Soft Limits

by Brianna Hale

  Stop it, Frederic.

  While we eat she tells me about the ghastly shared kitchen she uses at college, with its inadequate oven and toaster that’s always on the blink. “And I only have Sainsbury’s to shop in, not all the amazing produce you have here.” Christine is clutched against her belly with one arm and she’s playing with her plait between bites of toast. Sweet girl.

  When we finish breakfast we step out into the sunshine, and find it’s a beautiful day to stroll about Paris. There’s a cool breeze blowing off the Seine and dozens of people are out and about, chic locals that Evie eyes with interest. She has a disconcerting British habit of looking the wrong way before crossing the road and I have to stop her from stepping out into traffic by grabbing her hand several times.

  “Are you sure you want to go to the Eiffel Tower?” I ask. “If it’s too cliché we can go up to Montmartre instead, or anywhere you like.”

  She turns away from examining a boulangerie window filled with pastries and tarts. “No, I would love to see the tower. I’ve passed it several times in cabs this week with my nose pressed against the glass like an urchin.”

  Of course, the interviews will have sent her all over Paris. I’ve barely thought about what people must be saying about me, but it seems I’m not above a little vain curiosity as I ask her what she’s learned.

  Tugging on the end of her braid, she says, “Well, there are those directors who said you were impossibly bossy, which you thought was so funny. But everyone else pretty much says you’re great to work with. Ideas, talent, yada yada. Where are the people who can tell me what you’re really like?”

  “Haha. What, everyone says that?” I name some people who I am certain would have happily excoriated my character for her. She hasn’t mentioned Marion so perhaps she hasn’t talked to her yet.

  “A few mentioned your tedious perfectionism, but even the people you annoyed tell me nice things about you. Pedro Salazar said you made everyone rehearse until they were nearly falling down from exhaustion, but that you also helped him through a nasty bout of stage fright without telling another soul about it. Marie Fontelle has ordered me to include an anecdote about how you gave a director a bollocking when he called her fat in front of the whole cast.”

  I wonder if Marie also told Evie about the time I reduced her to tears for being sloppy about warming up. “Well, well. I’ll have to put them back on my Christmas card list.” And they don’t even know I’m done for. As far as they’re concerned I’m rolling along as ever, a fitting target to be lambasted.

  Under the Eiffel Tower I buy us ice creams and we take in the view. I’m looking up at the great steel structure when Evie suddenly asks, “What would you be doing if you weren’t a singer?”

  For one ghastly moment I think that she must have found out my secret somehow. It seems it was just an idle question, though, as she’s licking up a drip from her ice cream cone and hasn’t noticed the flash of horror on my face. Smoothing out my expression I say, “When I was small I wanted to be a cowboy. Would you like to climb the tower?”

  She looks toward the long queue and then shakes her head. My distraction seems to have worked as a moment later she asks, “Shall we walk up the Champs-élysées to the Arc de Triomphe?”

  We leave the crowds beneath the Eiffel Tower behind and head toward the Pont de l’Alma, where we can cross the river. To head off more uncomfortable questions, I say, “You never told me your opinion of Rochester.”

  She laughs. “I didn’t, did I? I have a confession about that. I pretended to be indifferent, but I love Jane Eyre and I am simply bursting with opinions about it.”

  “You do? Why did you pretend you didn’t like it?”

  “It’s such a cliché, isn’t it? The bluestocking who loves Jane Eyre. Also, Mona’s eyes would have rolled out of her head if we’d started talking about it.”

  “Mona needs to learn it’s not all about her.”

  She slants a look at me. “That was quite waspish, Frederic.”

  “Well, it’s true.” I’m still annoyed about the way Mona teased Evie and sent me that archive without asking if she could share it. She must have known she’d embarrass her sister. “I asked your opinion about the character and you didn’t feel you could answer.”

  Evie seems to be determined not to get upset about what happened in Oxford. “So ask me now.”

  I realize I don’t want her opinion about the book. I want her opinion about me being in the show. “All right. You’ve seen my work. You know the character. Do you think I’ll make a good Rochester?”

  She gives me an appraising look. “You’re too good-looking, but they always cast Rochester as handsome even though he and Jane acknowledge he’s not. Also, you’re not English. But you’re the right age and you’ve got the Byronic air about you that Rochester has, so in all I’d say that you’re a very good fit.”

  There’s no flattery in the way she tells me I’m good-looking and I’m amused that she’s even managed to make it sound like a disadvantage. “Byronic?”

  Evie’s in her stride now. “It pertains to Lord Byron, the poet. Men who are dark, mysterious, moody, arrogant and sexually intense.”

  “Well, that doesn’t sound like me at all. I’m not arrogant.”

  She grins into her ice cream.

  I give her a narrow look. “Evangeline Bell, I don’t know what to make of you sometimes. You’re so bashful and yet you come out with things like this.”

  “What?” she says, with a look of wide-eyed innocence. “We were talking of literature. I’ve given you my literary opinion. And how do you know my name’s short for Evangeline?”

  “Lucky guess.” Moody and sexually intense. She has me pegged.

  We walk beneath some beech trees and the leaves dapple us with shade. Evie finishes her ice cream and I throw our napkins into a bin. “Do you think that audiences will accept me, a foreigner playing one of England’s most beloved literary figures? I’m not too North American, am I? My mother is French but that will hardly endear me to the British.”

  She gives me another critical look. “Do me an accent?”

  I square my shoulders and effect what I hope is a Rochester-ish attitude. “‘If that boisterous channel come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.’”

  “How much speaking is there?”

  “None. It’s a sung-through.”

  She wrinkles her nose, thinking. “You’ll be all right, then.”

  “You little cat!” I feel the urge to grab her and tickle her till she screams, and she must see it in my eyes as she darts away, giggling.

  We veer away from the Seine and along a boulevard with a gently sloping gradient. I study the ground as we walk. “I want the show to be good. I want to be good in the show. It’s important to me.”

  It surprises me to find I’ve spoken out loud. I don’t talk about my work in casual conversations, especially to non-performers. People don’t usually know what to say. I can’t remember a single conversation between Marion and I where I voiced doubts or aspirations to her as we just didn’t have that sort of relationship. I was her lover and partner and protector, and she was my happiness and stability. It worked beautifully on an emotional level, but deeper down there wasn’t much there.

  But something about Evie, her determination and her creative mind, makes me think she’ll understand even though she’s never set foot on a stage.

  She hears the somber note in my voice and turns to me, distraught. “Frederic, of course you’ll be wonderful. I’m sorry I teased you.”

  This is the last show I’ll ever do. It might not be what I am remembered for by most, but it’s what I’ll remember, and what the people in the circles I move in will talk about. If I do a terrible job and then announce my retir
ement they will say behind my back, He clung on too long. It’s sad when they can’t let go. I will not have people say that about me. I will not. I will do this, I will do it well, and then I will go quietly.

  “Not at all, minette. You can tease me all you like. You’ll keep me grounded.”

  She still looks uncertain. “Are you very worried about it?”

  I cast about for a way to explain my feelings to her. “I’m practically an unknown quantity in Britain. It’s been years since I’ve done a show there. The critics may pan me or the audiences will be indifferent.” I shake my head, annoyed that I’m so rattled. “I’m not usually like this before a show, I promise.”

  She watches me for a moment, her lips pressed together. “As soon as you said you’d been cast I knew you would be perfect for the role. Your look, your bearing, your voice. I promise, the audience will love you, and the critics will, too.”

  I suspect she’s nice enough to tell me I’ll be good even if she thinks I’ve been miscast. But I like that she teased me. Teasing probably means she thinks I’ll be all right, otherwise she would have given me platitudes. “Thank you, chérie. You know the book well so that means a lot to me.”

  Evie smiles at me, a smile so beautiful and open that I feel a tug in my chest. I’ve seen her in floods of tears and giggling like a schoolgirl. I’ve even seen her glaring in anger at me and those eyes filled with hurt. Evangeline Bell wears her heart on her sleeve. I need to be careful with her.

  We walk all day, in and out of galleries and along the wide streets. Paris is made for walking and I enjoy showing her my favorite sights.

  In the late afternoon we head back toward Le Marais and have dinner, and then back to the flat. She flops onto the sofa while I open a bottle of red wine. Cheerful and talkative all day, she suddenly seems pensive.

  I hand her a glass and sit down on the adjacent sofa. We haven’t talked about what happened between us the other night and I wonder if we should. Every time I remember her tearful confession I feel furious with her ex. How could he have seen her so distraught, over and over, and kept sleeping with her?

  It seems Evie’s thinking about the same thing. She tilts her glass left and right in the lamplight, watching the deep color of the wine, and says, “You seemed to know why I used to cry after...you know. And that I should be able to figure it out. I’ve tried, and I haven’t.”

  I suppose it’s not so strange. She may have only had one partner, and he didn’t seem the sort to explore what she might and might not like. Some of her stories were quite explicit, though the sexual scenarios didn’t seem to be connected to actual sex. “I think it’s because you were frustrated. There was a disconnect between what you needed and what you were getting.”

  She nods, watching the wine as she swirls it in her glass. “You made me cry but it was from release, not sadness. I felt better than I had in a long time, and I—I liked what you did.” Still watching the wine, she says, “Frederic, will you take me to bed?”

  There’s something so very arousing about the quiet, needful way she asks this. I look at her carefully. She’s barely touched her drink, and she had just one glass with dinner. It would be a lovely end to the day, taking her to bed, and I wonder when the last time was that she came with someone and she didn’t cry. But I don’t understand her well enough to make sure she enjoys herself. “I have another suggestion, if you’d like to hear it?”

  She looks up at me, expectant.

  “You sit there. I sit here. You tell me about something that turns you on and you touch yourself.”

  The wine stops swirling. “Why?”

  “I’m curious to know what turns you on. The things you fantasize about might tell you something about what you need.”

  Evie makes a face, half shock and half disgust, as if her fantasies are dirty or strange. I doubt very much that they are, but it only reinforces my suspicion that she wants something very different to the sort of sex she was getting. She might feel easier talking about it if she tackles an easier question first, so I ask, “How old were you when you started?”

  She swallows a gulp of wine. “What, masturbating? The usual age, I guess.”

  I’ve asked many of my lovers this question and discovered that there doesn’t seem to be a usual age for women. One woman I once knew didn’t start until she was nineteen because she “didn’t think girls did that.” Can you imagine, Fred? But I’ve been making up for lost time, it’s brilliant.

  “What was it that set you off—a boy at school? A film you shouldn’t have been watching? A book you were reading?”

  She covers her face with her hands, half laughing, half embarrassed.

  “Stop that. I can’t see you going delightfully pink when you cover your face.”

  Lifting her head, she gives me a pained look. “If I tell you, you have to promise you won’t make fun of me.”

  I put my hand on my heart. “I promise I would never do that.”

  As if she’s confessing to some terrible crime, she says, “It was you, all right? I was thirteen, my father brought us here to see Notre-Dame de Paris and later that night I touched myself thinking about you.”

  I stare at her, because I wasn’t expecting that. It’s not often that people surprise me and the silence stretches on a little too long.

  She panics. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Just forget I told you.”

  “No, no. I think that’s one of the loveliest things anyone’s ever said to me.” I want to know how it was, whether she came, if she felt good afterward, or guilty, or weirded out. Because she was thinking about me and because she was so young I feel it’s too intrusive to ask those questions. But did I meet her back then? Anton Bell at Notre-Dame with his daughters. Do I remember that?

  “What?” she asks, noticing me thinking.

  “Did you all visit me backstage after the show? I’m trying to remember.”

  She groans. “Yes. And you were so nice to us. Lisbet was frightened of you because she was only three and you had been so scary onstage as the priest. She hid behind Mum, but you talked to her gently until she came out and smiled at you. I thought you were, um... Well, I thought you were wonderful.”

  “Oh, minette,” I say, smiling at her. “That’s lovely. But I feel very undeserving of the honor.”

  She’s puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t do anything to make you feel special or safe or secure. I didn’t earn it.”

  Swirling the wine in her glass again she says softly, “You sang very well and you were nice to us. You earned it.”

  Perhaps. What I have earned is her sitting quietly here with me and telling me these secrets. I like very much that she trusts me to be careful with her. I take a sip of my wine, giving her time to come back to my original question.

  She watches me, her eyes very wide and curious in the dim light. “If—if I do what you suggested, what would you do?”

  “Nothing. Just sit here. You can pretend I’m not here. I can close my eyes or I can watch you. I can talk to you if you like.” I try to keep my voice level so she doesn’t know how very much I want to watch.

  She catches her lower lip between her teeth. “You can keep your eyes open. I’d like that. And I sort of like the sound of your voice.”

  How bittersweet it is for me to hear people say that now. But I put that out of my mind as this isn’t about me, it’s about her.

  She still looks uncertain as she looks down at herself and then back at me. “I want to, but I don’t really know how to get started.”

  “What would you do if you were alone?”

  She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Seeming to come to a decision, she stands up, her eyes still closed, wriggles out of her underwear and sits down again. The way she moves, arranging herself back on the cushions, opening her legs, I think she
must have decided to pretend I’m not here. Her dress is rucked up, and she’s naked from the waist down. The soles of her feet are pressed together and her knees are open.

  “Frederic?” she says softly, her eyes still closed, her fingers stoking herself lightly.

  “I’m here. Are you comfortable?” She nods. “Good girl. Will you tell me something that turns you on?”

  I drink my fill of her with my eyes, and she looks beautiful, her face sweet with repose and her eyelashes against her cheeks. Her forearms rest on the curves of her hips. There’s a short fuzz of dark blond hair between her legs, like she’s trimmed it with a pair of nail scissors, and below the soft pink folds of her pussy. Her touch is feathery, uncertain, but as the seconds tick by I can see her relaxing into a circular rhythm. There’s something very innocent about her movements and I want dearly to move closer, to help, to taste, but I stay where I am.

  “A fantasy, you mean?”

  “If you like.”

  She thinks for a moment. “Even if it’s weird?”

  “Anything.”

  “All right,” she says, still stroking herself. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep I think about someone. A stranger. I can’t see his face. I don’t know who he is. He’s not a nice person.”

  “Does this person want to hurt you?”

  “Not at first. He’s a burglar or a kidnapper. He has rope, and a knife.”

  She trails off into silence, uncertain. It sounds similar in theme to some of the stories she’s written, though a more extreme version. I pick up the thread, my voice low and unhurried. “He comes through your window masked, dressed in black. His heart’s racing, adrenaline pumping. There you are, in bed and alone. Perhaps there’s someone else in the house, or he thinks there might be, because he tells you in a low voice that if you scream he will make you regret it.”