Parisian Promises (17 page)

F
ollow me,” Jean-Michel told Monica. It was Sunday morning, and they were leaving mass at St. Martin's Church. He was dressed in tailored navy blue and charcoal gray, and none of the old parishioners bothered to look up from their supplications to notice either Jean-Michel or the slight woman who walked out after him.

He walked briskly, and Monica understood that she should follow a few meters behind. She thought that perhaps he was helping her cover up her tracks, just in case Christophe had asked Serge to keep an eye on her. Actually, when Monica told Christophe that she wanted to attend church alone, and then go on to her art lecture, Christophe ordered Serge to drive her to church and then to return to Les Charmilles. Preoccupied with business matters of his estate, Christophe had handled himself like a curt business owner.

“Please telephone Serge when you are ready to return, so he can pick you up,” he said to Monica.

“But I may stay with Lola in Tours. We … we have a joint project to complete.” Monica quickly fabricated a believable story, hoping that her voice wouldn't betray her excitement about spending time with Jean-Michel again. She avoided his gaze, throwing a few items of clothing and her art supplies into her small duffel bag.

Christophe kissed her like a bored husband. “Of course, you should focus on your studies. And I must get ready for the extra workers we take on during the
vendange
, the grape harvest. You understand,
ma petite
?” He went back to his paperwork, not even looking up when Monica skulked away. In their few days together, Monica had taken for granted that she was a priority in Christophe's life, but the previous night she had refused to make love to him, certain he would notice the bite marks on her thigh. Apparently he still held a grudge about being rebuffed.

A nondescript car and male driver waited a block away from the church for Jean-Michel and Monica. They both climbed into the back seat, and Jean-Michel let Monica rest her head on his lap until they were on the outskirts of Tours. “You're in for a unique surprise,” he told her, and then he said something in French to the driver. After a few kilometers, the driver crossed a bridge and followed a narrow road wending along the river. He made a number of left and right turns before pulling up to a stone wall with a locked wood gate.

Jean-Michel waved goodbye to the driver and led Monica down along the lower sections of the rocky bluffs parallel to the river, walking until they found another gate, this one small and also made of wood. He lifted a weathered wine cask filled with geraniums and pulled out a key from its underside.

“Welcome to a troglodyte dwelling,” he said, opening the gate.

“A what?”

“Come inside, you'll see.”

It took a couple of minutes for Monica to adjust to the darkness inside the cave. Jean-Michel walked towards the back of the cave and turned on a lone electric bulb.

“Can you see how charming this wine cave is?”

“It's right out of
The Flintstones
,” giggled Monica. “But surely people don't live in this cave, do they?”

“Sometimes. There are hundreds of caves like this all over the Loire Valley. Throughout history, people have lived in these caves. Nearby there's even a former monastery built right into the caves on the cliff.”

“But why would people live somewhere like this?” Monica sniffed at the stale air and squinted into the cave's dark recesses.

“Sometimes they were hiding from religious persecution. Other times they were just poor peasants trying to keep dry in the winter and cool in the summer.”

Monica walked around the cave, her footsteps echoing. She noticed that one section was set up as sleeping quarters, while other sections clearly served as a wine cellar. “So do you know the owner of this wine cellar? That's what this place is, right?”

“Your lack of creativity amazes me,” Jean-Michel snapped. “Why must it be this or that? Why can't you see this is a place where we can be alone and in love?”

Monica was startled at how quickly he could grow angry––cruel, even. In a flash she recalled being abandoned alone in the Paris apartment after one of his outbursts. Although she'd been able to look down on the street below, and could have called out for help, Monica had waited in terror for Jean-Michel to return. She didn't want to face the possibility that he would abandon her in this cave as well. Monica started to hyperventilate, dizzy and shivering with cold sweat. She looked so dazed that Jean-Michel saw the opportunity to continue his assault on her identity.

He had planned to isolate Monica in this tenebrous cave, but he was satisfied at how rapidly she exhibited outward signs of her stress. Jean-Michel knew it was the perfect moment to jumpstart his accelerated refresher course, a systematic attack on her sense of self––before he sent her out on a mission. He had to exhaust Monica, to weaken her resolve, so he began by shouting at her at close range.

“Do you think that there are no longer poor starving people in the world?” he screamed. “Do you think that the pitiful man who slept in the same cot you're sitting on would not die from a lung infection contracted from microscopic fungi borne from decomposing biological fluids?”

Monica sprang from the cot, horror written all over her pale face.

“That's right!” Jean-Michel yelled. “He died from exposure and contact with human excretions like urine, vomit, and feces that are still lingering in caves like these! You and I are probably inhaling those spores right now, but perhaps this risk to
your
health will make you appreciate the destitute lives of those less fortunate. Don't you want to help the world's disenfranchised people?”

He strode towards a quivering Monica and she fell into his arms. Jean-Michel pushed her back down on the cot, and held her firmly by her shoulders.

“Don't tell me that there are no poor people in California?” he asked in his most mocking tone.

“Yes, of course there are,” Monica whimpered. “But what does that have to do with me?”

“Precisely. You don't recognize how your financial support of imperialist corporations helps drive thousands more working people into nameless graves.” He squeezed her shoulders.

“Please, let go,” she pleaded. “You're hurting me.”

“You must admit that you've played a role in the subjugation of people. Admit it.”

“But I don't see how. Hell, I work harder than––”

Jean-Michel slapped her across the face. A trickle of blood dripped from the corner of her mouth and her eyes widened in terror. “Admit it!” he snarled.

When Monica began to sob, Jean-Michel walked away, disappointed in his own brutal behavior. His goal in creating the “California Girl” technique of mind-control was to prove to others how a potent and superior mind could command a pliant creature to follow orders unequivocally. A strike against a target was common practice among the other revolutionary groups, particularly those who specialized in kidnappings and ransom as a source of income. They had to punish their victims for their sins, and a well-placed and painful punch always made the victim recant their previously held views. By striking Monica, Jean-Michel showed her his own weakness, and this alarmed him.

Monica was still crying, but she did not dare speak up again. She'd learned from witnessing her mother's beatings that it was best to agree with every accusation and to apologize for any perceived crimes. Otherwise things only got worse.

Jean-Michel sat next to her on the cot and draped an arm around her slim shoulders. Monica shook with fear.

“Please forgive me,” he murmured. “I love you so much, and I want you to believe in the work that I am doing to help the poor and oppressed all over the world. You must concede that you come off as a smug, well-fed California girl, right?”

Monica nodded.

“We must get medicine to the tiny children in, in the, that is to say, the children who work in mines in South America and Africa. Do you love me enough to help me do this?”

Monica nodded again, though she looked miserable.

“And don't you agree that these colossal stone
châteaux
in the Loire Valley are nothing but a conspicuous reminder of the power of the French nobility? It's no surprise that their heads had to be chopped off in order for a new world order to form,
n'est-ce pas
?”

All Monica could do was nod. Tears streamed down her cheeks when she thought of Christophe, who possessed a title of nobility and, more importantly, displayed such an admirable dignity of character. Surely his ancestors did not abuse their workers. On the other hand, she'd seen his mother verbally abusing her employees. Maybe Jean-Michel was right. Her confusion made her sob even harder.

“Is that all you can do, cry?” Jean-Michel squeezed her shoulder, digging his fingers into her soft skin. He looked in her eyes and guessed that she was thinking of her own nobleman, Christophe. Jean-Michel spat at her face.

“So, are you thinking of your princely exploiter? Perhaps he liked to rape you, like a common kitchen wench. Is that why you were huddled inside that Louis XV armoire, where I found you naked? You know what Louis XV wrote about the slave merchants, don't you?”

“No, but I'm sure it was awful,” Monica managed to say, drawing on her last reserve of moxie.

Jean-Michel cleared his throat, as if preparing for a speech. “Louis XV wrote:
‘les négociants du Port de Bordeaux se livrent avec beaucoup de zèle au commerce de la traite des
––”

“Stop!” Monica stuffed her hand in her mouth to stop herself from wailing. It was all too horrendous: Louis XV praising the slave merchants for their profitable trade in human beings from Africa; the thought that Christophe's family might have gained their
château
through exploitative means; the fact that she was trapped again, this time in a cave; the residual pain from the bite on her inner thigh––a constant reminder of the rough sex she craved with Jean-Michel; and lastly, the fact that she felt her mind dissolving into a blank porous stone, not unlike the cave that surrounded her.

“So you do acknowledge that these
châteaux
are a symbol of oppressions through the ages,” Jean-Michel continued, his eyes boring into hers. “Are you aware that Château Chaumont was purchased with the tarnished proceeds from the slave trade? The Say family of Nantes made their fortune on sugar plantations in the Caribbean, and in order to look legit they bought the
château
and married into a minor title of nobility.” He threw back his head and laughed. “And you do know that Nantes was France's leading slave port––after Bordeaux, that is? During the 1730s alone, the French shipped probably more than 100,000 slaves from Africa. What do you say to that?”

“I had no idea,” Monica admitted. “But … but I thought that Château Chaumont was built in the 10
^th
cent–”

He shook her harshly, raising his voice again. “What difference does it make what century it was built? Don't you realize this cave is not a natural cavern? The caves in this valley are a direct result of greed and subjugation. The nobility demanded that each
château
be bigger and more ostentatious than the next. Their serfs had to dig into the hills for the porous
tuffeau
limestone to build these monstrosities. Need I tell you how many people died from quarrying this limestone?”

He slapped her back, and Monica moaned.

“Lots of people,” she whispered, flinching when Jean-Michel reached over to stroke her hair.

“Then you must agree that the huge international corporations that control your government are the equivalent of the nobility of yore,” he said in a low voice, as though he were reasoning with her. “Their only goal is to make more and more profit at the expense of their workers.”

Monica nodded and wiped the tears from her face with the back of one trembling hand.

“I have to go to the bathroom. Please let me go,” she begged.

“There is a bucket in that corner over there.” He pointed to the darkest section of the deep cave.

“Please come with me. I'm afraid.”

Jean-Michel slapped her again, so hard that she almost fell backwards. “So now you're too good to take a piss in the same pot that the dead man used for months, is that it?”

Monica was exhausted and confused by his accusations and violence. She staggered to the makeshift chamber pot in the dark corner, clutching at the stone wall to keep her balance. When she returned to the cot, Jean-Michel was nowhere in sight.

“Please,” she called. “I'm begging you, let me go. I'm too afraid to stay in here any longer. What do you want from me?”

When Jean-Michel did not respond, Monica walked around the cave frantically looking for him. In the darkness, she stumbled on the uneven surface and scraped her knees on a protruding rock. “Please, come out from wherever you're hiding. I'll do whatever you ask. But I must leave this cave or I'll die.”