path behind him, quite near as Peter was running down the road. Gaston then knew that Peter would be able to help Hélène, and he left as hastily as possible but watched from a concealed spot down the road to ensure Peter could help his mother all alone.
Peter was stupefied to come across his mother’s car at this unexpected early time and in such a situation as he came down the road. All thoughts of Gaston vanished as he opened the car door to assist her. Fortunately she had suffered no injury as the air bag had gone off, and the overgrown field had cushioned the impact of her slow-moving car. The vehicle had suffered no damage, but the event would have to be reported to the car rental company and the incident might come to the knowledge of the police.
Gaston arriving in the dark back in town was observed by a couple of passersby to be bare-chested and washing his T-shirt at one of the washhouse basins in the muted glow of the street lights. He wanted to wash compromising stains off his shirt after being startled at the bergerie.
Word is out
HOW TO contain a word once it is out? How can you take it back, stamp out its effects, erase the memory of its utterance?
Peter sat upright in his bed, turning over the events of the evening, trying to figure out how to put the genie back in the bottle. For his mother had caught him off guard when she told him she had swerved to avoid a man cycling down the road. He did not know whether it was Gaston or someone else. He was also frightened as to whom it might have been and afraid his mother might have seen too much. The last thing Peter had seen was Gaston hurrying down the path in the dwindling light cast by the open bergerie door, mounting his bike and pedaling off. If only he could go back in time and change what he told his mother. He was dismayed at his own words.
Hélène had said, “Peter, what happened? A man on a bicycle came down the road and startled me! I swerved and went into the field. The air bag popped, and soon after it was you who was there. Was it you in the road in the dark? Why?”
Peter put his hand on her shoulder as she rested in a chair. “Shush, shush, calm down. It wasn’t me. I had heard a noise at the window and saw some fallen logs, which startled me, so I ran out of the house to see what was going on.”
“But I think I heard you yelling on the road. Who were you yelling at?” asked Hélène.
“It was no one,” replied Peter. “I was simply calling out ‘Who is there?’”
Hélène remained confused, although she could not be sure of what exact words she had thought she had heard. She felt her son had only been calling out one word, something like “garçon,” but she could not be sure. This only added to her fright, and she had insisted on calling the police, for fear that someone may have been trying to rob the bergerie. She also needed to document for the car rental company what had caused the air bag to go off.
Hélène noted two half-filled wine glasses had been used and were sitting on a side table.
“Have you been drinking with someone?” Hélène asked.
Peter blanched and, trying to control a stammer, said, “Um, no! Um, I have been here alone. I had one drink earlier, went for a walk, and afterward had another, forgetting I already had used a glas
s. I’m sorry I used two glasses and will wash them!” He then picked up both glasses quickly as if to remove evidence from view and hurriedly washed them out in the sink, casting his eyes furtively about for any other telltale signs someone else had been there.
For Peter, all comfort from Gaston’s recent warm embrace had been destroyed so quickly, replaced with a spiraling nightmare of events, crashing into and clashing with one another. Each attempted step forward to calm matters down only seemed to add to new avenues of complication.
The gendarmes came to take down a report, asking Peter probing questions.
“I heard a sound, perhaps of an animal near the window, so I went out to investigate,” stammered Peter.
The two gendarmes looked slightly at each other. Years of questioning had given them a sense when matters might not add up, but they had very little to go on and desisted from asking too many questions… at least not at this time. One did pointedly say, “You saw no one? You have no idea who came across your mother’s path?”