by Linda Kepner
“But sometimes she does, hein?” Louis smiled and stroked her hair.
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “If she is very lucky.”
Louis kissed her cheek.
Suddenly, there was a dreadful grinding sound in the air, the sound of a large vehicle downshifting up a steep road. Louis jumped. “Oh, hell,” he said. “It’s the tour autobus. Have I parked far enough off the road? I don’t want to get sideswiped.”
“You’re fine. You’re practically in the meadow.” Bishou patted the blanket and watched the ancient double-decker bus chug into view. “Come on, don’t worry. Probably seeing the famous Louis Dessant picnicking with his fiancée will be the highlight of their trip.”
“Dieu m’en garde.” God help me. Louis waved insincerely as the bus hove into sight, every camera focused upon them.
Bishou snickered. “They probably just want photos of idyllic picnickers. They don’t know who we are.”
A loudspeaker from the bus pealed, “Bonjour, Monsieur Dessant. Bonjour, Mademoiselle Bishou.” The bus ground to a deafening halt. Ostensibly it was for the view, or to meet the local residents, but it was probably for the engine to cool.
“I wish I’d taken that bet,” said Louis. He stood with his jacket under his arm to greet the bus. “Viens, cherie. They even knew your name, God knows how.”
They approached the bus together, where a smiling tour guide introduced them to the people on the bus and the tourists to them. Monsieur Dessant of Dessant Cigarettes, and his fiancée, Mademoiselle Bishou. Louis and Bishou asked where the people were from — which turned out to be everywhere from Lyons to Cairo — and welcomed them, playing the gracious hosts of the island.
The bus driver was looking at Bishou with a twinkle in his eye. She was sure she didn’t know him. But she reached into her purse and pulled out four Dessants and gave them to him.
“Who are you related to?” she asked.
“Papa Armand,” he said with a smile. “Merci, Mam’selle Bishou.”
The white and very French tour guide had been chatting with Louis, but saw the exchange between Bishou and the driver, and smiled. “Your name is already known in our community, Mademoiselle Bishou. Welcome to Réunion, and congratulations on your upcoming marriage.”
“Merci. I am most fortunate. I have a wonderful fiancé, and I’ve made good friends here.”
They chatted a few moments longer, bade the tourists farewell, and stepped off the bus. The driver ground gears and the bus rattled on its way.
“Well,” said Louis, “when you get caught out on moments like this, you have the royal style, for certain.”
“So do you.”
“I’ve been caught before.”
“What, making out with girls on the coast road?”
A mischievous look appeared in his dark eyes. “I am not telling.”
“Ah! Are you saying I must force the admission from you, later?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. At any rate, I am looking forward to it. How do you know the bus drivers so well?”
“I think I’ve already met about half the Creoles in Saint-Denis. I rather like them.”
“I’m glad. Sometimes, they are the true réunionnais.”
“Bien dit.” Well said. “And, as Madame Ross pointed out to me, I don’t have the tiny figure of a Frenchwoman — I have the more African figure of a réunionnais.”
“Comment?” He stared at her. “How so?”
“My hips, my chest, even my face. I am a well-fed, well-exercised Americaine.”
As they walked back to his car, Louis said, “Well, so I also thought. Strange. I thought of you as réunionnais. It hadn’t occurred to me what that meant.”
Bishou got in the white convertible, and he shut the door. She heard the thud of the trunk as he deposited the basket and blanket inside. Then he took the driver’s seat. “You, too, are réunionnais, Louis. Not French.”
“More and more,” he agreed. “It is considered bad taste to go native, but — France has not been kind to me.”
Bishou realized that was probably a dreadful admission for him to make. She touched his arm. “This island is our home.”
“Oui. This island is our home.”
Louis started the car, and began the drive down the coast road. He rummaged through his pockets, found a pack of cigarettes, extracted one and lit it with one hand. “You will need Dessants by the carton, then, as little gratuities.” He drew on the cigarette, and passed it to her. Not yet married, and they had these married habits in place.
She took a couple of puffs, and passed it back. “Oui. They are better than money, much better. It is like Maman passing out cookies.”
Louis laughed. “I am Papa, passing out cigarettes?”
“Oui, Papa, you are.”
Again, he laughed, and downshifted to tackle the next hill. Bishou leaned back to feel the sun on her face, and thought, Yes, I am in Paradise.