by Tom Gamble
Edouard smiled nonchalantly. ‘Much the same, in any case. And what about you, Jeanne? Too afraid to dress up?’
Jeanne let out a moan. ‘No—my parents again. But I’ve a bag somewhere with my disguise. Every time I want to put it on, Sarah tugs me away.’
‘She’s drunk,’ said Cécile, giggling.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Drunk with love,’ winked Cécile, crooning the last word so that it came out as lerrrrve. Sarah let out a shriek which made Edouard cringe. ‘Lucky you!’ added Cécile.
‘Yes,’ said Sarah, suddenly sober, ‘Lucky me.’ A look rather like that of a lost child came across her face. ‘Oh God…’ she said, distantly. ‘I think I need to get drunk. Come on, I’ll show you where papa’s punch is.’
Cécile moved off with her, but Jeanne stayed. ‘I’ll get changed first.’ She turned back to Edouard and smiled and was about to go in search of her bag when Edouard put his hand on her elbow, gently pulling her back.
‘Yes?’ she said, sure that the young man had a question. Instead, Edouard stood riveted and quite ill-at-ease, staring at his coiled slippers. ‘Yes, Edouard?’ inquired Jeanne again and frowned. ‘You’re not going to be sick or anything?’
It seemed to wake him up. ‘Lord no!’ he blurted. Another uneasy silence.
‘Well?’ insisted Jeanne. ‘What is it, then?’
‘What’s happened, Jeanne?’ Jeanne frowned in incomprehension and Edouard took another breath. ‘You—seem—different.’
‘Different? Why does everybody keep saying I’m different?’
‘I—I don’t mean different as in—as in strange,’ said Edouard, moving closer. Unfortunately, the rashly curving points of his slippers immediately stabbed into Jeanne’s shins.
‘Ow!!’ she cried, hopping back and rubbing her skin.
‘Oh, God—did I hurt you?’ said Edouard. ‘Bloody slippers! Oh God, I’m sorry Jeanne.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Jeanne, wincing. ‘Well?’
‘Well,’ continued Edouard with great effort. ‘I meant different as in—pretty.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘Yes, you’re—it’s hard to put a finger on it,’ battled Edouard.
‘Edouard, I’m not a stamp,’ said Jeanne.
‘Quite. You see, it’s—you’re—it’s almost as if you’ve become a woman.’
Jeanne frowned. ‘A woman? But I’ve always been a woman.’
‘No, silly. Woman as in grown-up—sort of a real woman.’
Jeanne remained silent. She looked at Edouard looking at her. And Edouard’s look was suddenly and unashamedly roving, almost—to put it in his own terms—male. A strange sense of dawning came over her, a remote, questioning curiosity.
‘Edouard?’
‘Yes.’ Edouard’s voice had croaked to a whisper. ‘Yes,’ he added, more forcefully.
‘We did…’ she lowered her voice. ‘We did kiss, didn’t we.’
Edouard nodded. ‘My first on any woman’s lips.’
‘Apart from your mother’s,’ added Jeanne.
‘Not even,’ replied Edouard.
‘No—me neither,’ said Jeanne, mechanically. ‘But we kissed—on two occasions.’
‘Not a real kiss, though. Not—you know.’
Jeanne felt her skin glow beneath her clothes. What an obscene, divine thought—kissing with tongues. ‘I was curious,’ she said, for no conscious reason. ‘That’s why I wanted to kiss you.’
‘Hmm,’ hummed Edouard, analysing the issue. ‘Me too, I suppose.’
‘Do you write poetry, Edouard?’
Edouard looked surprised. ‘No—why d’you say that?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose I could do if I had to, though. Rhymes—it’s all down to rhymes. That’s what good poetry’s all about.’
Jeanne laughed. ‘Edouard—you sound like my father!’
‘Well, it was him who told me,’ defended Edouard. The look on Edouard’s face was one of shock. And then she knew. It was like two threads coming together.
‘You mean you’ve been talking to father about poetry? About—about me?’
‘Jeanne,’ he said, ‘I’d like to show you—’ But Edouard did not finish.
‘Show me your bug collection, no doubt!’ interrupted Jeanne, scathingly. ‘Bugs!’ she hissed again, and walked away.
‘Jeanne, I don’t collect bugs,’ Edouard called sulkily after her. ‘I collect…stamps.’
Jeanne found them from the muted giggles coming from behind the door. She knocked. Silence. She knocked again, more softly.
‘It’s me—Jeanne.’
Come in!’ came a collective hiss, followed, instants later by the sound of a key turning.
Jeanne pushed open the door, which was then quickly shut again and locked. The room was gloomy, the window open though failing to dissipate the smell of cigarettes and the sickly-sweet cocktail of rum and orange juice. A glass was thrust in her hand. She sipped and pulled a face.
‘Still haven’t changed into your costume?’ said Cécile.
‘You look different,’ added Sarah, unknowingly.
‘Oh, God!’ pleaded Jeanne. ‘Not you, too!’
‘What have I said?’ shrieked Sarah only to be hushed by Cécile. ‘Sorry—must be the booze. I need to piss.’
‘Sarah—your language!’
Cécile burst into a fit of giggling, bringing Sarah with her. ‘What’s the matter, anyway? You look in a terribly dark mood.’
Jeanne sat down on the side of Sarah’s bed, next to her two friends. Cécile’s veil had fallen away and her mascara had run. ‘Edouard—that’s the matter. The fool has been speaking to my father—plotting!’ In a gesture of extreme interest, both Sarah and Cécile suddenly drew themselves closer. ‘Plotting about my future.’
‘You mean he wants to marry you?’ gaped Cécile. ‘Another one! And what about me!?’
‘We should never have kissed,’ said Jeanne, and realised, too late, that she had let her secret escape.
‘You kissed—with Edouard the philatelist, the future chartered accountant!?’ ‘But not with—you know.’
‘Tongues,’ said Sarah, with a worldly tone to her voice. ‘Oh, poor girl. So you don’t yet know…’
‘What’s it like?’ said Jeanne, desperately looking to steer the conversation away from Edouard and herself.
‘Must be sticky,’ commented Cécile, taking a gulp from her glass.
‘It’s warm and moist and lovely and—and very tickly,’ explained Sarah, inspired. Jeanne and Cécile giggled. Sarah continued. ‘Henri is a sublime kisser. So érotique.’ This time, Jeanne could hardly contain her imagination from moaning aloud. ‘When he kisses me,’ added Sarah, her voice becoming soft and husky, ‘I feel like fainting with pleasure.’
‘Go on, go on,’ encouraged Cécile.
‘At first he kisses me softly on the lips and then—not always, for I tease a little and remain in that position—’
‘Closed lips,’ informed Jeanne.
‘Apparently it’s the thing to do.’
‘Why?’ inquired Cécile, frowning.
‘Well it’s supposed to make men more appreciative of a woman, I think.’
‘I should think it makes them rather annoyed,’ commented Jeanne.
‘That’s the whole point,’ said Sarah, shaking her head. ‘Don’t you see—it makes them more—more brutal.’
‘Strange,’ mumbled Cécile. ‘Why would you want them to be brutal?’
‘Not at all. Mother said it was like the relationship between a lion and a gazelle.’
‘You spoke to your mother about sex??’ gasped Jeanne. It was unthinkable.
‘Of course—when I announced my feelings for Henri, it was the first thing we talked about. She took me aside when papa was at work and we had a marvellous chat.’
‘God, you’re lucky,’ said Jeanne. ‘I think my mother believes sex is just another word for gender.’
‘Well—what else did Mater say?’ asked
Cécile, curling up and unconsciously baring her knees.
Sarah drank from her glass and held it out for Cécile to re-fill. ‘Well—she spoke of the clitoris.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The clitoris…’ Sarah hesitated, letting the word linger and settle in, much as her mother had done during their talk. ‘The clitoris is a jewel, a hidden and sacred treasure on a woman’s body.’ Silence. Somewhat baffled, Jeanne and Cécile exchanged glances. ‘It’s a metaphor,’ explained Sarah, secretly hoping they’d understand, for it was, beyond all doubt, even for her, quite a delicate subject to explain.
‘In fact I remember,’ said Cécile, with effort, ‘overhearing the word and asking mummy. I must have been fourteen, I think.’
‘And what did she say, then?’ asked Sarah, hoping a revelation would come to Cécile.
‘I said mother—what does it mean? and mummy said oh, something scientific—’
Silence.
‘Is that all?’
‘Well—yes. I didn’t dare ask more.’
‘A clitoris,’ said Sarah, once again taking up the forbidden subject, and this time with great wisdom and certitude filling her voice, ‘is a small nodule of skin and muscle situated in a woman’s sexual regions which becomes hard during loving encounter and which leads to the female reaching—reaching—’
‘Go on!’
‘Reaching orgasm.’
Jeanne gasped. Cécile said: ‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, shut up!’ scolded Sarah. ‘Use a dictionary, for heaven’s sake!’
‘Whatever it is, it sounds useful,’ said Cécile.
‘When you find it, you’ll know it,’ said Sarah, wistfully.
‘I’ll second that,’ lied Jeanne, feeling herself blushing and fearing another question from Cécile. She took another sip—and a second—from her glass of punch. Cécile stared at them, miserably.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake!’ blurted Sarah, irritably. ‘Stop pulling that cow face. Here!’ And suddenly, Sarah’s hand darted up Cécile’s dress and probed. Cécile looked at her, rigid and quite still and said nothing. A frown appeared on Sarah’s face.
‘You look as though you’re rummaging for biscuits at the back of the cupboard,’ whispered Jeanne, totally mesmerised, totally confused.
‘It’s a bit like that,’ murmured Sarah. ‘Hold still! Maybe not every woman has one? Mother didn’t mention that. There—that’s it! It must be!’
‘Oh, God!’ Cécile looked as though she’d been electrocuted. She let out a squeal: ‘Yes—that must be it!’ Sarah withdrew her hand and Cécile fell back, relapsing into a fit of giggles. ‘My God! Thanks awfully!’
Sarah tipped her head, a heroine’s recognition, a woman, took a puff of her cigarette and drank.
The sound of voices suddenly came from behind the door. Men’s voices. The three friends froze then, not without a certain amount of clattering, quickly hid away the incriminating glasses.
‘Are you in there?’ It was Henri’s voice. ‘Sarah—come out. We’re putting some music on the grammy. Time to dance.’
Arriving back in the reception room, a popular waltz was playing on the gramophone. Jeanne was surprised however to see that no one was dancing. And then Monsieur Bassouin, rather gallantly bowing to his wife, took the floor. Henri, dressed in his flowing desert robes, guided Sarah forwards. Ludo glanced across at Jeanne, Jeanne nodded and then Edouard stepped up, minus his fez, and took her by the elbow before Ludo could come to her.
They danced almost at arm’s length, both through their lingering uneasiness and the fact that Edouard’s ornate slippers forbade any closeness.
‘You haven’t changed,’ commented Edouard, at last, glancing at her clothes.
‘You said I had,’ returned Jeanne, dryly.
‘Not that—’ Edouard began to explain and then pulled a face. ‘Look, Jeanne—I do apologise. And—why did you say I collected bugs for heaven’s sake?’ He shook his head.
Jeanne pursed her lips. ‘Oh, something my mother said,’ returned Jeanne. And then, after a moment, ‘look—I do think I like you. I just don’t want anyone to suddenly surprise me by saying that I had to be friends with so-and-so. Do you understand?’
Edouard frowned.
‘But isn’t that how it works?’
‘Maybe here—yes, but—’
Edouard shrugged his shoulders. ‘So why should it bother you?’
‘Edouard!’ Jeanne looked shocked. ‘Romance—haven’t you heard?’
‘Oh, that,’ said Edouard. ‘We kissed didn’t we?’
‘But that was just curiosity.’
‘Several times.’
‘And poetry and messages and letters and mystery?’
Edouard sniggered and then grew serious. ‘You know, Jeanne—I am capable of that. Every man, once he falls for a girl, is. Just look at the couples we know—just look at our parents! Some men are the oddest of sorts. But I’m sure even the ugliest, most idiotic of them managed to woo their wives with verse.’
‘So you’re not in love,’ said Jeanne, the thought coming to herslowly, like gears setting into motion.
‘Why, no,’ said Edouard, momentarily letting his hold go. He frowned.
‘Well, neither am I—at least…’ said Jeanne, then thought it wiser to stop there. They danced in silence for a full verse.
‘I like you, too,’ said Edouard at last, as though he had analysed the situation thoroughly and was ready to pronounce his findings. Jeanne hummed and glanced away. Cécile’s face, beaming with a grin, waltzed past—she was with Ludo, Henri’s most handsome friend. Then she saw Monsieur Bassouin, who smiled at her and she forced herself to smile back.
‘Well, I can’t envisage any relationship without love coming into it,’ she said, thinking aloud.
‘Well,’ said Edouard, his voice lowered. ‘Neither can I.’
‘So please don’t plot with father.’
‘Well, I was thinking,’ Edouard offered, ‘That perhaps it might happen—quite soon.’
‘What?’ Jeanne straightened. ‘You mean…?’ Edouard’s face remained uncommitted, but she was sure she had understood. ‘You mean like switching on an electric lamp?’
‘No one knows how it happens,’ said Edouard. ‘Electric lamp—not bad.’ Again Jeanne looked away, lost. Suddenly, his words seemed quite grown up, quite irrefutable. She knew he was expecting a reply, but what could she say? It was almost as if Edouard were proposing. The music stopped. Edouard pulled away and gave a slight bow. ‘And I didn’t step on your toes once,’ he added, suddenly seeming quite full of himself. It was an Edouard she hadn’t noticed before. Sure, confident and armed with a rueful smile. And then she saw a look of concern then alarm come over his face and before she could turn round to see what it was that had caused it, she felt herself be drawn into a pair of arms—Ludo’s arms.
‘Thanks awfully,’ said Ludo, nodding brusquely at Edouard.
‘A pleasure,’ replied Edouard and then staggered back as Cécile collided with him.
‘Let’s dance, Edouard,’ chirped Cécile. ‘But please, take those bloody horns off your feet!’
The music began again. Jazz. Jeanne couldn’t move. She looked sheepishly at Ludo, a whole head and a half above her. He smiled in return.
‘Don’t worry. Just follow me,’ he said. ‘It’s an integral part of final year’s study. Paris would not exist without jazz.’
Despite the advice, Jeanne at first tried to move to the rhythm, only to be gently but firmly guided otherwise. It was a far different cry from anything else she’d ever experienced. She felt like a rag doll and remembered Baudelaire, her teddy, and how she used to make him dance when she was a child. She wasn’t really sure she liked it. It was violent—almost a struggle. Several times she felt Ludo’s grasp tighten, his muscles flex. Like a lion and a gazelle, she thought, Sarah’s words echoing in her head. She pushed back, glancing up and Ludo smiled strangely before he countered with his own push—one, two and the thi
rd time, she felt herself spinning round, his hands clasping hers, her back suddenly projected into his stomach. She felt the warmth of his body and—good God—he had actually touched her. Her immediate reaction was to push him away, but in that position her body only managed a rippling motion. He was on her back like the lion and she was indeed as helpless as his gazelle. She felt her body become limp, submissive. And his grip loosened too. He turned her, gently this time, so that they came back facing each other. The music seemed to slow, and it did—to a sort of march.
‘You see,’ said Ludo. ‘You can do it. Well done.’
Jeanne looked troubled, glanced away and then looked back. ‘Thank you.’ Ludo said nothing, but she felt his hand squeeze her arm, ever so slightly. Could this be…how it happens? she said to herself, remembering her conversation with Edouard. Like a mortal struggle and then—and then metaphorical death, the strange serenity of it all, the acceptance?
‘How old are you?’ she said, involuntarily.
Ludo distanced himself to look at her, grinned, then drew close once more. ‘Twenty-six. And I imagine you’re twenty-five.’
Jeanne giggled. ‘Not quite. Are you—are you what they call a seducer?’
This time Ludo let out a laugh. ‘Ha! You’re such a different kind of girl. What do you think?’ Jeanne thought that Ludo must be the umpteenth person to have said she was different that week, but she didn’t say this. Instead, she frowned. ‘Please don’t ponder too much,’ said Ludo. ‘You’re much better when you don’t. And I say that as a compliment.’
‘I think you’re very handsome, a little scary. Maybe it’s because you’re tall. Maybe it’s your background.’
‘My background?’ smiled Ludo. ‘Why, we’re probably of the same. My father works for the République. He organises rail logistics for the army. Listen—’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I’m a little tired—I journeyed all day to be here. May we sit somewhere calm and chat? I’d like that.’
Jeanne looked into his eyes, felt reassured and nodded. ‘That would be nice.’
13
The evening was turning to night and the air was cool and sharp. Summerfield sat on the uneven roof of his meagre rooms and contemplated the sky with his headscarf on, a cigarette and a thimble of whisky. It was his weekly treat, a ration he savoured from the bottle he’d bought in Gibraltar. Almost another life, he said to himself. It was another life, his thoughts confirmed.