“I’m going to hire a car and drive to Maurilliac,” I replied, handing her back the plastic cup.
“It’s a very pretty place. I’ve been there. I have an uncle who lives there, although he’s a horrid man so I see him as little as possible. There’s a beautiful château and vineyard.”
“I thought I’d stay in the château. It’s a hotel, isn’t it?”
“Do you have a reservation? It’s very popular.”
“No. I thought I’d just turn up.”
She shook her head. “I’ll telephone for you. It’s always best to book, just in case.” She looked at me quizzically. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“I was born here, but I’ve lived most of my life in America.”
“Ah, that’s why you have an unusual accent. My name’s Caroline Merchant. I live in Bordeaux.”
“Mischa Fontaine,” I said, extending my hand.
“I tell you what, why don’t you come home with me while I telephone and make the reservation for you.”
I was surprised by her forwardness. “Sure,” I replied, standing up.
She looked pleased. “Bon! My car’s in the parking lot.”
Caroline had a lime-green Citroën Deux Chevaux that reminded me of the little car Joy Springtoe had given me. She opened the trunk and I placed my suitcase beside hers. There were no holes in the leather of her car, no dust and no bird cages. She placed a pair of glasses on her nose and settled into the seat. “I have to wear these to drive,” she said with an embarrassed chuckle. “I don’t like them.”
“I think they suit you,” I said truthfully. With her hair tied back into a severe bun, she reminded me of a young school-teacher. I wanted to pull her hair out of the band and watch it fall over her shoulders. She was aware of me watching her and blushed.
“Where have you come from?” she asked.
“Chile,” I replied.
“I noticed you on the plane.”
“Do you always pick up stray Americans?” I asked with a smile. She blushed again.
“No, you just looked more lost than the rest.”
“You’re right. I am lost. I haven’t been here for over thirty years.”
“Did you fight in the war?” she asked and it was then that I realized what a sight I must look. I threw back my head and laughed, recalling Esther’s brutal comment: “No one would ever believe you’re only in your forties!”
The entrance to Caroline’s apartment was hidden at the back of an inner courtyard. She opened the iron gate with a key and we walked up an old stone staircase to the second floor. We had stopped on the way to buy milk and croissants from a small shop on the corner of her street. While she was inside I cast my eyes over the eighteenth-century cobbled streets and sandstone buildings. The drizzle cast the scene in a soft, melancholy light and I found myself feeling sad, for I didn’t remember it at all although my heart yearned to recapture it.
She made coffee in her kitchen and we sat at the table by the window chewing on warm croissants with butter and jam. “Are you married?” she asked.
“No,” I replied, savoring the sweet taste of France.
“Neither am I. I don’t think I want to, either. Both my parents have married again. They didn’t set a very good example.” I thought of the relationship my mother and Coyote had had and knew why marriage didn’t appeal to me either.
“You’ll want to one day,” I said cynically. “Women always do.”
“Well, if I do it won’t be for a long time. I’m only twenty-six.” Christ! I thought, I’m old enough to be her father. She lifted her chin and smiled at me, the smile of a woman in command of her actions. “In the meantime I shall take lovers until I am ready to settle down. If I find the right man I might marry and have children. But right now, I feel like a shower.” She walked out of the room. A moment later I heard the sound of music resounding through the apartment. Then she was standing in the doorway, her hair down and falling over her shoulders. She looked beautiful and sensual and French.
We tore off our clothes until we stood naked on the wooden floorboards of the bedroom — she pale and smooth except for the triangle of black hair below her belly button, my own skin darkened by the Chilean sun. I towered over her but she wasn’t intimidated.
She ran her eyes up and down my body and smiled appreciatively. “You have a nice body for an old man,” she said with a smirk. “How did you get this?” She ran her fingers over the knife scar on my side.
“An accident,” I replied automatically, because that was what I told all the girls or, in fact, anyone who saw me without my shirt on. I had never confided this part of my past to anyone.
“I bet it hurt.”
“It did.”
“It’s manly. I like it.”
“That’s lucky. It doesn’t come off in the wash.”
She laughed and I followed her into the bathroom. The white tiles were cold against my feet. I noticed the goose bumps on her flesh and a faded brown birthmark on one buttock. She leaned forward and turned on the shower. We climbed into the small space and I lifted her up to kiss her. The water was warm and I turned around so that it fell over her hair and face and down between our bodies in streams like heavy summer rain. She brought her legs up and wrapped them around my waist. She was nice to kiss. Her mouth was soft, her tongue gently probing. As we kissed she made mewing noises, like a contented cat.
“You have a nice cock,” she said as she covered me in soap. She might have seemed the epitome of French sophistication but her comments exposed her youth. Girls used to say that when I was in my teens, thinking the compliment would increase my ardor. It was better when they didn’t speak at all. I took her hand and led her out of the shower. She giggled as I wrapped her in a towel. “Take me to bed, my handsome American,” she said. But I didn’t want to talk, I just wanted to make love.
While crass talk decreased my ardor, sexual confidence aroused it. Caroline didn’t only mew like a cat, she responded like one too, stretching out, purring, moving her hips in a slow, rhythmic dance, spreading herself wide until the rhythm of her gyrations became disjointed and her breathing shallow. When she stopped talking, Caroline was a feast to be devoured and enjoyed. Her skin was velvety, the secrets beneath the soft triangle of black hair pink with youth and glistening with pleasure.
Later we lay in each other’s arms as lovers do. She laid her head on my chest and ran her fingers up and down my stomach. “You’re delicious,” she said with a sigh. “I wish you didn’t have to go to Maurilliac. Don’t you want to stay here with me? I don’t fly out until the day after tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid I have to go,” I replied.
“I’m back again in three weeks.”
“That’s a tempting thought.” But I knew I’d never see her again.
“Have you ever been in love?” she asked, running a long nail over my skin.
“No, and I don’t think I ever will.”
“You’re not too old for love,” she said. “I can tell.”
“Age has nothing to do with it. I’m not the type.”
“You can’t go through life alone, surely?”
“I’m not alone,” I lied. “I shared nine years of my life with a woman. I just didn’t want to marry her.”
“Don’t you dream that the right woman will come along?”
“I’m not a romantic.”
“You don’t have to be a romantic. You’re handsome and sexy and tremendously good in bed.” She giggled into my chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever had that many orgasms in one session, which is amazing as I’m very orgasmic.”
“I don’t rate romantic love very highly. Perhaps I have a cold heart, I don’t know.” I ran a hand down her hair. She was so young. Life’s disappointments awaited her and she didn’t even know it.
“I don’t think you have a cold heart. It just hasn’t been warmed by the right woman yet. She’ll come into your life one day and set that heart of yours on fire. It’s not about sex, it’
s about caring about someone more than you care about yourself.”
“I’d like that,” I said. “I’d like not to grow old alone.” It was true, I would have liked to love with the intensity with which my mother loved Coyote, but I doubted it would happen. How would I know if the right woman came along? How would I know to let down the drawbridge and let her in?
“Well, if in three weeks’ time you haven’t found her, give me a call and we can enjoy each other again. I like you, Mischa. It’s a skin thing. You can press your skin against mine whenever you like.”
She telephoned the château and made the reservation as she had promised. Then she wrote down her telephone number and drove me to the car rental in her tidy Deux Chevaux. We kissed good-bye like lovers, but we parted as friends. “Do come and see me before you go back to America.” But I knew I never would.
Part III
“Oh once in the saddle
I used to go dashing;
Once in that saddle
I used to ride gay;
But I first took to drinking
And then the card playing
Got shot by a gambler
I’m dying today.”
“Someone bring me
A glass of cold water
A glass of cold water,”
The poor cowboy said.
But ere we could get it
His soul had departed
His soul had departed —
The cowboy was dead.
27
I saw the towers of the château long before I reached Maurilliac. The dark gray spires rose above the trees in fine triangles just as I had remembered them, tantalizingly close. A noise disturbed a flock of pigeons and they scattered into the watery sky like a spray of bullets. My heart began to race and it grew hot in the small car. I opened a window and took a gulp of air. I was coming home, at last.
I stopped the car at the bottom of the hill. The driveway swept up in a graceful curve, the grass on either side glittering in the pale, liquid light. I imagined the times I had been driven up and down as a small boy, like another life now, and yet I remembered them as if they had taken place only yesterday. I might have grown into a man, but the heart that beat inside me belonged to a little boy.
It was winter. The earth was barren. The wind that blew into the car was laced with frost. But my memories were of the summer when Coyote had driven us to the beach in his open-top car. I recalled the sensation of the wind raking through my hair, the sense of freedom, the feeling of optimism and endless possibility, my heart swelling with love and pride. I remembered Coyote’s hand on my mother’s knee. She hadn’t pushed it away, but rested her hand on top of his with a gentle squeeze. I had seen everything, heard everything, but I couldn’t remember what it had been like not to speak. I could smell the heat, although the air froze in my nostrils, the scent of pine and sweet grass, the balsam poplar and jasmine. I could hear the crickets, the clamor of birds, the low hum of bees, and feel the brush of a butterfly’s wings on my skin, although only a couple of crows alighted upon the ground in search of worms. I could have been young again but the hands that gripped the steering wheel were those of a man well into middle age. I yearned for the past to come alive, but it was as dead as winter.
I started the car, and the sound of the engine disturbed my thoughts like a stone thrown onto the mirrored surface of a lake. I drove up the drive and towards the place that had always held my love in spite of the hatred of the people who had lived there, I wondered whether Yvette was still alive and what had become of Monsieur and Madame Duval. If they were still there, would they recognize me, or had I changed beyond recognition? I caught myself in the mirror and realized that they probably wouldn’t know me; it had been so long ago. Only someone who had loved me would recognize the lonely little boy behind the eyes of a man old beyond his years.
The château was exactly as I had remembered it. Nothing had changed. I drove up to the front of the building with its pale stone walls and tall sash windows, the light blue shutters open to let in the sun, the gray-tiled roof, interrupted only by pretty dormer windows and slender chimneys, and the two graceful towers. I had never appreciated its beauty, only what it had stood for. Now it represented a bygone era, but its beauty remained. I pulled up and climbed out. A young man in a black and gray uniform emerged from the hall and offered to carry my suitcase. I followed him inside and was struck immediately by the limestone floor. They had removed the blue and gold carpet.
I was met by a handsome man in his thirties. He stood tall with his shoulders back and his chin high, his sleek black hair combed off his face. He introduced himself as Jean-Luc Lavalle. Assuming I was not French, he spoke in English. “Welcome to Château Lecrusse. Have you come far?” His saccharine smile and air of self-importance irritated me at once. He couldn’t have imagined that my father’s black boots had strode across the stones of that floor and that I had raced my little cars here, that this grand hotel had once been my home.
“From America,” I replied, not wishing to engage in conversation.
“We have lots of guests from America,” he said proudly. “It’s because of the history. The château was built in the sixteenth century. You don’t have much history in America.”
“Then you know little about the world, Monsieur.” My reply did not deter him.
“Americans love the culture of Europe.”
“I suppose they have no culture of their own,” I replied. He did not detect the sarcasm in my voice.
“Exactement. You will find Maurilliac is bursting with culture.”
“I’m sure I will. Right now, I would like to go to my room.”
“Certainly, Monsieur. If you please, I have a form for you to fill in. Your case has already been taken upstairs.”
“Tell me something,” I said, taking the seat he offered me. “Who owns the hotel?”
“It used to be owned by a couple called Duval. They sold it about a decade ago to a company called Stellar Châteaux who own a number of châteaux in France.”
“And you are…?”
“The manager. If you have a problem or any questions I am the man at your service.”
“That is very comforting to know,” I replied. “Who runs the vineyard?” He looked uncomfortable at my questioning.
“Alexandre Dambrine.”
“What of the church? Who is the priest?”
“Père Robert Denous.”
“Ah, Père Abel-Louis has gone?”
“He has retired. He lives in the town, on the Place de l’Eglise.” He watched me fill out the form. “Excuse me for asking, Monsieur, have you been here before?”
I raised my eyes to his face and stated simply, “I used to live here.” Then added with some amusement, “Before you were born.”
Jean-Luc’s eyes lit up. I could see there were dozens of questions he wanted to ask, but he sensed my boundaries like an insurmountable wall around me, and withdrew. I finished filling out the form and he showed me to my room. As we walked down the corridor, I noticed the upholstered chair behind which I had often hidden as a boy. It was in the same place; even the silk was the same, though faded from the sunlight that fell through the adjacent window. It looked so small now I couldn’t imagine ever being tiny enough to hide behind it. As Jean-Luc put the key in the lock I cast my eyes further down the corridor to the room where Joy Springtoe had stayed. I remembered it well. I thrust my hand into my pocket and pulled out the little rubber ball I had nearly lost forever beneath her chest of drawers, and recalled with nostalgia the moment she had given it back to me. I could still taste the scent of her skin as she had embraced me for the last time, and felt a slight pull at my heart as I recalled the painful days that followed her departure. Few people gave me love when I was a little boy; I would never forget them.
“This room has a charming view over the vineyard,” said Jean-Luc. “It is far more beautiful in summer, but you must know that, of course.”
“Thank you,” I said dism
issively. His questions were on the brink of bursting forth and I wanted to be alone.
“Very well, if you require anything, dial zero for room service. Otherwise, I shall leave you to rest.” He closed the door with some reluctance.
I walked to the window and gazed out over the fields that had been my playground.
I unpacked my clothes, which didn’t take long as I had brought little, then decided to take a walk around the estate. I was anxious to see the stable block and the rest of the château. I was disappointed that the Duvals had gone. I would have liked to torment them a little as they wouldn’t have known who I was. I had planned on being the most tiresome of guests, just to make their life hard and to watch them squirm. It was satisfactory to be on the other side of the fence. I recalled the time Madame Duval had caught me watching the guests alight on the gravel and had dragged me into the kitchen by the ear where she had beaten me in front of Yvette and her gruesome band of staff. Now I was a guest myself and the moment for revenge had passed. I hoped for divine justice. I hoped their pitiless hearts had turned them into unhappy creatures doomed to grow old in darkness.
I strode downstairs and wandered about the rooms. Everything looked so much smaller. I dwarfed my little hiding places, and the dining room that had seemed so vast and noisy was really a cozy room with bad acoustics. The smell of the place was the same, transporting me back into the past: a mixture of polish, old woodsmoke from the fire in the hall, and four hundred years of life. It entered through my nose and penetrated the marrow of my bones so that I felt I had slipped back in time. I grew dizzy with bittersweet nostalgia. From the conservatory I looked outside. The terrace was wet and mossy. Brown leaves had blown onto the stones where the Pheasants had sat in the shade talking about Coyote, where I had hidden beneath the table with Rex. There were no tables now, as it was the middle of winter, and the garden that stretched out to the fields had taken a battering from the wind, was strewn with the debris of autumn. I remembered crouching in the bushes with Pistou to watch the guests taking tea. I didn’t scan the landscape for a glimpse of him. I knew he wasn’t there. I could feel the hollowness of his absence. I was no longer able to conjure him up as I had done then. I had grown up and left him behind.
The Gypsy Madonna Page 24