“I suppose,” he mused, “one must consider that Genêt was …” He drifted off, seemingly lost in contemplation.
Nelly prompted, “Genêt was an inmate?”
He looked up, straight at her, suddenly paying attention. “Yes. He was that too, wasn’t he?” A sly smile exposed tiny kernels of teeth. “These books will have to be vetted before we let them into circulation, if indeed we ever do. Madame Reboul, I hope I can count on your help. You may prefer to read these particular volumes at your leisure, in which case you have my permission to take them home. In fact, I would strongly advise you to do so. We mustn’t rush the matter. That wouldn’t do at all. Would it?”
She had taken the books he’d set aside, wondering why he was looking at her so intently. Was she expected to refuse?
“Thank you,” she said, without understanding at all.
He nodded, and clutching two titles to his chest, retreated into his office and closed the door. I will take them home, she’d resolved. No need to have him peering over my shoulder while I read.
By the time Nelly turned onto rue des Griffons it was almost dark, the air still damp from an unexpected downpour. Her canvas bag was heavy. Her arms ached. Rounding the corner, she set the load down and glanced ahead. A shaggy figure stood huddled in the doorway. Snatching up the bag again, she quickened her pace and shot past the door. From behind, a hand grabbed her arm. A voice called out, “Aunt Nelly!” It was Magali, her hair gone wavy from the rain. “I forgot my keys,” she said. “Don’t worry, Auntie. They aren’t lost. Come on, let me help you with that load.”
Still shaking as they entered the house, Nelly blurted out a warning against the dangers of wet clothing, turning brisk to hide her confusion, ordering the girl to change into dry clothes and then come straight to the kitchen for a hot drink.
“But I like the rain,” she protested, following her down the hallway.
The electrical switch spluttered. Fed by ancient wiring, the kitchen light assumed a will of its own. Nelly knew the trick, how to wiggle the button until the current connected. It was early in the season to be lighting the stove, but the sight of Magali’s wet hair made her fear a chill. She doused the oil burner with starter, tossed in a lit match. A ring of flame shot up sending out pungent fumes. Magali watched, absorbed by the ritual. She’s never seen such old-fashioned ways, Nelly thought. Brought up in a sprawling split-level in the suburbs of Orange, she pushes buttons, microwaves.
In four weeks under the same roof, they hadn’t seen much of each other. A reluctant riser, Magali rushed out the door each morning and stayed in her room all evening. On weekends she was out late, sneaking upstairs like a mouse in wooden shoes and lying in bed till noon. In the absence of sightings, her presence could be verified by a trail of lights left on, doors ajar, taps dripping, clothing dropped, half cups of tea on the kitchen table. Entrenched disorder was one thing, but Nelly hated carelessness, so she took to leaving notes. Progress had been made but a talk about the rules was overdue. Filling a saucepan with milk, she resolved to speak her mind.
Rain pounded hard against the kitchen window. Gusts of wind penetrated the creaky frames and made the curtains sway. Magali sat perched on a stool while Nelly rummaged through the pantry, searching for a tin of cocoa, filling the void with chatter about the dangers of a chill. The lights flickered. Nelly emerged from the pantry in time to catch a swirl of wet shirt landing on the table and a flash of Magali’s bare shoulders, a pale camisole on skin like butter, before they were immersed in darkness.
“I have a flashlight upstairs,” Magali volunteered.
“No, stay put. The whole house will be out.” She’ll say we’re living in a barn, Nelly thought. Won’t certain members of the family enjoy hearing about this!
Groping through the drawers, she found a stub of candle and lit a match. The flame caught a glimmer of Magali’s mischievous smile and died as the candle took hold. The room opened up with light. When the milk was warm, Nelly stirred it into the cocoa and sugar, filled two cups to the brim, and handed one to Magali, who whispered thanks. They sat in awkward silence, Magali rocking back and forth on the kitchen stool. An unnecessary movement sure to loosen the joints, it made Nelly anxious.
“Stop!” she snapped.
Magali stood up to leave but before she could get away, the telephone rang. An urgent peal in the distance, it startled them both.
When Nelly had disappeared into the dining room, Magali moved closer to the stove. She was cold and hungry, but knew her room would be even colder. On the hunt for a loaf of bread, she peeked into Nelly’s bag, found nothing, only old books. A title caught her eye: Le Livre d’Amour de l’Orient. Before she could open it, she heard a dulcet voice from the hallway.
“Magali, chérie. Telephone call for you.” An unfamiliar singsong voice. For an instant she thought there must be someone else in the house. There was no time to put the book back. She slipped it into her satchel, and sat up straight on the stool.
The kitchen door swung open. Nelly’s face was rigid, chin pointed upwards, lips bowed into a tight smile. A strangely formal melody: “Your grandfather wishes to speak with you.”
With Magali out of sight, Nelly retrieved the wet sweater and draped it over a rack by the stove, muttering to herself about the dangers of staining the wooden table. Inhaling the pungent mixture of lamb’s wool and cigarettes, she changed her mind, added a few lavender grains to a basin of water and set the sweater to soak.
Through the half-open door she could hear Magali’s voice, and moved closer to catch the drift. An animated description of university life: her courses, English, accounting and law, the core subjects of a business degree. Léonce must be proud, she thought. Money always meant so much to him. Under his care, Brigitte’s stony heritage in the HautVaucluse had been thoroughly transformed. He’d added land in Gigondas and Vacqueyras, uprooted the orchards to plant prize-winning vineyards until Les Hirondelles was worth a fortune.
Hearing Magali’s laughter, she closed the door and put a jar of pistou to heat on the stove. Still a charmer, she thought, a man who lives to please women. And so many of them! Poor Brigitte had had to endure the talk. Nelly lit a second candle and placed it on the counter, then a third for the table. The soup began to bubble, filling the air with savoury warmth until the dank room resembled a real country kitchen.
The door swung open. Magali entered, breathless. “Grandpa says hello!” she announced. Her cheeks were flushed. “He sends his love, and guess what? I’m invited for Christmas, just Grandpa and me. No parents, maybe Marc and Estelle if they can get away. He’s coming to pick me up December twenty-first. What day is that? I think it’s a Thursday.” She stood still, as if expecting a response.
Nelly turned away, slid the pot off the gas burner and reached for a ladle. Hands shaking, her sleeve brushed too close to the candle. A handkerchief, tucked inside the cuff caught fire. Magali lunged at the flame intending to blow it out, instead knocked the candle over. Hot wax burned her hand. She shrieked and burst into tears.
Clumsy girl, Nelly sputtered to herself. So impulsive. But she said nothing. Moving quickly, she rubbed the singed sleeve, examined the burn which was superficial and not nearly as serious as the girl’s reaction had suggested. Taking out her medicine kit, she applied a thin layer of salve. The skin was cool to the touch, her fingers icy. Standing close, she caught the mixture of cigarettes and soap, hair still damp with rain, and underneath the common smells, a bone-deep aroma, faintly animal. The sensation of being so close to a familiar body, she hadn’t felt in years. Her head spun. She steadied herself against the table and sank into the chair. “Are you all right, Auntie?”
Nelly struggled, groping for an answer, but no words came. The look of bewilderment on the girl’s face, she suspected, must mirror her own.
“Sit down, I’ve heated soup.” She hadn’t intended to be sharp, and attempted to cover the mistak
e by an offer of escape. “You can take it to your room, if you like.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned her back and headed for the dining room, as though a pressing chore needed attention.
When Magali had finished the bowl of pistou, she stretched out on the mattress and covered up with the duvet, a gift from her grandfather. She was grateful for his phone call. The news about Christmas gave her hope. Only a few more weeks to go. The sound of his voice always lifted her spirits. He never judged, never pried into what she was doing. He was not among the relatives who said she was spoiled; he was one of the spoilers. She decided to get a cookbook and surprise him by making something her Gran always prepared for the réveillon. Or maybe they’d go to a restaurant, she knew she could count on him to have a plan.
From a corner of the rose room, a gas radiator groaned as though making heat was a terrible effort. Everything in this house is old, she thought. The mattress was her raft, surrounded by books and clothes, empty water bottles and half-eaten packages of butter biscuits bobbing on the sea.
Reaching for the satchel, she dragged it under the cover and searched inside for the prize she’d pinched. So easy, maybe too easy. Nothing like the first time, a thrill, an impulse, in Paris. Wandering around the Galeries Lafayette waiting for the rain to stop, she’d seen a salesclerk cast a mean look in her direction, and decided on the spot to lift a lipstick. She picked out a colour and looked away, keeping an eye on the surroundings, watching who was paying attention, then slid the tube up her sleeve and left the store at a casual pace. Once out on the street, she’d been sure everyone was looking.
Next she tried a silk scarf, then a book, one she didn’t even want, but the people in the bookstore were smug. She took it out of spite. A week later she slipped a wheel of Camembert into her shoulderbag. A pudgy grocery clerk noticed and came running after her but she lost him easily in the winding streets of St. Germain des Près.
As for the lipstick, she had ducked into a nearby café to try it out, a horrible texture and colour, she tossed the tube into the washroom trash. But the thrill lingered, proof it doesn’t matter what you steal. The rush comes from taking the risk and getting away with it, having power over strangers. Stealing displaces numbness, for a few hours at least.
Those first experiments in petty crime had followed hard on the morning at the Paris clinic when she’d undergone a lecture from a nurse, after a demeaning procedure by which she got her life back. Destiny brought under control by medical science, blood flowing out through a plastic tube, down the drain and into the Seine. In former times, a girl in her position might have jumped into the river. A swirl of thoughts and moods gave that crazy time the disjointed rhythm of a high. Afterwards she was prone to sudden bursts of anger, a lingering sense of violation. Of something stolen, something nameless.
A few weeks later her parents caught her smoking dope, which led to an awful row. She’d made promises. So had they. Afterwards, she knew the minute she walked into her bedroom whether they’d been in there searching for evidence. It was easy to tell if something private had been seen or touched. They made her angry, and then depressed. She figured the feeling would wear off just as everything wears off, the buzz of shoplifting, the swoon of good dope, even the pleasure of knowing somebody really great likes you.
Books were the easiest, because the clerks in bookstores were always distracted, far more interested in talking to each other than keeping an eye on customers. Poking around the house on her own, she discovered Nelly had dozens of books, dusty and thick. They all looked boring. She hoped the volume she’d taken was different, but it looked old. Definitely used. A soft tan cover with red lettering: Le Livre d’Amour de l’Orient, and in smaller black type: Le Bréviaire de la Courtisane. The Courtesan’s Prayer Book. So, old ladies like to read porn, she thought. Of course, this one would be considered literature. The first page bore a bookplate and an important-looking signature but the second was blank, as were the rest. Creamy vellum paper, as thick as cloth, empty pages, some kind of diary with a false cover. Private. Suddenly, taking it didn’t seem so easy.
Wrapping the notebook inside a bulky sweater, she decided to make a quick trip back to the kitchen before Nelly noticed. On her way downstairs, she met Piers coming up. He nodded and stopped, mumbled good evening and extended his hand. The gesture surprised her. As she reached out, the book slipped and landed on the step in front of them. Piers bent down to pick it up, and reading the title as he handed it over, flashed a wobbly grin. “So, you’re interested in the Orient?” She nodded.
“Have you been there?”
“No,” she stuttered. “I’ve only visited Italy and Spain. Well, London once.”
“London! Ah, yes.” He sighed, as if there was much he could say on the subject, but instead, began to walk backwards up the stairs. As she turned to go, she heard him stumble. Hurrying on down the stairs, she felt his eyes following her.
Nelly observed the exchange on the staircase through a crack in the sitting-room door, and watched Magali’s furtive dash into the kitchen. She’d noticed the missing book immediately. A thief in the house? No surprise, she thought. After all, the girl is Brigitte’s progeny.
FOUR
LIKE FLOCKS OF MIGRATING BIRDS, giant rusty leaves swirled around the university’s ancient stone facade, settling on manicured grounds connecting the old building with a sleek new library made of glass and green girders. Piers walked through the gates in late afternoon. It was warm for the end of October. Spying a stone bench half hidden behind a clump of laurel bushes, he settled down to survey the courtyard, a grazing ground for students, some stretched out on the grass, others huddled in friendly circles and amorous pairs, killing time, making time and smoking.
He had set himself the task of recording their day, jostling, sparring, the body talk of exquisite girls and cocky boys. Like lawn ornaments or extras in a movie, half were dressed for comfort, the other half for show. Their clothes looked new, their faces fresh and crafty. He was amazed by the self-assurance of youth, at least on the surface. Slobs talked confidently to peacocks and no one sat alone. Must be a new code, he thought. Nothing like the old.
A burst of laughter erupted from the nearby circle where a tall beauty held forth to a circle of admirers. Teetering on platform shoes, she was poured into skinny slacks that flared mid-calf, a brief t-shirt outlining her ribs. Piers opened his notebook and scribbled: rich, lean, bold = youth. Not how he remembered education, but then wasn’t that the point of research? It was the only way to keep the personal from creeping into fiction.
As he opened a newspaper and pretended to read, his thoughts flowed back to his own school days. A series of boarding schools, followed by several lunges at higher education, Ivy League on the east coast, and a stint in draughty Edinburgh. Never the same place for long, yet always another to take him in. No expense spared. Nothing but opportunity thrown his way by a father he rarely saw.
The accidental parents, he had named them as an adolescent, turning them into a jocular legend, part of his carefully constructed private-school persona. A famous (married) writer and an actress half his age — their brief encounter during an Adriatic cruise and a series of stormy rendezvous in the years that followed had rekindled the aging author’s stalled career and ruined a beauty’s life, or so she claimed. Craving warmth and devotion, the childmother leaned on her son for everything. She died gracefully in a hotel room smelling of orchids. He marked her passing with a Pacific voyage and vowed not to follow in the old man’s footsteps. The first of many broken vows.
He had never heard the other side of his mother’s story, couldn’t summon the nerve to ask. His meetings with his father had been formal and faintly shameful for them both. After the funeral the old man softened, sent for his secret son and graciously offered the use of his famous name. His son declined politely, while raging inside. After that, no name felt like his own, though he tried on several.
From
half a lifetime spent in the chains of formal learning, he counted only one friend, E.B., a selfdiagnosed genius who studied all night by flashlight so that he could lounge by day, giving the appearance of natural brilliance. The last news of E.B. had come years ago, a cryptic postcard from a mutual acquaintance reporting that the lamplight genius had entered an institution full of like-minded men. No hint as to whether it was Bedlam or Harvard.
The main point was in the postscript: E.B. still considers you odd. A madman’s second-hand comment was the only hard evidence of himself he possessed from those years.
What if I could go back? he wondered.
Surrounded now by so much youth and beauty, the idea of formal study seemed luxurious. Following a course, taking home assignments. Preparing for exams. Receiving a grade! What joy, to be sure that all answers to all questions lay right over there in the green-glass library. He was tired of improvization, ready for cunning girls, sure he could stride over, introduce himself, borrow a cigarette and shuffle off to class. Balance irony with levity and emerge at the end of term with an album of colourful memories and an address book full of life-long friends.
Soaked in reverie, he began to sweat without noticing. Beads formed on his crown. Leaving the house early, he had mistaken a grey dawn for the day’s weather and worn his raincoat. A rumpled reminder of London, it had spent the summer under a pile of books. Whenever he relied on instinct, Piers expected rain. Extremes always caught him off guard. Provence, for example: from photos and brief childhood trips, he’d pictured a paradise of sun and scent. Instead it was a violent, moody place, prone to sudden storms and heat waves. Much like his mother.
The hard bench made his muscles ache. He got up to stretch, tucked the newspaper into his briefcase and began to walk, cutting a wide circle around the courtyard and heading toward the main building, an elegant eighteenth-century facade built on a curved stone arc dating from the Middle Ages. The modern glass doors were open. Clutches of students and professors, casual weather-beaten men and stylish women spilled out into the promenade, chatting gravely, making plans.
Piers' Desire Page 3