Paris Adieu #featured #Wattys2017

Chapter 12 - La France Profonde

"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.