by Erinne Bates
“Did you do all of these paintings?” I asked.
“Oui,” Juliette replied over the rhythmic sounds of her knife hitting the wooden island top.
“I’ve never been in an artist’s home like this,” I said. Juliette smiled but the other two girls giggled and spoke in French to each other. I could feel my face grow hot but I smiled back at them.
“Since my sheltered life is amusing, I will expect you both to show me around today,” I said. Sofie straightened her back and bowed her head humbly.
“I want to visit Petit Trianon today to inspect the woodwork décor. You can come with me if you like,” Fenne said. It surprised me she would offer and I stared at her, probably with a blank look on my face because she added, “It was meant to be the home of Madame de Pompadour, but later was a shelter for Marie Antoinette.”
“I’d love to,” I said. I thought to ask if I was imposing but decided against it. Fenne didn’t seem the type to offer an invitation like that if she didn’t mean it. I looked at Juliette who was still smiling quietly as she began to cut her freshly picked carrots.
“Take my bicycles,” she said.
Chapter 14
We rode our bikes along the perfectly spaced trees of the Avenue du Petit Trianon with manicured hedges that stood tall behind arrangements of colorful flowers. In the royal garden, I tried to pretend we were back in time, residents of the royal palace. Fenne told me she also liked to pretend she was a guard of the Queen, searching for enemies of the royal family. She shared stories with me of Marie Antoinette’s life with such ardor and feeling, I became engrossed in them. Affected even, by the whole tragedy of her final days.
“I think she was misunderstood more than anything,” she said of her.
As we walked through the garden, I enjoyed watching Fenne. Where she looked. What she paid attention to. When I noticed a purple flower, she studied the patterns of its veins.
“I want to show you some things here that I love,” Fenne said as we approached the Estate of Trianon. We were not alone on the grounds but I felt as though we had the place to ourselves, and everything she shared with me had been kept secret from everyone else. I was captivated by all that she told me. Hearing her passion, it simply couldn’t be helped. It was fun to see her become absorbed by a line or a curve I would have never noticed. She wrote notes in a small book she carried in her back pocket and drew quick sketches of sculptures or fine engravings. Her handwriting was nothing more than chicken scratch, but her sketches were practically perfect representations of the objects she was noting. I thought to ask her later if I could look at her drawings.
“You notice how the first façade we looked at was not overly adorned, but this one, the west façade… look how elegant the terrace is and how majestic are the Corinthian columns. Greek architecture was a huge influence.” I listened to her descriptions of detailed elegance as I looked out at the French Garden from the King’s bedroom.
We walked every inch of the château. by the time we left, I was completely exhausted and asked if she would take me somewhere for coffee before heading back.
“So tell me, what do you write about?” Fenne asked as we settled ourselves at a nearby outdoor café. I was mildly distracted by my beautiful surroundings and all the people that were passing by.
“Well, normally people hire me to write about something they have a specific interest in, like for their website or their company brochures, but I am currently writing a novel. For myself.” When I looked directly at her, it was as if what was left of the day’s light was being captured in Fenne’s eyes.
“Do you mind if I“ – I took a small camera out of my satchel and pointed the lens in the direction of the open square. When I turned my lens toward Fenne, she immediately averted her eyes. As I adjusted the F Stop on my camera, she looked back at me. I pressed the shutter button.
“I don’t write about anything as interesting as what you write about,” I said, still looking at her through the lens as I brought her into focus and clicked the shutter button again. I tilted the lens slightly upward to focus on the lamp post behind her but kept her in the frame. “It’s a romantic story that takes place during World War II.”
Fenne took a sip of her tea, “What was romantic about that war?”
I put my camera away. “It’s not about the war itself. I write about the individuals involved in the war. And on their separate lives outside the war. It’s a story about a woman, who poses as a man to gain information for her government. She falls in love – however – and has to decide whether she would risk her life for her country or her lover.”
Fenne rolled her eyes, “Who cares about risking a life for a man,” she said.
“It’s not a man she falls for,” I felt my face blush as though I had just told her I was a lesbian.
“What do you mean, she falls for a lady?” I nodded and tried to read Fenne’s expression as she stared at me. After several awkward seconds, she stated, “I would like to read this.”
“I’m not – I mean I have only just started. That’s why I’m here-- to write.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“How long are you planning to stay at Juliette’s?” I asked.
Fenne shrugged slightly. “I am nearly done with my research, so I might stay and begin my dissertation, or I may go back to Amsterdam to write it. I have not decided.”
“Diss- You’re working on your dissertation?”
“Yes, what did you think?”
“Wow, Fenne, you are so young.”
Fenne looked off, her arms crossed.
“Oh no… did I just insult you?”
The corners of her mouth turned up in a challenging grin as she looked back at me, “Do you think you can?”
“It’s just that - how old are you?” I asked, ignoring her question.
“How old are you?” she fired back. I could see a game beginning and did not wish to play. I sighed and leaned forward.
“I think my comments have spurred you and it was not my intention,” I said hoping she would see my sincerity and stop.
“What is your intention?”
I stared at her, growing annoyed with the conversation.
“Well?”
“What is this?” I finally said. Fenne shrugged in innocence. I shrugged my own shoulders, mirroring her.
Fenne sat back in her seat.
“You fly all the way from America to write something you could write in your bedroom,” she said as though she was pointing out something I never considered. “You have no partner. Which person in your novel are you trying to be?” My cheeks reddened. I felt as though I would cry if she continued.
“Why don’t we head back,” I stood and reached for my bag, shuffling through it for sunglasses to hide the moisture in my eyes.
“Calli,” Fenne grabbed my hand. “Please stay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go so far.”
I wasn’t quick to forgive her jabs, but I pulled my hand from hers and sat back down.
“I’m twenty-six,” she began. “When I was twelve, my father took me to the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam for the first time. It became my sanctuary. I didn’t have a lot of friends at that age, so I would go there and stare at the sculptures until they would kick me out. I couldn’t imagine how they had traveled from where they were first crafted all the way to be in the museum. And - who were the painters and sculptors? I read everything I could about everything I saw.” She looked down at her hands as she reflected. I wanted to know what she was reflecting on also, but I quietly waited for her to continue.
“All I ever wanted to do was study art,” she began again, “I am enrolled at the University of Versailles. When I complete my Ph.D. program, I will return to Amsterdam to begin my post-doctorate fellowship at the Rijksmuseum.”
“What will you do after your fellowship?”
Her head tilted from one side to the other, “I want to work as a Historian.”
She stared at me for a moment, “Now I would like to know
how old you are.”
“Don’t ask that question,” I laughed, feeling at ease with her again.
“I want to know. I told you, now you tell me.”
Her eyes were a damn magnet I couldn’t pull away from. I found that I liked the way she looked at me when she spoke of things that she was passionate about.
“Ok, fine, I’m thirty-eight. What else?”
“Why did you come here?”
As I reflected on my decision to come to France, I thought of Justine. Then Elise. My first instinct was to put together an elaborate story in an effort to impress this young intellect but instead I said, “There are things I can do here I can’t do in my bedroom in America.”
I smiled and sat back. “There are a lot of reasons, Fenne, but you know—sometimes you get a chance and you take it.”
I watched her eyes process what I had said while she studied my face. I wondered if she was aware of how mesmerizing they were. I knew I had not opened up to her the way she had with me, but it was not to be rude. Part of me wasn’t ready to trust her again after her earlier comments.
“I like that you are older,” she finally said. “We should go back now.”
Juliette was in the painter’s room when we arrived back at the Chambre d'hôtes. The sun was just beginning to descend, and I looked forward to resting after all of the walking I had just done. Fenne thanked me for spending the day with her, then retreated to her room, which was at the opposite end of the hall from my room. I sat at the long dining table and stared at freshly cut flowers in the tin vase. I was daydreaming, thinking about all that I had seen and done that day, when I caught myself counting the veins in the petal of one of the flowers.
“Madame, please come in here,” Juliette called from her painting room. I stood in the entrance and smelled the traces of oil paint and thinner. Even with the windows in the room opened, it was still evident.
“I want to show you what is in here because you are welcome to take up an easel and toile – er, canvas if you wish.”
“That’s so kind of you, but I don’t really know how to paint.”
“No problem, I have students I teach. I can teach you also.”
“I’d pay you—”
“Ne sois pas ridicule– don’t be ridiculous!” she said, waving her hand, “I do this because I like to. You make a painting and then you give it to someone special.”
I wasn’t sure the day could get any better as I headed up the stairs to my room. Painting lessons by a French painter… I couldn’t wait to brag about it to Elise.
While I was settling in my room Fenne announced her entry by tapping against the open door. She sat on my bed and crossed her hands behind her head as she leaned against the headboard.
“I like this room. I like the light in the morning,” she said.
“Oh yeah?” I turned my back to her as I re-folded some of my clothes from my suitcase and put them into the drawers.
“I would have chosen this room when I first came but it was already taken,” she continued.
“Well, you had your chance just before I got here.”
Fenne shrugged, “I like my room now. It overlooks the garden.”
“How long have you been here?” I turned the chair at my desk so I could sit and face her.
“Six weeks.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Yeah. But it is not long enough also,” she got up then. “I have work to do.” When she reached the door, she turned to me, “Em… This afternoon…I did not mean to be so abrasive,” she fingered a piece of peeling paint around the hinges of the door, “That is what they call me. And sometimes other things. But I don’t try to be that way. I think you are nice.”
“Thank you Fenne,” I suppressed the urge to cross the room and hug her. It hurts to be called names. “I think you are nice too. And - I enjoyed our day together.” I saw her cheeks redden before she walked away to her own room. She was pretty. Socially ungraceful. And yet, she was attentive and engaging. She was misunderstood, but she wasn’t mean at heart. Her eyes, though-- dark and seductive. They spoke when she did not. They were revealing. I enjoyed the day, and the way I felt when I was with her. When I had my room just as I wanted it, I sat at the desk and began to write.
I spent the next two days mostly in my room, conducting research and creating flow charts to connect actual events with my fictional characters. It was important to me to write with historical accuracy, even though most of the sequences would be made up. I panicked a little, wondering if I had gotten myself in over my head. I feared I didn’t know what I was doing at all and had fooled myself into thinking this would work for me. During one of my breaks, I went downstairs to smoke on the patio – something that became a regular habit during my stay – and found Sofie already sitting and staring out at the beautifully tailored garden. I joined her and gazed out at the many colors that bloomed and tangled and arranged themselves perfectly together in the spaces designated for them.
“What do you do to fix your head?” Sofie asked me, keeping her eyes upon the garden. She sounded frustrated.
“Do you have a headache?”
“No, blocks. The block—” her hands gestured around her head.
“Writer’s block?”
“Yes, that stupid writer’s block!” her hand cut through the air as though she was backhanding a fly. A cigarette hung from her lips.
“Well, what do you to shake things up for you?”
She looked at me, confused.
“You know, what gets you out of a funk, or what is your favorite thing to do when you want to be entertained?”
Sofie thought for a moment. “I like to watch American horror movies,” she said. “Yes, I really like to wake up very early in the morning and put on something scary to watch.”
“That gets you out of a funk?”
“I like to see how stew-pid the girl becomes when she is running away. It is so funny,”
“That has to be the oddest thing I have ever heard,” I said.
“Don’t you like to watch them?”
“Yeah, I guess I do. At the right time and place,”
“Then tonight we will watch one together. I must know why this girl cannot run like a normal person when the Leatherface is wanting to kill her!”
I laughed then, “So are you saying in French scary movies they don’t have girls who don’t know how to run away from the killer?”
“No way,” Sofie defended. “We are much smarter than that.”
I got up and wandered over to the East side of the garden where lavender grew next to lemon oregano and ran my fingers along its tips. I watched large bumble bees move between the fragrant plants, dipping and darting from one to the next. I wondered where they made their home and how far they had traveled for their treasures. Would they stop at nothing to accomplish their mission? Did they have thoughts or reflections other than the task at hand? Did they dream?
Green finches bustled about their spring nests amidst the ivy that blanketed the back wall of the garden. I tried to absorb all the energy of the garden. Every direction I looked was alive. Everything had purpose. I wondered if I stood there long enough, I too would discover my purpose. When I looked toward the upstairs windows of the home, I saw Fenne staring down at me, then dart back and out of sight when she realized she had been spotted. Knowing I would have done the same, I chuckled to myself.
As I returned inside, Fenne nearly collided with me on her way out of the front door. I could see through the window she had taken a bicycle and watched her peddle away quickly. Juliette came out of her painting room, wiping her hands on a ragged towel that hung from her belt loop. “She’s like a brooding bull, that one,” she said. “And sometimes, when she feels care-free, she is like a gift.” Her palms opened up in front of her as though she was actually holding one.
Chapter 15
As soon as it was dark, I went to Sofie’s room as promised, to watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre with her. It was the origina
l version, from 1974, which I had not seen in twenty years. We sat on top of her bed and watched the movie on her laptop.
“That’s the one,” she said pointing to one of the two blonds as they set off in a van with three other guys, one of whom was in a wheelchair. “That’s her brother,” she said of the male in the wheelchair.
“I can’t believe you like these kinds of movies,” I said, “And you write poetry.”
“Well, I cannot stare at pretty flowers every day and remain inspired,” she said, her eyes not once leaving the screen.
“Blood and gore, though?”
Sofie nodded, “Blood is the essence of life.” I snorted a laugh.
“I guess, but how about gore?”
Her shoulders shrugged, “Blood is gore. You can’t have one without the other.”
For the next hour and a half, Sofie did not take her eyes off the screen. While I covered my eyes as blood was shooting out of sliced arteries, Sofie laughed hysterically and tried to hold my arms down.
“Now tell me why – why is this girl so stupid she cannot run away?” she asked me when it was over.
“She’s not stupid, she can’t help the way the script was written,” I said, stretching out my legs. “If all the men fell while running it would look ridiculous. And make them appear weak. They die first anyway, trying to be heroic, right? So if the women were shown to be both physically talented while also being portrayed as stronger mentally – well – the men would have died in vain.” I silently patted myself on the back for that one.
Sofie stared at my face for half a second before declaring, “One day I will write something to portray women who actually make it across a field without spraining an ankle. Thanks for watching it with me. Everyone is too afraid but I think they are funny.”