by James Reese
“I mistook you, Monsieur, for him. The South is chock-a-block with poets. But now you must buy me a chartreuse, as I’m far too embarrassed to take my leave.”
“Certainly,” said I. And when finally I stood, it was only to see her seat herself, as if we two were attached by a pulley system. “Chartreuse?” I led, recovering from these social gymnastics.
“Yes.” She smiled. “The…aqua vitae, the very waters of life.” And when the waiter returned, bearing my coffee, she waved both away, asking…no, demanding two of the sickly green liqueurs instead.
“Not a poet,” said she, looking at me appraisingly and leaning nearer. “Are you then a white slaver? A crook of some kind come up from Marseilles to cool your scheming mind?”
Before I could answer, she went on: “Don’t tell me. You are a heart-sick traveler. Provence, you know, is the recognized cure for northerners dying of broken hearts. You are a traveler, are you not?”
“I am. Yes.”
“From where?” she asked. “And to where?”
“From the north…and I’m not quite sure to where.” A breeze off the green river set to shimmering the flowered vines overhead. Pastel petals wafted down like confetti. The first chartreuse soon became a second.
“Ah,” said she, wisely. “A vagabond of love.” She looked at me so long, so hard, I had to look away; and with a flushed face I managed to say:
“Hardly…. Are you…are you from here, Madame?”
“I am better known in Arles, Monsieur, but best known in Greece. But who can resist dear Avignon. True: one must endure the gypsies.” She then waved with both arms at a transvestite actor passing through the square, a skirt hiked up to his thin hips. Gesturing to same, she added, “One must endure too the traveling players.” Yet she smiled broadly and offered her hand for a kiss as the player came to join us.
He did not sit; indeed, he addressed us both over a low fence of wrought iron that separated the terrasse from the square. “A friend of yours?” he asked, staring all the while at me. Though it seemed an impossibility—we’d only just met, and I’d not yet said a word!—it was clear I’d offended the man, who was frightfully thin and wore more rings than I knew a man might or could wear. Shaking his hand, which he offered grudgingly, was like taking up a bag of marbles.
“Acquaintances,” said she, “proceeding fast toward friendship.”
“Indeed,” came the sniffling response. And then there was laughter, in which I did not share, for, not knowing why they laughed, it seemed foolish to join them. To judge by the actor’s ongoing appraisal of my person, I was, I knew, the focus of the unspoken joke. “Are you,” he asked, staring so hard at my…my various features as to make me shift in my seat, “are you in our play?” And turning to my companion, he added, “Certainly he could be. Among the chorines, non?” Now she turned to take me in as well; and, with a nod to the actor, her smile grew sly.
This last spoken insult was clear, and it cut deeper than either of them could have known. I was glad when my fast-friend said to the man, “Is that not your cue I hear? Go now. Shoo!” And she literally brushed him away; but not before he bent in too willowy a way to take my hand and kiss it, as he had my companion’s some moments earlier. “Charmed,” said he. And finally, with these words of the Bard’s, he took a most welcome leave. “‘I will believe thou hast a mind that suits with this thy fair and outward character.’” Walking away, he turned back twice to look not at me but at my companion. Far away, he raised a thin arm overhead to wave, without turning, a jeweled hand; he seemed to me a sort of evil genie, and I willed him back into the bottle from which he’d come.
Immediately I worried that this woman, before whose beauty I was abashed, might find me rude—inexplicably, for it was the lean and snaky, overly lithe actor who’d intruded, who’d insinuated himself—and so I asked: “Are you an actress, then?”
“I was, formerly, and briefly,” said she, seeming to appraise me still, “…and now I’ve no hope of regaining my former station in society.” As she laughed at this, a cart was trundled past, laden with painted scenery. On the fractured canvas it seemed…yes, I discerned a shipwreck. “I’ve come for rehearsals, to consult, if you will. They open in two days; and the only thing that’s a wreck is the leading ‘lady.’” She looked again at me, hard; sat back to take in my seated length. “Twelfth Night,” said she, with a nod in the direction of the theater. “They’re here with the Bard’s cross-dressing caper. Sebastian, Viola, and the lot.…Do you know it?”
“I do indeed,” said I, and now I knew the line the actor had thrown off. I swallowed hard and said, “I shall be sorry to miss it. I have never seen Shakespeare performed and I’d very much like—”
“Moving on, are you?”
“Oui, tomorrow. To Arles. To Marseilles, finally.”
“And then? Overseas?”
“Yes.” I was reacting bodily to her glance, which now was bold. When she took my hand in hers she no doubt found it clammy and slick. She offered a drawn-out “Hmm,” as one might when tasting a new dish. Suddenly she let go my hand, sat back smiling, and changed her tack. “You must be terribly excited. About the sea voyage. Your first time?”
“Yes, it is. And, yes, I am, Madame…. In truth, I am more than excited: I am afraid, terribly so.” Her eyes showed great sympathy, which ended when she, again, laid her hand on mine and I, foolishly, withdrew, so fast one would have thought she’d hurt me. “Worry not,” said she, leaning so near I could smell the lemony scent of her shining hair. She added, “I bite only when invited.” To this I failed to respond.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, not long after. I was, as was she. Within the quarter hour there sat before us a great fish stew, deeply spiced. We scooped it into our two bowls from the common one. Our chat during dinner—of her travels and light travails—was of little consequence, though her every word was a charm. Dessert involved my first taste of coconut, which I very much enjoyed. Finally, there came coffee and a final chartreuse. We raised the tiny glasses and my companion asked if she might make the toast. I shrugged, and she did so—and with words that nearly set me to choking, said, “To the memory of whoever you were.”
“I…I…”
“Your hands will betray you,” said she, with a conspirator’s smile. “Beware them…. They are too graceful, too elegant to be the hands of a man. And your complexion is perfection.” My hands? I’d always hated my hands, so huge, so…
“I…I…”
“There are laws, my dear, that’s all. You must be aware of them.” She sat back in her chair. “Do this,” she commanded, crossing her legs as men do. “And this,” drumming her fingers impatiently on the table and furrowing her brow. I aped her every move. “…It may have been easier for you in the North, for there, women are often mannish: such was the sacrifice of Catherine the Great, of Queen Elizabeth. But,” she went on, “the southern woman triumphs as she is…. Théodora, Sémiramis, Cléopâtre.” Surely my friend—I will call her Arlesienne, a Woman of Arles, for I never learned her name—had passed an hour or two upon the stage. She declaimed further: “Whether the southern woman is skirting the labyrinths of Crete, or walking dagger in hand along the bloody corridors of Mycenae, whether she poisons her man with ease befitting a Borgia or takes from the toreador’s hand the still-beating trophy of the bull’s heart…”
I coughed to reclaim her attentions, which had strayed in proportion to her rising voice. People were watching us. She concluded: “The southern woman has nothing to fear but her overwhelming sensuality. Now, Monsieur, pay our way from this place and follow me.”
In a moonlit alley she critiqued my walk. She intentionally dropped a kerchief, and when I bent to retrieve it she judged that I’d done so all wrong. “At the waist, not at the knee!” Then that alley gave out onto another, and another; I was so turned around it was with great surprise, and crippling anticipation, that I soon found myself standing before my tiny inn, Arlesienne beside me. “Shall we, Monsieur?” sh
e asked, slipping her arm through mine. I did not respond. I could not respond. Finally, she urged us forward, and into the inn we went.
I was some time under her…tutelage. It was fun, and yes, informative. That is, once she recovered from her initial surprise and learned the truth she’d only half-suspected.
“Mon Dieu!” said she, raising the back of her thin and elegant hand to her forehead and falling backward onto the bed, her vest and bodice undone. “Could it be the green faeries of the chartreuse have finally taken hold?” There I stood at the bed’s end, my blouse open, my pants unbuttoned—not by me—and fallen to bunch at my knee, at the mouth of my boots. “I thought you were a simple woman, a woman a bit shy in the sapphic sense—of these I’ve known a few. But this! It’s…it’s…an embarrassment of riches!” And she fell then into a kind laughter that was the most welcome sound I’d ever heard. “Not to worry, lucky one,” said she. “I’ve seen the same before, in Cairo. But I wonder, will I charge you double?” Again, that laughter. Only then did I understand: here was that species of woman I’d long been warned against, a woman who charged for her…intimacies. And indeed, intimacies they were, for knowing what I knew it was as though a wall had crumbled and I could say what I had to say, ask what I had to ask, do what I had to do, all without fear of censure. It was as though some silly clock of shame had ticked to a stop. So it was I said, finally, summarily, “I know nothing,” and she rose up into my arms, kissed me, and said, “That will all change in an hour’s time.”
There then recommenced that game of comparison that I, spurred by the succubus, had begun in the bath with Roméo. In Avignon, blessedly, there’d be no disruption.
Most marked in my memory is the weight of her breasts, so much fuller than mine. And the curve of her hips, so much more pronounced. But in truth, it was she who set to work with diligence, and without embarrassment—and she told me all she learned: “Ah, but it feels adequately deep and…and you’ve been with a man, haven’t you? I can tell.” There is intimacy, yes; but then there’s intimacy—which is to say I did not tell Arlesienne about Father Louis and the night he’d come to me. Rather, writhing beneath and before and behind her, doing what I was told, I let her work on. “And this little devil is not little at all. I tell you because it’s the question every man asks, and I suppose you’re no different in that way.” She asked if I was dry. “Do you bleed?” came the question a second time. And when finally I understood, I said, “Yes. On occasion. But not with what I understand to be regularity.” This she thought interesting, but she said nothing more; instead, she lowered her mouth to my…offerings, and took them as a connoisseur would.
“Lucky, indeed,” mused she as we lay, some time later, spent, in that narrow bed. I had so many questions to ask, so many things to say…and so I spoke not a word. Already I was recollecting events just passed, acts committed by and upon me. All I did manage to say—I admit it—is that I wanted more. “Perhaps some other time,” laughed a tired Arlesienne, adding, “What you are, primarily, my friend, is young; and I am exhausted.” She stood. She asked for my help in retrieving her clothes from the four corners of the room. She asked me to help her dress, and that was not the least erotic moment I spent in her company.
Finally, I followed her to the door, and there we stood, she dressed and me not. “Hear this,” said she, fixing my gaze, “I find you beautiful. I do.” I thanked her, for I believed her. And then, one hand on the door’s latch, the other extended, palm up, she added, “And my advice to you is this: never do for free what it is you do best.” I invited her to help herself to my money, and I cannot say how much she took. I will say only that I valued the lessons learned from Arlesienne far more than the coin they cost me.
At parting, I asked if I might see her again. “Hélas, no,” said she. “I leave at dawn, or earlier, if les acteurs, whom I am due soon to meet, dissuade me from sleep altogether.” And with a final kiss and the twin wishes of “bonne chance” and “courage,” Arlesienne left me.
From the window, I watched her. And glad I was when she turned to…No. It was not a wave she offered, not at first, but rather a salute of strength—a raised and clenched fist, teamed with the warmest of smiles. And then, only then, the gentlest of waves.
The last thing I remember of that night is looking down through the wavering glass of my second-story window, toward the square into which Arlesienne had disappeared, out over the full river, up the broad dark mass of the Palace; and up at the faintest of moons, wondering what powers it might possess and hoping—hope which I expressed aloud, in a godless prayer—that those powers might augment mine when finally we arrived at the crossroads. I did not sleep well, for I dreamed wakefully of Arlesienne.
The seventh day, the day of the deed, dawned sunny and bright.
I woke early, determined to see the sights. Surely we were near enough the crossroads that I could spend some time exploring? (In truth, I wanted to return to the café, wanted not so much to start a new day as to resume the night.) Apparently, it had rained quite heavily while I’d slept, and my hostess, at breakfast, upon learning of my intention to explore a bit, asked flatly, rudely, if I’d never seen mud before. Mud was all I was likely to see around Avignon, said she, as the river had risen in the night to meet the falling rain. (“The devil Rhône!” exclaimed she.) “Nevertheless,” said I, “I shall have a walk,” and at this she let go a snort and set three soft-boiled eggs before me.
The mountains of the Ardèche were sending torrents down their slopes to further raise the levels of the Rhône and its tributaries. I would learn from a traveler, present at breakfast, that river water had risen to the base of the city walls of nearby Vaucluse, where the quay was completely obscured and the surrounding country seemed but a vast lake of molten silver. Avignon, even after the night’s rain, had fared a bit better. I could and did explore its streets, finding only the minority impassable.
Of course, I headed straight to the café. Waiters shoveled sand onto the rain-slickened pavers of the terrasse. In a corner, bent over a copy of Le monde illustré, sat a woman who was not Arlesienne. And though I took every turn in the expectation of suddenly seeing her before me—this despite what she’d told me of her plans—Arlesienne did not appear, and the sights of Avignon suffered her absence.
Indeed, I don’t have many observations worth recording here, which is not to demean the place, but rather to attest to my distraction, which was extreme…. Finally, the day had come. The day of the deed. We were quite near the crossroads now and that very night the new moon would rise.
Among all that water—the risen water, the worry of water—it was my mind that skipped like a stone from thought to thought to thought. Arlesienne, of course, and lessons newly learned, but also…Well, I knew nothing of sailing, had never even been on a boat; yet soon I would take to the ocean. I was scared by all I’d read in novels of port cities and the nature of sailors. To me every sailor was a pirate. Surely I’d never pass among them as a man.
I was concerned most, that early morning in Avignon, about my practice of the Craft.
With these and other worries crowding my mind, I took to the still-empty streets and the role of tourist, which I’d play as best I could.
By the light of day the Palace was…was less impressive. Bald, plain, ugly, and so simply defensive; and built on a fourteenth-century platform of “principles that have not commended themselves to the esteem of posterity,” as an Englishman, well-met in the shadows, put it. Indeed, what I remember most vividly of that, my matutinal visit to the Palace, is the Englishman, for with him I spoke English for the first time outside of a classroom or the privacy of my mind.
Indeed, from that morning in Avignon, much of what I’d see in the South took on a funereal cast, seemed but the deadened marriage of rock and ruin…. This, perhaps, is owing to the nature of our impending mission…. Funereal, indeed.
…I proceeded to cross the river and walk on for some while, muddy up to the knee, into Villeneuve-les-Av
ignon. Not much to commend that place either—again, the fault is mine—save for the huge round towers of its citadel and its long broken stretches of wall. Farther from the river, the place came to seem half-populated—and that half of the population comprised children, old women, and dogs lazing in the early sun. There were no streets to speak of. The unattractive houses seemed to have fallen here and there; they lay scattered about, crooked on the uneven ground, like the shriveled pits of fruits fallen from the vine, lifeless and hard. Lest I sound too harsh, let me add that as I walked through that place I saw beyond it an unflooded field of lavender, which cheered both Villeneuve and myself.
Crossing the river again, I encountered a flock of nuns in gray robes and red capes. They moved in procession. Each smiled at me in her turn, and those smiles—had I not been so anxious—might have been enough to render me melancholy for what remained of the day.
Back in Avignon before midday, I hired a much more agile conveyance and paid its driver well to take me out into the surrounding countryside. We headed into watery Vaucluse—I had to insist, and come up with more coin; I had also to suffer the constant sighing of my driver, whom I did not like, and who opined at one point that what I needed was not a driver but a gondolier.
Eventually we achieved higher ground, and I saw about me the famed landscape of Provence. It was odd to have risen from the sodden, if not flooded lowlands to this arid landscape, lacking the tall trees and hedgerows I’d known all my life. Here there bloomed only heath and scattered, scented shrubs, an occasional stand of cypress in the distance; and everything, including the almost painfully stunted, gnarled olive trees seemed to hunker low to the ground, as if crouched in fear of the sun or the sea or the coming mistral. Everywhere there rose up huge outcroppings of rock.
I had the driver stop and I stepped down from the two-wheeled rig that, behind a horse of suspect fitness, had carried me up, up to higher and drier ground. The driver seemed content to sit back, tip his hat against the lemony light of early afternoon, and wait for sleep to overtake him, which I’ve no doubt it quickly did. As for the old nag, well, it seemed a kindness on my part to let it stand still—and I hoped it would be standing, still, upon my return. I walked off, intent on exploring a bit on foot.