Love in the Loire

by David Leddick

  And now Nina was standing beside Cass at a cocktail party being held for Cranston Muller by the village of Cornichons at the hotel. Mme. LeBrun had been radiant in a pale blue silk dress at the door, standing beside her husband, the mayor. Short and in brown. No one looks good in brown Nina noted as she entered with Graham, Hugo, and Steve. “Three!” Madame LeBrun had exclaimed as they entered. “Three handsome men! How lucky you are.”

  “I’m not sleeping with all of them,” Nina said.

  “Let me guess which one,” Madame said, which Nina thought was very quick for a French person. Once they entered they were soon swirled away in separate directions. Cass looked quite handsome in a white linen jacket and a deep tan. He said to Nina without even saying hello, “I’ve always wanted to fuck you.”

  Nina said very evenly, “I don’t suppose there are many women here this evening you could say that to.”

  Cass looked around. “Nope, you are by far the most attractive.”

  “I meant that most of them you already have.”

  “Tu exagere,” Cass said in French. “You exaggerate. I was thinking that if you weren’t interested in adultery perhaps we could make it a threesome with your husband. I understand that he’s used to that kind of thing.”

  “From whom do you understand that?” Nina asked. She took some stuffed egg and a bit of salmon on toast from a tray that was passing under her nose.

  “Not from whom, from what,” Cass said, helping himself to the same tray. “I ran across some videos the other day. From the United States. Your husband has had some interesting jobs.”

  “I’d have to see some proof of that,” Nina said, turning away.

  “I could bring them around some evening. If you’re interested.”

  “Oh, I’m very interested. Perhaps we could invite Emmeline Wainwright and her husband, too, and make it a fivesome.”

  Nina Reflects

  I woke up this morning feeling very feminine and very flat. Graham was already up and out of the house, running most probably. He wakes up at seven, gets Theo going with his day, and dashes around the village in brief shorts making hearts go pit-a-pat. I can hear Theo in his room in his playpen. If he needs me he’ll call out, but he’s very self-sufficient. Who knows what imaginary playmates and imaginary responsibilities he has. He’s probably going to grow up to be a banker.

  I stretched out flat in the empty bed, the summer wind blowing through the closed green shutters, the room sunk in gloom but cheerful with the sunlight that manages to creep in. My body felt very flat, even if I am pregnant. Flat and a bit as if I had been rolled out by some giant rolling pin. And I felt very female. Not so much that I had a yawning vagina, but that I definitely did not have a penis. There was a definite space between those legs. And I flashed on primitive woman. Even preprimitive woman. Maybe even earlier. Human life just after the fish crawled out of the ocean. The first humans or humanlike things that wandered the planet were like this. Tall and flat and squarish with an opening. Perhaps we reproduced like fish, just laying lots of eggs. Or were we like the seahorse, which takes turns being male and female? And then for some reason our clitoris decided to become a penis on some of us. And our vagina shrunk up into that little seam that men have between their testes and their anus. You’ve never seen that? I assure you I have.

  This is probably some scientific concept that has been much written about somewhere and I just missed it. There was one species, and it subdivided so that some of them could hunt and some of them could gather and mother. So men were designed to kill, and women were designed to protect. We seem to have a lot of trouble getting over it. The ritual killing required to become a warrior seems to be imbedded in men pretty deeply, although women seem to be able to get over their nurture programming more easily.

  So there you have it. Me in bed, flat and somehow aqueous, just the way we all were before we got those hanging testicles and penis and pendulous bosoms and became forever different.

  A Conversation

  Nina had invited me to lunch. At the little café thirty steps from the front of her house. She had said, “I know you are busy from dawn to dusk over there, particularly now that you’re in rehearsal for The Red Mill, but I need a little advice. Can you squeeze in a quick lunch?” And we agreed to meet the next day at noon. I could do that if I could get the chance to be out of there by one, or thirteen hundred hours, as they say in France. The time goes from one in the morning around to twenty-four hundred hours at midnight. I wonder why they say hundred? It’s not as though they divided the hour up into a hundred tiny minutes, as they have everything else. The meter, the kilo, etc. I wonder why they did that? It’s not Napoleonic. Much more recent. The petty concern is very French.

  Nina looked pretty as she sat waiting at a table under the handful of trees that stood in front of the café. I wondered how much older she was than Graham. I knew she was older, though a difference of age is not something that would have ever occurred to one when you saw them together. Where was Graham? Probably keeping an eye on Theo.

  “You’re looking pretty,” I said as I sat down.

  “Thank you, Hugo,” she said. “It’s the pale blue.” She was wearing a light blue cotton dress with matching espadrilles. She’d probably made a big effort to find the light blue cotton shoes to match her dress, but it all looked very throwaway. It wasn’t that kind of “Ooh . . . matching” look.

  “Pale blue is very good for blondes with blue eyes. You’re looking kind of dashing yourself,” she said.

  “I wonder what the natives make of all these Americans dressing as though they are in St. Tropez. And here we are in the far-flung fields of the Touraine,” I said. I was wearing a navy blue tee-shirt and white pants. You can hardly go wrong wearing that.

  “You’re getting very tan, too,” Nina said.

  “Just my face and arms,” I said. “The rest of me looks a little oystery.”

  “Graham is tan all over,” Nina said. “He throws himself down in the garden with nothing on.”

  “It sounds quite sexy,” I said.

  “It is. I can hardly get my housework done. And I’m already pregnant.”

  A woman in a short white dress walked by switching the pleated skirt. The dress had been designed for a woman at least twenty years her junior. I said, “The French sense of fashion gets completely lost in hot weather, doesn’t it.”

  “Perhaps you should be a fashion editor,” Nina said. “It’s true. Even the designers get lost. The Italians less so, but they’re not much better. The idea of less is more seems to evaporate when the thermometer climbs. They tend to want to put on long skirts or children’s clothing. And you can’t really be wearing a lot of makeup in climates where you perspire, which really throws them. One can be shocked walking down the Rue de Rivoli at all the bad hairdos, overheated faces, and weird outfits. The idea seems to be that your body should feel cool and any kind of strange garments inspired by the 1920s or the hippie period are quite acceptable.”

  “Good. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t the only one who felt that way,” I said.

  “It’s hard for an American to take a fashion position in France, but you’re not wrong,” Nina said.

  We ordered. I had a croque-monsieur. One of these days I’m going to be sorry I ate all these grilled-cheese sandwiches with a slice of ham in them. But they’re so delicious.

  “So,” I said and looked at my watch, “now I have fifty minutes. What’s cooking?”

  Nina said, “You know I believe that if there’s no solution it isn’t a problem; it’s just a fact. And I guess I need an intelligent lad like you to tell me if there is a problem here, or if it’s just a fact. And if it is a problem, what are your ideas about solutions.”

  “Check,” I said. I liked her idea that if there was no solution it’s not a problem, so stop worrying about it.

  “Cass Brewster,” she said. She had ordered a salad with a bit of smoked salmon on it. Probably what I should have ordered.

&
nbsp; I said nothing. Who knew where this conversation was going? If she was going to tell me she was leaving Graham for Cass Brewster I was planning to be very surprised.

  “Cass Brewster seems to be doing a kind of blackmailing thing with these women he’s slept with,” Nina said. “They bump uglies. He takes pictures. And then he not only walks out on them knowing they won’t complain, but he asks them to help him find work.”

  “How do you know this?” I asked. The croque-monsieur was great. I looked down. I wasn’t bulging yet.

  “I’d rather not say,” Nina said.

  “You can tell me. I don’t gossip,” I said.

  “We are becoming good friends, aren’t we? But this is a confidence I’ll keep to myself. It’s from a source you know nothing about, and somehow, even if you reveal a confidence to someone you know won’t discuss it, once out in the air it seems to fly about everywhere. So you have to let me keep this one close to my chest,” Nina said.

  “Close to your rather nice chest,” I said.

  “I didn’t think gay men noticed such things,” Nina said.

  “Beauty is beauty, Madame,” I said. “Okay, is this a problem or just a thing, this Cass situation?” I glanced at my watch again. “At first glance, it seems to just be a thing as long as these women seem to find him so irresistible. But perhaps something will occur to me. Okay. I’ve got ten minutes. Let’s share a slice of apple tart, and I’m out of here.” Nina told me about the polaroids Cass took of his lady friends.

  As I was finishing my part of the apple tart I had an idea as to what to do with Mr. Cass Brewster. It seemed kind of cheap and dreadful, but then again, so was Cass Brewster, so perhaps it would be appropriate. I would have to discuss it with Steve. I leaped up, threw down my napkin after wiping my mouth, kissed Nina good-bye, and said, “I have an idea, but I’m going to leave you out of the loop. You’ve kept your confidence, and if I’m effective, you won’t have a moment’s guilt because you will know nothing about it. Arrivederci.” And I sprinted for the Abbey gate.

  La Piège

  I pulled Cass’s cock out of my mouth and said, “Did you get that?” Actually, he had quite a nice cock, and I’m certainly not above putting someone’s cock in my mouth just because I don’t like him. Get real. But this was something quite different. This was my little plot to put Mr. Cass Brewster in a position where he couldn’t blackmail his little lady friends. I know you’re thinking, It also allows you to suck his cock, which is something you probably have been wanting to do all along anyway. Which is probably not entirely wrong. I am not particularly drawn to Mister Cass, but on the other hand, I have an exploratory nature.

  Steve nodded. “That was a good one.” He was holding the camera. He had a big erection. He was helping me record Cass Brewster having sex with two guys as part of our sting operation here in Cornichons, but he was finding it sexually not all that boring. I was glad, so if this whole thing came up for discussion later, I can always say, “You got hard, too, my friend.”

  I had run into Cass in the grocery store only a few days after my conversation with Nina. You run into everyone at the grocery store. Actually, there are two groceries in Cornichons, almost across the street from each other. One is the more serious one, which I’m sure hasn’t changed in twenty years. The other is run by a bed-headed blonde and is a bit snappier in its merchandise. I try to divide my purchases between the two of them so I don’t have to skulk when I walk past either of them. I was buying some fresh fruit to keep in my room so I don’t have to starve to death during the night. Actually, I sleep so late, sometimes I have to grab an apple and run for it without any coffee or croissant or anything. Cass was buying breakfast food and some Diet Coke. All bachelors have the same food purchasing patterns, I guess.

  “I haven’t seen you around,” Cass said as we stood by the little counter waiting to check out.

  “They have me closeted at the Abbey all day,” I said. “Those kids require constant attention.”

  “Are you just as closeted at night?” he said.

  “Actually, I’m not really closeted at all,” I said. “That was just an expression. How about you?”

  Cass looked around to see if there were any English speakers within earshot. It’s always a mistake to assume that people around you don’t speak the language you’re speaking. You can get into big trouble that way. But I don’t mind a few double-entendres now and then. And finally, unless it’s a four-letter word, I’ll say pretty much anything in front of anybody.

  Cass said, “One foot in and one foot out.”

  “Well, at least you have one foot,” I said as I stepped up to the counter to pay. Let’s be provocative, shall we?

  I waited for Cass outside the store with my plastic bag of apples and oranges. When he came out he said, “I haven’t got one foot, but I’ve got enough to keep it interesting. Shall we meet somewhere? I can’t ask you out to dinner. I don’t think I want to make that much of a public statement.”

  “You know the difference between fooling around and screwing around, don’t you?” I said.

  “No,” he said. “Maybe it’s because I’m English.”

  “Screwing around is fooling around without dinner,” I said.

  “Well, I guess I’m suggesting some screwing around,” Cass said.

  “I have to ask my meaningful other,” I said. “At the moment, I’m sleeping with Steve Strapontin, and I can’t do it if he objects. Maybe he’d like to join us. Would you have any objection to that?”

  “In no way. The more the merrier. I think I could probably make the two of you happy. I’m that kind of guy. Always thinking of others.”

  “That’s what people say. That Cass is all heart.”

  “All something,” he said. “How about this for a plan? Today’s Monday. Wednesday evening right after dinner I’m going to hang out at the café down by the intersection. If you guys are up for it, come on down there. And we can go out to my place from there.”

  “Where do you live?” I asked. I didn’t want to go anywhere where he had to drive me back. Or us. I hadn’t even discussed this with Steve.

  “Out where the road divides for Chaumont and Amboise,” Cass said. “The house with the green front door. Right across from where the fuel people have all the cordwood stacked up.” I knew exactly where it was.

  “I will definitely show up at the café, but I can’t promise that anything will happen. And if I show up with Steve, then you’ll know we are going to do the thing. But we’ll walk over there. Best that people don’t see us leaving anywhere together. Talk spreads like wildfire around this town.” And we went our separate ways with our bags of groceries.

  “Is this all out of proportion with reality?” I asked Steve. “Do we give a damn about all these ladies Cass has made bamboola with, and then puts their photographs fucking on file?”

  “Those fucking photographs,” Steve said.

  “Exactly. Hey, you’re getting to be pretty funny in English,” I said.

  “Was I not funny before?” Steve said.

  “Fun. Funny? I’m not so sure. You are German,” I said.

  “Sometimes I forget,” he said.

  “Sometimes I forget,” I said. “So what are we going to do about Cass Brewster?”

  “Oh, fuck him,” Steve said.

  “Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?” I said.

  “I would sort of like to fuck him. He has a nice ass. Yeah, let’s do it. Our first ménage à trois. But just for some photographs. My rule is that there hasn’t been intercourse, only foreplay, until someone has an orgasm. So I think you and I could indulge in a bit of foreplay for the sake of some photographs without thinking that we cheated on each other. You haven’t cheated on me since we started sleeping with each other, have you?”

  The conversation was suddenly swerving toward something more serious.

  “Would I be changing the subject if I said I may be falling in love with you?”

  “Do you have to be fucked
into loving someone?” Steve said.

  “Could be.”

  “Okay, then let’s do it. But no orgasms.”

  As it turned out I learned quite a few things from our little mission to set a trap for Cass Brewster. I thought it would be best to leave as few clues as possible. I bought one of those disposable cameras at the drugstore. They have a flash. Then Steve pointed out to me that they would have to be printed in a drugstore and that might be something we’d like to avoid.

  So Steve bought a rather expensive one that is digital, where you can see the pictures as you take them. “The only problem is that it can be a little slow. You might have to hold that pose,” he said. “You might have to, too,” I said. “What about a timer so all three of us can be in one picture?”

  “I have a feeling this is all going to come back to haunt us,” Steve said.

  “No good deed goes unpunished, so I guess we’ll just have to brace ourselves,” I said.

  We took a quick day trip to Paris. Got the camera. “I’ve been planning to do this,” Steve said. “I’m not just doing this to help you ruin Cass’s life.”

  And then we went to the café Wednesday evening and made our rendezvous with Mr. Cass. He had obviously showered and shaved, so I guess he had the confidence that we wouldn’t turn down our chance to score with him.

  The first thing I learned was that this was certainly not a first-time occurrence for Cass. He left the café ahead of us and drove off. We left some ten minutes later and walked off in the direction of the Abbey, and then circled around through the back streets. He was waiting in front of his door smoking a cigarette. So we couldn’t chicken out on the doorstep, I guess. The moment we walked through the front door of his small house on the edge of the village he started undressing.