Just Another Girl on the Road

by S. Kensington

  “He was my adoptive father. He was an archeologist and was traveling to Lascaux. He was killed.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “I will bring his ashes to the cave. Others will be there who are also studying. They were expecting him, and I think they will agree to let him rest there.”

  “I am sure of it.”

  Milou topped up their mugs with more wine, and both girls settled on the pallet. The floor was quite hard and cold, but the wine had warmed them.

  “They did not give you a code name. What shall I call you?” asked Milou.

  “But they did. I heard them use it once: Swallow.”

  Milou stared. “Surely you jest. L’animal—my French guide—he joked about such a code name. The woman who gives her favors freely. There is nothing she will not do to entice the secrets from others.”

  Katrinka’s eyes widened. “Is this true?”

  “Absolutely, it is true.”

  Katrinka shook her head. “But the ‘swallow’ has another meaning. For the sailor, it is a symbol of hope and freedom. The swallow returns every year to its nest, so the sailor will return home safely from his journey, no matter how far or dangerous it may be.”

  Milou studied the girl’s face. She wondered who had given her the name, and why they had done so.

  * * *

  The bottle of wine was empty, and their conversation drifted to men. It reminded Katrinka of late-night talks shared with women friends back at school. Fueled with alcohol, she became chatty.

  “This boy was so upset. He tells me, ‘You cannot screw around on me. It is over between us.’ The way he said ‘screw’. They must choose just the right word, you know. To make it sound so ugly. So hateful. Even the nicest men.”

  Milou nodded. “Of course. When you take your pleasure with them, it is always ‘making love’. But when your pleasure is with another, it is ‘screwing’ or ‘whoring’. And when it comes to their own adventures, it is just a minor digression—a passion amoureuse.”

  “Exactly. Who let them write the rules?”

  “It has always been so. For a woman, sex must not be taken lightly. When you are with a man, his needs must be earnestly attended to. It is not the laughing matter. I was with one such man. I was sleepy, and he was poking about with la queue, trying to do his business. I fell asleep. He was so offended, his manhood in tatters.”

  Katrinka laughed. “Before I sleep with a man, I think to myself, will he be too quick about it? How will he kiss you? Will he hold you afterward? What is the shape of his cock and how will he use it? The pleasure must drive you wild.”

  “Oh yes, that feeling between your legs.” Milou rolled back, clutching her crotch with a theatrical moan.

  Katrinka drained the last bit of wine from her mug. “It’s as if I can no longer breathe. My heart is racing, as if I will pass out. Then comes this immense surge.”

  “Most men do not care if you get off or not.”

  “I don’t care if I do or don’t.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I don’t think about it, I enjoy the feeling. His arms around me. The roughness of his skin. The groans of his pleasure. The urgency of his thrusting, like he can’t wait another moment—”

  Milou rudely interrupted. “Oh yes, of course. But then the possessiveness. Trotting about on all fours, lifting their leg, and pissing on everything within a ten-kilometer radius of you.”

  Katrinka looked at her in astonishment, then both girls shrieked with laughter.

  Milou tried to establish order. “Hush, this is a house of God.”

  They laughed again, but more quietly. Much later, they fell asleep, curled together inside the blanket on the tiny pallet, still smiling.

  * * *

  The women settled into the routine of their journey. Getting up early, they would travel until mid-morning and then take a short break. They would push on until afternoon and combine a small lunch with a brief rest. Katrinka had been given francs for the trip, and she still had her father’s money. They scrounged what they could from the village markets or small cafés, but they were always hungry.

  Milou maintained a constant state of wariness. Despite the cool autumn nights, she preferred to eat and sleep in the open, not wanting to be trapped inside a building where exits could be blocked.

  And there were problems. Katrinka’s bike had a puncture that had to be mended. It was not easy finding the materials, and they had to search several shops. Milou complained bitterly that her derriere was unaccustomed to such punishment. They had to stop when it rained heavily, and then had to deal with the mud. Sometimes a dog would dart after them and give chase.

  As they traveled south, rows of golden and flaming-red poplar trees lined the narrow roads. They passed other women along the way, some riding bicycles, and a few with horses and carts. The smell of moist, decaying leaves filled their nostrils.

  In a few days’ time, they came to the recently liberated village of Perigueux and their lodging with the local schoolmaster, Monsieur Deflout. That evening, they sat together at the kitchen table. Deflout fumbled with a pair of battered reading glasses held together with tape, and studied Katrinka’s papers carefully. Katrinka tried not to stare at the left sleeve of his shirt, which was dangling empty. Its cuff was pulled halfway up and stitched closed.

  He handed back her papers, smiling. “Yes, of course. We all have heard of the Lascaux Cave. It is an amazing thing. An abbot, and one or two men of science watch over it. I believe the Maquis have uses for it as well. I will write a letter, and you will take it to the abbot there. He is a friend of mine. There will be no problem.”

  Katrinka thanked him. Then, seeing his tired face, she impulsively leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I am happy for your village, monsieur.”

  He flushed with pleasure. “Yes, but there is much work ahead. It is not yet over. Bless you, children. And your father.”

  * * *

  They started for the cave early the next morning, struggling with their bicycles over hills and muddy roads. Eventually, they came to the village of Montignac. A recent rain had turned the buildings a dampened-amber color, and the odor of baking bread drifted on the breeze. Rambling roses grew along the town wall, creating vivid splashes of red against the gray backdrop of sky. A river ran through the center of the town, and the cave lay in a hill just beyond. The women checked into one of the few hotels. After a brief meal, they sought out and found the abbot.

  He heard Katrinka’s story in dismay. “He was expected with great anticipation, your father. We waited, but he did not arrive. He is quite well known to us and to the field of archeology. There are two scientists, Monsieurs Lambeau and Gratian, who waited here expressly to talk with him. He was killed? This is a terrible thing.”

  Seeing Katrinka’s face, he stopped. “But I am thoughtless, forgive me. I will take you there early tomorrow. There will be no problem. It is very rough and dirty. We will give you the proper clothing. What you will see will amaze you. There will be a place for your father.”

  * * *

  Katrinka met and conversed with the scientists later that night, giving them the papers Emerson had brought along for the trip. As eager as they were to see the documents, they struggled with the news of her father’s death.

  Lambeau pushed himself away from the table, his voice angry and passionate. “The war has taken many things of beauty and destroyed them. It has taken the men and women who strive to keep knowledge and culture alive and crushed them. Your father was one such man. He had a deep respect for beauty and an understanding of those who came before, the ones who created such loveliness. I shall miss him.” He glanced around the table at his compatriots. “We shall all miss him.”

  * * *

  Milou did not want to go into the cave. The next morning, she opted to stay in town, while Katrinka and the abbot rode to the cave’
s entrance in the abbot’s dog cart. It was misty with a light rain falling, but the cave was only a short distance from the hotel, nestled in the curve of a small, wooded hill.

  Pieces of rounded lumber driven into the ground led to a T-shaped slit, which Katrinka realized was the entrance. Inside was an opening that had been widened for better access. The abbot held up his lamp. The hole went straight down.

  “You will enter here. Please, take great care. We will go slowly.”

  She followed him into the dark opening, clutching her father’s box. There were no steps. She slid down a rough board that someone had placed there, arriving in a heap on the floor of the cave. Lamps strung up along the crevices filled the area with a dim light. The sudden cold made her shiver, and the damp, musty smell of earth filled her nostrils. The silence was profound. Katrinka felt her ears straining for some kind of noise, anything to establish an equilibrium.

  After several moments, her eyes adjusted. She followed the abbot down the narrow tunnel, stumbling over uneven ground, until it opened into a much larger area. He stopped and pointed. Looking up, she caught her breath.

  “It is wonderful is it not?” he asked. “For every visitor, I see it for the first time through their eyes.”

  The paintings were extraordinarily lovely. Herds of horses and stags sprinted across the roof and sides of the cave. The artist had made use of the contoured walls to give shape and movement to their bodies. Most astonishing of all was the vividness of color. A little further on there were images of black bulls, one of them was immense. There was a cold draft, and she was thankful for the thick weave of her borrowed sweater.

  “Your father held such a passion for les grottes and for the people who created this art. He had so much work for him here. He was eager to bring this to the attention of the entire world. These troubles will not last forever. Soon, our country will be whole again, and we will be able to continue your father’s vision.”

  He pointed to a smaller passageway. “This goes further, away to the left. I will leave you now with your lamp and your father. Please, take all the time that is needed.” He turned and walked away.

  Then Katrinka was alone, holding the small box in her hands. The fantastical animals looked down at her from the ceiling and walls of the cave. She whispered to the shadows, “Oh, Papa Emerson. I wish you could have seen this.”

  Her legs gave out and she sank to the ground, wracked with an intense pain. He had always been a part of her life, and now he was gone forever. Clasping her knees to her breast, she rocked back and forth in the darkness, wretched and hiccupping in her grief. She tried to tell herself what she always did: everyone came to the same end, what else was there? You could only do the best you could.

  But it didn’t help.

  It took a while to scatter that dark, gritty powder, feeling it sift through her fingers like sea sand. When done, she sat on a small rock, listening to the intense silence. She felt she could sit there forever, listening to that silence. Presently, she stood, gazing at the paintings one last time. “Goodbye Papa Emerson. I will never forget you.”

  Brushing off her clothing, she headed back up through the entrance and out into the watery sunlight.

  * * *

  Later that evening, the two women arrived in the small village of Treves and had a meal at the inn where they were to sleep. It was raining heavily, and to Katrinka’s relief Milou had agreed to spend the night indoors. She listened as Milou chattered about the food and patrons, but she made no attempt to converse. They drank their coffee in silence.

  That night, Katrinka threw back the bedcovers with a loud cry. She scrambled to her feet, her eyes wide with terror.

  Milou jumped from the bed and put an arm around her, speaking quietly. “There. It is better now?”

  Katrinka rubbed her forehead with a shaky sigh. “It is stupid, these frights.”

  “Do you remember them?”

  “Yes. They come just as I am drifting off to sleep.”

  “Can you tell me?”

  Katrinka walked to the window and looked out. “I begin to think of when I will die. Who I am, my memories, my spirit. Everything will die. And time begins to stretch out endlessly. Endlessly. I cannot fathom that. A time without ending.” She turned and faced Milou. “I feel trapped.”

  Milou frowned, and Katrinka could see the girl was unfamiliar with such thoughts.

  “I don’t think we are meant to understand it. We must put our trust elsewhere. Do you believe in the Heavenly Father?” asked Milou.

  “I have no beliefs.”

  “So, you are truly alone. You have nothing standing between you and the immensity of death.”

  “There is nothing.”

  Milou shifted uneasily on the hard floor, then tugged at her hand. “Lie back down, it is cold. We will speak of other things.”

  They got into bed, and Milou pulled the blankets up around them both. Leaning on one elbow, she smoothed the hair back from Katrinka’s face.

  “Have you ever made love to a woman?” asked Milou.

  “What?”

  Milou repeated her question.

  Katrinka thought about it. A few experimental kisses exchanged at school, nothing more. Men had been her main interest, and she said as much to Milou.

  “Then it is something you must try.” Milou spoke lightly, as if suggesting a new game. “I should like to make love to you. And then you may tell your boyfriend.” She laughed. “He will be so jealous. Or he may become excited. Many men have that fantasy, you know. Just themselves and two women.”

  She paused, then spoke again. “Well? Shall we try?”

  Katrinka studied her friend’s face. Was she attracted to her that way?

  Milou bent down and brushed her lips against hers, slipping on top of her. Katrinka adjusted her body to fit, as Milou’s hands began their exploration. Her kisses became more passionate, and Katrinka could feel herself becoming aroused. She arched her back, and her own hands began searching.

  Milou whispered, “Yes, you see? This is good.”

  But it was not good. Milou felt soft and small, so unlike what she was used to. Katrinka pushed her away.

  Milou sat up. “What is it? What is wrong?”

  “I’m sorry. I thought I could. I wanted to try, but—”

  “Ah, you do not like it.”

  “No.”

  “Well, there is no need for concern. There is no reproach.”

  “I miss my friend.”

  “Your lover.”

  “Yes.”

  “It happens that way sometimes, when you are in the arms of another. I myself have felt that way before. Do you want me to leave the bed?”

  Katrinka smiled. “To sleep on the floor? Of course not.”

  They settled down together, and after a few moments, Milou spoke again. “Today in the cave, you scattered your father’s ashes. There was no problem?”

  “There was no problem.”

  “What was he like, your father?”

  Katrinka shook her head, the sudden lump in her throat making words impossible.

  Milou sighed. “Ah well. It is over now. We will try to sleep.”

  Katrinka curled into a small ball, but she could not sleep.

  “What was he like, your father?”

  She remembered the first time she’d met Emerson Badeau. There was a terrible argument between A-mah and her papa, and her mother had gotten off the boat in Singapore, taking Katrinka with her.

  A tall, fair-haired man met them there, and they left the next morning, taking a ship that was not her father’s, bound for India. Several days later, her mother gave her flowers and a pretty dress to wear. After a brief ceremony on board ship, A-mah and this man were married. Her mother instructed her to call him ‘papa’, but the young girl refused. Their argument escalated until the man interced
ed, telling Yujana that her daughter could call him whatever she damn well pleased.

  Emerson was on an expedition, and there were other men on board with him. He and A-mah spent many nights poring over maps, and making notes and beautiful diagrams in his journals. When they arrived in Bombay, Katrinka was enthralled. She had been to India on Le Flâneur, but she had only seen the ports.

  Papa Emerson took them into cities teeming with animals and people. Coconut sellers, washerwomen, ox carts, and automobiles—all jostling for space in the narrow lanes and wide boulevards. Slow-moving camels and painted elephants lumbered under the scorching sun. There were swaying snake charmers, and women with pierced noses, clothed in brightly colored garments and golden arm bands. And always, the scent of sweet-smelling joss sticks, their musky aromas mingling with the odor of sweating animals, pungent heaps of spices, and raw human waste puddled in the gutters.

  On his explorations, Emerson took them to caves, deep and cool in the mountains, away from the blazing sun. Katrinka was astonished to see paintings and carvings of men and women entwined in exciting positions. And, even further within the cool interiors, tranquil Buddhas looked down from their dusty alcoves.

  Emerson was kind to her and made her laugh. He carried the most incredible things in his trunks: intricately carved beads and maps of ancient cities; a butterfly trapped in amber, and bits of shell and coral. There was even a partial skull, carried in a small bag made from the skin of a snake.

  And at night, back at camp, tents glimmered with flickering lantern light, while smoky incense mingled with the smell of good food cooking in the large outdoor kitchens. But it did not last. Soon there was tension and arguments. Yujana grew tired of the dust and heat, and once again Katrinka found herself having to say goodbye to a father she had grown to love.

  She sighed deeply and turned, grateful for the warmth of Milou’s body next to hers. Both women slept soundly for the rest of the night.

  * * *

  The next morning, they left Treves early, as they wanted to be in Montec by nightfall. They were used to long days on the bikes, and were making good time now.