by Rozsa Gaston
“I like secrets,” he murmured back.
The next two sets flew by in a dream. At some point, Henri turned up at the bar, giving me a thumbs-up while sipping yet another miniscule cocktail. He hadn’t bothered to approach me even once to let me know how the sound mix was.
I was tired of him, tired of gigs in dive restaurants or even nice ones, and tired of inattentive audiences and absent sound engineers. Maybe if I’d been a knockout performer, belting out hit after hit, I wouldn’t feel this way. But I wasn’t.
I was an Astrud Gilberto-type of performer, humming a whispery bossa nova tune in her kitchen, cooking for her man. Okay, that was going a bit far, but I could definitely see myself singing quietly while arranging flowers in a high-ceilinged apartment with ornate moldings shared with Arnaud in a fashionable Parisian neighborhood. I’d be warming up my voice while waiting for my driver to whisk me away to the recording studio, where I’d lay down a few vocal tracks for my latest album. Later that day, I’d dine with my manager and Arnaud at some completely ‘in’ restaurant where we’d go over choices for my debut album cover design and discuss marketing strategies for making me world-famous. Then, Arnaud and I would go home and make wild love in our canopied Louis XIV-style bed.
While I fantasized, I played instrumental improvisations on some of my favorite tunes. I riffed on My Favorite Things from The Sound of Music. Then, I went for a long keyboard journey and back with Paul Desmond’s Take Five. I switched back to singing after it became apparent no one was noticing my fancy finger work, other than Arnaud, who faithfully clapped after each piece. For my final number, I covered Black Velvet by Alannah Myles, growling my way through the smoky blues number, a red-hot hit back home that past spring. No reaction from the audience at all. Apparently, it hadn’t made the French pop charts.
Finally, it was over. Making my way off stage, Arnaud grabbed my arm as I passed by his table.
“Can you come with me now?” he whispered.
“Don’t you need to get some sleep before you pick me up tomorrow?” I asked.
“No. Do you?”
“I need to unwind a bit, then sleep.” There was no way a performer ever went home and straight to bed after a gig. It took at least a few hours to wind down after any live performance.
“I’ll walk you home then.”
I nodded. “Just give me a few minutes. I need to talk to my manager.” I gestured toward Henri at the bar then walked over to him.
“Ava, great performance! You were a star,” he congratulated me.
Underneath the big smile, I could see his rueful look. At least, he could help me pack up and take my equipment back to his place so I could be alone with Arnaud as soon as possible. The post-mortem on my less-than-stellar opening night could wait until the following day. All I could think about was getting out of there.
In less than ten minutes, we’d disassembled my synthesizer, drum machine and microphone. Henri lifted the heavy synthesizer case, and I followed with the smaller items, through the kitchen, out the service entrance of the restaurant to the sidewalk. The neighborhood of Bastille was in full swing, streets full, the July night balmy and mild.
“I’ll get the car. Stay here,” Henri said.
I nodded, too fed up to respond. To my knowledge, neither the night manager nor the owner had even shown up to take in my performance. I’d spent the past three months preparing for my Parisian performing debut, and it had gone over like a lead balloon. Fortunately, Henri had arranged six guaranteed bookings for Friday evenings through the end of August. After that, my future would no longer be so clearly laid out in front of me.
“Hey, I didn’t feel like waiting for you in there. Can I help you with your equipment?” Arnaud came up beside me, the finger of his hand tracing a path down the outside of mine. I shivered. That was it. The future wasn’t ahead. It had snuck up on me from behind.
“My manager’s bringing his car around. Just help me get my gear in it, and we can take off.” My eyes met his, my mood leaping as I threw off the dark shroud of post-performance letdown. Je m’en fous, I could care less, I told myself.
The sound of Henri’s car announced his arrival.
He eyeballed Arnaud, as he stepped out and hurried to open the trunk.
“Henri, this is Arnaud de Saint Cyr,” I introduced them. No longer my future, meet my future. “Arnaud, this is Henri Zidane.”
“Bon soir.” Henri’s eyes widened, as he shook hands with Arnaud. I wondered why.
“Bon soir,” Arnaud greeted him, just a tad formally. God only knew what socio-economic judgments were now being passed. Two Parisians from dissimilar backgrounds meeting for the first time almost guaranteed negative speculation. After a curt glance, Arnaud lifted the heavy synthesizer and swung it in the trunk.
Henri took the rest of the equipment from my arms.
“Henri, I’m going out with Arnaud now. Do you mind bringing the synthesizer upstairs when you bring it back? The rest of the stuff can wait,” I said commandingly.
“Bien sûr, of course,” Henri replied, looking a bit surprised at my sudden self-assurance. Usually, it was him calling the shots. But now, an unknown Frenchman with an aristocratic name was at my side. He and Marceline had been fielding calls from Arnaud for the past ten days and I’d stayed out all night for two of them. Marceline would be thrilled to see her husband return without me. For my part, I couldn’t wait to get out of Henri and Marceline’s life as soon as possible. My disappearance would be the best baby gift I could give Marceline.
As he got in the car and drove off, I turned to Arnaud.
“Hey.” At last, we were alone.
“Hey,” he mimicked my American accent. One hand came up on my back, touching my shoulder blade just above the low back of my dress.
“How are you?” he asked gently.
“Happy it’s over.”
“Your geeg?”
“Yes.” Thank God, my gig was behind me. It hadn’t gone the way I’d wanted. But instead of being let down, I was on fire at the thought of the weekend ahead. Arm in arm, we walked away from The Blue Cactus toward the sights and sounds of Bastille, still going strong at one in the morning. Life beckoned, and I rushed toward it.
The next morning, Arnaud’s car pulled up to the curb outside Henri and Marceline’s flat at twenty past ten. I was already down on the sidewalk waiting. I hadn’t yet told him I was staying with my manager and his wife. He would find out if he needed to, but, for the moment, it was a good exercise for me to match him in studied vagueness. I admired people who knew how to hold back. It was something I wanted to learn to do better. Princess Caroline of Monaco had once said “Never complain, never explain,” in a Hello magazine interview. I’d later discovered the quote was attributable to Benjamin Disraeli, the nineteenth century British prime minister. I wasn’t good at either side of that equation. But her advice was right up there with “fake it till you make it.”
Sliding into the seat as Arnaud held open the passenger door of his Peugeot, I vowed to keep both maxims in mind that weekend.
CHAPTER TWELVE
La France Profonde
“Ça va, ma belle? How are you, my beauty?” Arnaud asked, as he gunned the car away from the sidewalk, at the same time popping some music into the stereo system. “Tu as bien dormi? Have you slept well?”
“Oui, j’ai bien dormi, yes I slept well,” I replied, looking out the window to hide my blush. If only he knew what thoughts had lulled me to sleep – perhaps the same ones he’d had.
“T’as la pêche?” he continued.
“Uh … c’est quoi, ca? What’s that?” He’d either asked me if I had the peach or if I was a peach. I hoped the whole weekend wouldn’t go like this. He had home court advantage so I needed to come up with some other sort of advantage fast. Being female and not yet bedded by him seemed a strong one. After the bedding part, I intended to hold an even stronger position, although I wasn’t sure how. I counted on my inner goddess to advise me.
“Ahh. Yes. In fact, I am.” He’d gotten that right. “And you?”
“Mais oui. Certainement.” He accelerated as if to prove his point. His pale pink polo shirt accentuated the gold of his skin and set off the auburn highlights in his hair. I longed to reach over and touch him. Instead, I touched the base of my throat as I rested my elbow on the armrest.
He glanced at me, saying nothing. This was a good sort of game to play to equalize the playing field. I’d touch whatever part of my body I wanted him to touch, he’d notice, and when the right moment came, voilà, his hand would replace mine. Our two-and-a-half hour drive would be the appetizer to the feast that awaited when we arrived. And who cared if we ate anything, although this being France, I knew we would both eat something and care about what we ate.
Once we got on the autoroute, I relaxed. We traveled south, on the A6 Autoroute du Soleil or Highway of the Sun. Even the name sounded promising.
“Where are we headed?” I asked.
“To the Loire Valley.”
“Where the chateaus are?” The enormous chateaus of the Loire Valley built for various kings, queens and kings’ mistresses were France’s most magnificent.
“Not my family’s village, but yes, some well-known chateaus are nearby. Have you been there?”
“No.”
When it came to my knowledge of France, I was a big-city girl. Outside of Paris, except for Nice and Pascal’s largely forgettable suburb of Saint Denis, I was a total neophyte to French regions, un zero as the French say, like a born and bred Manhattanite, completely out of one’s element the moment one crossed the bridge or tunnel to New Jersey, the Bronx, or Long Island.
“Are we going to where you grew up?” I asked.
“For part of my childhood, yes.” He shrugged.
“And for the other part?”
“In another place.” He waved one hand as if to say it wasn’t important. Cryptic.
“Arnaud, what is it you do for a living?” I bit the bullet and went all American on him.
“A little of this, a little of that.” Another Gallic shrug.
“Yes, but what do you do for a job? To gagner la vie, I think you say.”
“Ahh. That.”
“Yes. That.” I was contemplating sleeping with this man in a matter of hours. It was time to find out how he made his money.
“I’m a journalist.”
“A journalist? How interesting.” My father had been a journalist when he wasn’t writing poems – a penniless one. “What kind of journalist are you? Do you write a column or are you a reporter?”
“I’m a traveling journalist.”
“Do you mean you write travel articles?”
“I mean, I travel for my job.”
“Do you mean you’re a foreign correspondent?”
He nodded, eyes straight ahead on the road.
A faint alarm went off inside. How frequently did he travel? And to where? My head began to spin with questions. How available was he for a relationship? Pull back, woman. Foot on the brake.
“Ava, let’s be here now,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. He reached over and took my left hand in my lap. Stroking each finger, the tips of his own tickled mine like a feather.
I pulled my hand away, smoothing back my hair. When I put it down, he took it again.
Maybe he was right, just be here now. I was a twenty-nine year old American woman driving to chateau country in France with an attractive, intelligent, single Frenchman. What was the problem?
The green countryside hurtled by, the evanescent music of the Cocteau Twins moving our thoughts to delicate, fairy-like terrain. Arnaud was the only man I’d ever spent time with who had the Cocteau Twins in his music collection. They were one of my favorite groups, a Scottish trio who made more or less transcendental pop music.
We were now in la France profonde or deep France, the appellation given to the French countryside by French city-dwellers – above all, Parisians. At Cosne-Cours-Sur-Loire, we turned off the auto route and onto a country road. Arnaud visibly relaxed as we wound our way through pastureland where fat cows and skinny goats grazed. We passed through tiny, ancient villages, where buildings stood so close to the narrow street you could almost reach out the car window and touch the walls. Finally, a sign announced we’d arrived in Chavignol, which Arnaud explained produced a famous goat cheese, as well as some of the finest Sancerre wines of the region.
Shortly beyond the village, which we passed through in less than thirty seconds, we turned off the road and drove slowly down a long driveway lined on both sides by tall, lushly-topped trees. They looked like a welcoming committee of household staff lined up to greet us. Scenes from Barry Lyndon or Brideshead Revisited danced through my head. After about half a mile, we pulled up to a long, low stone farmhouse with faded blue-shuttered windows, instantly snuffing out my reverie. It was charming but rustic, with the accent on rustic. Quickly adjusting expectations, I sprang out of the car and looked for signs of staff or at least livestock that might come greet us. None were about.
Arnaud took my arm and led me up crumbling stone steps to the front door, where he fumbled around in the eave over the doorframe. After locating an enormous iron key, he opened the door.
Inside, it was cool. The smell of dried herbs with a faint musty undertone informed me no one had been there for some time.
“Let me show you around,” Arnaud said, taking my arm again.
The large living room featured an enormous stone fireplace. We continued on into a big kitchen with a long wooden table in the middle and then toured two smallish bedrooms, each containing a twin-sized wrought-iron framed bed. Next, he pointed out the bathroom and water closet, separate in European fashion. Finally, there was only one room left to explore – the master bedroom.
It was large, with three sets of vertical French windows on two adjoining walls. Sunlight and warmth flooded into the room. I crossed to the closest window to take in the view of the countryside – breathtaking. Across the road below, a small path wound its way over a meadow down to a village. Goats dotted the landscape.
“That’s Chavignol,” he said. “We’ll go there in a few minutes to do some shopping.”
A queen-sized bed stood against the wall opposite the windows, four wrought-iron posts at each corner. The bed linens were white, the pillows nicely plumped. Quickly, I looked away.
While Arnaud attended to details of opening the house, I returned to the living room. Very few personal items adorned its walls or tables. Among the few, a small black and white photo of an older woman hung on the wall near the stone fireplace. In her late forties perhaps, I guessed it might be Arnaud’s mother in younger years, although I didn’t see a family resemblance. The woman’s face was smooth but with sharp features; the eyes looked mischievous, the mouth petulant. She was beautiful, in a difficult sort of way.
“Let’s go to the village,” Arnaud called from the doorway. “The boulangerie closes early on Saturdays, so let’s get there before it shuts.” He held a large wicker basket, the kind Frenchwomen typically take to market with them.
“Is that your mother in the photo?” I asked as I brushed past him out the door.
“What photo?’
“The one on the wall in the living room. Near the fireplace.”
Arnaud looked puzzled for a moment.
“Ahh, non. Not my mother. Here’s a basket for you, too, Minou.” He handed me a second wicker basket that he unhooked from under the eaves next to the back door.
“Then who is it?”
“Who’s what?”
“Who’s the woman in the picture?” I insisted, incapable of sticking to my resolve not to play the nosy American.
“She was my mentor.”
“Your what?”
“My guide.”
“What does that mean?”
“Cheri,” He turned to me, putting a finger o
n my lips. “It means what I said.”
What had he meant? No way would I ask if she was a former lover. I filed his words for future reference.
On the way down to the village, we stopped as a large herd of goats crossed the road.
“The goat cheese here, Crottin de Chavignol, is known all over France. It’s been made here since the sixteenth century from goats like those,” Arnaud said, as we watched the slender, white animals amble across the road.
“Will I like it?” I asked playfully.
“It’s sort of nutty.”
“Like you?” I didn’t actually think he was nutty, so much as wickedly articulate and just a bit outrageous.
“Like me,” he agreed. Then, he leaned over and kissed me on the mouth.
As I tasted his salty pungency, I was overcome by the thought that delicacies like goat cheese made since the sixteenth century had gone into creating the man kissing me. I loved the whole idea of it. Careful, girl.
He kissed me again, this time harder.
Dizzy, I pulled back, turning to look out the window. It would be unwise to get involved with a man who worked as a foreign correspondent, almost as foolish as falling for a foreign intelligence agent. Who knew, maybe he was both?
I would enjoy the countryside and the introduction to exotic, smelly cheeses, but I would keep my emotions in check, I told myself.
After the next kiss, I felt faint. Perhaps it was the heat. Probably not.
When the last goat passed, we continued on to the ancient village of Chavignol.
In a minute, we were there and had parked. As we walked toward the shops, the cobblestoned street affirmed my choice of flat sandals. My kitten-heeled Parisian ones would remain in my weekend bag.
In the bakery, Arnaud asked for a baguette, two croissants and two pains chocolats then suggested I pick out some small cakes for dessert that evening. As I examined the rows of artisanally decorated madeleines, macaroons, creamy Bretons, polonaises, montblancs, baba au rhums, and other individually-sized cakes, my mind flashed back to au pair days, when I’d been addicted to the pastries that had lain in wait for me all over Paris.