A Beast in Paradise

by Cécile Coulon

  SELLING

  The first night.

  Alexandre had said:

  “I have a few free days coming up. I could stay, if you want.”

  Blanche’s fingers trailed along his stomach, circling his belly button, traveling up the narrow alley between his pectoral muscles and running along his neck, covering him with caresses, capturing this body that she loved. Alexandre was hers, really hers, alive and well, his heart beating in her ear.

  “I want you to stay.”

  Blanche melted into his arms. The smells of sweat and sex and their breaths rose and mingled.

  “Okay. I’ll pack some things tomorrow and stay until Monday.”

  Three nights. Blanche shivered. Tomorrow, Friday, maybe they’d have dinner in the garden; she’d wear her white dress with the red flowers. Émilienne would enjoy a little change. She glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Three in the afternoon.

  “You’re leaving right now?”

  Alexandre was already slowly getting dressed, with almost ridiculous care. His clothes were neatly folded on a chair. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he buttoned his sleeves carefully.

  “Alexandre?”

  She reached out to him.

  “If I’m going to leave the office early tomorrow to get here in time for dinner, I’ll have to work later today.”

  Naked beneath the sheets, Blanche gazed at him admiringly. His back was very straight, his well-cut shirt falling gracefully over his narrow but well-built hips. His shoulders and pectoral muscles, grooved in all the right places, seemed wirier, stronger than they had when he was a teenager. And above that self-assured male body, that face, still astonishingly youthful.

  “Until tomorrow, then.”

  He kissed her forehead, her nose, her mouth. Blanche couldn’t move, immobilized by pleasure in this bed filled with the scent of their lovemaking.

  The next day seemed to drag on endlessly. Incapable of sleeping late, Blanche was up at six A.M. She came downstairs as soon as she heard Louis slam the door. He still took his morning coffee in the kitchen, very early, while everyone was still asleep. As she listened to him moving cups and chairs and sitting down and getting up, she visualized him accepting Alexandre one day, the two of them talking, perhaps, even asking each other’s forgiveness. She persisted in believing that things would fall into place eventually; if Louis didn’t want to live under this roof anymore, maybe she could fix up the outbuilding next to the barn for him, so that he could be here without being here, be nearby while still keeping his distance, keep living in Paradise without having to cross that road, twice a day, where Étienne and Marianne had perished. She wondered if he ever thought about that when he saw Gabriel in the evenings, or when he was crossing that thin strip of asphalt to the house, but then she remembered that he’d never had anything to do with them; Louis didn’t share his traits or his blood with this family; he wasn’t her brother, or her cousin, or her uncle, just a man who had washed up in Paradise.

  Once he had left the kitchen, she went downstairs, made a pot of coffee and a plentiful breakfast. She spent the morning cleaning the house, changing the sheets, polishing the stairs, sweeping the yard all the way to the dirt road. Beneath the tree, she set out wedges for the table, comfortable chairs, and a sky-blue tablecloth. They’d have a late dinner, after it had cooled down outside. In the afternoon, she went into the village and bought pretty paper napkins and a bottle of red wine. Aurore waved to her from a distance. She got back to Paradise at about five o’clock, where Émilienne was waiting for her in the kitchen. Her grandmother suggested that she style her hair the way Marianne used to do, in a low bun with loose wisps curling around her face. The dress lay clean and ironed on her bed. Blanche took a bath. For an instant, the memory of her grandmother gently scrubbing her shoulders flashed through her memory; then she washed herself with slow strokes, inspecting her own body. The mirror was too small to see all of herself at once; part of her was missing, but it didn’t matter. She gazed at herself, pinching her buttocks to make them rosy, running her index finger along the curve from breast to thigh. Blanche had never felt so beautiful as she did in this moment, in front of this broken mirror.

  Alexandre arrived late in the afternoon, an overnight bag in one hand and a net bag of delicacies in the other. He’d brought fruit, a meringue pie for dessert, bonbons, mint chocolate, marzipan, tea. He put it all in the kitchen and then cleared a shelf in the refrigerator for the pie, which, he said, should be kept in a cool place, covered with paper towels. Meticulously, he cut the chocolate into little squares, which he arranged on a plate, a semicircle of orange wedges in the center, mint on either side, and two marzipan drops for eyes in this sugared face on the chipped plate. Closing the door behind him he murmured, “This will be pretty for dessert,” and Blanche kissed him on the lips. She loved it when he talked like that; coming from his mouth everything was charming, adorable; he was so sweet with his timeless way of being, old-fashioned and modern at once, so certain that nothing, no one, could resist him.

  They ate dinner outside. The evening stretched like a cat on a cushion. Émilienne asked after Alexandre’s parents; they were getting older, but they were fine; his father would work one more year at the ticket window in the train station, with Aurore’s father, before retiring. Alexandre was planning to buy the land behind the house so their golden years would be comfortable ones, filled with light, the horizon no longer blocked by pale, ugly walls. Blanche watched him; he was focused on Émilienne, looking her straight in the eye, as if her opinion were more important than anything. For these long moments before dessert, Blanche accepted that, for the two of them, she didn’t exist. She needed for Alexandre to love her grandmother, needed to be certain that he did, that he would take care of her, that he would be here. She coughed softly, to draw his attention from their conversation. He flashed her one of those smiles that she adored and began to clear the table as deftly as if he were a seasoned waiter. As he disappeared into the house, his arms loaded with dirty plates and empty dishes and glasses, Émilienne leaned toward Blanche.

  “He’s serious. I can tell he’s serious.”

  He returned a few minutes later, an apron tied loosely around his waist, with the pie on a serving platter and his plate with the face made of chocolates and marzipan.

  “And now, a selection of desserts.”

  Émilienne applauded. Blanche, from the depths of her chair, wished this moment would never end. They were beautiful, the three of them, on this still evening, in front of this everlasting house; they were beautiful, after all they’d been through, relaxing in the cool air, sated with food and wine and tenderness.

  They didn’t go back inside until it was very late. Blanche washed the dishes while Alexandre helped Émilienne upstairs. The steps creaked beneath their weight. From the kitchen, she traced their path, their movements. She lifted the plates out of the basin of dirty water and lined them up to dry next to the sink. As silence fell upstairs, she felt a new emotion welling: the sense that everything was all right; everything was as it should be. Just as he’d promised.

  The night, clear and silent, enveloped the house. Blanche watched the dance of the nocturnal butterflies, drawn by the lightbulb above the sink. She reached for the switch, but a hand closed on her arm, eliciting a cry of surprise.

  He had stolen up noiselessly behind her. Blanche, caught between Alexandre’s body and the edge of the sink, tried to turn around but he prevented her.

  He was already teasing her; in trying to disengage herself Blanche could feel his hands, his torso, his sex. A long sigh rose in her throat. Alexandre, his hands at her middle, solidly gripping her waist, could feel her excitement: she was his, theirs, and here, as the plates dried in the night on a damp cloth, Blanche surrendered to the weight of Alexandre’s body, and of the long wait.

  FALLING

  The window cast an eye over the yard. The long sh
adows of the tree’s branches extended all the way to the barn; the dog stretched its paws, protecting itself from the heat by shifting position to follow the dance of sun through the leaves. At noon, Émilienne found it stretched out on the steps in the shade. She didn’t scold it; she might even have stroked it, which happened sometimes, running a hand along its back and patting it on the top of the head between the ears. The animal blinked with pleasure and went back to sleep.

  Blanche had woken at sunrise. Alexandre was asleep next to her, his face turned toward her, his breathing slow, almost inaudible. She drank in the sight of his long body given over to dreams; in the early morning light it looked like the dog’s on the porch steps. Alexandre was sleeping heavily, despite not having drunk much last night. At nine o’clock he turned over. Blanche thought he was going to reach for his watch on the nightstand but no, he went back to sleep in a rustle of sheets. Blanche had never stayed in bed so late, with or without Alexandre, and she had the exquisite sense of breaking the house rules. Stay in bed; why not? Louis was taking care of everything outside; it was what he was paid for. She had every right to stay in this room for hours, whole days even, with this male body, this canine body, next to her, hard and straight as the edge of a watering trough.

  “ALEXANDRE!”

  She jumped. For a split second she thought she’d fallen back to sleep, that the cry had happened in a dream. Still groggy, she listened. Next to her, Alexandre slept on.

  “ALEXANDRE!”

  This time, she hadn’t dreamed it.

  “What’s going on?” he mumbled. “What time is it?”

  He seized his watch. Nine-thirty. He rubbed his eyes. The gesture, mechanical and precise, smoothed away the traces of the night as if by magic.

  “Someone’s calling you.”

  Louis’s voice. Blanche wanted to go down, to tell him to cut out whatever game he was playing at, that this wasn’t the time, not here, not now, not in this house. But that second time, there had been something in his voice, a tone she didn’t recognize, ominous. The shout hadn’t been aggressive. Loaded with meaning, maybe, but not aggressive.

  “Yes, yes, I heard you.”

  Alexandre unfolded himself to perch on the edge of the bed. His clothes, on the chair, were as immaculate as if a valet had laid them out.

  “Alexandre! Come down here!”

  Blanche leapt out of bed and slipped on the robe she kept hanging from a hook on the wall. It was too warm, and she felt as if she were smothering. Alexandre dressed quickly. The serenity of sleep had left his face; all Blanche saw now was the frown, the mulish expression. He didn’t bother to button his sleeves or lace his dress shoes. Before going downstairs, he looked back at her and managed a thin smile.

  From the top of the stairs, she could see that he had stopped short in the front hall. Louis, in the doorway of the dining room, was staring outside. No one spoke. Blanche felt the breeze rising up the stairs, already hot. Something, someone was there. A deathly silence hung in the air.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Émilienne, calling from the kitchen. Louis turned.

  “Stay where you are; everything’s fine.”

  Émilienne appeared, alarmed by the bad tidings she sensed in his voice, and she, too, froze in the hall.

  The first few steps at the top of the staircase creaked under Blanche’s weight. Alexandre, Louis, and Émilienne turned in a single movement, all three of their bodies tensing, begging her to stay put, to go back to her room.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, her throat suddenly tight, her feet bare on the wood she’d polished yesterday.

  Alexandre hung his head. He gave a long sigh. Blanche, hearing it, hurried down the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other clutching the knotted belt of her robe.

  When she reached the bottom, Louis put his body between her and Alexandre.

  “Blanche, you shouldn’t stay here.”

  But she shoved him aside, violently, and before Louis could restrain her, she stepped out into the daylight, coming to a sudden halt on the porch.

  A young woman stood there, waiting. She wore a blue dress with elbow-length sleeves and intricately woven sandals. Blanche stared at her. She was slim, with a face like a cover model; slightly too thin, perhaps, but delicately built.

  Clutching her hand, a child.

  Curly hair. Almond-shaped eyes. Dimples. An adorable face. Cheeks made rosy by the sun. He stared at Blanche with a look she recognized.

  “I’m sorry,” the young woman said, in a voice so soft that Blanche had to strain to hear it, “is Alexandre here?”

  She glanced at Louis, who nodded.

  “His office told me he was working here today.”

  Blanche sensed Alexandre backing toward the staircase.

  “They . . . they told you he was working here?” she stammered.

  The other woman seemed so sweet, so submissive. Blanche didn’t doubt her word. This woman, the kind mothers marry to their sons without a qualm, the kind you welcome unconcernedly into the family. This woman was telling the truth, and her words crushed Blanche. Her gaze fixed on the child, unable to move, Blanche stretched an arm behind her, pointing at Alexandre without looking at him, and whispered:

  “Get out.”

  The little boy began to cry, miserable in the stifling heat. His mother picked him, murmuring, “Now, now, we’re almost finished here.” Émilienne vanished into the dining room. The young woman, embarrassed, spoke to Alexandre:

  “The little one wanted to see you; you haven’t been home much this week, and I thought it would be a nice surprise for us to come out to your village.”

  Alexandre groaned.

  “This isn’t a good time,” he managed finally, in a strangled voice.

  The young woman shook her head. The little boy laid his own head on her shoulder.

  “You even work on Saturdays, I see.”

  Blanche let out a growl. Louis, Alexandre, and the unknown woman all jumped at the same time. The child hiccupped violently. Blanche wanted to cry, too. But Marianne was dead, and Émilienne was old. There was no one to protect her.

  “Come on, Blanche.”

  Louis had stepped in front of Alexandre. He stood above Blanche on the doorstep and took her arm, firmly. She let him do it. He drew her back inside. She looked at Alexandre.

  “Tell me it isn’t true,” she said. Begged.

  Head down, unmoving, Alexandre sniffed.

  “I’m sorry, Blanche, truly sorry.”

  She wanted to launch herself at him, but Louis pushed her back, stepping between her and her love. She tried to free herself, but he gripped her arms.

  “I just want a good life,” Alexandre whispered.

  The couple left together. The wife hesitated for a few seconds, as if to turn back toward Blanche, but her husband took hold of her shoulder where it met her neck, leading her where he wanted to go, far from here, far from Paradise. Through the window, the young woman and the young man, the boy between them, walking together in a neat little row, made a perfect tableau. The soft light of morning fell gently on them. Their feet crunched on the gravel edging the yard and, as they walked away, Blanche, white and stunned, made her way slowly into the kitchen, Louis supporting her.

  It was as if her muscles had turned to cotton. In the little passage flooded with light, Blanche, held up by the farmhand, cast her shadow on the floor. Her face seemed to be spilling down over her throat, her chest. Her body remained upright through pure reflex, but inside, her whole soul, the soul made up of all the ages she had been, all the experiences she had had, caved in.

  CONFESSING

  Émilienne wept.

  Fat tears streamed down her cheeks. Blanche and Louis sat in their usual places, the old lady presiding over the miserable gathering, arms crossed on the closed newspaper, slu
mped shoulders unmoving. The tears fell from her cheeks and dripped on her fingers. Blanche had never seen her cry. She felt almost embarrassed, but her own heart, heavy and swollen, made it impossible to have any real thoughts. Focusing on anything other than the young wife and her little son standing there in front of the house was beyond her capacity. Across from her, Louis, reeling under the impact of their heartbreak, tried to conceal his fury by rubbing his hands together. His palms were bright red. Blanche thought they might start to bleed. It didn’t take away the pain that outweighed everything else, but it was helping him put his thoughts in order.

  “It’s my fault.”

  Émilienne’s voice was unrecognizable, choked with tears, and guilt, and age.

  “It’s my fault, Blanche.”

  Blanche covered her grandmother’s hand with her own. Émilienne let her do it. Drowning in grief, she sat there wordlessly.

  “Tell us what you mean,” Blanche prompted her, gently.

  So, she told them everything. Blanche leaned forward intently, trying to grasp every word. Louis listened, unmoving, frozen.

  At the hospital, every morning, Alexandre had come to see Émilienne. On the first day, he had merely sat in the chair next to her bed without speaking. The grandmother, her senses dulled by drugs and exhaustion, hadn’t pressed him. She enjoyed his presence; he watched over her until Blanche arrived, and when he left, he always said:

  “Don’t worry, Émilienne. Blanche is coming.”

  They hadn’t been just quick visits like the others thought. He’d stayed for an hour, sometimes longer. Émilienne had been sure her granddaughter knew about it, that she approved. Blanche shuddered.