A French Affair

by Susan Lewis

  ‘Right now you’re escaping me,’ he told her. ‘You are moving away, going towards what is to come, or perhaps back to what was, while I need to feel that you are here, with me, the viewer, in this time, this place. Do you understand what I am saying?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ she replied pensively. Then looking at him, ‘I don’t know what to tell you.’

  ‘It isn’t for you to tell, it is for me to find,’ he responded. ‘And I will. Perhaps today.’

  But by the time the village clock chimed midday in the distance his frustration was clearly building, and finally conceding that he could be trying too hard, he suggested they take a break.

  ‘I was wondering,’ he said, as she got up to leave, ‘if you would be interested in taking a drive to Issy-l’Evêque.’

  Her eyes widened with delight, for it was the village where Irène Némirovsky had begun writing Suite Française. ‘I’d love to,’ she replied, ‘but are you sure it’s not too far?’

  ‘It’ll take perhaps less than an hour,’ he assured her. ‘I think my father will expect us for lunch first, but I’ve already asked him not to tempt us with wine. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous,’ he added with a drollness that made her smile, ‘but I felt sure, if you had nothing else arranged, that it was a place you would like to visit.’

  An hour later, after a meal of smoked salmon with creamy herbed cheese, and garlic-dressed salad, Jessica slipped into the Mercedes next to Luc and tried to scowl at the look he gave her, because, unlike him, she’d been unable to resist the wine.

  ‘But I only had one glass,’ she protested, as he started down the hill.

  He gave her a look of dismay.

  ‘OK, maybe it was two.’

  ‘I stopped counting at three.’

  She started to object, then laughing she simply let her head fall back against the seat until he brought the car to a stop outside the cottage.

  ‘I am hoping you won’t snore when you fall asleep,’ he said as she started to get out.

  She turned back. ‘I would never do anything so inelegant, but my mouth might fall open, so please feel free to lift up my chin. Now, I shall be less than two minutes, so please don’t go without me.’

  True to her word she was back a moment later with a hat, a belt purse and a tube of sunblock that she began rubbing into her neck and shoulders as he steered the car out of the combe onto the top road.

  Soon they were passing through undulating countryside with sunbaked acres of vines and shady forests all around them, and constant reminders of the past, so she coaxed him to tell her what he knew of the region’s colourful history, from the great Dukes of Burgundy and their ties to the French throne, to the bloody massacres of the French Revolution, right through to the ignominy of German Occupation. As he talked, particularly about the Second World War, she felt herself transported back to last night’s reading for a while, thinking of Lucile and her young officer, but then he was describing the resurgence of the great wine estates, followed by their slow, inexorable dissolution due to the French Inheritance laws and competition from New World blends.

  By the time they arrived at Issy-l’Evêque the topic had moved on to Alphonse de Lamartine, the celebrated poet and politician who was born in Macon. They were still trying to recite various extracts of Jocelyn as they parked close to the mairie, where an abundance of vivid flowers tumbled from the window sills and the ubiquitous tricolour hung limply from its pole. She stood looking at it for a moment, imagining the German swastika in its place, then with an imperceptible shudder she turned away.

  As they set out along a sleepy cobbled street, with no particular goal in mind, they absorbed the feeling of timelessness that seemed to seep frombuckled stone walls and closely shuttered windows. Though Dolce – the second part of Suite Française – was set in another village, they agreed that this one must have provided its share of inspiration, for it was there to be seen in the church, the war memorial and a beautiful golden house with a blue front door. They imagined the sound of German boots on the cobblestones, and the shadows of suspicious old women who’d lost husbands and fathers in the First World War, then sons in the Second, as they peered out of their darkened windows. Then there were the young girls who sashayed along the streets, flirting with the smartly uniformed officers while the local traders took pleasure in fleecing them. And lastly, there were the broken, embittered men who’d limped back from the front to find their homes inhabited by the enemy and their women not always pleased to see them.

  They’d fallen quiet for a while, when Luc said, ‘You read very well last night.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied, pleased by the compliment. They were crossing a small shady square towards a fountain, where the afternoon sun was making the single trickle of water sparkle like crystal beads on a harsh bedrock of stone. ‘It’s the most beautiful part of the book, so I’m not surprised you chose it.’

  His voice was droll as he said, ‘I had a feeling it might be the section you enjoyed most. I find Lucile a very subtle and courageous woman, do you?’

  She thought about that. ‘Subtle, certainly. But do you say courageous because she was able to resist her desire for Bruno, the German officer, or because she was willing to indulge it for a while?’

  He started to smile. ‘Both, I suppose – except she never indulged it in the ultimate sense.’

  ‘You mean they never made love?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Do you think they should have? Would it have made the story more believable? Or perhaps more poignant?’

  ‘No, I think its greatest power is probably in the fact that they did resist one another.’

  She put her head to one side as she considered that, then slowly started to nod. ‘I agree,’ she said, and stopped to put a hand in the cool, clear water of the fountain. ‘I think,’ she continued after a while, ‘that I especially love the scene where he plays the piano for her, then stops when he realises that the beauty of his music is touching her loneliness and making her cry.’

  Perching on the wall he looked thoughtfully back across the square towards a pâtisserie, where a scattering of tables and chairs on the cobbles outside appeared both restful and abandoned. Then quoting the German officer he said, ‘“Come, let’s go away together. I’ll show you many different countries. I’ll be a famous composer, of course, and you’ll be as beautiful as you are at this very moment . . .”’

  Jessica was on the point of picking up Lucile’s response, when she realised she couldn’t – not because she was unable to remember the words, but because of what they were. And your wife, and my husband, what will we do about them? Her eyes went briefly to his, but he was still staring across the square, so looking down at her hand swirling about in the water, she said, ‘You know what I find extraordinary about that part of the book is that they hadn’t yet admitted to their feelings for one another. They might not even have recognised them.’

  ‘I think he had,’ he said.

  Her heart contracted, and knowing they couldn’t go any further with this she removed her hand from the water and walked away from him, towards a narrow archway the other side of the square.

  When he eventually caught up with her the lane they had followed was yielding to a footpath around the edge of a wheatfield where ploughs had left deep gouges in the earth, and the occasional hare could be seen scurrying its way towards a farm in the distance. ‘Do you think the German was serious?’ she asked, snapping off a blade of grass, and twisting it around her fingers.

  ‘About them going away together? He probably wanted to be,’ he replied, after considering it, ‘but it’s my belief he was giving them both a dream, a reality apart from the one they were in, because it was the only way they could be together.’

  ‘To step outside their world?’

  When she glanced up at him he nodded.

  ‘So what if she’d said she’d go with him?’

  ‘I think he knew she wouldn’t.’

  Focusing her atte
ntion on the small copse they were approaching, she said, ‘I can almost see Irène Némirovsky walking this path, can’t you? Going to find herself a secluded spot in which to write.’

  ‘And all those terrible and tragic characters would be with her,’ he added, ‘with their real and imagined sins and secrets, their pettiness and futile squabbles. And of course their passions and dreams. I wonder how many of them were based on people she knew, or came across?’

  ‘If she’d been allowed to complete her symphony, as she called it, then there would be five parts to the book, instead of two, and we might have more of an idea. Everything changed so dramatically after the spring and summer she wrote about. No-one could have remained the same.’ As she spoke, it was as though the horror of the Gestapo had started to permeate the air, a haunting presence, a malign slip of time. They’d come to take Irène from her sanctuary, removing her from her beloved husband and children as though . . . Well, as though she were a person of no consequence, and no rights. Terrifying as it must have been, none of them could have even begun to guess just how terrifying it really was, because none of them had ever heard of Auschwitz then.

  Feeling a lump in her throat, she swallowed hard and looked down at the mossy undergrowth and trodden leaves. She wondered if Luc was thinking of Irène now, or if his mind had moved on to less painful and safer ground. She didn’t ask, nor did she turn round when she sensed he was no longer behind her, she merely walked on, skirting the edge of the copse, then moving into its heart, inhaling the woody scent of the trees and absorbing their stillness as the shade cooled her skin. The ghosts of Irène’s characters moved silently, almost comfortingly around her, perhaps accompanied by Irène herself.

  Eventually she found another lane that twisted and turned through the back streets to connect with the main square. There were more people around now, and shops were opening, so she went to sit outside the café to wait for Luc. By the time she saw him strolling her way, deep in conversation with an ancient-looking woman, she was talking to Charlie on the phone, and trying not to think of how discordant his English voice sounded when every-thing around her was so inescapably and harmoniously French.

  ‘If I’d realised I could get off that soon I’d have delayed Harry’s flight till Wednesday,’ he was saying, ‘and we could have flown down together.’

  ‘Ah, but this way I get him all to myself for two days,’ Jessica responded, waving to show Luc where she was, ‘though with Antoine and Elodie around I’ll probably have some competition. I was wondering if you might like to go off somewhere for a few days towards the end of the month, just the two of us, unless Harry wants to come too, of course.’

  ‘If there’s a chance of him staying at the château, I’ve no doubt he’ll jump at it,’ Charlie said wryly. ‘Where did you have in mind?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. How about somewhere secluded and romantic?’ Her eyes were on Luc’s as he sat down. ‘Maybe we could go into Switzerland, or over to the Loire.’

  As Charlie replied a motorbike roared up, so she had to ask him to repeat it, but it was still no good, because for some reason the connection seemed to have failed. She tried his number again, but went straight through to voicemail, so she left him a message saying she’d call back later this evening, and turned the phone off.

  ‘So you found a friend,’ she said to Luc as he signalled to the waiter.

  He laughed. ‘I was trying to find out what she might remember of the war, but it turned out not to be much, and she was in the south anyway, not here. Was that Charlie you were speaking to? Has he managed to get some time off?’

  ‘It would seem so. He’s arriving two days after Harry, which gives me just over a week to relax and maybe make a start on chapter one of my book. You know, I wish, in some ways, I’d suggested doing a biography of Irène, but I’m sure, once I get into the characters of Jeanne and Modi, and the time and places they lived in, I’ll find them every bit as inspiring.’

  ‘I have no doubt of it,’ he replied, and turning to the waiter he ordered two pastis.

  They drank mostly in silence, watching the comings and goings around them, until finally they strolled over to the car to start the journey home.

  It was close to seven o’clock by the time they pulled up outside the cottage. So far neither of them had mentioned spending the evening together, even though they knew that Fernand had gone to play boules in the village, while Claude and Daniella had taken the children to friends near Chalon. But Jessica felt the need to be alone now, to talk to Harry and Nikki, and perhaps to read for a while before going to bed.

  ‘Thank you for today,’ she said, as she opened the car door.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ he responded.

  ‘Sleep well.’

  ‘You too.’

  As he drove away she watched the car, its silvery colour glinting like glass amongst the vines, then she let herself into the cottage, and went straight upstairs.

  As she started to undress for a shower she was thinking of how much she had enjoyed the day, being an artist’s model, a guest for lunch, a tourist listening to Luc, and a romantic losing herself in the history of her surroundings. However, as stimulating and satisfying as she found her friendship with Luc, she felt certain it was their shared love for Lilian that was their greatest connection. It was there at the root of everything, making the chemistry between them seem almost as natural as the air they breathed, or the subjects they discussed.

  After taking off the rest of her clothes, she slipped into a robe and was on her way to the bathroom when she noticed that the photograph of Natalie she kept on the chest had fallen over. Going to pick it up she gazed down into her daughter’s beautiful young face, and felt her smile starting to waver. Always it was there, underlying everything, the longing and loss that dug so deeply into her heart she almost didn’t want to breathe for fear of bringing in more pain. Would it ever stop, she wondered. Would a time ever come when her life might feel whole again? She wasn’t even sure she wanted it to, for it would mean she’d left Natalie behind, and merely to think of that caused a wave of panicked resistance inside her.

  ‘Mum. Mum.’

  She turned towards the top of the stairs. She knew the voice wasn’t real, that it was the ghost of her imagination, but how could it not disturb her?

  She looked out of the window towards the sky. It was awash with a rose-coloured hue, clear and gentle, impenetrable and sublime. Why did you scream? she whispered. Was it really that you were about to fall? Could you see what was going to happen? Was that it? Or is there more?

  There was no answer, but to her relief the chilling sense she’d had before seemed to be fading. She looked around the room, as though searching for something, but there was only the bed with its gauzy drapes, the old-fashioned chests and armoire, the door to the landing – and the wall ladder that led up to the attic.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Luc called early to tell her he was going to a second-hand book fair in a neighbouring village.

  ‘I will understand, of course, if you have had enough of me by now,’ he said, with the drollery that never failed to make her smile, ‘but Lilian informs me that it would be very remiss of me not to invite you to come along to something that is – to quote her – so you.’

  Loving the idea, Jessica said, ‘As usual Lilian is right, but please feel free to dump me as soon as we get there, just as long as you promise not to leave without me.’

  ‘No promises and no dumping,’ he responded dryly. ‘I will pick you up in fifteen minutes. Will you be ready?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘We could make it ten.’

  Laughing, she put the phone down and, thankful she’d already showered, she threw off her towel and went to the armoire to decide what to wear. Since the heat wasn’t abating at all, she rejected shorts as being too hot, and chose a floaty lime-coloured dress with thin plaited straps, and a pair of flat silver sandals that were easy to walk in. Satisfie
d that her tan had done away with the need for make-up, she ruffled her wet hair with her fingers, coated her lips in a translucent gloss, then grabbing her purse and phone, ran down the stairs.

  Luc was already waiting outside in the car and as she got in, almost simultaneously both their mobiles started to ring.

  ‘Only Nikki would call me at this hour,’ she declared, looking down at her own phone, and seeing she was right.

  ‘And mine is from an old colleague in Paris,’ he told her, reading his incoming number. ‘So do we take these calls like a caring parent and interested friend, or do we pretend we’re not sad enough to be available at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning?’

  Bursting into laughter, she said, ‘I’m afraid a mother’s conscience never allows her to be off duty, so I should warn you, this call could go on for a while.’

  ‘Then just for the company I shall answer mine too,’ he said decisively.

  She must still have been laughing as she clicked on her mobile, because Nikki said, ‘Well, listen to you, anyone would think you’re having a good time.’

  ‘Would they? Is it not allowed?’

  ‘No, it’s totally cool, but at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning?’

  ‘We’re an hour ahead here,’ Jessica reminded her. Then, breezing on past it, ‘So how’s the hangover?’

  ‘What hangover?’

  ‘It’s Sunday morning, and I know you were going out last night . . .’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s just it, isn’t it? Dad grounded me last night.’

  ‘No!’ Jessica said, genuinely shocked. ‘What for?’

  ‘Because I swore at him.’

  Jessica wanted to laugh, but managed not to. ‘I suppose you must have had a reason,’ she said, ‘so what did he do?’