“What?!”
They had entered a narrow stretch of highway joining one suburban centre with the next. A fat minivan barrelled down the middle of the road.
“Calme-toi, chéri. He knows. He’s cool.”
“Stop the car!”
Piers reached for the steering wheel. She did her best to keep the vehicle from veering off but the interference was distracting. Her foot bore down on the accelerator involuntarily. She swerved to make room and just in time, the minivan roared past, barely avoiding collision. Piers let go of the wheel and covered his eyes. In the excitement she braked and the car jerked, drawing a sharp blast from the vehicle behind.
Finally, they reached a patch of countryside. Voice shaking, Piers said he needed to get out, get some air. He pointed to a laneway ahead and she turned off onto a grassy field. Without waiting for the engine to stop, he leapt out.
“You almost caused an accident,” she said, slamming the door as she followed him. “What’s the matter?”
He was staring at the horizon, gripping his briefcase, the hat jammed awkwardly on the back of his head. Initially mysterious, it now looked comical. She made an effort not to laugh.
“Relax, chéri,” she sighed, her voice strangely calm. “I’m a very good driver.”
He was taking great gulps of air and had gone completely pale. It was the first time she’d ever seen him upset, possibly furious. She opened his trench coat, slipped her arms around his waist but his spine stayed rigid.
She noticed he was wearing the mauve silk shirt she had given him ages ago. He must have opened it especially for this evening. The packaging creases still left ridges. As she ran her fingers along the folds she thought of The Faithful Husband, the myriad of details he’d absorbed from their encounters, while she’d only floated on the surface, caught up in the moment. Her memories of their Tuesday afternoons all blurred into one, and even the one was brief. Nothing like the version he’d summoned for his books. She nuzzled his neck and whispered his name. He set the briefcase down and kissed her lightly on the lips. She responded, enveloping him in a snug embrace, her stiletto heels sinking into the damp grass.
“Why don’t we go somewhere?” he murmured. “I want to be with you.”
“We could.”
“Give me the keys. I’ll drive.”
She laughed. “You don’t need to drive. I’m perfectly capable.”
“I know, but I like driving.”
“No you don’t. And you don’t know where we’re going.”
He ignored her, got into the driver’s seat, adjusted it to give his long legs more room and twisted the rearview mirror upwards. Then he stared blankly at the complex dashboard of dials and buttons, and it struck her that he had no idea how to operate her precious Peugeot.
“Really, I’d prefer to drive,” she said. He turned the key. The motor roared. The car lurched backwards and stalled.
“Piers, please.” Her tone was not endearing. She opened his door. He got out.
Resting a hand on her shoulder, he said, calmly, “I’d like to make love to you.”
The sun was setting behind a clump of cypress trees. They were stopped on the edge of a minor hayfield, rural but hardly private. A few metres ahead was a bungalow with a two-car garage and line of laundry stretching out over a child’s sand pile. The jingle of a popular television series floated through the evening air, reminding Chanelle of the hour. She glanced at her watch, then at the car, which was resting at an odd angle.
“Oh no,” she groaned. “Look. I’ve got a flat tire. Merde!”
Hélène and François Garçin’s villa in Isle sur la Sorgue had a generous garden full of shrubs and trees that stayed lush well into late fall. It was surrounded by a fence and hedge, with a high iron gate and plenty of parking along the sidewalk outside. Still, Chanelle had to comb the side streets before finding a spot within walking distance of the door. She hadn’t been to a wine-tasting evening in ages.
Amid the static generated by her husband’s affair, she had insisted on separate social lives, partly as punishment, but also as a test of what divorce might hold in store. Now that she’d made a new friend worth showing off, she was eager to reconnect with a circle of well-heeled professionals who might appreciate her find. While not exactly literary types, most of them were better conversationalists than Frédéric, a podiatrist, who had trouble looking people in the eye. Tonight’s hosts were partners in dentistry but they owned an apartment in Vienna, an inheritance from a distant cousin, a count, so they claimed.
As she rang the bell Chanelle leaned close to Piers and, squeezing his hand, promised, “Twenty minutes to say hello and we’ll leave. The rest of the night will be ours.”
Hélène opened the door, releasing a tumultuous wave of music. One look at the split-level living room behind and Chanelle realized why parking had been so difficult. The scene inside was closer to a downtown discotheque than the demure evenings she’d attended a year ago. People were crammed shoulder to shoulder in the main room, leaning over the railing of the second floor galleria, sitting on the stairs, huddled in corners. Some even tried dancing to a throbbing rock beat emanating from a powerful sound system.
“Darling, great to see you, finally!” Hélène gushed above the din. She was wearing a filmy transparent blouse over a black push-up bra and tight jeans. Her eyes were glassy.
“Where have you been? Ouch! Who is this luscious man you’ve brought us? You do like surprises, wonderful!”
Before Chanelle had a chance to reply, Piers was dragged ahead into a murky cloud of marijuana and tobacco smoke. When she started after them, a bearish man she recognized as her accountant blocked the path. He was wearing a boldly striped tie, the knot loosened. He bellowed her name and, leaning down, dropped a sloppy kiss on her neck, slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her into the throng. She snarled at him to let go but he seemed not to hear. Before she could get his attention they were standing at the bar, where two young men with white t-shirts stretched over taut chests were serving drinks. The atmosphere was frenzied, confusing. There were many people she didn’t know, most of them middle-aged, but a few were young and decidedly not the kind of people she and Fred knew. Three men in leather pants and vests with prominent tattoos and multiple piercings were hovering over a lightly packaged girl whose ensemble included feathers. A woman with a beaked nose slouched on the sofa, her skirt hoisted up, revealing black stockings held up by garters. She had her hand in a man’s crotch. Looking closer, Chanelle saw the man was her husband.
“Frédéric!” she shouted. Neither of them seemed to hear. When the woman leaned over and slipped her tongue into his mouth, Chanelle kicked him in the shins. He bit down hard, the woman screeched and slapped his face.
Glancing up, Frédéric said hello, his face twisted in an uneasy mixture of bemusement and shock. A small man with short legs and the beginnings of a belly, he had to boost himself with both hands to get off the low sofa. As he staggered to his feet, Chanelle grabbed his neck and pulled his ear toward her mouth. He smelled of liquor and someone else’s perfume.
“What the fuck is this?” she shouted over the din. He nodded, as if it was all quite simple and, taking her arm, wedged them both through the crowd toward the kitchen.
“Did you bring your friend?” he panted, when they’d cleared the throng.
“Would you mind telling me what’s going on?” she fumed.
He pointed to his ear, shook his head, implying either that it was still too noisy to talk or he couldn’t think of an acceptable answer, she wasn’t sure which. Even the kitchen was crowded. The accountant was making his way toward them. She ignored his grin and turned back to Frédéric, who was looked longingly at the living room.
They were standing beside a door. She tried the handle. It opened. She stepped inside, pulling him with her, and swung the door shut, felt along the wall for a
light switch but couldn’t find one. As her eyes adjusted, she saw they were in the laundry room. Frédéric murmured her name. Just as she was about to tear into him, she heard sounds coming from behind a white curtain that hung ceiling-tofloor next to the washing machine. Groans, pants, the unmistakeable rhythmic noises of two people in an embrace.
A hazy smile spread over her husband’s face. He leaned toward her and ran his tongue along her lips. The couple next to them were so close Chanelle was sure she could smell the heat from writhing bodies. Her spine tingled with embarrassment. She was about to whisper, let’s go, but he reached up under her skirt and tugged at her panties, pressing his groin forward until she could feel his hard sex against her stomach. He kept looking at her, rocking forward gently, half smiling but expecting nothing. For the first time in months, maybe longer, his attention was riveted entirely on her. A hungry, craving look with a hint of resignation, as if he was sure she wouldn’t dare act on what he so obviously and urgently wanted. The sounds beside them grew more intense. She reached back, put her hands on the washing machine and lifted herself up until she was sitting, perfectly poised to slide down on top of him. They were soon too engrossed to notice the couple behind the white curtain slip out of the laundry room. Chanelle barely heard the woman’s giggle or the man’s low chortle as he closed the door behind them.
Later, as she made her way through the crowd alone, the whole dizzy spectacle came into focus. Her husband’s sudden enthusiasm for fine wines, the interest he’d shown in meeting the Author. Of course, he’d been coming here for months, while she’d had Tuesday afternoons with Piers.
Consequences? So far, the best sex they’d had in years. As far as she could see there wasn’t an ounce of jealousy in the whole gigantic indoor pool of adult entertainment, no apathy either. Groping couples, singles locked in anxious negotiation, a room full of hunger, it was thrilling and scary. Her head was clear. She felt better than she’d felt in years. Her thighs ached. She was famished.
She looked around for Piers, sure he’d be ready to leave. I want to make love to you. His words echoed. Thinking back on the drive out, she decided she’d been harsh. She’d have to tell him she was sorry. I’d love to have dinner somewhere quiet, where we can talk. I want to make love to you too. She said it under her breath. The party was winding down, people were leaving, the music was a maudlin torch song. She spied Hélène slumped in a chair, nursing a cognac. She asked for Piers. Hélène shrugged and pointed at the door.
Stepping out onto the terrace, Chanelle hoped Piers would be waiting, but he wasn’t and she stared at the steps, as if staring would make him appear. The night air was crisp. The walkway was a bed of fine round stones. She could feel the stones pressing up against thin soles, and it struck her that if the road were covered in stones she would be able to run. Suddenly it seemed important to connect with Piers Le Gris.
By the time she located her car, the wild joy of moments ago was fading. The flush of triumph, mutual conquest, for once, absolute power over a situation, yet the feeling didn’t last. On the back seat lay the bundle of roses and his briefcase. The shadow of his presence sent her spirit plunging. She drove around the block twice, hoping he might have stepped out for fresh air, considered going back inside in case they’d just missed each other. The problem was Frédéric, she dreaded having to face him again. She headed for the car.
Making her way slowly back to Avignon, she watched the side of the road, in case Piers had set out walking. She’d begun to suspect he’d left with someone else. By the time she reached the Rhone, his absence had filled her completely. She doubted she would ever see him again. A forlorn certainty, the worst of it, a terrible sense of betrayal. Why, she wondered? What have I done? Made love to my husband. Floating up out of a sea of unconsciousness, guilt, remorse, all very illogical, yet as true and powerful as any feeling she had ever known.
She parked behind the gate at Les Angles and retrieved the roses. The briefcase was unlocked. Suddenly frantic for a morsel of his existence, she looked inside. It was empty except for a box of chocolates. She leaned against the car door and sobbed.
TWENTY
IN THE MID-1960S ALONZO MARTIN and his brother Victor inherited a stony farm in the Luberon from a bachelor uncle, a house and barns in various stages of decay, the miniscule arable surface consisting of a few scraggly apricot trees. Most of the property was a steep incline choked with thorny brush, the perfect grazing ground for goats, but otherwise quite worthless except for the view, which was breathtaking. Victor settled in Cavillon, where he married, prospered and dropped dead at sixty, leaving three daughters to inherit his share. Alonzo had no wife, no children, no reason to die young. In old age he was land-rich and friendless.
As he made his way along a deserted country road on a brisk November night, he was thinking of a woman who’d knocked on his door that morning. She claimed she was from the government, come to clean his floors. He’d seen right through that ploy, as he’d seen through all the others. Three greedy nieces bent on proving him insane — what more did an old man need to keep him on his toes? Luckily, he had a spare set of keys for his dilapidated 2CV, otherwise they’d have taken that too. Those girls had a hundred devious ways of robbing an old man. They claimed he was blind. They hinted he was senile. Insane, am I? he fumed. Because you’re driving me insane!
The car had holes in the floorboard and issues with the finer gears, but once he got her rolling, she hummed along like a sardine tin on wheels. Whenever he was feeling edgy he’d load his hunting dogs into the back seat and drive. Sometimes he drove all night. It was so peaceful after midnight. Driving calmed his nerves, gave him a sense of purpose. He hummed under his breath to keep himself awake, occasionally blurting the odd phrase out loud, something he’d said or should have said, a few salient bits from the never-ending flow of thoughts uninterrupted by conversation, eruptions from the deep. By the time he came upon a tall man on the side of the road, he’d given the cleaning woman a piece of his mind. Laurent and Julia were used to their master’s arguments. When he slowed down for the man in black, they went right on sleeping, but the smell put them both on alert.
“Shhh! Shut your traps, curs,” Alonzo growled back. “Don’t pay any attention, monsieur. They’re useless beasts. I’d shoot them both, put them out of their misery, but my nieces! Ho! Let me tell you about those bitches. They’re after a man day and night. Where’re you going? Just name your destination. I’d be happy to drop you off. Avignon? Oh, that’s not far at all. Be glad to oblige. Yer car break down? I can go back and take a look. No? No car? All right then, Avignon it is. Get in. Let me move the gun. There you go. Duck down now, mind yer hat. And we’re off.”
Though hardly twenty kilometres as the crow flies, the highway between Isle sur la Sorgue and Avignon is a twisty marathon, a complex network of traffic circles and diversions through connecting towns, a route dating back centuries. After an obligatory exchange of names, Alonzo settled back to enjoy the trip and the sound of his own voice.
“You know, in Petrarch’s time, the trip took a day or more, depending upon the mode of transport. Sometimes walking was quicker in the end than counting on beasts of burden, considering the feeding, watering, ailments and delays. People didn’t zip back and forth between towns in those days, no sir. They set out on carefully planned journeys, often taking every stick of furniture they owned. Those popes and cardinals, they summered in the countryside, built castles. Petrarch himself spent most of his time in Fontaine de Vaucluse, which is a short distance from Isle sur la Sorgue, the fountain in question being the one that feeds the river Sorgue. Take a look at Petrarch’s book about his walk up the Mount Ventoux and you’ll see he never got to the top at all, his philosophical musings refer to a similar trip taken by someone else, most likely his brother.” The last word slipped out. Once he’d said it, Alonzo couldn’t remember whether it was Petrarch’s brother or Victor who’d taken the trip, or rather taken the
credit for taking the trip. He personally, Alonzo Martin, definitely had walked up Mount Ventoux, years ago. Or at least up Mount St. Victoire, which amounts to the same thing, as far as foreigners go.
Anyway, Victor told stories about it for years. Victor claimed they’d both gone, which was transparent bullshit. Victor never walked anywhere, but he had a real knack for fabricating details. “It’s a shame to criticize the dead. The truth of the matter is I never had the slightest reason to rebuke a brother. We hardly ever saw each other, which might have given cause for rebuke, had one of us been that kind of man, but we wasn’t. We made our beds and were prepared to lie in it.” Another slip. He hadn’t meant to bring Victor into the conversation at all but it was late and the stranger was interested, at least he seemed to be, or wasn’t in a talking mood. Anyway, the 1900-plus-metre journey up Mount Ventoux was a considerable distance in those days. Still is! He burst into laughter.
Julia and Laurent hated laughter. It was a noise Alonzo only made when strangers were around, and strangers made their teeth hurt. A horse woman who owned their mother had given them pretentious human names and then given them to Alonzo, who was too true or too dumb to think of better. Two lean hounds, their glory years behind, they refused to close an eyelid after Piers Le Gris climbed into the car. The drone of the master’s voice was reassuring. Better steady conversation than explosions from solitary thought. But they didn’t like the smell of the passenger at all. He reeked of women, their soapy, pungent skin and natural secretions that made men’s mouths water. Better women steeped in kitchen smells, fried fat and onions. The lick of a kitchen woman’s hands was a far distant memory, as faint as mother’s milk. Still, they sat up on their haunches, paying strict attention, heads bobbing in the night like oversized car ornaments, which is what they felt like most of the time, forced to jiggle along bumpy country roads full of rain ruts and quick turns. Inevitably, Alonzo had insisted on a shortcut (or a scenic route or a treacherous farmer’s trail he imagined would take him past some longforgotten landmark) but as usual the detour soon petered out and forced them to turn back on themselves. They weren’t surprised. Laurent was fairly sure they had nothing to fear from the man in the hat. He favoured settling back to sleep but Julia was on edge, so they rode like that, bobbing along a moonless country road, oblivious to most of what was going on, except that Alonzo was babbling and lost and the stranger was anxious. They could smell his anxiety. He wanted to be somewhere else.
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