Dreams of Bread and Fire (17 page)

“One of my many hidden talents,” he said.

“Was I hallucinating or was Pascal singing in Armenian last night?’

“His mother’s Armenian.”

“Those Armenians sure get around.” Ani nibbled at the toast’s crust, then dropped it on the plate. “I feel like shit.”

He ruffled her hair sympathetically. “Pascal and I are driving into town this afternoon. We’ll be back by supper. Isabelle’s expecting you at the house when you’re up to it.”

The hangover’s nasty film rinsed off in the shower, although the headache was still lodged behind her left eye. When Ani sat down at the kitchen table, Isabelle gave her a couple of aspirin and a glass of mineral water. She also set a bowl of potatoes in front of Ani and thrust a peeler into her hand.

“That was a big one,” Isabelle said, placing her palm on her belly. “Probably a knee. Six more weeks and we get to meet this new family member.”

“Do you think the baby’s a boy or a girl?”

Isabelle shrugged. “No idea. My mother is certain it’s a girl, and my mother-in-law is predicting a boy. We’ll be happy either way.”

Ani turned the potatoes onto the table and began to peel the first one into the bowl. As Isabelle chopped onions, the knife clacking against the wooden board, Ani wondered how old Isabelle was and how long she and Pascal had been married. How many years would it be before Ani should be married and carrying a child? Whom would she marry?

“How do you know Van?” Ani asked.

“Pascal met him in Lebanon,” Isabelle replied.

“What was Pascal doing in Lebanon?”

Isabelle pushed back a wisp of hair with her forearm, waving the knife in her hand. “He was there for a couple of months doing this and that. Van told us you knew each other when you were kids.”

“He came to my fifth birthday party.”

“He must have been a cute little boy.”

“When I was ten, half the girls in my class wanted to kiss him,” Ani said wryly.

“And what about the other half?” Isabelle asked.

“They were still playing with dolls.”

“And you?”

“Me? I was playing with dolls and pretending I didn’t want to kiss him,” Ani answered.

“You two are driving to Ajaccio tomorrow?” Isabelle asked.

“That’s the plan. Then Van wanted to go to Bastia.”

“But you’ll come back to us before you leave,” Isabelle said.

When Van and Pascal returned, the four of them sat down to dinner. Ani didn’t touch her glass of wine.

“You Armenians don’t know how to carry your liquor,” Pascal ribbed her.

“You’re as Armenian as I am,” Ani reminded him.

“Yes, but I’m also a Corsican, and we know how to drink,” he replied.

After the dishes were washed, Van and Pascal fitted together with wooden pegs the pieces of a cradle that Pascal had carved. Isabelle sat by the window working fine white wool on silver needles. Ani wished she had something practical to do with her hands. She thought of centuries of Armenian women who had embroidered towels, crocheted lace doilies, and woven carpets. They had shorn the sheep, carded and spun the wool, gathered plants to dye the wool, and put it to the loom.

Ani worried that if a nuclear war threw humanity back to the time before the Industrial Revolution she would have no handy skills whatsoever. She had come to rely on machines—airplane, radio, hair dryer—that she would never be able to repair, let alone reinvent. Awful to imagine a world without flush toilets and tampons. She would plant a garden and snare small animals. She would have to get over her squeamishness about animal parts. By necessity she would learn to pluck steaming entrails from a rabbit.

It was late when Ani and Van walked silently through the field to the caravan. She heard the stream rolling over stones. She smelled the olive trees and maquis and felt the firmness of the rocky earth beneath her feet. Ani looked up at the cloudless sky and thought the moon looked like a white melon on a black platter. The stars were a scattering of seeds. She wanted to tell this to Van, but he seemed preoccupied.

Inside the caravan, Van silently prepared his pallet on the floor. He was focused and efficient. In the dark with her back to him Ani removed her blouse, quickly pulling on an oversized T-shirt and stepping into a pair of baggy sweats. Not exactly sexy sleepwear, but there didn’t seem to be much call for lace and satin or a pink feather boa with matching mules.

“Night, Ani,” Van said. The zip of his sleeping bag was emphatic.

“Good night, Jim-Bob.”

“What?” he asked.

“Remember the end of
The Waltons,
how they all say ‘Good night, John-Boy, Good night, Mary Ellen’?”

“Never watched that show.”

Of course he had never watched that show. Ani lay down on the mattress and dragged her bag up over her. Their second night in this caravan and he still hadn’t tried to kiss her. What was all this pathetic hankering for his touch? It would be weird to kiss somebody whom she had known since kindergarten and who was practically a cousin. Although, according to Grandma, in Armenia in the old days people married their cousins frequently. That was why
Digin
Pauline had crossed eyes: her parents were first cousins.

Well, we’re not in Armenia, Ani, and he’s your fourth cousin thrice removed, or something even more distant, but it doesn’t matter at all because he’s not interested in you.

“What’s the matter, Ani?” Van asked. “You’re sighing.”

Ani blurted, “You forgot something.”

“What did I forget?”

“To kiss me good night.”

When he laughed, Ani winced. Why had she said that? A wave of crushing embarrassment tumbled her under. It was like the time when she was eight and someone tapped her on the shoulder at the public pool to tell her there was a rip in the back seam of her bathing suit.

His sleeping bag rustled, the zipper whisked open, and he was standing at the side of the bed.

Ani turned onto her side to make room for him. “Squeeze over, squeezebox.”

“What’s that?” He lay on his side with his head on her pillow.

Ani talked fast. “I think it’s from Ma and Pa Kettle. There was this series of movies:
Ma and Pa Kettle Go to Town, Ma and Pa Kettle on Vacation, Ma and Pa Kettle at Waikiki.
I watched a lot of old movies with my mother. They used to say ‘Squeeze over, squeezebox.’ About ten of them slept in the same bed.”

He kissed Ani, stopping the torrent of words. Needles of light shot down Ani’s spine and raced along her limbs. He tasted like cumin and apples; he smelled like cumin and apples and the black earth in the back garden.

Van slipped his hand under her shirt and ran a finger along the curve of her breast.

“Is this okay with you, Ani?” Van asked.

“It’s okay.” She breathed in his scent again. The traces of his fingerprints on her skin, his voice in her ear. His mouth was molasses on moleskin in the blackest night.

He slid his hand under the band of her pants.

“I don’t have my birth control handy,” Ani whispered.

“I’ve got a condom.”

“How resourceful of you.”

“A Boy Scout is always prepared.”

“I never made it past Brownie. I think I still have that beanie and orange tie someplace at home. I got a homemaking badge. One of the requirements was making butter from heavy cream.”

With his index finger he stilled her lips. “Did anyone ever tell you you talk too much?” he asked with mock seriousness.

Forget the question marks. She could climb inside here and rest out of the wind. A small fire would make light and warmth for the night. Pine branches sent sparks flying over their heads like exclamation points.

The next morning Ani woke from cramped sleep with a crick in her neck. She couldn’t believe Van Ardavanian was lying next to her. There was a shadow of a beard on his open face. His eyes were closed, and the long straight lashes fanned above his cheekbones. Ani wanted to lay her head on his chest and feel its warmth and solidity.

Then panic seized her. What if Van told his grandmother that they were lovers and his grandmother told her grandmother? Amid a circle of pilling cardigans there would be the clucking of tongues, wagging of heads, and a loud chorus of
amot kezi, amot kezi.
Could she climb over him, sneak out of the caravan, and hitch a ride to Bastia? She’d stow away on a ferry to Marseille and take the TGV back to Paris. Seemed unlikely.

Alternative plan: maybe they could pretend it never happened.

be neither sweet and swallowed nor sour and spurned

After breakfast Ani and Van headed south in the car. In the backseat was a wicker hamper of food that Isabelle had pressed on them as they left. They drove on winding roads lined with terraces bordered by ancient stone walls. Wooden beehives sat in the middle of the terraces. Ani stared out the window, the landscape a sad sweet thing like the frail leaves of an old book dipped in syrup.

Van paused several times as flocks crossed the road accompanied by craggy-faced old men. The sheep walked on their haunches like women in high heels. The goats were bearded and sarcastic. We own this road, they said, and you are merely passing through history. Our history. Ani wondered if the gray shepherds spoke Italian, French, or Corsican.

This was the kind of place people should go on their honeymoon, where the landscape’s beauty is sharp and melancholy. It made you feel that life hadn’t changed much in a thousand years. It reminded you how short your own life was and how small you were on the face of the spinning planet. Suddenly an image of herself turning in Van’s embrace flickered through her mind. It made her weak.

“Reminds me of Armenia,” Van said.

“When were you there?”

“A few years ago.” His terse reply didn’t invite further questions.

Higher up the mountain a snowstorm fell upon them. Slowly wending through the blizzard, they stopped at a small ski lodge at the summit for coffee and hot chocolate and then drove down the mountain, heading toward Ajaccio. A few hours later in the port town the azure ocean glittered under a brilliant sun. They parked the car on a street lined with expensive boutiques.

“First it’s nineteenth-century peasants and now we’re in a fancy resort,” Ani commented.

“There is a certain grimness in the contrast,” Van replied.

Entering the lobby of a modern building, they took the elevator to the sixth floor. The apartment, which belonged to one of Pascal’s friends, had white walls and spare, angular furniture. There were two rooms, a small kitchen, and a bath. Van said he had some errands to do so Ani set herself up on the balcony with a book. It didn’t occur to her to ask where he was going.

When darkness began to fall, Ani set the glass-topped dining room table with dishes she found in the kitchen and the provisions from Isabelle’s hamper. She rummaged in the cabinets, coming up with a pair of candles and some matches. She turned off the lights and lit the candles. It was so romantic. There was too much expectation in that kind of light.

When Van arrived, the floor lamp was on and the candles back in the drawer.

“You get everything done?” Ani asked.

“Yup,” he answered.

“Isabelle packed a banquet. She even put in a bottle of wine.”

“Looks good,” Van said, taking a seat at the table.

“Do you want some wine?”

“No, thanks.”

Ani stared at the roast chicken on her plate and felt her stomach ball up on itself. She listened to the accusatory clink of his fork and knife against the plate.

It was all her fault. She was the one who had asked him for a good-night kiss. If she had just kept her mouth shut he wouldn’t be walled off behind a stone grill of silence. She drained the mineral water in her glass and poured some more.

Van and Ani cleared the table and stood in the narrow kitchen at the sink. She washed; he dried. When they were done Van strode to the living room and unfastened the ties of his sleeping bag, spreading it on the couch. Ani marched to the bathroom with her toothbrush, her gums soon suffering from her vigor. In the bedroom she jerked on her nightclothes and flung herself onto the bed.

Van called from the living room, “Good night, Ani.” He flicked off the lamp.

“Good night,
Baron
Ardavanian,” Ani called back.

The electric alarm clock glowed on the bedside table. Ani watched the second hand glide around and around the dial. One night on the metro Ani had met a young fireman—
un pompier
—from Toulon. They ended up strolling along the rue de Rivoli and across the Pont des Arts to the Left Bank, stopping at a café for a hot drink. Didier told Ani that women would call the fire station looking for someone to come by. On the many slow nights when there were no fires one of the guys would be happy to oblige. Ani was incredulous, but Didier solemnly insisted that it was true. She wondered if what had transpired between her and Van was the equivalent of a
pompier
house call or what Asa referred to as a “mercy fuck.” Ani cringed at the thought.