Opposites Attack: A Novel with Recipes Provencal

by Jo Maeder

  She counted €3,500 inside, more than he owed her. She hesitated. “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome. I have appreciated all that you have done for me.”

  She scanned the boxes of photos next to him. “Liliane has assigned me the task of making sure you write your memoir and stick to your lifestyle changes. The first thing I’m doing is throwing out all of your cigarettes.”

  He made a face as though he’d just sipped vinegar. “I already did.”

  “How can I believe you?”

  “You simply will not find them anywhere.” His eyes went from her feet, up her calves and stopped at the hem of her dress.

  The voice of a fishmonger’s wife jarred him. “Stop looking at me like that! Now, what are you going to do with your life? Why are you so stuck? What is it?”

  He brought his gaze to her perturbed face. “I do not feel I deserve success.”

  “Why?”

  A familiar pain walloped him in the ribcage. He desperately wanted to feel worthy, to be “un-stuck.”

  “I do not know any other way to feel. As for the book, I don’t know where to start, where to end, what to say, what not to say.” He looked at her sadly. “And it makes me feel like I’m the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.”

  “That’s your start! I’d read a book that opened like that.”

  The light finally went on in his foggy brain. Alyce was the person he should write it for. How much more mainstream could he get?

  She moved to the edge of the bed. What followed was better than any session he’d had with a psychiatrist.

  “You need to do this, not only for the money. You have to come to terms with the past in order to move on. See yourself as though you’re a character you’ve created.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.” She picked up the photo he had been holding. “Is that you?”

  “Of course it’s me!”

  She looked at it closer. “Wow, you were pretty hot.” She eyed his current unruly hair. “I bet if you cut that mess you’d feel better, more focused.”

  “You would not be able to resist me.”

  “Yeah, right.” She picked up another photo. It was from 10 years ago, his hair a rich brown.

  “Would you really be responsible and take care of me if I lured you away from Nelson?”

  “No!” She threw the photo down. “I had a moment of temporary insanity.”

  She told him not to think about the words yet. Visualize the book itself, what the jacket will say, how it will be marketed, how someone interviewing him will introduce him and the book, what they’ll ask.

  “Then fill in the rest.”

  Snapping his fingers, he said, “Like pouring batter into a cake pan!” His tone completely changed. “You have no idea what is involved in writing.”

  “But I do know a lot about an area you don’t know about, or don’t care to know. Marketing.”

  He knew exactly what he needed to write about, but the shame would leave him a marked man to the world for the rest of his life.

  “Al-ees, I thank you for what you are trying to do, but I am out of time. The property will be sold, as it should be. It is time to live somewhere that does not have sad memories.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He covered his eyes with his hand. “Failure. This place is drenched in failure.”

  She did not respond. When he looked up, she was biting her lip.

  He continued. “What about the happy ending you love so much? How does it end now? An American who was my tenant takes my home from me.”

  She waved the thought away. “You don’t have to write your entire life story. I saw that movie Angela’s Ashes. That was based on a memoir about a guy’s awful childhood. I won’t mention it again, but if Colette is what’s stopping you, end the book before she comes along. It will still be riveting, I’m sure.”

  His Muse kicked him in the shins.

  “Stay here.” She turned and walked away, allowing him to admire her. “I’ll be at your computer writing.”

  He pulled shut the long red panels around his bed. From his dark crimson cave he heard her occasional mutterings as she typed. He drifted off to sleep until the phone woke him up.

  “Am I disturbing you, darling?”

  It was Isabella. She was visiting friends in Rome and hoped he had changed his mind about having her there. No matter how many times she insisted she had nowhere to go, he would not relent. She had lived by her wits all her life. She would be fine.

  Alyce was also on her mind. “You have not slept with her?”

  “I am incapable of conquering anyone now. I have the vigor of a flat tire.”

  He brought her up to date on the sale of the property. When she asked where he would live once it was sold, he said, “I’m thinking about a hotel. I would not have to give one thought to housekeeping or repairs. But I could never find one with a big enough kitchen.”

  He thought of the pleasure he took in creating his yellow one and the sadness over letting it go.

  “Enough about that. Anything new with you?”

  With bitterness she said, “Robbie offered to help set me up in an apartment, then I’m on my own.” She wanted that apartment to be in Marlaison. “The light is exceptional and the weather allows for painting outdoors most of the year.”

  He still could not say what she wanted to hear, that they should live together. His thoughts had already moved on to another woman—the one who was spurring him to write while she was kicking him out of his house.

  Alyce came running into the room, pulled back two panels, and poked her head in while waving a piece of paper at him. He eased himself out of the conversation with Isabella, but not before agreeing he would see her should she return.

  “She’s coming back?” Alyce said with alarm.

  “I thought you didn’t feel comfortable being here with just me.”

  “That was before I wrote this! You have work to do.”

  He sat up in his bed and read out loud her words in a theatrical tone. “Mysterious. Mercurial. Mesmerizing. Al-ees, you know these words?”

  “I’m not illiterate, dammit. And I did know Dickens wrote A Tale of Two Cities. I was half asleep when you asked me. Go on.”

  “One of France’s most treasured authors, Jean-Luc Broussard, has remained an enigma to his loyal fans.” He grabbed a pen off his nightstand and crossed out something. “Loyal fans is redundant. Just fans. No. Cut everything after enigma… for more than two decades. Can it be that long? Now he takes you inside a world even he could never imagine: his own.” He looked up. “Très bien.” He continued, pen poised like a weapon. “Abandoned by his father as a child, he grew up an outcast, his mother warding off desperate poverty by selling her body.”

  He put a line through “desperate” and handed the pen to her. “I will edit later.” He kept reading. “His groundbreaking novel Taming the Black Sun debuted when he was 16, thrusting him into a life of fame, femme fatales, and fleeting fortune. No, much too much alliteration, especially after mysterious, mercur—”

  “Just keep reading!”

  “Both adored and detested for his eccentric behavior, he has lived in a mental institution, been arrested for public nudity, and can count presidents and princesses among his friends and lovers. Though many women have tried to capture him, he has never married. He now reveals what is truth and what is fiction as he confronts his most haunting demons.”

  He put the paper down. “What demons?”

  “You know better than I.”

  His hands trembled slightly. “I cannot believe you wrote this.”

  “I just thought about TV shows. They’re always revealing and confronting something.”

  Revitalized, he sat up and hugged her tightly. The scent of her hair made it hard to control himself. He kissed her neck. She did not resist at first, then stiffened, moving her hand between them and pushing him away.

  “I’d love to keep you in my life as a friend,
Jean-Luc. I’ll do whatever I can to help you through this. You’ve done so much for me.”

  “Ah, this is my fate. For you to be married with children and me to be a lonely, bitter writer.” In as bright a tone as he could muster, he said, “I hope you will be very happy, Al-ees.”

  Her “Me, too” lacked just enough assurance.

  27

  The Horse

  At the supermarché, the friendly Marie-Laure tempted her to try a few of her samples. While enjoying her third briny black olive seasoned with thyme, she heard “Al-ees?”

  She turned and saw a familiar angelic face. “Sister Therese!”

  Alyce was delighted to see her. The feeling seemed mutual until she recalled why she’d been kicked out of the convent. That damn little devil Julien. She blushed.

  Sister Therese said in a most circumspect way in front of the Olive Lady, “You are welcome to return anytime. God’s heart is always open.”

  “What about Mother Superior’s?”

  She flashed her blissful Nun Smile. “Hers, too.”

  Alyce doubted she would ever walk through those thick cold walls again, but it was nice to not have that weighing on her conscience.

  Then again, if it didn’t work out with Nelson, she might reconsider.

  When she returned to Jean-Luc’s with her arms full of groceries, the house phone was ringing. She could hear him typing. He let the answering machine in his office pick up. It was someone named Claudia calling to see how Jean-Luc was… it had been so long… she thought of him so much. There was a mix of concern, insecurity, and heartache in her voice.

  Alyce shook her head.

  She made a simple dish of sautéed chicken and herbes de Provence, roasted asparagus and a salad, wondering if the activity might get Jean-Luc downstairs. It didn’t.

  She brought him a plate.

  He barely looked up. “Merci, merci.” He kept on typing, lost in another world. She was thrilled to see him working and tiptoed out.

  From her cottage she called Liliane and gave her an update.

  “That is not the only good news, Al-ees. Nelson made a better offer. Not great but good enough. We have to get a signed contract and a deposit—that is, if Jean-Luc accepts it.”

  Alyce’s heart was racing after they hung up. This was really happening. She looked out from her cottage to Jean-Luc’s office window. She heard his phone ring. Liliane calling.

  Though the birds tweeted cheerfully and the sun shone brightly, she felt sad.

  She settled by the pool and started on the English translation of The Horse. It was dedicated “To unforgivable sins.”

  I prayed I would soon die.

  In my small room was a foam mattress thinner than a phone book, a faded brown blanket that smelled of mildew, and a tiny window near the ceiling with bars that taunted me with a sliver of blue sky. Beneath my skin, diseased cells surrendered to the vagaries of my atrophied soul; a soul that had winged through life like a fearless falcon and was now inspissated with the toxicity of drugs, rotten food, and guilt…

  Inspissated?

  Nevertheless, before she knew it, she’d read 50 pages. It was as though she was inside Jean-Luc; unlocking a door that led to his soul. The narrator was a writer who had checked himself into a sanitarium to get away from his debtors and to dislodge his writer’s block. What block? His description of the horse went on for four pages. She knew every square inch of this animal. What a gift to be able to do that.

  She could see why this was a success and why his readers, especially women, adored him. He was achingly vulnerable.

  Oh, no, she thought. Oh, no.

  She checked on Jean-Luc. He was at his computer working on the proposal.

  “I’m reading The Horse.”

  He frowned. “What took you so long?”

  “You’re a great writer, Jean-Luc. I probably gave you terrible advice.”

  “On the contrary, you made me realize that as much as I would like to think my work deserves special treatment, it does not. A book is merely a commodity to be consumed, like food or gasoline. The more I look at it that way, the easier it is to write.”

  She was skeptical as to how long this attitude would last.

  She returned to the pool. Another 50 pages later, she put down the book and tried to imagine a happy ending.

  Look at her, Jean-Luc thought. Put to sleep by my writing.

  He studied her firm body, modest breasts, and revolting pierced bellybutton poking out beneath his book that was splayed, face down, across her midsection.

  He gently lifted the book off her.

  She woke up. “Oh!”

  “What was it about this page that put you to sleep?”

  “It wasn’t the book.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “No, it wasn’t. I love your book. It’s, well, it’s not exactly a page turner. It’s a page wallower. So much detail!” She added a harder edge to, “Which doesn’t add up to an easy read.”

  She swung her legs around to stand. “I’m going to the beach. I have to cool off.”

  “Don’t move.”

  He returned carrying a stack of old leather-bound books. Tapping the top one, he said, “You want to see wallowing? Read this! All seven volumes of Marcel Proust’s À la Recherche du Temps Perdu.” He slowly repeated the title.

  “Looking for the time that is missed?”

  Brightening, he said, “Close. In Search of Lost Time. Or as you say in America, Remembrance of Things Past.”

  “I know that title.” Eyeing the stack, “It’s that long?”

  “When you finish my book, take a look.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Now in a better mood, he said, “I’ll take you to L’ile de Porquerolles.”

  Heading to her cottage, she said, “I can go by myself, thank you.”

  “I’ll make us a picnic. You did an excellent job getting me started on my memoir.”

  “We can’t stay long. You have work to do.”

  “I’ll be editing what I’ve written. That’s work. What a good team we make.”

  She paused before heading to her cottage. “That’s what Nelson says.”

  He stopped himself from saying “A team would be deciding to buy this property together.” It wasn’t her money. And what did he know about being part of one?

  28

  Truth

  As the ferry left Marlaison for the popular island getaway, Didon stood on her hind legs against the side and let the wind whip around her face and ears. Jean-Luc pulled his long gray hair that was blowing in every direction into a ponytail on top of his head. He fancied he looked like a samurai. Attired in white linen pants and a matching shirt with the sleeves rolled up, it was an elegantly offbeat look that always proved a winning combination with the ladies.

  Until Alyce giggled and wouldn’t tell him what was so funny. Finally he got it out of her.

  “With your hair like that, when the wind hits you look like a giant smokestack.”

  There was just enough of a breeze to make it easy to stay on the island for a long time, though he wasn’t sure if he could take it for long. He walked in the opposite direction from where he and Colette once parked themselves, but it was useless. He looked out at the sea and saw himself hanging onto the side of her bright yellow float as she lay on her back, bobbing up and down in the surf, a tiny pool of water filling her bellybutton.

  “Look at the color of the water!” Alyce cried, as she settled on the beach towel he’d brought along. “It’s almost the same as the sky.”

  Her comment startled Jean-Luc. Colette had offered a similar observation.

  The beach was neither crowded nor deserted. Many of the women had discarded their tops. Alyce did not. A pungent combination of sea, suntan oil, and sweat mingled in the air. After making herself comfortable on a large towel, she took a big sniff.

  “It’s a little funky.”

  “Funky,” he repeated with her American accent. “A splendid word I s
hould use more often.”

  He made a mental note to jot it down in his notebook. Wait. It was in the suede bag that held the gun she used to shoot the boar. Did she find it?

  She interrupted his thought with, “Oh, no. I think you should use words like pissiated more often.”

  “Like what?”

  “Whatever that word was in the first paragraph of The Horse.”

  “Inspissated. It means dense.”

  He grabbed the old green beach umbrella he’d dug out of his garage and managed to refrain from ramming it through her head.

  Very sweetly she said, “Why not just say dense?”

  “It is my duty to elevate the reader.”

  She blithely slathered on tanning lotion. “Sure you’re not just showing off?”

  With great force, he lodged the wooden umbrella pole in the sand right next to her left arm, making her jump. “You are giving me horripilation.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Making my skin crawl. Goose flesh.”

  “You know, that’s actually a cool word. I take it all back.”

  He settled on his towel a few feet from her. Didon curled up on a special cushion he’d put down for her so she wouldn’t get too hot on the sand. He took a deep breath to dislodge the mistake he now thought it was to come back here. Then Alyce had the audacity to open his book to the last page and start reading.

  “Hey!” She rubbed her head where he had just thwonked her with his foam sandal.

  “At least do not do such a thing in front of the author!”

  While she read, Jean-Luc went over what he had written the last two days. After awhile, he glanced at Alyce. She was utterly entranced by his words. There is no greater high for a writer than to witness that. Anytime he heard her chuckle he had to know why. He found it interesting what made people laugh. Often it wasn’t anything he intended to be funny.

  Looking over at her again later, she was in such a rapturous state that a dewdrop of drool had formed at the left corner of her mouth. He felt a sharp spasm in his stomach as he forced himself not to laugh.

  She wiped her mouth and checked the time on her phone. “Okay, I need to take a break.”