Bella... A French Life (35 page)

-0-

We leave the coast behind us.

We are cruising through green fields and apple orchards, the trees without the fruit which, because Eve had offered one to Adam and, he having accepted it, had caused the fall of humanity.
The woman you put here with me - she gave me some fruit from the tree, and I ate it,
said Adam to God, blaming Eve for the sin he had committed
. It was the serpent who deceived me, and so I ate the apple,
said Eve to God, defending herself
.
 

We reach another village and again Colin pulls up.

“I would like to have a look at the books,” he says.

We are in front of a bookshop. Carrying our crash helmets under our arms, we go in. The shop is small and in semi-darkness. An old man stands on a ladder, his back to the door. Hearing the tinkle of the door’s bell, he turns round. He descends the ladder. He is wearing pince-nez glasses: these he pushes down over his nose, staring at us with watery blue eyes. I ask if we can browse and he asks if he can offer us a coffee. Politely, we decline.

The minutes tick by. I am not browsing in earnest. Colin is. He is at a shelf marked
Livres en anglais.
I want to get back on the road because, with night falling earlier these days, I want to get to Le Presbytère before dark.

“Bella, look. Shelley!”

Colin is holding a slim volume: its soft cover is torn and has yellowed.

He asks the old man how much he wants for the book.

“For you,
Monsieur
, two francs because I can see you are a poet yourself.”

The old man is smiling. So is Colin. I am happy for both of them. The one having succeeding in getting rid of a book he must have thought he was stuck with; the other having found a book he thought he would never find. Perhaps also because he is pleased at being taken for a poet.

“Colin, look!” I call out.

Just inside the door is a carton full of old picture postcards.

“Do you have any postcards of Van Gogh’s work?” I ask the old man.

“Only one. Van Gogh’s
Sunflowers
.”

“Sunflowers!” Colin and I shriek.

The old man walks over to the shelf and rummaging through the cards, he holds up two postcards, each with Van Gogh’s
Sunflowers
on it.

“I can’t believe this,” says Colin.

“Let me buy one of the cards for you,” I tell him.

“Only if you allow me to buy the other one for you,” he replies.

I ask the old man what he wants for the cards and he says we can give him a franc for each. It is steep for a postcard, and an old one at that, but I dig in my purse for a franc and Colin produces a handful of coins from his jacket pocket and holds his hand out to the old man to take a franc from it. Each having paid for a card, I give the one the old man has given me to Colin and vice versa. He slips the card between the pages of the little Shelley volume and I put mine in my handbag. The old man, obviously puzzled at what we have just done, shakes his head.

The little Shelley volume was published in London in 1912.

“Before the Great War. This is such a bargain, Bella,” says Colin walking back to the motorcycle.

Back on the motorcycle we drive along an avenue of trees. Ahead is a church of reddish stone. Behind it are ramparts. Two women in pleated skirts which reach halfway to their ankles, and in twinsets and flat-heeled shoes with laces, white socks tucked into them, walk along one of the ramparts. One carries a Polaroid camera. They take a picture each of the other, studying the instant pictures and nod.
Hell, am I really looking this old?
Is this what they are saying to one another?

We reach a stream and I tap Colin on his arm for him to pull up.

“Picnic time?” he asks, taking off his crash helmet.

Finding a spot where the grass is thick, we throw down the blanket and unpack our basket.  I cut the
baguette
into chunks as is done in restaurants and as Gertrude does at Le Presbytère. Colin butters four chunks; two for each of us. I watch him slicing up an egg and a slice of ham. As if we are copying each other, we make sandwiches. The two eggs we have brought, sliced, we put on the ham and a generous number of tomato slices we put on top of the egg.

“I forgot the mayonnaise,” I say apologetically.

“Delicious this is, even without mayonnaise,” says Colin.

He fills one paper cup to the top with the
Sylvaner
, but the second cup he fills just halfway, filling it up with mineral water.

“I need to get us home, Bella.”

Home.

Whenever my mother heard a guest describe the guest house as home she said it made the long hours and the hard work worthwhile.

“Bella, I want to read you a few lines from one of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poems. It is in my opinion his most beautiful, his best. It’s
Love’s Philosophy
,” says Colin.

He takes the little book from the inside pocket of his jacket. He begins to read.
The fountains mingle with the river … and the rivers with the ocean … The winds of Heaven mix for ever with a sweet emotion …
He stops reading. His eyes are closed, the little book no longer in his hands but lying on the blanket between us. He begins reciting.
Nothing in the world is single … All things by law divine  … in one spirit meet and mingle … Why not I with thine?
He opens his eyes. He looks up at the sky, still blue like on a summer’s afternoon
. See the mountains kiss high Heaven … and the waves clasp one another …
 

He falls silent.

“It is beautiful, Colin,” I say.

“Here,” he says, “the little book is for you. You can read the poem for yourself later.”

I want to protest, say:
No you must keep it
, but I lean over and I take the little book from his hand. Leaning over still further, I kiss him on his forehead.

“Thank you, Colin,” I say.

The
Sunflowers
postcard falls out and I pick it up and hand it to him.

“No,” he says, “it is for me to thank you, Bella. To thank you for your kindness. For allowing me to stay. For everything.”

-0-

It is cold in the sidecar riding home. I wrap the blanket around me up to my chin. I begin to shiver. I forget about what I had paid for the cushions and I push my feet under them.
I should have brought gloves.
Colin taps me on the knee and with a shift gesture with his hands he offers me his gloves. I shake my head.

We pull up at the village. I run into Amandine’s and I buy a large quiche to have when we get back to Le Presbytère.

“Look at you!” says Amandine.

“What?”

“You’ve been to the moon dressed like that, Miss?”

“Sure have,” I reply.

In the gulley outside the shop autumn leaves are rotting.

-0-

Chapter Thirty-Three

The silence in the house is not now as threatening as it is when I have been out and returning on my own. The silence even seems welcoming. I stand in the small front room, at the desk, and if I do not know better, I will believe I can hear voices and laughter as when the house is filled with guests. However, no, the register which guests have to sign bears only the signature, a confident scrawl, of Colin Lerwick. Nationality: English. Current address: a hotel in London’s Marylebone district.

“Bella, I’m going to change,” the guest calls out.

He parked the motorcycle in the usual place and he has carried the basket, empty, the blanket and the two cushions indoors. The bottle of wine, still far from empty, we had dropped into a street bin in one of the villages we passed through.

“So am I, Colin, and when you’ve changed, you can come down for some quiche,” I tell him.

I change into a pair of old jeans and a long-sleeved sweater. One of my new red panties is underneath the jeans, but I did not put on a bra.

In the kitchen, I place the quiche in the oven.

Colin walks in. He too is in a pair of jeans and a sweater.

“We are eating in here,” I tell him.

From outside comes the howl of the wind.

“We got back just in time,” he says.

I cut two triangles from the quiche: one triangle bigger than the other. The larger I put on the plate in front of Colin. He covers the quiche in ketchup. Amandine and Olivier would have succumbed to a heart attack should they have witnessed this.

“I love the poem. Thank you for the thought,” I tell Colin.

My hands are on the table and he puts one of his over one of mine.

“Colin,” I say, “it is so good to know that you like it here at Le Presbytère.”

“More than that,” he says. “I love it here. I do not want to leave.”

I do not tell him if he wants he can stay. Stay for tonight. Stay for tomorrow night. Stay for always.

“You go upstairs. I will clean up here,” he says.

I have eaten only the one triangle of quiche but Colin cut a second triangle for him.

“You can put the rest of the quiche in the fridge,” I tell him.

“Will do.”

I turn at the door. He is already running hot water into the sink.

“I will see you upstairs,” I say.

“Won’t take me long, Bella.”

The ‘White Room’ is dark. Walking past it, I close its door. I left the lights on in my room, but I extinguish all but the Marilyn Monroe lamp. I like the circle of pink light it throws over the bed.

I take off my jeans, but not the red panty and the sweater.

Bella, your breasts are beautiful. Divine. So perfectly round. So soft. So tender to the touch.
Jean-Louis’ words.

I spray Van Cleef & Arpels’
First
on my legs, on my feet and my hands, and I lift up the sweater and spray it under my arms too, and in my neck, and behind my ears.

I hear Colin’s footsteps on the stairs.

“Bella?”

The footsteps pass the ‘White Room’.

“I am here, Colin.”

He stops at the door.

“What is this lovely scent?” he asks.

“Maybe it is me.”

I am standing at the bed. Two steps and he is beside me. He is holding a white candle. Where did he find it? I do not know. It is lit, its flame quivering in the current of air being caused by his movement. He puts it down on the floor beside the bed.

“Colin, did you silence the clock?”

“Bella, forget about the clock.”

Indeed.

He unzips the fly of his jeans. Slowly. He rolls the jeans over his hips, down his legs. He steps from them.
Is this a strip to turn me on?
He rips off the shirt he is still wearing and the vest underneath it. He is only in red boxer shorts, his boots and grey socks. He squats and rips off his boots and rolls the socks over his feet. I switch off the Marilyn Monroe bedside lamp. The room dark, he picks up the candle and puts it on the bedside table on the side of the bed nearest to him.

I slide under the top sheet.

Without a word, Colin slips in beside me. As silently, he pulls at my sweater and, our hands touching, I help him helping me to pull it over my head. He eases his body over mine; he is fully erect. I spread my legs to ease his entry into me. Together, gently, we move, up, down. I throw my legs over his body to perfect our union. He is kissing my face. We cling to one another, his hands on my breasts, my hands on his shoulders. His seed fills me. Seconds later, I climax. In the faint light of the candle, I search for his eyes. He is looking at me, tenderly.

“Colin, I can easily fall in love with you,” I say.

He lifts his body off mine. He falls back onto the bed.

“This is not just sex for me, Bella.”

He closes his eyes. After a while his breathing eases. I think he has fallen asleep. I turn onto my side. I, too, will try to sleep.

-0-

“Bella?”

I am awake but my eyes are closed. I keep them this way.

“Darling?” he tries again.

He touches my face.

I open my eyes.

“Yes?”

“Did I wake you?”

He lifts my head with a slight pressure under my chin. Tenderly, he brushes his lips over mine.

“Did I wake you?” he asks again.

“Yes,” I lie.

“I’m sorry.”

His breath smells of quiche: I did not notice it earlier. I suppose, so does mine. I swing one leg off the bed to go to the bathroom to clean my teeth, but he grabs me by the arm. Quite roughly.

“I only …”

I do not finish my sentence. He is holding me by the shoulders and pressing his mouth over mine and pushing his tongue against mine. The action so sudden, so unexpected, I feel I am choking. Sensing this, he withdraws his tongue. Next, his mouth.

For a few minutes we lie in silence beside one another. He on his back; I on my side again and facing him. I am stroking his torso, my fingers playing with the hair on his chest.

Day has broken; the room is no longer dark. The candle has burnt down.

“Where did you buy the candle?” I ask.

“In a shop in Paris. I was thinking of you and I thought I will buy it.”

“It is nice to know you were thinking of me when you were in Paris.”

“I did so all the time. I have been … you’ve been on my mind since I arrived here at the house. You are dominating my thoughts. I cannot get you out of my mind. I think … I think I want to stay here forever. I think I am falling in love with you. I think I love you.”

He stops.

“Is it such a bad thing, Colin? Falling in love with me?”

“I am … how to say this, my darling? I am a wanderer. My home is where my typewriter is. It’s how I live. I have never thought of settling. I have never wanted to settle, marry, father children … become a father, be a father. Christ! Am I saying this all wrong?”

“It depends what you want to say?”

“I want to say, I am falling in love with you, and I do not want to leave. I want to stay here. Here with you, Bella. I have never had such thoughts. Such feelings for anyone. My mother … she used to say I was an oddball, that I was all intellect and no emotion. She used to say she pitied the girl I was to marry because she will be starved of love. She advised me never to marry. She used to say she will pray no woman ever falls in love with me because it will be a love I will not know how to reciprocate. And now, now I am falling in love. So what now, my love?”