Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2

by Laurette Long

  He ran a finger across Jill’s legs, mid thigh, causing her to break out in goosebumps all over.

  She rubbed her arms, still mesmerised by the black beast with its high handlebars.

  ‘You have been on a motor bike, no?’

  She shook her head, speechless.

  ‘Never? You ’ave so many brothers and you never been on a bike? Well is no matter! Here I fasten ze ’elmet. You will love Brigitte. Now mount behind me, no, closer come on, put your arms like so, OK you comfortable? You ready for our trip? Say goodbye to Blondie!’

  Jill turned to see Edward standing in the doorway, laughing his head off.

  ‘You’re a dead man, Ed, you hear me? Bastard–’

  The words were jerked from her lips as Antoine set off in a spray of gravel that had her clinging on to his waist and closing her eyes in prayer.

  ***

  An hour later they were on the top of the world, the only people on the tiny road that wound through the foothills of the Pyrenees. On either side the land rose and fell, in gentle undulations or steep slopes topped by a ruined chateau or an abandoned bell tower. The hillsides were covered in pines; here and there a silver thread gleamed, tracing the path of a stream. The sky was an immense inverted bowl, a pure translucent blue from horizon to horizon. Overhead a pair of eagles circled lazily, catching the air currents, wings spread wide. On one side the peaks of the Pyrenees rose in the distance, traces of snow still clinging to the summits. On the other stretched the blue of the Atlantic, frilled with icing sugar where the distant rollers broke.

  Antoine had slowed and was shouting back to her.

  ‘Over there, see? The village on the hill? That is where we go.’

  ‘I see it!’

  She had soon got over her initial terror and relaxed into the ride, enjoying the feel of the big machine expertly driven by its master, enjoying the feel of Antoine’s muscles through the T-shirt, pressing her nose into his back inhaling his magic smell. Her pirate. And the scenery...she breathed in the scented air, wishing she could fling off the helmet and let her hair blow loose.

  Twenty minutes later they were climbing the winding road that led to the village. Half-timbered houses with steeply pitched roofs clustered on either side, painted green and white or red and white. Occasionally they passed a pedestrian, an old man dressed in blue overalls, wearing a beret, a woman with a shopping basket. There were no pavements; the pedestrians stopped, pulled in close to the wall and watched as they rode by.

  At the top of the hill the village opened out into a square. Standing apart from the houses were a couple of bigger, more imposing buildings. Jill read the words ‘Mairie’ on one of them. She remembered that ‘Mairie’ was the Town Hall. Steps led up from the square to a church whose steeple was visible beyond white vaults interspersed with dark green yews.

  They slowed and Antoine guided the bike to a halt under the shade of a plane tree. As he switched off the engine the sudden quiet came as a shock. Jill pulled off her helmet, shook out her hair. A breeze rustled the leaves of the tree, but otherwise the village was quiet.

  ‘So, Irish, what do you think? It is beautiful mon pays, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Really beautiful Antoine. I’ve never seen anything like it. Serene, majestic, yes, really beautiful.’ She looked around. ‘So where are we now?’

  ‘This is the village of my grandparents, my father’s family. Come, I show you something.’

  They left their helmets with the bike and set off up the steps to the church. A rusty iron gate squeaked as Antoine pushed it open. If the village had seemed quiet, the churchyard was hushed. They made their way down narrow paths, past headstones and crypts, taller, more substantial vaults, most of them decorated with fresh flowers or carefully watered plants. Jill wondered where all the people were who tended the graves. There was no one in the cemetery except the two of them.

  Antoine had stopped in front of a large vault with imposing doors. Carved above was the name Arantxa. Below was a list of names, men, women, children, all members of the Arantxa clan.

  ‘This was my great grandfather, he dies in the war. 1918.’ Antoine pointed at the inscription. ‘And then my grandfather, in the war of ’36. Fighting against Franco.’

  ’36? The Spanish Civil war?’

  Jill read the inscription. Guernica, 1937.

  ‘He died in Guernica?’

  An image of the famous painting by Picasso flashed into her mind.

  ‘Yes, Guernica, it was the capital of the Basque country, during the war, the war against Franco and the Fascistas.’

  ‘But isn’t the village, I thought it was in Spain?’

  ‘Spain, France, here we are the Basque country. Three plus four equals one.’

  In answer to her puzzled looked he explained that there were four Basque provinces in Spain and three in France, making a total of one nation.

  ‘Oh.’ Jill looked at the inscription again. ‘Are there still members of your family here, I mean in the village?’

  ‘Most have gone now.’

  Antoine’s face had grown sombre. He bowed his head, made the sign of the cross.

  Jill hesitated. Then she reached out and took his hand.

  Antoine lifted his head and his face split into a sudden, dazzling smile.

  ‘There are still some cousins, nearby. On my mother’s side. And my aunt. Tatie Marie. Come, we meet them. Life is for the living, no?’

  Jill followed Antoine down to the square, wondering about all those people buried in the cemetery on the hill. They got on the bike again and retraced their route. At the bottom of the village, Antoine took a right turn past a signpost saying Auberge chez Marie and ten minutes later they were pulling into the courtyard of a large Basque half-timbered house. Through the avenue of dense-leaved mulberry trees Jill could make out a garden, a terrace and tables set with pink cloths. The sound of voices came from behind an open window, along with the clatter of saucepans and the hiss of steam.

  Antoine led her through an opening in the box hedge, down a paved path and pushed open the door into a dim interior.

  As her eyes accustomed to the change in light, she made out a reception desk and at the same time, a figure coming round from behind, hurrying to meet them.

  ‘Antoine, mon petit cheri!’

  A small elegant lady wearing a formal flowered dress and heels had thrown her arms round Antoine. She was a good foot shorter than her nephew and had to stand on tiptoe as he bent to embrace her.

  ‘Tatie, meet my friend Jill.’

  Antoine’s aunt turned to Jill and greeted her in surprisingly good English.

  ‘So this is your friend from Ireland. Welcome Jill, I am Marie, the sister of Antoine’s maman. We have a lot of visitors from Ireland coming to our hotel. But everyone is out today, walking.’

  ‘Really? From Ireland?’

  ‘Yes really, your compatriots.’

  She ushered Jill and Antoine outside to a table on the terrace set for two, explaining that the inn was a favourite stopping place for people touring the Basque country on their way to the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in the north of Spain.

  ‘In English you call it the way of St James. Many pilgrims, or walkers, start here in the Pyrenees, usually at St-Jean-Pied-de-Port. Some are doing the whole pilgrimage on foot, but others come by coach, and then take a picnic and go out to walk during the day. So it is very quiet until the evening, when they return and then it becomes quite noisy and busy, they are all hungry after their walk. And thirsty–we have some good Irish whiskey in the bar! But I am sorry, I forget you too are hungry and thirsty, and maybe Jill you would like to use the Ladies room, no?’

  Marie showed Jill the door to the toilets then went off to fetch drinks.

  Well, thought Jill, catching her breath as she stood in front of the mirror. What a day of surprises this was turning out to be. She splashed her face with cold water and pulled a brush out of her bag. Good thing she’d thought to put on some sunscreen, she coul
d already see a faint panda shape where her sunglasses had been. Santiago de Compostela, she’d had an auntie and uncle who’d done the pilgrimage years ago, she hadn’t realised that they were on one of the routes here in the Basque country. And what a lovely stopping place this was, the auberge. The toilets were sparkling clean, tiled in pretty blue and white Spanish motifs, the washbasin modern, a vase of wild flowers on the shelf that ran along the wall above.

  She’d been a bit worried about toilet facilities for their day out, Antoine had said they’d be stopping for lunch ‘in the mountains, chez Tatie, very wild’, she’d half been expecting a Turkish thing with a hole in the ground. The last time she’d used one of them, it had been on a Spanish motorway, she’d had such a problem balancing that she’d inadvertently clutched at the door to stop herself falling backwards into the black hole only to shoot forwards and send the door flying open, exposing herself to a queue of tourists with her trousers round her ankles.

  Antoine’s aunt served a simple but delicious lunch out on the terrace, grilled lamb chops and salad. Jill was relieved not to be faced with another gastronomic hurdle, she was sure she had put on pounds since her arrival only two days ago.

  Antoine stuck to drinking water but, as usual ate like a horse. Tante Marie had brought an enormous platter of fried potatoes with the meat and salad which Jill managed to resist but which Antoine polished off with no problem. She smiled as she remembered him tucking into the beef yesterday. Then afterwards, when the others ordered fruit and ice cream for dessert, he’d gone for the waffles served with poached apricots and almond ice cream. And he still didn’t have an ounce of spare flesh round his middle.

  Jill, sipping her wine, examined him from underneath her lashes. What a man. She was getting over-heated just looking at him. She must remember to undo a couple of buttons on her blouse before they set off for the trip back this afternoon. So far he’d been remarkably restrained and well-behaved. Was the old O’Toole magic losing its potency?

  They joined Marie indoors for a coffee.

  As Antoine and his aunt chatted away at the bar exchanging the latest family gossip, Jill sat back in her chair and let her eyes wander round the room.

  On one of the walls hung a reproduction of the Picasso painting, ‘Guernica’, the one she’d remembered earlier. It was the most extraordinary work, full of anguish and violence and suffering. She remembered discussing it in one of her history of art classes. There were various interpretations of the symbols, but the consensus seemed to be that the horse, in the middle of the painting symbolised the people of Spain, victims of Franco’s oppressive regime. The animal’s head was thrown back, mouth open in agony, eyes rolling, a spear thrust through its body. A decapitated soldier lay at its feet. Another symbol of the corrida, the bull, represented the brutal aggressor, Franco. It was shown in the left of the picture, menacing, its ears like twin daggers, its head almost touching that of the woman below whose mouth gaped open in a howl of despair. In her arms she clutched her dead child. On the right another woman was burning, her hands thrown up in agony. The effect was so powerful that Jill shuddered and turned away.

  She remembered Antoine’s words in the cemetery. His grandfather had died in the war the Spanish Civil war, killed in Guernica.

  Marie had excused herself to see that all was ready for new arrivals due that afternoon.

  ‘Is it far from here? Guernica?’

  Antoine glanced at her face, then at the painting.

  ‘No, close, near Bilbao. That’s the big port, just the other side of the frontier.’

  ‘What happened there, exactly?’

  A cloud passed over Antoine’s face.

  ‘The town was destroyed in ‘37 by the Germans. Completely flat. The 26 April. You know the Germans, the Nazis, were helping Franco, also the Italians of Mussolini.’

  He went on to explain that the attack was carried out by the Condor legion of the Luftwaffe, on Franco’s orders. At the time, aerial bombing was a relatively unknown phenomenon. But by the time the raid had finished, a new and horrifying instrument of terror had been revealed.

  ‘It was the day of the market. The farmers from the countryside came to the town with things to sell, there were many people, civilians, women and children. The streets were full. In the afternoon, at 16h30, the planes arrived. They dropped the bombs for more than three hours before they leave.’

  Guernica, the old Basque capital, symbol of freedom and autonomy, lay in ruins. Hundreds of defenceless civilians lay dead and dying amidst the fire and smoke. Franco’s punishment for resisting his forces. A message to the Basques and to all Republicans who tried to oppose the Nationalists.

  When news of the horrific attack spread throughout the world, there was an outcry.

  ‘And your grandfather?’

  ‘He was in the Basque army. Normally he would not have been in the town. But he had returned to his, how do you say, battalion?’

  Antoine stopped. They were both silent, looking at the painting.

  Jill reached out, took his hand once more. There was a lump in her throat and tears had come into her eyes imagining the terrible event.

  ‘You know what he said, Picasso?’ Antoine had turned his hand over, was holding Jill’s hand tightly. ‘When the painting was how do you say, exposed? Ah yes, exhibited, in Paris, the same year. There was a man, a German officer who said to him ‘You did this?’ And Picasso, he look at him and he reply ‘No, you did this.’

  Marie, bustling back into the room, paused at the sight of the two of them, hand in hand.

  Antoine jumped up, gave his aunt a hug.

  ‘A moment for reflection,’ he said. ‘Finished, Tatie. Now I take Jill to see the beautiful mountains.’

  ‘You will show her the cascade, on the way back?’

  Antoine nodded.

  ‘It is our local secret.’

  ‘Wait.’ Marie went into the kitchen, came back with a bottle.

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Just one drink mind. You are driving that monster. But it is a shame to view the cascade without making a special toast. And the wish. Jill it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope you will come back. With Antoine.’

  They embraced warmly, then Marie stepped back, gave a little nod to Antoine.

  Now what was that about? thought Jill, as they walked back to the bike. Had she been reading things into Tante Marie’s parting words? And what was this cascade that necessitated a special toast?

  ‘Ready Irish?’

  Antoine grinned down at her.

  ‘You have a sweater in your bag? I think maybe you put it on. We are going up.’

  They set off, climbing higher into the mountains through the green and azure hills. Jill was glad she’d taken Antoine’s advice and put on her sweater. The air was cool where they dipped through forests of pine, warming up again as they came out into sweet-smelling meadows carpeted with wildflowers.

  Twenty minutes after they had left the Auberge, Antoine began to slow down, looking for something. Peering over his shoulder, Jill saw a wooden sign, and immediately Antoine veered off the main road on to a small track leading down through the forest. As he rolled to a stop, she heard the sound of the waterfall even before she took off her helmet.

  He helped her off the bike, then opened the saddlebag, pulling out the bottle that Marie had wrapped in newspaper to keep cool, two glasses, and a blanket. Jill gave her hair a good shake, breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the heady resinous air. The only sounds were the rushing of water, and the song of birds.

  They made their way down to a clearing that opened out on to the banks of a wide stream. The grass was a tender green, warmed by the sun that shone unimpeded on to the banks.

  ‘Come.’

  Antoine took her hand and led her along the bank in the direction of the waterfall. It was a short distance upstream, a sparkling, fairy fall of water casting a thousand rainbows into the sunlit air.

  He spread the blanket on the grass near a flat rock and
they sat silently for a few minutes, listening to the music of the water, marvelling at the play of light and shade. She liked the way they could be silent together, sharing a feeling of companionship, maybe thinking the same thoughts.

  Finally he broke the silence.

  ‘We call it la cascade des fées, the fairy cascade, you say? Waterfall, yes. The fairy waterfall.’

  He told her that in olden days, the local girls used to leave their villages, make their way up here and bathe naked. It was said that in accordance with the zodiacal signs, if they made a wish, they would see their future lover, appearing in a vision out of the waterfall.

  He explained all this with lots of gestures and an eye roll when he said the girls were naked. He was sitting close enough so that Jill could feel the warmth of his body next to hers. She was still slightly tipsy from the wine she had drunk at lunch, drowsy from the delicious food, but at the same time her body tingled, her senses were on full alert, alive, tuned in to the sensations flooding through her from the proximity of that warm male presence.

  Antoine uncorked the bottle and poured them each a glass.

  ‘Splancha!’

  They touched glasses. She took a sip of the white wine, it was sharp and tasted of gooseberries.

  ‘And now you must do a wish.’

  Antoine was looking at her; she turned her head to meet his gaze. His eyes were almost black except where the sun slanted through his thick lashes, lightening them to the colour of dark chocolate.

  ‘Do you have a wish, Irish?’

  He raised one hand, touched her cheek, gently.

  She felt an unexpected rush of shyness, bordering on panic. All her confident plans to flirt, to tease, to beguile him with provocative looks, an unbuttoned blouse, a lipsticked mouth, all fled. She was here, alone with him, the first time they had been alone together. He seemed to be looking into her very soul with those sombre eyes, past all her tricks and pretences, right down to who she really was. She bit her lip, swallowed.