It was cool and dark inside. His eyes adjusted to the cavernous foyer. Wide marble staircases on both sides leading up to a gallery on the second floor. The grand scale struck him as better suited to justice than undergraduate education. Glancing at his watch, he headed up, hoping the rhythm of his stride signalled purpose and destination. At the top a cheerful aqua corridor with open doors revealing banks of computers, classrooms, offices. On the other side, windows looking onto an interior courtyard filled with rows of lavender. Recently renovated, the building had a long history as Avignon’s main hospital; he knew it from Nelly’s stories of her early days at Ste. Marthe’s, her first posting as a young nurse in the mid-fifties.
All physical evidence of that world had disappeared. The morgue was now a café, the surgery refitted as a lecture hall. Former sickrooms had become classrooms, the whole edifice washed in bright antiseptic modernism. Yet the deeper he wandered, the more the building’s historic purpose seemed to seep through. He would not have been surprised to meet a limping soldier or a white-robed nun dashing, head-down, bearing an urgent vial of morphine. Nelly’s stories followed him, the ghosts of feverish patients mingling with the exuberance of youth. He thought he heard her voice, the crackling lilt of verbal calligraphy.
A door in his path swung open. Two young men emerged, laughing. Piers slid past into the WC and the door swung shut, leaving him in darkness. He groped for the switch, found none. Suddenly the automatic light flashed on, illuminating a mirror. The sight of his face was a shock. Blotches of red, stringy hair matted with sweat and a strange, startled expression. Guilt.
He felt foolish, caught in the wrong place for the wrong reasons. Research exposed as a vague pretext. Nelly’s rambling tales of long-deceased strangers, an idle reverie, yet there was a reason for this visit. He was looking for someone. Hoping for a chance encounter. Counting on it.
The automatic light went out. He bolted for the hallway, made his way quickly back through the maze of offices and classrooms, sure that every professor was looking at him strangely and all of the students grinning, whispering. As if they knew. Magali entered the gated square alone, half expecting to see Mouloud, who often tracked her down. He claimed he’d found a job but wouldn’t reveal more, implying intrigue of some sort. A lie, she suspected, calculated to get her attention. Instead, she was surprised to find Piers sitting on a bench, legs spread apart, elbows resting on his knees like a clumsy spy. Her first thought was, he’s waiting for me.
Standing close, she said bonjour. It startled him. He slid his sunglasses onto the top of his head and answered back.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, just friendly enough to mask bluntness. “Research.”
“Really. Research into …?”
“My book.”
“Ah, yes.”
He stood up, and pulling himself to his full height, glanced at his watch.
“What kind of book are you writing?” she asked, taking a step back.
“I’m looking into the life of Petrarch.”
“Ah! Well, I doubt there’s much on him here,” she said, waving at the library. “Very few books in there at all.”
She took out a cigarette, offered him one. He declined, but pulled out a lighter to light hers. She took a long drag, exhaled in his direction and tossed it away. Keeping his eyes fixed on hers, he slid the toe of his boot over the butt and flattened it into the gravel.
“Well, I should be going,” she said, tilting her head to one side.
He nodded, murmured yes, then he turned and walked away. The pivot took him straight out through the iron gates and into a narrow street. He could feel her eyes on his back, cool, interested, he was sure. A fresh picture of Magali lightened his steps, the way her dark eyes danced as she quizzed him. He was a good foot taller but she had pulled him down with her gaze.
He stepped off the curb. A small car came hurtling around the corner and swerved to avoid him. Deaf to the driver’s shouts, he caught the crash of bumper against stone as a distant rumble. He kept on walking, did not hear two police officers approaching from behind, calling out for him to halt. Intending to circle the block and head back to the library, he quickened his stride. The police bolted ahead and blocked his path.
“Vos papiers, monsieur!” the officer barked. Piers fumbled through his briefcase and produced his carte de séjour. The inquisitors exchanged knowing glances. He was not a French citizen, that explained everything. He knew from experience that trouble in France begins and ends with paperwork. Innocent until proven guilty being a vague concept in the Republic, a foreigner could not expect to be given the benefit of the doubt. In his experience — and certainly in his books — police were stiff and hostile, these two no exception. One was tall and arrogant, obviously in charge. The other, reserved but mean, brandished a pen and notebook. What was he doing on university premises? Not an idle query, Piers suspected. Someone must have spotted him wandering through the halls or sitting in the courtyard, and made a phone call. He shot a glance above their heads. Magali was watching from the open gate, along with a gaggle of other students.
It seemed to take them ages to verify his existence. While the tall one shouted into a cell phone, his partner delivered a dissertation on the French state’s generosity toward foreigners, clarifying that these privileges, however, did not include the right to loiter in university courtyards. Public property — research — writer — novels — London: none of his objections tempted them into conversation.
Three girls in tight jeans walked by, giggling. Piers looked in their direction. The officers noticed.
The short one wrote it down. Finally, after a warning that his name was on record, he was free to go.
The sun had dropped, the streets were in shade. He was exhausted, angry, thirsty. On the way through Place de la Pignotte, he caught his reflection in the window of a dress shop and saw what the police had seen. His shirt was soaked with sweat. He needed a haircut, a shave, or maybe a beard. The coat was a pitiful ghost of its former glory. Shapeless shoulders, torn pockets, a gash of lining hanging loose from the hem. The French word fit: affreuse, to the exile’s ear a combination of frazzled and frightening. He ripped the coat off and stuffed it into a garbage bin, enjoying an instant surge of relief. All he needed now was a beer.
As he made his way along the narrow streets, the day took on a chill. Gloom crept into his thoughts. All he could think of was the missing coat. An old friend, they’d been through a lot. Why had he abandoned that raincoat? He considered going back to rescue it from the trashcan, but before the interior argument could be settled, found himself standing in front of O’Leary’s, an ersatz Irish pub the likes of which were springing up all over France. Walls covered with shamrocks, kilts, red rugby shirts, top-o-the-morn’ joke plaques. Once he’d even spotted a beefeater mannequin. The careless juxtaposition of symbols made him boil. In many other cities of the world, a mistake like that could lead to a fight. He slid onto a barstool and ordered a Guinness, grateful for a familiar scent, even if it wasn’t quite real. The last Friday in October, Nelly placed a tray of black olives and pistachio nuts on the stone table beside a pitcher of water, two glasses and a bottle of pastis. The season’s final Friday aperitif in the garden, an unspoken ritual begun shortly after Piers arrived; from April until October, a rendezvous in the garden; in winter, nut wine beside her sitting-room fire. Old themes stretched over weeks, stories of her nursing years at Ste. Marthe’s, the dramas of her true vocation as a prison counsellor. An enthusiastic student of Avignon history, Piers was interested in it all, stories of the war, medieval themes too; the popes and cardinals of Avignon were his special fascination. He’d read everything that touched on their history. She’d tried to be interested, but as a long-time agnostic who spurned religious institutions, had a hard time hiding her contempt.
When she’d declared herself an atheist, Piers had laughed, then gone silent. Assuming she h
ad insulted his beliefs, she had muttered a change of subject. He laughed again, a peculiar nervous chuckle. She’d been afraid he would say something religious, try to save her soul, and the whole image of a worldly writer would come crashing down. She had imagined the cause of literature was his true belief, so closely did the rhythm of his work resemble a monastic regime. As a deadline drew near, he lost all sense of time and often stayed awake for days, typing, pacing, hardly stopping to exchange pleasantries. Only when the bundle had been dispatched to London would he emerge from his state of rabid concentration and seek out company.
Taking up gardening shears and gloves, she busied herself trimming recalcitrant climbers. He was late, but she had confidence in his ways. The explanation would be simple; he must have forgotten the day.
Gathering up the last of the vines, she piled them in a corner of the garden and glanced up at Magali’s window. Her room was still in darkness, curtains drawn. The night air was turning cool. It was too late now for an aperitif in the garden.
As she started for the house with a tray of unused glasses, the garden gate swung open. Piers entered, bearing a large bouquet of flowers. She set the tray down and stared at him, a tall, thin man in a summer shirt, smiling warmly, walking toward her with his arms outstretched. She closed her eyes, reached up to receive his kisses and felt his arms around her, lifting her almost off the ground, a snug embrace pulling her against his chest. He smelled of beer and running. She caught her breath. Her greeting seemed to gush out involuntarily, a nervous trill, full of relief.
Ahhh, magnifique! Vous me gâtez toujours, Monsieur Le Gris. Quelle beauté! Vous êtes toujours si charmant.
Too much Guinness made his head spin. The sudden clasp of her body, lean and nervous, surprised him. He felt his touch race through her into the ground. He could have held on longer.
Drawing their chairs close, they sat under the olive tree, sipping a warm pastis. He had tried to think of a suitable excuse for being late, but she seemed to have taken no notice. Perched on the edge of a wicker chair, small and familiar, hands fluttering, she chattered about the day’s events: a weather report predicting rain, a phone call from Madame Noiret complaining about the climbers shadowing her garden over the wall. Their regular gardener was still down with a bad back and the young replacement hadn’t worked out at all. Noiret’s nephew had recommended another name, but Nelly was reluctant to give the task to a stranger. Inept pruning could be ruinous!
The sound of her voice pulled him out of despair, into a mellow mood. He could happily have fallen asleep, no offence at all, a delicious safe stupor replacing the trials of the day. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he shifted in the chair and sat up straight. Images of the day flickered through his thoughts, a wasted afternoon of delusion while the only woman who mattered had been here in her lovely walled garden, waiting for him. His mother had wasted her life waiting for a man she hardly knew. Thinking about her always sapped his energy. So much wasted time. She deserved more, so did Nelly. The day hung heavily on his spirit. And yet there she sat, oblivious to his thoughts, chattering on about the garden, holding him with vigorous conversation as she had held him so many times before. The evening light was fading quickly, a stone-lit glow descending around them.
Above her head, a light went on in an upstairs window. Magali’s room.
Nelly saw his eyes dart upwards. She knew the cause immediately. He shifted in his chair, eyes glancing away from the window, then back, as if he could not turn away. She was sure the girl was smiling down at him.
“It’s late,” she said. “We should go inside.”
She stood up and began stacking dishes on the tray, though they’d hardly touched the pastis.
“I could make a fire,” Piers offered. But it was too late. She was already headed into the house, holding the tray unsteadily, heels crunching along the gravel pathway.
It all happened so quickly. She was alone before she realized what he’d said. I could make a fire.
Had she listened, nodded, walked more slowly, they would be sitting by the warmth now, caught up in Friday conversation. But she hadn’t heard or at least had not digested the offer until it was too late. Now he was gone.
“You must be part bird,” Adèle had said. “While other people are still wondering what to do, you’ve gone somewhere, into the clouds, nothing left but footprints and dust.” The echo of a dear friend filled her head. Adèle was right. The too-quick dance was disastrous. A familiar, hectoring voice, if only I had taken more time, listened to what he was saying instead of leaping up. A vital friendship, sabotaged. Possibly, the last new friend I will make. Life is finite, time running out. One remembers a first kiss, first love, first anniversary, but who ever dares to pronounced the words last kiss, last love?
The word sounded odd, and yet it was true. She did love Piers Le Gris. He might not return her love, but surely he took it in. Unconsciously or not, he lived on her love, wrote his books by her love’s warmth. The ridiculous difference in their ages — she expected nothing. And yet, being forced to watch his attention drift up to a lit window was painful beyond endurance. Suddenly she was standing in the middle of the room, swept up in a rage of memory, shouting at the top of her lungs. Then, as quickly as the rage had come on it lifted, and she realized she hadn’t been shouting at all. The voice was inside her head, though her body was shaking as if it had all been real. Tears streaming down her face, she collapsed into the reading chair, stayed rigid until the outburst passed, took a deep breath and leaned back, exhausted, relieved.
Turning to a stack of books beside the chair, she looked through the titles. The Marquis de Sade. The Kama Sutra. A thick novel by an Englishman, D.H. Lawrence, in translation. A smaller book with a soft tan cover, the one Magali had taken away, and then changed her mind and brought back. The title was embossed in red:
Le Livre d’Amour de l’Orient.
Quatrième Partie : Le Bréviaire de la Courtisane Blank pages, waiting for words. Such an odd choice. Why would Hervé Brunet pass her an empty book? How disappointing for a thief. She held it in her lap, turning one white page after another. It occurred to her that she could fill the pages easily and then some with the endless conversation waged incessantly in her head. Or, she could put down what she knew, stories that would make Hervé’s cheeks burn.
The first word cannot be I. And yet the subject is. She spoke the words inside her head, picked up a pen and began to write.
The following pages concern certain events that occurred during and immediately after the Second World War, as subsequent generations have named it. At the time we spoke of the war, or usually, the occupation, Paris and area being controlled by the Nazis. The southern part of France, named for its capital at Vichy, was under the governance of Marshall Pétain, whose collaboration with the Nazis some residents of these parts chose to defy (although definitely not as many as is claimed today). This writer’s purpose is to record certain experiences of youth, specifically between the ages of 15 and 19. The circumstances include defiance and betrayal. No harm is meant to persons living or deceased, these events having occurred in the past. No ill will is borne towards anyone. Nevertheless, it is intended that the following will be a complete and truthful disclosure of events that have never been part of any discussion or record, either in written or verbal form.
May 22, 1943
Sometime in the night, my father woke me from a sound sleep, saying nothing except that I should wear dark clothing. It was well after curfew and sometimes the Milice patrolled on foot so we stayed off the main road, instead taking a path through the orchard that led away from the village of Ste. C— and into the woods. He walked quickly. It was all I could do to keep up. Rose branches scraped my bare legs.
After walking for hours (or so it seemed) we came into a meadow. He pointed at a clump of trees in the distance, indicating I should stay there, and gave me a torch with instructions to wave it tow
ards the sky when he flashed the signal. He was nervous. I could tell he wanted a cigarette. He kept turning the package over and over in his hand, but he denied himself the luxury as we waited. Even the flame of a match could give us away!
Finally, we heard the sound of a motor overhead. He pointed me toward my duty, and ran off to a far corner of the field. The night was cloudy, lit by a hazy slice of moon. I heard the drone without ever seeing an aircraft. I tried to keep my eyes on the dark form of my father, so as not to miss his signal. When the motor faded, he flashed his light. I swung the torch in the air, back and forth, like waving a towel to call field workers for dinner.
Four corners of the meadow lit up with bobbing torches. I caught sight of movement in the night sky, a big, black balloon floating downwards, dangling a body like a toy. I waved. The parachute veered, and landed a few feet from where I stood.
As the figure hit the ground, the jolt knocked him down. He lay on his back, still at first. I ran over, thinking he was hurt, but he rolled onto his hands and knees and stood up. He was tall and dressed in black, wearing a hat with flaps and a leather pilot’s jacket. He was surprised to be greeted by a girl, though at that age I made a concerted attempt to look older. Removing his hat, he shook my hand. He was still trembling from the fall. He kept holding my hand for what seemed like a long time as if he might never let go. Finally, two other torchbearers and my father reached the landing spot, where they introduced themselves by their code names. The visitor told us his name was ‘Roland.’ Under the circumstances, I was to remain nameless.
Later I would become ‘Murielle.’
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