"Ça va, ma belle? How are you, my beauty?" Arnaud asked, as he gunned the car away from the sidewalk, at the same time popping some music into the stereo system. "Tu as bien dormi? Have you slept well?"
"Oui, j'ai bien dormi, yes I slept well," I replied, looking out the window to hide my blush. If only he knew what thoughts had lulled me to sleep – perhaps the same ones he'd had.
"T'as la pêche?" he continued.
"Uh ... c'est quoi, ca? What's that?" He'd either asked me if I had the peach or if I was a peach. I hoped the whole weekend wouldn't go like this. He had home court advantage so I needed to come up with some other sort of advantage fast. Being female and not yet bedded by him seemed a strong one. After the bedding part, I intended to hold an even stronger position, although I wasn't sure how. I counted on my inner goddess to advise me.
"It means, "are you feeling peachy today? In good spirits?''" he explained.
"Ahh. Yes. In fact, I am." He'd gotten that right. "And you?"
"Mais oui. Certainement." He accelerated as if to prove his point. His pale pink polo shirt accentuated the gold of his skin and set off the auburn highlights in his hair. I longed to reach over and touch him. Instead, I touched the base of my throat as I rested my elbow on the arm-rest.
He glanced at me, saying nothing. This was a good sort of game to play to equalize the playing field. I'd touch whatever part of my body I wanted him to touch, he'd notice, and when the right moment came, voilà, his hand would replace mine. Our two-and-a-half hour drive would be the appetizer to the feast that awaited when we arrived. And who cared if we ate anything, although this being France, I knew we would both eat something and care about what we ate.
Once we got on the autoroute, I relaxed. We traveled south, on the A6 Autoroute du Soleil or Highway of the Sun. Even the name sounded promising.
"Where are we headed?" I asked.
"To the LoireValley."
"Where the chateaus are?" The enormous chateaus of the LoireValley built for various kings, queens and kings' mistresses were France's most magnificent.
"Not my family's village, but yes, some well-known chateaus are nearby. Have you been there?"
"No."
When it came to my knowledge of France, I was a big-city girl. Outside of Paris, except for Nice and Pascal's largely forgettable suburb of Saint Denis, I was a total neophyte to French regions, un zero as the French say, like a born and bred Manhattanite, completely out of one's element the moment one crossed the bridge or tunnel to New Jersey, the Bronx, or Long Island.
"Are we going to where you grew up?" I asked.
"For part of my childhood, yes." He shrugged.
"And for the other part?"
"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.
The large living room featured an enormous stone fireplace. We continued on into a big kitchen with a long wooden table in the middle and then toured two smallish bedrooms, each containing a twin-sized wrought-iron framed bed. Next, he pointed out the bathroom and water closet, separate in European fashion. Finally, there was only one room left to explore – the master bedroom.
It was large, with three sets of vertical French windows on two adjoining walls. Sunlight and warmth flooded into the room. I crossed to the closest window to take in the view of the countryside – breathtaking. Across the road below, a small path wound its way over a meadow down to a village. Goats dotted the landscape.
"That's Chavignol," he said. "We'll go there in a few minutes to do some shopping."
A queen-sized bed stood against the wall opposite the windows, four wrought-iron posts at each corner. The bed linens were white, the pillows nicely plumped. Quickly, I looked away.
While Arnaud attended to details of opening the house, I returned to the living room. Very few personal items adorned its walls or tables. Among the few, a small black and white photo of an older woman hung on the wall near the stone fireplace. In her late forties perhaps, I guessed it might be Arnaud's mother in younger years, although I didn't see a family resemblance. The woman's face was smooth but with sharp features; the eyes looked mischievous, the mouth petulant. Beautiful, in a difficult sort of way.
"Let's go to the village," Arnaud called from the doorway. "The boulangerie closes early on Saturdays, so let's get there before it shuts." He held a large wicker basket, the kind Frenchwomen typically take to market with them.
"Is that your mother in the photo?" I asked as I brushed past him out the door.
"What photo?'
"The one on the wall in the living room. Near the fireplace."
Arnaud looked puzzled for a moment.
"Ahh, non. Not my mother. Here's a basket for you, too, Minou." He handed me a second wicker basket that he unhooked from under the eaves next to the back door.
"Then who is it?"
"Who's what?"
"Who's the woman in the picture?" I insisted, incapable of sticking to my resolve not to play the nosy American.
"She was my mentor."
"Your what?"
"My guide."
"What does that mean?"
"Cheri," He turned to me, putting a finger on my lips. "It means what I said."
What had he meant? No way would I ask if she was a former lover. I filed his words for future reference.
On the way down to the village, we stopped as a large herd of goats crossed the road.
"The goat cheese here, Crottin de Chavignol, is known all over France. It's been made here since the sixteenth century from goats like those," Arnaud said, as we watched the slender, white animals amble across the road.
"Will I like it?" I asked playfully.
"It's sort of nutty."
"Like you?" I didn't actually think he was nutty, so much as wickedly articulate and just a bit outrageous.
"Like me," he agreed. Then, he leaned over and kissed me on the mouth.
As I tasted his salty pungency, I was overcome by the thought that delicacies like goat cheese made since the sixteenth century had gone into creating the man kissing me. I loved the whole idea of it. Careful, girl.
He kissed me again, this time harder.
Dizzy, I pulled back, turning to look out the window. It would be unwise to get involved with a man who worked as a foreign correspondent, almost as foolish as falling for a foreign intelligence agent. Who knew, maybe he was both?
I would enjoy the countryside and the introduction to exotic, smelly cheeses, but I would keep my emotions in check, I told myself.
After the next kiss, I felt faint. Perhaps it was the heat. Probably not.
When the last goat passed, we continued on to the ancient village of Chavignol.
In a minute, we were there and had parked. As we walked toward the shops, the cobblestoned street affirmed my choice of flat sandals. My kitten-heeled Parisian ones would remain in my weekend bag.
In the bakery, Arnaud asked for a baguette, two croissants and two pains chocolats then suggested I pick out some small cakes for dessert that evening. As I examined the rows of artisanally decorated madeleines, macaroons, creamy Bretons, polonaises, montblancs, baba au rhums, and other individually-sized cakes, my mind flashed back to au pair days, when I'd been addicted to the patisseries that had lain in wait for me all over Paris.
This time, they weren't calling to me at all, lined up like overdressed courtiers at Louis XIV's palace. I looked at them indifferently and realized I'd changed. Some sort of quiet revolution had taken place inside me over the past ten years, since I'd first come to France. Finally, I was beginning to think like a Frenchwoman.
"Let's skip the cakes and have that Chavignol cheese for dessert. Maybe with some fruit," I heard myself say. Change had come. I was surprising even myself on the threshold of my thirtieth year.
"Avec des figues. With figs then," he agreed, paying for our purchases then heading out the door.
Figs and goat cheese had replaced chocolate cream and mille feuilles-layered, buttery pastries in my heart. I'd entered then exited a French bakery without losing self-control. My elation knew no bounds. Change, even transformation, was indeed possible. I had arrived.
Next, we visited the fromagerie, where rows of small rounds of Crottin de Chavignol were laid out. They were sold by age, the older cheeses dotted with blue mold – the kind an American would return to the store for a full refund but a Frenchman would pay extra for. I laughed, explaining what an American reaction might be to the mold-covered cheeses.
"À chacun son goût, to each his own taste," Arnaud replied diplomatically, echoing Jean-Michel's words almost a decade earlier. He might have said, "What do Americans know?" but didn't. Bravo.
He picked out two rounds, one aged and covered in blue bumps, the other young. "Une femme jeune, une femme mûre," he whispered to me as the clerk wrapped them up.
"What did you say?" I asked once we were out on the sidewalk.
"I said 'a young woman and a ripe one'."
"What's a ripe one?" I asked.
"Une femme d'un certain âge, a woman of a certain age, maybe forty-five, fifty, who is still beautiful and likes to make love," he explained.
"And which is better?" I was slightly jolted to hear how smoothly he'd explained himself. I could just see him on assignment, holed up in a hotel bar with a beautiful local woman. Whatever her age, his suave lines would cover all bases.
"À chacun son goût, to each his own taste," he repeated.
"And what is yours?" I pressed.
"Ça depend, Minou." The French endearment was a variation of minouche, Jean-Michel's nickname for me. It meant little cat. Like a caress, it landed on my ears pleasingly. "It depends on the moment. Whichever one is in front of me I suppose."
It wasn't the answer I wanted to hear, but it was one worthy of a Frenchman, not to mention a foreign correspondent. I would have to take the good with the bad. There was no way I was going to meet a man here with the style of a Frenchman combined with the character of John-Boy Walton from my favorite TV show of the 1970s. John-Boy, played by Richard Thomas, had been my kind of all-American male – sensitive and seemingly forever faithful. Frenchmen and forever faithful didn't seem to go together. I didn't want to typecast, but a complaint I heard often from women I met in Paris was that French men cheated. It was well known. They had different tastes for different occasions in all sorts of categories – cheeses, wines, before-dinner drinks, after-dinner drinks, desserts – why not women as well?
We picked up some paper thin slices of veal at the butcher, two bottles of red wine at the supermarket, as well as water, yogurt, capers, and a few household items. On our way back to the car, we stopped at a café where we sipped espressos and watched stylish, relaxed people watch us – a French national pastime. Despite only two hundred inhabitants, Chavignol enjoyed a considerable tourist presence in mid-July, so there were plenty of passersby to observe. Finally, we stopped at a fruit stand, where we bought a box of fresh figs and a melon, then headed to the car.
We took the long way back. Arnaud drove to Sancerre at the top of the hill at which Chavignol lay at the base. Famous for its wines, we stopped in at a winery and enjoyed a glass of crisp, light Sancerre le Chene Lucien Crochet, as we watched the sun begin its descent behind the Chateau de Sancerre, which Arnaud explained was a medieval castle rebuilt in 1874 in the style of Louis XII.
A re-enactment of medieval castle life took place daily just before sunset. We watched as three couples in period costume joined in a courtly dance. A mock jousting match for the men followed. Then it was the ladies' turn. Dancing a scarf dance, the women laughed and flirted with the audience with coquettish skill, apparently honed by the lack of much else to do for the well-born denizens of medieval court life.
Arnaud watched intently as the oldest of the three ladies pulled a green scarf slowly across the lower half of her face, hiding her mouth. Her eyes danced as they slithered across Arnaud's face. Quietly, I noted his reaction. As if hypnotized, he stood like a stone, returning her stare.
Trouble. Apparently, I wasn't the only female capable of hypnotizing the man next to me. I shifted uncomfortably, quelling my American desire to be the only woman in Arnaud's viewfinder.
In another minute, the performance ended, the actors disappeared, and all eyes turned to the sun setting behind the castle ramparts.
At the moment the sun slid below the horizon, we kissed – the woman with the green scarf forgotten. The evening at Arnaud's country house awaited us. We zipped home, past goat herders returning with their flocks, bells attached to the goats' necks. The tinkling sound they made urged us on to the day's denouement.
In thirty minutes, we were back. Here's where once again a French date departs ways from an American one. An American man takes a woman out to dinner on a date. A French man prepares dinner for her. Vive la différence.
As Arnaud cooked, I wandered around the gardens of the low, stone farmhouse, snipping flowers for the table. In a while, heavenly smells informed me that he was sautéeing the delicate veal slices we'd bought.
"Ça y est, here we are," he announced stepping outside, bottle of wine in hand, as I finished arranging our peony centerpiece. His hands gripped the tire-bouchon or corkscrew, the sound of the cork coming out of the bottle as satisfying as the moment of watching the sun dip below the horizon or hearing him say ça y est. It was a short, succinct French expression phrase that expressed satisfaction at the completion of something – in our case the first chapter of our acquaintance. The second, more formidable one was about to begin.
"Ça y est," I echoed, accepting the wine glass he offered. We toasted silently and drank, eyeing each other over the rim of our glasses. The image of the woman in the photo on the living room wall came into my head, but I flicked it away, like a summer insect. It was enough to be here, now. Nothing more mattered.
"Shall we eat outside?" he asked.
"Perfect."
Dinner was succulent. A simple salad followed paper-thin veal slices sauteed in lemon, white wine, and capers. When it was over, we fed each other figs, interspersed with bites of Chavignol's nutty goat cheese.
Soon, kisses took the place of every other bite. We slowly stood up, clinging to each other. Together, we cleared the table. As I washed the dishes at the kitchen sink, Arnaud embraced me from behind, his arms encircling my waist.
When I finished, I dried my hands slowly, then turned to face him.
Taking my arm, he led me to the bedroom, extinguishing lights as we went.
At the side of the large, four-poster bed, he lit the two candles that he'd brought from the kitchen, placing them on the night stand. Then, he put his hand on my throat, precisely where I'd touched myself in the car on the way down. Delicately, but firmly, he pushed.
I fell backward onto the bed. As I lifted my legs to kick off my shoes, I caught sight of my shadow on the wall over the head post. Shapely calves and feet danced in the flickering candlelight.
"Look at the wall," I told him.
"I see," he said admiringly. Then, his eyes returned to mine, green like a tiger sighting its prey.
"Don't look at me. Only the wall," I ordered. The ceiling was at least nine feet high, giving us a sizeable stage on which to shadow dance. Ornate moldings adorned its perimeters, continuing down each corner. Slowly, I moved my arms and hands above our heads, enjoying the black images dancing on the wall.
Arnaud studied the effect, then began to move his own arms in tandem with mine. We were like children at play.
"Close your eyes." he finally said.
I shut my eyes, feeling the soft night breeze from the windows play over my hair and skin.
Shuffling sounds ensued, something on the bedside table was moved, and then the fey, otherworldly sounds of the Cocteau Twins wafted over us.
Arnaud bent toward me, kissing my left temple. Next, my forehead. Slowly, his lips moved down the side of my nose, to my mouth.
I returned his kiss. Now, he was on both knees beside me. I sat up, putting my arms around his neck.
We fell back on the bed, his steely taut thigh resting over mine. Instantly, I understood the reason parents didn't want teenage couples in reclining positions with each other. Nothing could have prepared me for the total surrender of my will in response to Arnaud's thigh on mine. I tried to take command of my actions, but another more feminine part of my brain suggested I give in. I complied.
Arnaud moved downward, over my throat, finding the tops of my breasts with his tongue. My sundress was silky, loose. With two fingers, he moved the vee of its neckline to expose my pink lace bra. Then, his tongue traced its border, in a minute, finding my nipple.
I sighed, my back flexing upward. Then, I reached up to unbutton his thin, white cotton shirt. One – two – three buttons undone. My fingers slipped inside to find a mass of luxuriant silky brown hair covering his chest.
Sucking in my breath, I pulled his shirt out of his jeans, undoing the rest of the buttons. The hair-trapped scent of him was musky and fragrant, undoing whatever reason I had left.
In a minute, Arnaud flipped me over. Now, he was underneath, pulling my sundress off over my head, quickly unfastening my bra. He pulled me down onto him. I shuddered with pleasure at the feel of my breasts against the forested floor of his chest. His hands came round the back of my waist and quickly moved down over my haunches.
He breathed in sharply.
In less than a minute, we were skin to skin, the hardness of him pressing against the top of my thigh. Instinctively, I thrust my hips up against him. There would be time for subtle exploration later. At that moment, there was nothing I wanted more than to feel the driving force of him inside me. I thrust again, twisting my hips and taking him off guard. The second he released me, I moved away. It was entirely tactical. The point was for him to come after me.
He did, ferociously. His hand dove between my thighs, parting them. Then, he lifted himself above me, a black hawk above his prey. I lay still, transfixed.
There was nothing subtle about his entry. He drove into me, fierce and unrelenting. I cried out in surprise, scrambling to get away.
His hands dug into my hips, holding me in a vise, as he drove into me again. The length of him surprised me, the tip of his penis hitting a back wall deep inside each time he thrust. The sensation was exquisite, engorging, and enflaming me, until we were like two succubi devouring each other.
His moans drowned out mine. The moment was his, and I was his ardent audience, the provoker and provider of his unbearable pleasure. Like a gargoyle high in the rafters of Notre Dame, his face contorted and contracted in the dance of the candlelight. It looked chiseled and hard, a visage like a falcon, his nose long and ever-so-slightly curved, his jaw line sharp and his blue-green eyes hard as diamonds. The utter, fierce masculinity of him took my breath away.
After a long moment, when time seemed to stand still, he gave an enormous groan, as if he were giving up the ghost. Then, he released his life forces into me in one, final push that lit a fire at the back of my womb.
I would be the star of Act Two of this performance but Act One belonged entirely to the maestro above me. I silently applauded his tour de force as he collapsed onto me, seemingly one step removed from death.
Beneath his spent form, I relaxed into the complete stillness of the night and marveled at the power of the performance I had just elicited from him. I wouldn't try to understand what it was about him that excited me so. Better to let the mystery be. As soon as he came to, Act Two would begin and he would find out about my own mystery. Whoever Arnaud de Saint Cyr had begun this day as, he would wake up a changed man on the morrow. Thanks to me.
In another minute, I was ready to fly heaven-ward. I gently rolled him off and to one side of me. It was not yet midnight, and our explorations had only just begun.
"Hello," I whispered with a low laugh, looking into his face.
His eyes were softer now, less hard and glittering than usual. If Delilah was going to cut off his hair, this was the moment.
"Hello," he murmured. "How are you?"
It was the moment of decision. I was ready to come. He needed to know that.
"Je suis excitée. I'm excited." This time, I meant it in the French sense of the word.
His eyes lit up.
"What do you want me to do?" His question was apt. The most appropriate question a man could ask at that moment. One a boy might not think of asking.
Taking his hand, I guided it to my clitoris. He moved it farther down. I moved it back into position, my body convulsing when he found the right spot. Immediately, he focused on the task at hand. Raising himself on one elbow, he slid his body down mine, putting one hand on my belly to prevent me from moving away. With his other hand, he covered my pleasure spot, his index finger flicking over it, back and forth.
I slowed down his motion, then pushed his hand away.
"Wait," I ordered.
He looked at me, puzzled. Then, I put his hand back where it had been. With an upward thrust of my chin I motioned him to recommence. He did.
Soon, he had taken charge of command central. He understood my directions, clear and monosyllabic.
In another moment my breathing turned jagged and harsh.
"Don't stop," I commanded, my body doing its utmost to jerk away from him.
His left hand like a vise on my hipbone, he threw his right thigh over mine, pinning me to the mattress. I couldn't move.
He got it. Instinctively, he knew to synthesize my conflicting behavior.
"Stop," I cried out even louder.
He smiled, pausing for a moment, then resumed. This time, he pressed more firmly, stroking faster.
I couldn't stand it any longer.
"Stop," I pleaded. But I was no longer in charge. My tormentor was.
He applied his tongue.
I arched backward, practically knocking his teeth out.
"Ahhh," I screamed out, splitting the silence of the night into crystal shards. At the end of the longest tightrope I'd ever walked, I fell into an abyss. It took me several minutes before I could open my eyes again, my lips parted in sheer bliss. Arnaud's eyes on mine looked intrigued. Perhaps shocked.
It was the moment to show sheer bravado. My mouth curled into a savage smile, teeth showing. I could feel the sheen of sweat on my face. It would not do to worry about embarrassment now. He might think I was an absolute maniac, but he would be impressed. Women could be falcons, too. If he hadn't known before, he did now.
"Are you okay?" he finally asked.
I nodded.
"You looked like the girl in The Exorcist when you were coming."
"The one whose head turns all the way around?"
"Right."
"Thanks." A matched response would come in handy. "You looked like a monster getting blown away by the Terminator," I countered.
"Sans aucune doute. Without a doubt," he agreed unashamedly.
"The best things in life aren't always pretty," I pointed out.
"The best things in life are the smelliest," he countered.
"Spoken like a Frenchman," I teased. The French were true connossieurs of strong smells.
"Do you agree?"
Good question. Back in the States I would have said, "Yuck, no." But this was France. I wasn't two-faced or a hypocrite. I knew what I liked, and I knew I didn't like strong smells on a man or from a cheese in the States, but I did like them here. I was discovering what suited me in one place wasn't necessarily the same as what suited me in another.
"There are strong smells that I don't like. Then there are others that excite me," I whispered, putting my fingers in his chest hair and twisting.
"Ow," he protested. He reached for my head, grasping it then pulled my hair back hard.
"Ouch," I echoed.
"You like that," he observed.
"So do you," I replied.
Over the next twenty minutes, he showed me how much he did.
There was something subversive about Arnaud de Saint Cyr that appealed to my own carefully concealed subversiveness. He elicited a high octane sex drive within me I hadn't known I possessed. Together we formed a turbo-charged team. It was almost too good to be true.
* * *
The drive back to Paris, the following day, was peaceful. I chose Erik Satie's Gymnopedie to play as Arnaud drove – an elegant, minimalist accompaniment that perfectly contrasted with the explosiveness of the night before as well as that morning. Arnaud was relatively quiet, showing a calm, thoughtful side that may have been the result of spending time in the countryside, but more likely caused by the four orgasms he'd experienced over the past twelve hours. Either way, it was pleasant. Wrapped up in blissful thoughts, I was happy to take a break from our usual verbal badinage.
At half past eight in the evening, we pulled up in front of Henri and Marceline's flat. Arnaud turned to me, his face remote, pensive.
"Why so serious, mon cher?" I asked, the endearment slipping out naturally. Did I have a right to use it? Yes, my heart sang.
He sighed. "I have to go to work tomorrow."
"But, that's normal isn't it?" What was the problem? Most people had to go to work Monday morning. Not everyone was a musician like me. Thank God, not my boyfriend, if that was what I could call the man now clasping my hand in his.
"I'm going to Thailand on assignment."
"You're what?" What had he just said?
"I'm leaving for Thailand tomorrow to cover a story there."
"Did you mention this before?" Stunned, I could feel my blood pressure rising. We hadn't spoken about mundane things like work or careers. We hadn't gone near those all-too-American type topics. Now, I wished we had.
"No, ma belle. I didn't want to speak of it. I wanted to be with you, that's all."
"But we, but we just –"
"Yes. We did." He put one finger on my mouth to stop me from saying more. "And we will again. As soon as I'm back."
I removed his finger.
"It's just a bit of a surprise." A shock is what I meant.
"Ava, I'm a foreign correspondent. It's what I do for a living."
"So – you write news stories about places around the world?"
"Yes."
"And you go to those places to write them?"
"Précisement."
My heart sank. I knew enough about his profession to know that it encouraged the same kind of loose living lifestyle being a performer or airline pilot did – a woman in every port, worst case scenario. On assignment for three months somewhere, back home for two weeks, next assignment six weeks somewhere else, and home for Christmas if no earth-shaking event occurred anywhere else. It was a peripatetic existence. Not music to the ears of an equally peripatetic musician who entertained occasional thoughts of settling down. Or did I want to settle down? I wasn't exactly sure of what that entailed, but I knew I was fed up with playing piano in restaurants for less money than the waiters were making.
"When will you be back from Thailand?" I didn't want to ask, but the words popped out regardless.
"In ten days. Two weeks at the most. It's a short project." He looked at me, his eyebrows arched into question marks.
Hell. That implied a long project might last a month or more. Did this work for me?
Non.
Would I finish things here and now between us?
Non. Impossible.
"Bahhh..." I used the famous French expression to hedge my response, unable to think beyond 'information rejected – rewind tape'.
"I'll call you, Ava. The minute I get back."
Great. He wouldn't even call while he was gone. It was unfair. How could we have been so close and now this? He would disappear, making me wait for ten long days, wondering if he would reappear in my life again. Shades of horrid Manhattan dating encounters danced through my head. Hadn't I left all that behind? Or was this some sort of modern-day phenomenon – the unavailable male available just long enough to get laid then pushing off into the sunset? Bastard.
"Do you have a girlfriend in Thailand?" I couldn't help myself.
"No. I have no girlfriend anywhere. My work doesn't permit me."
"Well now you do." There. I'd really gone out on a limb.
"Ava," he pulled me into his arms, practically impaling me over the stick shift.
I squirmed, trying to get away.
"Will you be the girlfriend of a guy like me?"
"What exactly is a guy like you, Arnaud? The guy you were this weekend? Or the guy you'll be tomorrow when you get on the plane?" I hoped there wasn't a difference, but I'd worked as a musician long enough to know there probably was one. From what I'd seen, when adult men and women went on the road alone, they didn't stay alone for long.
"Like the guy I am in both places."
"I can only know the guy you are here with me."
"Is that good enough for you?"
"Is it good enough for you to be with me now and not with anyone anywhere else?" I was getting ahead of myself. This was a conversation for down the road, not at the onset of a relationship. But he was leaving the next day. For a country filled with slim, dark gorgeous women with more manageable hair than mine.
"You're too good for me," he replied, not exactly answering my question.
"Great. I've heard that before." Why did that old, tired line always come up when a relationship was about to go bust? We'd just begun something glorious. I wasn't about to let whatever we had go up in smoke by engaging in a premature discussion.
"Will you wait for me?" he asked. Unfairly, I thought.
"Ça dépend, Arnaud." Nor would I promise him anything at that moment. 'It depends' was all he was getting from me. It wasn't a response from the heart, but my heart had gone into hiding from the moment he'd mentioned leaving for Thailand.
"Ça dépend de quoi?" he demanded.
"It depends on you."
He looked confused, exactly how I wanted to leave things with him – unsure and wanting more. Without a word more, I got out of the car then slammed the door shut.
Arnaud jumped out the driver's side, slamming his door with equal force.
"Qu'est-ce que tu as, cherie? What's the matter with you?" he asked. I knew that question from time spent with Jean-Michel.
"You know what's wrong, Arnaud. Could you open the trunk please?" I didn't mean to be upset, but him leaving for Asia for the next two weeks had not been on my radar screen of foreseeable events. At least, he hadn't said two months.
He complied, pulling my two bags out and placing them on the sidewalk. Then, he put an arm on either side of me and backed me up against the side of his Peugeot. All I needed now was for Henri or Marceline to show up. They were probably at the living room window that very moment, taking in the whole scene.
"I'll be back in ten days, two weeks at the most. Tu me manqueras. You will miss me."
What was that – a command? Had he just said I would miss him?
"No, Arnaud. You will miss me," I shot back, incensed by his incredible cheek.
"That's what I said, cherie. Tu me manquera énormément."
Had he just said 'You will miss me enormously'? Yes I would, but that wasn't for him to say, was it? Some sort of miscommunication was going on here. I needed to get away before everything we had just begun went up in smoke and flames.
"Goodbye, Arnaud."
"À la prochaine, Ava. See you next time."
Not trusting myself to refrain from escalating combat further, I picked up my bags, turned and smartly walked into the building. There would be plenty of time to sort out our parting conversation later. Ten full days, in fact – perhaps fourteen.
I fumed as I made my way upstairs. Thousands of miles from New York City, and here I was again dealing with flighty man problems.
* * *
The next morning, I bumped into Marceline in the kitchen, all eight months along of her. She waddled toward the counter where I sat, coffee cup in hand.
"And how was the weekend?" she asked, looking curious.
"It was good," I said, avoiding her eyes.
"Then why so sad?" she followed up. She was right. I was in the dumps.
It wouldn't do to punch a pregnant woman. In any case, it was Arnaud I wanted to hit. I was still confused about our conversation curbside the evening before.
"Marceline?"
"Yes?" She looked surprised to hear me address her by name.
"What does tu me manqueras mean?"
She smiled.
"I will miss you," she explained.
"But doesn't it mean 'you will miss me'?" I asked, confused. That's what it had sounded like.
"It's a common mistake. In English you put yourself first. But in French you put the other person first. It's like ça me plaît."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you say, 'I like that' in English, but we say ça me plaît, that pleases me."
"So do you mean to say if I say tu me manqueras it means I'll miss you even though it sounds like you will miss me?"
"Exactement." The grin widened on her face.
"And what does tu me manqueras énormément mean?" I asked, although it was pretty clear. I just needed a native French speaker to confirm it.
"Is that what he said to you?"
I blushed. "I'm just asking what it means."
"Right. It means "I'll miss you a lot – enormously."
"Oh." I stared into my coffee cup.
"Did he go somewhere?"
I nodded.
"For how long?"
"Ten days to two weeks."
"Oh." She took a deep sip of her coffee with milk. "That's not so long."
"It seems long to me."
"Try waiting nine months."
I looked at her and laughed. She had a point. "You're almost there, Marceline. It will all be worth it in a few weeks' time."
"If I can wait this long, then you can wait two weeks."
"But what if he doesn't call?"
"That depends on you."
"What do you mean?"
"How did you leave it with him?"
"I – uh – I was sort of mad." I shook my head, thinking of our dust-up on the sidewalk.
"Were you mean to him?" Marceline asked enthusiastically.
"Uh – malheureusement, oui – unfortunately, yes."
"Très bien," she approved. "He'll call."
What was that supposed to mean? What if I'd been all nice and accommodating? No problem, Arnaud. Call me when you get back, whenever that might be. That would be a man's fantasy, right? I steamed, just thinking about it.
"But I wasn't very nice to him" I explained. "I was angry because he hadn't said anything about going away until we got back from the weekend."
"What were you expecting him to do? Say something before you went away and risk not having you come?"
"I guess not."
"You have to understand his point of view. He wanted something, and he needed to make sure he was going to get it."
"Just like a man," I agreed, disapprovingly.
"Oui. Just like a man, naturellement." Marceline didn't look disapproving, just instructive. "And now it is your chance to behave just like a woman."
"Meaning?"
"You scratch. You kick. You meow. Finally, you leave. Shut the door in his face. Bouf." She gestured violently as if slapping someone in the face.
"Wow." I studied Marceline with new respect. She might look like an overripe watermelon, but she had some serious moves. "What's all that accomplish?"
"You let him know he's just another mec." She used the slang for "guy" in French. It had a slightly more pejorative spin.
"I do?"
"They're a dime a dozen." She shrugged. "He's gone for a few weeks? Who cares? Someone else will come along to take his place. Let him know there are plenty of other fish in the sea, all ready to swim your way."
"I like your thinking."
"It's only natural," she continued. "You need to take the advantage, so he understands it's his loss if he chooses to leave you for a few weeks. Why is he going away, anyways?"
"He's a foreign correspondent."
"A what?"
"An international journalist."
She made a face, as if I'd said he was a drug-runner or something. Then, she composed herself.
"Well, good luck with that."
"Yeah, thanks."
We parted ways – her to work, me to my keyboard. I tried to focus with renewed zeal, but too many loose ends flapped in the wind. Would I get booked for more gigs at The Blue Cactus after my six-week run was over? Where else might I find work? And would the man I'd just slept with for the first time call when he got back? While I rehearsed my repertoire, I vowed not to think about him.
Then I broke my vows repeatedly.
Had I expected Arnaud to be an accountant? Not likely, with his fast-moving mind and cheeky delivery. Foreign correspondent would have been one of the top ten on my list, if I'd had to guess what he did for a living. I just hoped beyond hope he didn't share the same sleazy habits many men picked up in that line of work.
My mind wandered back to the house pianist at the Watertree Crab House in lower Manhattan where I'd been a singing waitress until I'd found work as a singer/pianist hotel lounge act. I'd had a ridiculous crush on Jules. For months, I'd pined after him, until finally at the end of our shift one evening, he'd offered to walk me home. We hadn't ended up at home but instead at one EastVillage bar after another, until we found ourselves back at his apartment. Never mind about all the rest.
The next morning, he mentioned over coffee that he had pretty much bedded the entire waitressing staff of the restaurant where we worked. It was then that I knew male musicians in New York City had it way too easy when it came to women.
The ratio of heterosexual men to women in the performing arts in New York City was something like one to four. It hit me like a ton of bricks that I'd just given myself to a complete sleazebag. I took the walk of shame back to my own EastVillage apartment, wearing my clothes and tired makeup from the night before, while I tried to squelch any aspirations I might have had for our relationship to pan out. At work in the weeks following, Jules treated me exactly the same way he had before our all-night encounter, aside from an occasional smirk or lascivious stare.
The scales fell from my eyes after that encounter. Welcome to the New York dating scene, Ava – World Headquarters for Meaningless Encounters. On occasional Friday or Saturday nights at the end of my shift, Jules would offer to hook up with me again, which absolutely drove me up the wall. I wasn't looking for a hook up. I'd wanted a relationship, a love story. We weren't speaking the same language. Our tryst set the wheels in motion for my exit from New York City. No way did I ever want to be a musician there again.