“What a beautiful boat. It has such character, and I love the name,” Arianna said. Jacques smiled his thanks and took her hand to help her walk up the short gangplank and onto the seating area in the stern.
“Would you like a tour? It doesn’t take long.” He chuckled.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
They stepped belowdecks into the salon with a U-shaped dinette and a small couch. Arianna was surprised at the light the small windows provided, creating the illusion of spaciousness.
Everything was upholstered in earthy tones with a clean, masculine feel. The orderly stainless-steel galley had a well-used, lightly tarnished finish.
“One aft cabin with a head and shower,” Jacques said as he opened one door and then pointed to the door at the other end. “And a V-berth with access to another head through that door. This next room is for storage. It’s rather messy in there right now. It’s where I toss all my ‘stuff’—easel, paints, pencils, paper—you know what I mean? I’m not the most fastidious artist.”
“Do you paint and sketch while you’re on the boat?”
He nodded amiably and rolled his eyes. “Unless I’m on horseback, it never ends. Art is my obsession. Do you know the feeling?”
Arianna sighed. “Once upon a time I knew it well.”
Jacques’s expression registered a look that seemed both knowing and sympathetic before he lifted the mood. “Let’s go up top and have a glass of wine . . . and talk of other things.”
The upper deck had U-shaped bench seating in the stern and an awning-covered cockpit area with a removable plastic front and sides. A screen could be rolled down to enclose the cockpit.
“Bienvenue au gouvernail! Welcome to the helm! We’ll sit in here behind the screen, so we don’t have to worry about a mosquito bombardment,” he suggested.
“What a beautiful steering wheel!” Arianna commented, hoping she was using the proper term as she ran her hand over the ship’s wheel. Eight richly varnished cylindrical wooden spokes were joined at a central hub. They attached to an outer rim, creating a series of handles.
She had a flashback to her childhood and the strong hands of her father and uncles steering out to sea to fish. She hadn’t been on a boat since those days in Greece, and yet it all felt strangely familiar. Those boats were rustic and rusty, often with peeling paint, and piled high with fishing nets and lines. Still, the feeling of being on the boat was reminiscent of those days long ago.
“Thanks! It’s quite an old wheel that I found at a brocante years ago, if you can believe that! One never knows what will turn up at those flea markets. The sale was in Marseille, and there was a lot of equipment from boats. It was in terrible shape, but after countless hours of loving care, it turned out to be quite a beauty!”
“It did indeed.”
Jacques opened a small refrigerated cabinet. “Would you like a glass of rosé, chardonnay, or champagne? Or would you care to join me in a pastis?”
“It seems I’ve turned into a pastis fan on this trip. Not only do I like the taste, but it’s revived some happy childhood memories. Thank you.”
Jacques asked about those memories as he poured the anise-flavored Pernod into tall, thin glasses. Next he picked up an ice-filled water jug. “Tell me when to stop,” he said as he slowly added water, and the amber liquid turned to milky white.
After doing the same to his drink, he placed a long-handled spoon in the jug. “Purists argue not to add ice to pastis, as you have no doubt learned—more of our obsessive French nature with food and drink! But when it’s this hot out, I like to make sure my pastis stays cool. So it’s your choice if you care to add some later.”
He raised his glass to her as their eyes met. “Santé!” Arianna did the same, giving herself an internal pinch at her surprise to be where she was.
They sat on benches on either side of a narrow table and looked out across the canal. Arianna was captivated by the atmosphere of the other boats moored around them and the sun-kissed stone walls of the medieval town that filled her view. It seemed almost surreal.
Jacques broke the silence. “All of our conversations have been about art and life in the Camargue. Why don’t you tell me something about your life now?”
Arianna hesitated, thinking the next part would be awkward.
Jacques spoke again before she could. His tone was soft and kind. “At the picnic yesterday Juliette mentioned to me that you had come to the Mas des Artistes to reconnect with your artist’s soul.”
Arianna stared into her glass for a moment, biting her lower lip. Then she nodded her head slowly as she raised her eyes to his. “Juliette described that well. Perhaps I should start at the beginning.”
She recounted some of her childhood in Greece and how her father had brought them to live in Toronto. This led into her early days studying art and her excitement and love of working immersed in the surroundings of a major art center.
“I married a wonderful man, who supported my career while he and my father ran our family restaurant. But fate intervened. My father was killed in a car accident twenty years ago, and life changed. I set aside my career and eventually lost the time for art. But I had a very happy, busy life as my husband and I managed the business and raised our family while also caring for my mother.”
Jacques listened quietly. His expression and slight head movements indicated his interest and encouraged Arianna to continue telling her story.
Arianna kept the details to a minimum without losing the impact of her words. As she described the current state of Ben’s existence, she ended by saying, “And once again, years later, fate has knocked on my door.”
She picked up her glass and took a long sip. Jacques reached for her hand, which was resting on the narrow table between them. He laid his hand gently on hers. “Such sadness is difficult to overcome. But overcome we must.”
“This trip is my first move in that direction,” Arianna said, her voice strong and eyes clear.
Jacques cocked his head. “Do you know the words of André Malraux? He said, ‘Art is a revolt against fate.’ Let’s toast to that.”
They raised their glasses.
Arianna smiled ruefully. “I don’t know much about Malraux . . . but I like the quote! I’ve never considered myself someone who revolts against anything, although I’ve been reminded lately that it might be time to begin.”
For a few seconds, she studied the shadows beginning to fall on the walls of Aigues-Mortes. Her fingers tapped lightly against her glass.
Then she turned back to Jacques and smiled. “Now it’s your turn. Where did you spend your childhood? How is it you speak English so well, with barely any accent, and yet you seem so very French?”
The corners of his eyes wrinkled as he laughed. The deep blue of his eyes intensified. Arianna was charmed by his easy manner and good humor—and, she admitted to herself, those eyes. It was refreshing to feel something like an attraction after so long, although she accepted it only as a momentary aberration.
“Well, I must admit I’m only half French . . . in heritage. In my heart I am a hundred percent a Frenchman. So you are right.”
He raised his glass to her in a relaxed manner. “Are you ready for a long story?”
Arianna chuckled. “I have a feeling this is going to be a good one.”
Jacques spoke easily, with a sense of comfort and confidence as he related his past. “My mother was American, and I spent much of the first twelve years of my life on a ranch in Colorado. My father was a true gardian, and, in fact, a bit of a gypsy. One summer, he made a pilgrimage to the States to trace the connections that had so determined the life of Marquis Folco de Baroncelli-Javon. Do you recall me speaking about him?’
“Of course,” Arianna said, recalling that strange connection between the gardians and the American West.
“My father saw him as a hero but found his story heartbreaking, because he did not finish the last years of his life in the best condition. If I’m honest, my father was rather ob
sessive about it. He was fascinated by Baroncelli’s connection with ‘Buffalo Bill’ Cody that influenced the founding of La Nacioun Gardiano in 1909. It’s all kind of crazy, really . . .”
“That story was bizarrely curious. I remember you talking about Baroncelli, and I even looked it up on the Internet after our afternoon with you. Please keep going.”
“I’ll keep it short—and, of course, this is my father’s story as he told it to me. So at the age of twenty-two, my father took a trip to Kansas and Wyoming trying to trace Cody’s life there. Can you imagine stranger places for a French cowboy to go?” He interrupted himself to say, “Oh, and did you know that Buffalo Bill even lived in Toronto for a while as a child? How about that! My father did not go there, though . . .”
They shared a laugh.
“I did not know that,” she said. Arianna was enjoying the company of this intriguing man who was so full of surprises. For a moment she considered this completely unexpected experience that had come her way and was glad she had not shied away from the opportunity.
“He went on a whim, hardly spoke any English. Eventually he ended up at Cody’s grave in Golden, Colorado. He fell in love with Colorado and also with a young artist, my mother, Rosemary Curtis. He met her shortly after he arrived when he was looking for work as a ranch hand or wrangler. She lived and worked on her family’s ranch and was establishing a name for herself as an abstract artist, exhibiting wherever she could and winning prizes. When I was older, my father described her as wild, beautiful, and free and like no one he had ever known. They got married after she became pregnant, and my father was accepted by her family and welcomed on the ranch. However, it had never been his intention to stay permanently in the States, and he missed France passionately. They agreed to stay married and live separately, as my mother had no desire to live in France . . . or even visit. Can you believe she never came here?”
“I feel like you’re recounting a novel for me,” Arianna said. “And, no. I find that so hard to understand.”
Jacques chuckled. “As they say, fact is often stranger than fiction. N’est-ce pas?” He added some ice to their glasses.
“So how did things play out?” she asked, curious about his story.
“I would come to my father during the summer holidays, and he came to see me a few times during the winters. In spite of the fact my parents eventually were not in love with each other anymore, they both put a lot of effort into ensuring I had a good relationship with them both. They both loved me, and I knew that.”
“Good for them, and lucky you. You don’t always find that.” Arianna had a moment of gratitude flicker through her for the loving family she had always been part of.
“So true,” Jacques said. “When I was twelve, I told my mother I wanted to live with Papa in France. It was inexplicable, but I always felt I was home when I came to stay with him. So I lived here in the Camargue, and we rode horses and corralled bulls together. He taught me all he knew. I competed in the courses camarguaises and finished school. It was a life I loved, and my bond with Papa was extraordinary.”
“And your mother never came to visit?”
“No. Never. The situation kind of reversed, and I would go to see her in Colorado during Christmas break from school, mainly so I could ski those fabulous slopes. Winter there was something special, and I loved that, but I didn’t want to miss a minute of the rest of the seasons in the Camargue. Mom became an increasingly eccentric hippie artist. We grew apart.”
He stopped speaking for a moment and became contemplative. His voice was more subdued when he continued. “This region spoke in a powerful way to my soul. The older I got, the stronger the connection became. And then I began to draw. I eventually accepted that my mother did give me something special, after all.”
Jacques freshened their drinks. The conversation segued into comparisons of how their childhoods had affected their artistic leanings.
Arianna felt transported away from the worries and concerns that had occupied her all these months. Away from the conflicting emotional loads she had wrestled with over the past two weeks that had allowed her to reach this moment.
With boat activity moving slowly up and down the canal, Mon Esprit rocked gently at its mooring.
“What a peaceful motion this is,” Arianna murmured. Leaning back and turning her face to the warm rays of the sun, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the calming atmosphere.
Jacques stretched his arms up and clasped his hands behind his head, as he also leaned back in the sunshine. “It’s a biological fact that we all have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean—physically and emotionally, don’t you think?”
“My father was constantly quoting Zorba the Greek, and most of those quotations involved wine, food, and the sea,” Arianna said, laughing. “The sounds and smells of the sea were what he missed most about Greece.”
Jacques chuckled. “He sounds like he was quite a character.”
Briefly melancholy, Arianna agreed.
Jacques pointed out that the sun was now sitting much lower in the sky. “The sun will begin its performance in about an hour. We should have a stroll on the boardwalk before we go back up on the wall, so you can experience the sun setting over the salt marsh: a glorious spectacle courtesy of la belle dame nature.”
CHAPTER FORTY
By the time they had arrived back up on the upper walkway of the rampart, quite a crowd had gathered along the southern edge. Jacques apologized for not getting there earlier, as they squeezed into a spot where Arianna could just see over the stone wall.
Arianna shushed him. “This is just fine! You’ve managed to make so much happen today already.”
She could feel his closeness. There was a lingering scent of pastis on his breath that made her smile. She allowed herself the pleasure of breathing a man in. It was a pleasure long lost in her memory.
Looking over the salt marshes, Arianna gasped as she had before at the colorful beauty of the waters. “That pink is so vivid and deep one moment, and then shimmers into something light and delicate the next,” she said.
“It’s called ‘water rose,’” Jacques told her.
The strikingly iridescent colors offered tremendous photo variations, as they continually changed hue. In spite of being jostled from time to time, Arianna could not stop taking pictures.
“Look at the cloud formations,” Jacques said, directing her eyes to the sky. “The effect today will be even more glorious once the sun is below the horizon.”
Arianna tried not to sigh out loud as the slowly fading golden globe melted into the Mediterranean. The rosy-pink backdrop diffused into shades of azure as it vanished beneath the waves. It was a delicious moment that elicited buzzes and hums of delight from the crowd.
As Jacques predicted, the show became even more spectacular after the sun dropped from sight. Pinks and blues swirled in the sky in a fiery blend.
“It’s so interesting how many people walk away thinking a sunset is over, just because the sun has gone down,” Arianna agreed.
He grinned. “That’s just the foreplay.”
Arianna felt herself blush and turned her head slightly, hoping Jacques wouldn’t notice.
For a moment, she basked in the warm glow that illuminated the evening sky. A sense of tranquility settled over her. She wondered if it came solely from the sunset or also from her proximity to Jacques and his husky, appealing voice. She had to admit she was enjoying his company in a most unexpected way.
Maybe I’ve had too much pastis. I’ll have to watch my alcohol intake at dinner.
As they stepped back into the heart of the town, Jacques suddenly steered Arianna onto a quiet side street, as the crowd continued to surge by. Within minutes they were in a peaceful courtyard decorated with ornate iron furniture and flower-filled urns.
Arianna was shocked to see it was nine thirty when they sat down to eat. She had adjusted well to the late dinner hours. It felt right.
Dinner was delicious and, surprisingly, already planned.
“I hope you don’t mind me taking the initiative to organize this,” Jacques said, almost apologetically. “I wanted the dinner to be special.”
“I love surprises,” Arianna replied, smiling and feeling a surge of delight at his thoughtfulness.
The courses were small and luscious, each one a singular taste sensation. It turned out that he and Marcel, the chef, were old friends.
As they sat tucked into a quiet corner of the terrace, their conversation was intimate. With the assistance of good wine, their exchanges had become increasingly personal.
The waitress, Anne-Marie, who was also Marcel’s wife, had just brought them a delicate lime sorbet. “To cleanse our palate after the fish course and before our main course,” Jacques explained.
“I’ve gotten to know a great deal about you in the times we’ve spent together,” Arianna said, feeling both comfortable and slightly emboldened. “I’ve told you all about my family, but, apart from your parents, you’ve never mentioned whether you have any family of your own.”
Jacques set his wineglass down after taking a long sip. Arianna noticed his jaw tighten before he spoke.
“We’ve had so much to talk about, I just never got around to it. I am on my own now, but I had a partner for over thirty years. We never married, but that is, as you probably know, very common in France. Her name was Giselle Landry. We met at Aix-Marseille University while she was studying medicine. I was taking random courses to fill an arts degree, in between working on the manade and hanging out in the gritty streets of seventies Marseille, trying to be accepted as an artist.”
Arianna listened intently as he continued. “Giselle became a doctor and worked at clinics in the poor, rundown areas in the heart of Marseille. She did not want to have children but rather made the needs of those disadvantaged kids her needs. We both spent a lot of time doing that together. And we rode horses, sailed boats, and hiked. I built up a clientele for my art, and she practiced medicine. After a while, she also joined Médecins Sans Pays—Doctors Without Countries.”
Drawing Lessons Page 28
