Parisian Promises

by Cecilia Velástegui

  “As they say,” he continued, “it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Yes, despite my pain, Mademoiselle, I would still recommend that you feast on the insanity that is l’amour.”

  Serge set up a vintage wooden easel next to the arbors, the namesake of Les Charmilles, and left a pitcher of water next to a chipped glass on a side table. He tipped his cap at Monica and disappeared into the dense foliage.

  Monica took in the vistas from the arbors: a pond with floating swans, distant vineyards, the grand and serene château, and extensive classical gardens. She felt like a princess in a fairy tale. In fact, she remembered a professor commenting that the nearby Château d’Ussé had been the model for Charles Perrault’s castle in Sleeping Beauty. But she shouldn’t keep constantly referencing the novels and art history facts she had studied, Monica told herself. She had to learn to live all her experiences and not just spout what she read in books or heard in class.

  From now on, Monica decided, she would live in the moment. She picked up a brush and mixed a little water with a chalky blue paint, determined to store her apprehensions about Jean-Michel in the deepest corner of her mind. This was a magical place, and she had to enjoy every second of her time here, making the most, right now, of this dreamy afternoon light. She began painting the reflections in the pond.

  When Monica was finished, she sat on a folding stool under the arbor, evaluating her painting with a harsh eye. It wasn’t quite Autumn Reflections, Monet’s masterpiece painted in his garden in Giverny, but, she thought, it was a start. At least she was making something, and not just moping around.

  “A beautiful homage to Monet,” a man’s voice said, and Monica almost tumbled off her stool. “Madame la Vicomtesse will love it. Sometimes she can be a traditionalist, other times she is avant garde. But she’s always one tough bird. I am Christophe, by the way. You are Monica, who is here to paint for a few days, n’est-ce pas?”

  He walked over to her easel and grinned. Monica gazed up him, nodding when he said her name. He was young, this Christophe, with tousled brown hair and a disarmingly wide smile.

  “I’ve been out working the horses,” he went on. His English was impeccable. “They’ve grown so sluggish while I was away.”

  “Oh––so you work here?” Monica managed to squeak.

  “Like a dog. But Serge tells me that Madame la Vicomtesse is gone for two days, so I’m going to finish now. Serge is taking the horses back to the paddock. Would you like to go for a swim?”

  “I don’t see a swimming pool.”

  “Come, I’ll show you.”

  She followed Christophe across the side gardens and through more arbors to a fragrant herb garden. Christophe pointed to a cottage, and told her it was the pool house.

  “Madame la Vicomtesse keeps extra swim suits in there,” Christophe told her. “Unless you would prefer to go au naturel?”

  Monica could tell from the twinkle of his green eyes that he was kidding her.

  “No, I’ll pass,” she said. “But you can skinny dip if you like. Though it may get you fired!”

  “On the contrary. Madame la Vicomtesse can be pretty racy herself. She always says I’m quite the prude, like my father.”

  He opened the door of the cottage and stood back to let Monica peep in.

  “Don’t get fired on my account,” she teased. Inside striped towels hung from brass hooks, and there was a big chest of drawers, hopefully with spare swimsuits. “Are you sure you don’t have to help Serge with the horses? Or maybe you should be sweeping out the stables?”

  “I’d rather sweep you off your feet. I’m very French and very romantic, you know.” Christophe smiled sheepishly. “Isn’t that what Americans always assume about us?”

  Monica ignored this bull’s-eye comment and stepped into the pool house, closing the door behind her. Luckily the top drawer was packed with pretty swimsuits. She chose a red one with a navy trim that fit her perfectly, and left her clothes folded on top of the bureau.

  The big pool beyond the cottage looked inviting, the same pale blue as the sky earlier that afternoon. Christophe, Monica saw to her relief, had changed into swim trunks as well, and was sitting at the far end of the pool, his feet dangling in the water. He was lithe and tanned, Monica couldn’t help noticing.

  “I can help you with the horses, you know,” she told him, dipping one foot into the cool water. “I come from a tiny horse ranch in California and train horses.”

  Christophe’s face brightened.

  “Maybe you can help me tomorrow, before the ogre returns to her château,” he suggested. “But for now, let’s swim. And you can tell me all about your horses and all about California.”

  Monica heard Madame Caron de Pichet’s gravelly voice inside her head. Be young and carefree! Do the unexpected!

  She smiled back at Christophe, and dove into the pool. An hour later, they were still swimming and talking and laughing, watching the sun set and the sky light up with twinkling stars.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  L’amour Fou

  Madame la Vicomtesse called to say she will be delayed a couple more days,” announced Serge in his former valet’s voice: crisp, authoritative, and yet deferential.

  Monica and Christophe muffled their giggling as they snuggled in the antique brass bed of the guest bedroom in the pool house.

  “Christophe, did you hear me?” grumbled Serge. “It’s ten in the morning. We can’t delay the inevitable, mon vieux.”

  “Did Serge just call you ‘old man’?” Monica chortled.

  “That he did, but I just can’t face today.” Christophe hid his head under the pillow.

  “Don’t be so dramatic…and lazy! You’re going to get fired. First, we swam unauthorized and then we slept in the guest house and not in your quarters.” Monica lifted the pillow and noticed Christophe’s wet eyes. “What is it that you can’t you face today, mon vieux?”

  “We have to put down my––that is, one of the old horses today. His name is Magnifique. I don’t think I can do it.”

  “Maybe I can help Serge. I don’t know these horses, so it won’t be such an ordeal for me.” Monica wrapped her arm around Christophe’s shoulders. “It hurts when you’ve worked with a horse for years and years, and then it’s time to euthanize them. It’s always painful.” She stroked Christophe’s hand.

  “He’s been with me my entire twenty-five years. He taught me how to ride. But I have to man up and do it.” Christophe tried to get out of bed, but slumped back, leaning on Monica. “Or … would you mind helping Serge?”

  Together they walked to the ancient barn. Monica gripping Christophe’s hand. “Just say goodbye to Magnifique and walk away. I’ll catch up to you later, over by the arbors.”

  “I can’t believe what a coward I’ve become. I used to be fearless, you know.” Christophe looked sheepish. Monica kissed his smooth cheek.

  “This is not a test of manliness,” she told him. “It just means that you love this horse, that you’ve connected with Magnifique and can’t let him go.”

  “We were undefeatable jumpers. Well, he was the jumper, but he made me feel like the feats were all mine.” Christophe’s voice cracked. “His athleticism made my father proud of me, when really it was all Magnifique’s prowess.”

  Monica and Christophe clung to each other, caressing with an intensity that stunned Serge, who hovered behind bales of hay near Magnifique’s stall. He and Victoire had once been engulfed in each other’s flame, not unlike the blaze sparked by Christophe’s embrace. His heart ached with nostalgia for the passion and pleasure, for the sexual desire that once overflowed within him. Perhaps the smoldering fire of jealousy over Victoire’s new lovers would ignite in him again; perhaps it would fire him up with a rage that would impel him take a shovel and knock out Loïc. That way, perhaps, he could get revenge for a past wrong and extinguish his longing for Victoire, instead of joining his old nemesis at the village bar, both getting drunk weekend after wee
kend, in order to remember the glow of Victoire’s love––and to forget love’s demise.

  Serge felt envy and despair knowing that Christophe, his young, soft-hearted friend, seemed to have fallen so deeply for Monica.

  “Ahhh, so it repeats itself. L’amour fou strikes again,” Serge whispered to a dying Magnifique inside the stall. “Christophe is as unable to put you down as he is to extinguish the illusion that is amour. Just look at him, Magnifique! He is deep in his fantasy of this American girl. He will sacrifice his own identity for her. The fool is in a dream––a dream more real than death.” When Magnifique heaved, Serge wanted to end the old horse’s misery, but instead he massaged his own knobby hands and waited. He wanted to observe whether Monica responded with equal passion to Christophe or if Christophe would ultimately be wounded––burned, as Serge had been by Victoire. Serge knew the naked truth, the inevitable conundrum: love is responsible for excessive pleasure––and the worst problems in life. At some point, he knew, the ax would fall on one––or both of them, Christophe and Monica.

  “Christophe, it must be done now,” Serge cried out. The horse was in agony. He hugged Magnifique one last time. He could not save the horse, and he could not save Christophe from the forces of insane love, this amour fou.

  Just 20 kilometers away from Les Charmilles, Lola swam her laps in the buff, choosing a dog-paddle stroke to protect her crimson ringlets from the chlorine. Earlier that day, she had overexerted the balding young scion of this nineteenth-century château, lying in his seventeenth-century four-poster bed carved with interlaced initials. Didier now sat at a patio table drinking an early-afternoon mimosa, and admiring Lola’s gusto for everything in life. The elderly manservant refreshing his drink with more champagne was trying––unsuccessfully––not to ogle the nude swimmer. He was so distracted he stepped on one of the panting dogs lying at Didier’s feet.

  “I didn’t mean to stare, Monsieur Didier,” he murmured, blushing. “It seems that these American beauties have landed like locusts in the Loire Valley.”

  “My father is Monsieur. Don’t be such a simpleton. What locusts are you talking about?”

  “Serge, who works at Les Charmilles, was at the village café last night. He said that Christophe has fallen head over heels over a young American…like your pollywog there.” The valet gestured at Lola. She rose from the water, flashing her breasts, and continued with her laps, her tingly laugh echoing throughout the estate as if a flock of osprey from the nearby forest were soaring past.

  “Christophe is a softie, whereas I am a seasoned man.” Didier touched his two-day stubble as if he were presenting evidence at a trial.

  “Pardon me from intruding, sir, but how did you meet such a sublime specimen?” asked the valet.

  “Why are you suddenly so nosy? What? Are you going to report to my parents the minute they return from the wedding in Bordeaux?” Didier brushed away the valet and sat pouting, his drink forgotten. “You always snitched on me when I smoked my hashish or when I brought a girl to the pool house.”

  “It’s just that the newscaster said that we have to be aware of étrangers in our midst,” persisted the valet. “Especially innocent-looking ones. There have been bombings and shootings in Paris and also down south––and it seems that there’s always an étrangère, an alluring female accomplice, at the center of these crime––that’s all.”

  “You’ve always been such a rube. I’ll have you know that I met Lola through my prep school friend. His family has more money from South American tin mines than they know what to do with!”

  “Precisely––étrangers.”

  “Get lost, you old geezer! I’m going to enjoy Lola before I send her packing.”

  The valet ambled a few steps away but seemed reluctant to leave altogether. Didier walked up to the edge of the pool.

  “Lola, come on out of the water,” he called. “Let’s go for another round inside the pool house.”

  “That’s a no, sugar,” Lola splashed him playfully. “Charles will be coming by to pick me up soon so we can drive back to Paris.”

  “That’s a yes, Lola. Charles, as you call him, said that he will contact you back in Paris in a few days.” Didier held a towel out for her and tried to smile seductively. The afternoon breeze blew his few remaining strands of hair into a whimsical hatchling look––a total turn-off for Lola. “If you don’t come out of the water, my man here will go and fetch me another gorgeous American. According to him, you American women are flocking to the Loire like locusts.”

  Didier extended his arm, but Lola ignored his outreached hand and dangling towel, and continued swimming. “Charles is an ass, and you’re getting close to his level,” she said over her shoulder. “I stayed here because I wanted to, not because Charles left me here. I’m in charge of all my actions.”

  “But, my darling, soon my parents will be returning from a wedding in Bordeaux, along with every other bon chic, bon genre from the Loire, and they’re all very reserved and old-fashioned. They guard their old values and their châteaux as if they were security dogs protecting priceless truffles.” Didier sniffed the rarefied air of his family’s château with exaggerated pomposity. “They’re the original old guard, you see. If my parents didn’t know your grandparents or great-grandparents, then they would expect you to stay in a nearby hotel and not in their château. Can you believe such antiquated manners? Come, let’s have one passionate farewell before they return.”

  “That’s OK, sugar. I know where I’m not wanted.” Lola hauled herself out of the pool and stood on the far side, dripping and naked. She blew a good-bye air kiss to Didier. “I’ll see you around, I guess.”

  “Please, can’t you stay for another round?” Didier cajoled. “I’ll drive you to Tours afterwards, and we can see each other later tonight in your hotel?”

  Lola stalked to the pool house where she slipped on her clothes and threw the rest of her items in her overnight bag. Didier approached her with arms extended, but Lola swatted his advances with a forceful shove.

  “I’ll just have your man take me to the train station. See you later, alligator.” Lola let out an earsplitting whistle that startled Didier and his whimpering dogs, but got his valet’s attention. She pointed to the car, and before Didier could beg again, she and the valet were off down the estate’s grand driveway.

  The puttering sound of the old truck prevented Lola from speaking to the grouchy valet. He was saying something uncomplimentary about her whistling like a hooligan, but Lola just stuck her nose in the air and peered out the window. Her gangster cousins back in L.A. had taught her how to whistle that way, to warn them if the police entered their turf. In her extended family, dominated by delinquent boys, Lola was well-protected. Her curvaceous figure worried all the men in the family, so they’d taught her how to repel unwanted prying hands. Maybe they had overprotected her from the dangers of their tough Echo Park neighborhood, but they’d also taught her how to take care of herself. She knew how to debilitate a man with a swift kick to the testicles or by jabbing her long fingernails into his eyes. If Didier had wanted a “round,” as he had called it, Lola was capable of giving a real boxing round, not some sissified Frenchy version.

  Didier’s valet scowled at her and drove the gentle, winding country roads with abandon. His weaving along the narrow lanes was comical to Lola: she was used to weaving in and out of the packed freeways of L.A. and driving the dangerous curves of Laurel Canyon on dark foggy nights. The valet’s unnecessary swerves were laughable, especially if he meant to scare her.

  Lola had more important things to think about. Three nights ago, Charles had driven Lola down to the Loire Valley. Something was up, she knew. He’d acted so jittery at Le Sept, and then he started talking in a weird way. He told her he wanted to lock himself up with her in the comfort of his buddy’s private château, and leave the evil world behind.

  But as they sat by the château’s fireplace, Charles was still jumpy, fretting about his tall friend, Be
rtrand, and glancing anxiously around him, as if a ghost roamed the chilly limestone hallways. Didier teased Charles incessantly about his edginess and for apparently changing his name, something that took Lola by surprise.

  “Raúl, that used to be your name at school, right?” Didier had said. “Or should I call you Charles today? Perhaps you are called Gaston in the evenings, n’est-ce pas?”

  Charles ignored the taunts. He paced back and forth, unable to relax.

  “Don’t be such a weakling, Raúl or Charles or Gaston. You have my château mixed up with the Green Lady who haunts the Château de Brissac nearby.” Didier guffawed. “Relax! We have no ghosts here.”

  Charles couldn’t relax. He knew all about Jean-Michel’s far-reaching evil hand, and he didn’t want to dance with Lola in the face of doom. Whether Charles hid in a fortress or on a yacht near Split, Jean-Michel would find him and force him to do his bidding. Charles had gone along with Jean-Michel’s revolutionary zeal because he thought they were all simply armchair insurgents––blowhard revolutionaries, rich brats with new, cool personas who attracted left-leaning coeds like moths to a flame. But now Bertrand’s lonely leg sat on the morgue’s slab, being scrutinized for minute details that would lead police footsteps to Charles’ door, no matter where he hid.

  Didier and Lola laughed and drank, unaffected by Charles’ nerves. Under the dour faces of Didier’s ancestors, staring down at them in the portrait gallery, they played loud music and danced to a wild variation of rock and roll that was all the rage among the college-age French snobs. By the morning of the second day, Charles had left without any explanation, but Lola had made the most of the awkward situation.

  Initially, Didier’s hauteur intrigued her, but before too long she was tired of hearing his long-winded stories of family lore and legend. He either bragged about his ancestors’ feats from centuries ago, or rambled on about all the additions and repairs to his château. Didier explained how these expenses would be the end of the cultured country life of the French noblesse. The high costs of looking after their huge properties had burdened them to the point of financial ruin. On and on and on he talked, while Lola stifled a yawn.