French Girl with Mother

by Norman Ollestad

  Shit. This could ruin everything.

  After he went through the entrance door, I crossed the footbridge and followed him into the house, slowly walking upstairs and into the kitchen, wrapped in a towel.

  Anaïs was pulling out a carton of eggs from the fridge and he was behind her, kissing her neck. She flashed me an amused look, clearly enjoying my shock. I wanted to grab him, tear him off of her. The intensity of my feelings startled me and I had to gather myself.

  “Henri, meet Nathan,” she introduced us, a glint in her eye. “Apparently Henri’s decided to pop by unannounced.” She set down the egg carton with a sigh. “Famished as well.”

  Begrudgingly, he shook my hand. I squeezed hard, wondering if he was still her boyfriend or if he’d come to win her back.

  “Enchanté.”

  “Enchanté.”

  I took over the cooking, wrapped in a towel, bare chested. I wanted to play it cool but after I cracked three eggs into a bowl and began whipping them, I started shooting Anaïs impatient looks. She pretended not to notice and told Henri to come with her to see the new wine cave.

  From the kitchen window, I watched them emerge from the closest horse stable, converted into a wine cave, with a bottle of red. Henri was all over her. She wasn’t returning his affections but she wasn’t pushing him away either. Then she glanced up at the kitchen window and I was leaning over the counter, face inches from the glass. With her eyes on me, I felt something creep up my neck. It was more than jealousy. It was like those locks on the Pont des Arts, bolted down and heavy, a vice clamping around her, and I didn’t want to let go. It didn’t matter that she was playing us off each other, that I knew she was intentionally provoking me, because she’d forced my hand and called bluff on my last remaining strands of caution. It was a different kind of pull than I’d ever felt before. Grabbing him by the throat and drowning him in the river passed through my mind and I splashed some tap water on my face to cool down. Am I just ticked off that he’s screwing up our work routine, threatening to derail me? Or am I getting emotionally attached to her?

  They returned to the kitchen and I quickly made his omelet, dropping the plate on the table in front of him. While he ate, they spoke in a rapid wordplay French that I pretended to understand. I did gather that he wanted her to come with him to Arcachon where he had boats and a beautiful house on the peninsula and where their friends were throwing a big party.

  I interrupted their conversation. “We need to get back to the portrait before I lose the thread.”

  I waited for her response, tense.

  “Ah, oui,” she said, and she turned to Henri. “You’re welcome to watch if you’d like. He’s quite good.”

  Henri’s presence might complicate the process but I wasn’t in a position to dictate the terms. Hopefully he’ll decline.

  He glanced at his Rolex. “We’ll have to leave soon or we’ll miss the party.”

  “Then go without me,” she said, getting out of the chair and looking at me. “Where do you want me?”

  “I need a big room with lots of light.”

  She ushered Henri and me to the uppermost story of the château, the fourth floor. At the end of the hall, she led us into an empty space with indirect, soft light filtering from three sides, similar to her room on the third floor but without a bed.

  I collected my materials from the deck and some additional materials from my bedroom, and when I got back, Henri was slumped in the corner, brooding, while Anaïs was looking out the window with her back to him. He was already interfering and I thought about asking him to leave, but I didn’t want to give him that kind of power.

  Kneeling on the hardwood floors, I unspooled the buff wrapping paper I’d picked up at the butcher shop and then laid out the sketches of Anaïs on the deck. Referring to them, I called Anaïs over and asked her to reenact the pose. She took off her bikini, lay on her back, and gave me the finger, crotch a few feet from where I slouched on the floor, and I heard Henri groan petulantly behind me.

  Blocking him out, I consulted the sketches, readjusted her, and then got on my stomach for that ground-level perspective. The soft even light of the room as opposed to the slanted shards of sun brought her O-shaped mouth and pubic dome under the same aperture, creating a strange but compelling harmony. It would register unconsciously to the viewer, while enhancing the stiff vertical line of her finger so that we felt its violence in juxtaposition to the fluidity of her body.

  As if sinking to the bottom of the ocean, all the turbulence of the day was obliterated by the exertion of drawing. It was the first time I’d ever worked down on the floor like Pollock, and I was deep in the throes, when Henri suddenly stepped onto the paper, inches from my hand.

  “That’s not her,” he said, his royal blue eyes brimming with condescension. “Too barbaric.”

  “Well, that’s what I see.”

  “It’s time to go,” he barked at Anaïs, still sprawled on the floor.

  She looked up at him and then over at me, tilting her head as if to ask, What do you have to say about that?

  Again, I wondered how they’d left it in Paris. The diamond bracelet dropped in the river.

  “Do you want to go with him?” I asked her.

  “It’s none of your business,” Henri protested.

  “I’m not talking to you.”

  “If I go away for a few days,” she said, “will you wait for me?”

  She was completely nude, exposed physically and emotionally to the two men vying for her attention. While it was a kind of weapon she wielded, I also appreciated her aplomb.

  “Yes,” I said, wanting to accept her challenge, and because, most critically, I feared saying no might jeopardize any chance of working with her again.

  Her face washed into ovals and spheres, the angles rounded, and her eyes rested on me while she got to her feet.

  Henri stepped between us, handing over her bikini.

  She didn’t put it on. “I’ll be back in a couple days, Nathan,” she said, glancing at me over her shoulder, walking out the door.

  fifteen

  Right away, it felt lonely in the big château and I wondered how I would get through it. I went to bed early, awoke at dawn, and got to work. By noon, I had talked myself into the idea that the image of her flipping me off was strong and would make for a good painting. I wanted to get a canvas and paints and experiment with color. It had been too long since I’d worked with anything but pencil, and now I heard the critics in my head: you cannot do it—paint, color, an entire undeveloped part of your work that will be your undoing.

  I went outside and jumped in the river. I needed to calm down before I returned to the drawing. At the concrete bridge, winded, I rested at its base on a rock footing, wondering where I’d go if she didn’t come back. The Alps, once my safe haven, seemed bleak and cold.

  Clambering echoed along the underside of the bridge, and then that man with the straw hat and pale face came trotting down the far-side embankment. I stayed very still, shadowed under the bridge, as he walked upstream along the bank, a pair of binoculars around his neck and a book in one hand. As he went around the long bend, I saw him lift the binoculars to his eyes.

  Propelling into the headwind of current, I eased around the bend. When I spotted him, mixed in among the first row of trees, I let the current sweep me against the bank on his side, where it eclipsed me from view. I caught my breath and peeked over the bank. The binoculars were pressed to the man’s face, pointed across the river, and on the cover of the book in his hand, I made out pictures of birds.

  I lowered and turned. Directly across the water was Bernard’s lawn. On its far side, abutting the château, Bernard was sitting on the patio, having a drink and a cigar with a swarthy-looking man in a designer suit.

  The Doberman stood up. He must have been lying at Bernard’s feet. His ears were spiked, alert, and his snout was aimed at the river.

  I heard the man’s footfalls crunching dead leaves and when I peeked ag
ain he’d trailed away into the interior of the forest. I let the current drag me away.

  It was a little odd but it actually made sense, I concluded, drifting. The guy was out bird-watching and couldn’t resist taking a gander at that amazing château with the statues on the lawn. Who wouldn’t be curious? Thinking of the Claudel sparked the urge to hear Anaïs’s voice, but I didn’t have her number.

  After pilfering a couple reds from the wine cave, I drifted around the creaky halls and vacant rooms, stumbling upon a book in English on the shelf in the library. The words warbled, making me nauseous, and I put it back.

  Later, still unable to sleep, I returned to the kitchen and made a hamburger from ground sirloin, the familiarity meant to soothe me. It only sobered me up and brought the emptiness a little closer.

  What she’s asking of me—to wait for her while she spends time with another man, likely fucking him—verges on humiliation. Who cares? I reproached. You need to stay focused on the work, without allowing the simmering desire to get in the way. Maybe I should leave my number and find a hostel, let her call me when she gets back? Exhibit a little self-respect. My phone card had run out of minutes so I’d have to get a new one, and then thinking of paying for the hostel, really burning through my dwindling euros, closed the door on that option.

  Another day and night passed and on the fourth night, I woke up filled with dread. It felt like a hatch opening inside my chest, revealing a remote chamber, packed with my greatest regrets: a litany of men and women shaking their heads, turning away, shunning my work.

  Not feeling it . . .

  Doesn’t quite achieve . . .

  Misses . . .

  Are any of his reproductions from art school available?

  I rolled over and looked at the ceiling. What happens if she doesn’t come back?

  sixteen

  In the morning, I wandered down to the kitchen to force myself to eat and to figure out where I’d go. Anaïs was making coffee. She scowled at me and I leaned against the railing, stewing with resentment for what I’d allowed her to put me through. She wore a new short sheer dress and her hair was up, eyes tired, creased, as if she’d had a long night. We watched each other for a moment. I hadn’t noticed the Ferrari out the window but that didn’t mean anything.

  “Why did you let me go?” she said with an accusatory edge that was outlandish under the circumstances.

  “I trusted you’d come back,” I said cavalierly.

  “A French man would have never let me go. Not without a fight.”

  I nodded. Keeping a lid on my emotions.

  “I liked that you didn’t try to possess me, but then it made me angry.”

  “You wanted it both ways, huh?”

  “Of course.”

  Her mouth was soft, pliant, eyes drowsy, the antithesis of defensive—this is me. But I wasn’t going to succumb, and I glanced away.

  “You’re pissed off?”

  I shrugged.

  “Did you want to fight or was it easy to let me go?” she asked.

  “I almost grabbed him by the fucking neck and threw him in the river, but,” I fixed my eyes on her with indignation, “I thought it would be better to just let you come back on your own.”

  “So you were jealous?”

  I tried to withhold the answer but eventually nodded.

  “It hurt you?”

  I paused. “Yes.”

  She stepped forward, raked her fingers up the back of my scalp, nails scratching the skin, and kissed me. Her tongue swirled, indulgent and slow, and she pressed herself against my chest.

  “You’re a sweet man, Nathan . . .” Her voice surprisingly soft and yielding, and it swished between my temples and my head lightened. The turbulence coming off her skin, its voltage, was disorienting, like the onset of a fever, and my lips were dry, thirsty, in need of water. It was hot, everything lanced in heat.

  When my eyes came into focus, I was kissing my way down her spine, her palms on the edge of the counter, and I ripped the dress off her shoulder. The crack of her ass was a shade darker, oaken, and following its groove, I grazed my tongue tip along her goose bumps. She drew in air, a sizzling hiss, and I nestled my face between her thighs.

  Within seconds, she was easing down to the floor and she rested onto her back. I never lost contact, gently teasing and licking and tasting her. She spoke in French. She shuddered. Growled low. Then silence. Perhaps she’d lost her nerve or the vein of her excitement. In reaction, I circled very slowly and hoped she’d find her way back.

  The first quiver arrived in her hand clutching my head. The thighs shook. Her belly caved and she called out, “Non, non, non.”

  I carried her in my arms and laid her down on the antique couch beside the big hearth. She stretched out on the velvet. I kissed her neck and ears and mouth and she reached down and guided me inside her. She held on to my back and pressed her torso and thighs tight to my skin. She whispered in my ear and we were tender until the moment of climax.

  “Promise you’ll always be hungry for me,” she said.

  “I promise.”

  “Nail me to the ground.”

  I gathered up her black mane and tugged hard for leverage.

  seventeen

  We drove Bernard’s Citroën to Fontainebleau and bought my materials: gouache greens, blues, greys, browns, and pinks, and big sheets of high-quality paper.

  She sat for me for five consecutive days, moving between the deck and the fourth-floor room on the end with views of the river and smooth light, reenacting that moment when she’d flipped me off. The gouache paint was applied in deliberately clumsy stains and dabs, bleeding over the graphite lines and charcoal shadings. We had to go back to Fontainebleau to buy black gouache for her hair and bush, as the blues nudged the image too far into an ideal.

  We swam every morning and ate sporadically as if sex and painting would sustain us, and at night we talked about where we would go once the drawings were done.

  When the first portrait was nearly finished, Anaïs clipped the top edge of it to a wire I’d hung with duct tape along the back wall in the fourth-floor room. In a kind of stream of consciousness, she paced back and forth, dissecting the work.

  “I like how you allow us to feel the bones through the flesh. It evokes deep, hidden emotions.”

  Now I recognized the skeletal presence in her form and thought that I’d never done it to that extreme before. Some new idea emerging.

  “And you must admire Egon Schiele.”

  “Yes, for sure.”

  “Your use of gouache,” she said, leaning in close to the drawing, studying the subtle dabs of red around the stiff fuck-you finger, “just sort of accenting with it and not feeling the need to make the colors true to life, c’est très Schiele.”

  I saw it now and nodded.

  “And you could learn from the way he embraces everything you seem to shy away from, the various forms of desire.”

  I glanced at her, tilted my head. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Desire is full of violence and pain, even fear.”

  “Well,” I quipped, “ever since I met you, I’ve been acutely in touch with those things.”

  “Oui,” she said with utter nonchalance. “Don’t you see how your work has changed?” She gestured at my pile of materials, specifically at the worn drawing pad opened to the old Tunisian man in the threadbare suit. She squatted and slid it beside the portrait of her.

  Probing the two portraits through the lens of her observations, I saw the jagged, irrational shapes in her image, as opposed to the correct, meticulous lines of the old man.

  “I don’t mean to take the credit,” she said.

  “No. You really bring what is stuck below to the surface,” I told her. “You let it shine out of you, what most people keep hidden, and it makes for great images.”

  “It’s not me that you’re seeing, Nathan. It’s you.”

  I turned and studied her portrait again. My eye fell first on her forlorn expression,
a lost soul, then the puff of her lips, bold, contradicting the rest of her face, and seemingly below it all was her pubic dome where life began, in sheer counterpoint to the stiff fuck-you finger.

  Her image, perhaps its dual spheres, brought me back to the ocean, off the coast of Oregon, to my childhood.

  “In a way, it reminds me of the ocean,” I said, glancing between the portrait and her. “Whenever I went out fishing with Grandfather, he would talk about the wind and the sea and the life below, how it contained its own moods and even feelings, like people. The difference is, he said, nature follows certain laws, while human nature is messy and doesn’t follow any laws.”

  Anaïs’s shoulders drew back and her head turned in a small arc, eyes on me, a gesture of appreciation, beckoning me to tell her more.

  “He was so stoic on land. Barely said a word. But out at sea he talked about all kinds of things. I think he sort of whet my curiosity about the contradictions and paradoxes in us,” I continued. “I remember fishing on a really choppy day, and I asked him why Grandma never came out. She hates boats and the smell of fish, he told me. He must’ve seen the startled look on my face, as he made his living fishing and always smelled of fish. But we enjoy each other’s sense of humor and I love her music and I think she likes my wild stories about the sea,” he explained. We give each other what the other is missing.”

  My voice changed. “He died when I was twelve.”

  Anaïs reached out, put her fingertip on a tear in the corner of my eye, and then brought it close to her face.

  “The shepherd in the storm,” she said. “That’s who you got it from.”

  She looked at me with adoration, seeing some strength in me that I wanted to live up to, and climbed into my lap. We made love. It went on and on, maybe for thirty or forty minutes. Maybe an hour. Slowly subsuming each other.