by Serena Janes
“Ah. I don’t think I will. But thank you. I need to take some time for myself today.”
“Fine. Fine,” he said as he turned to walk away. “No problem.”
No problem? She felt her heart sinking in her chest.
Smarten up, you idiot. Eat your breakfast and stop thinking so much. What exactly do you want, anyway?
She was afraid to answer her own question.
As Luc was leaving, he was intercepted by the proprietor of the hotel and his wife. It was apparent they were old friends, for they embraced each other and began to converse in warm and animated tones. From where she was sitting Jo could just make out some of their words, even though they were speaking rapid-fire French.
She’d always been good with languages, speaking Spanish fluently as well as a little Italian and German. Her French was more problematic, for she’d studied French literature rather than conversation. Nevertheless she was able to translate enough of what she heard for her face to pale.
The hotel owner, his arm around Luc, asked him about his son. Luc answered that his son was very well, and the man then asked about his girlfriend. Was he going to something something get married something? Luc laughed and replied he was working too much and something about time being scarce.
Then the wife wrapped her arms around Luc’s neck and pulled his head down to kiss both cheeks. She said she wanted to marry him if something something. Her words caused her husband to chuckle and slap her wide behind in mock outrage.
As the three of them laughed together at the joke, Luc looked up and caught Jo’s eye. His expression didn’t change, and she couldn’t tell if he knew she’d understood most of the conversation. Confused and exhilarated, she quickly looked down at her lap and got up to leave.
If he was telling her the truth last night—if he really wasn’t married—then he was right.
Everything had changed.
As promised, the day was going to be very hot, and by the time the group was assembled outside the hotel lobby, Jo could feel the sweat beginning to trickle down between her breasts. She knew she would be really uncomfortable once she got to the top of the village. Yes—today would be a good day to spend underground. But she wasn’t going. Now she had even more to think about.
Luc took them along to the pilgrims’ walk, stopping at each Station of the Cross to explain its iconography. Each sharp turn in the path featured a small stone chapel that served as a Station, each Station depicting one of the twelve events in Jesus’ crucifixion and burial. Jo absent-mindedly took a photo of each one but she was too much lost in her own thoughts to concentrate. Again, she couldn’t stop looking at Luc. But now she was looking at him in a different light.
He was wearing the red bandana again. On anyone else it might have looked affected, but on him it emphasized all that was best in the coloring of his hair and skin and his confident, carefree manner. It suited him, somehow.
When they reached the final Station, which depicted Christ’s Entombment, she thought again about the pilgrims who had passed along this way for hundreds of years. The discomfort of their journey was a type of insurance, she supposed. If they suffered enough from the rigors of travel, they believed they would atone for their sins and earn a place in heaven. They sacrificed in their mortal life for a promise of a sublime afterlife.
Of course most of them lived dismal lives of pain and privation, she thought. It was important to ensure a good afterlife. It made their mortal sufferings bearable.
But this was the twenty-first century, and people like her led exquisite lives, in comparison. They lived for the present because they could—their mortal lives were full of good health, full bellies and pleasure. And they expected their lives to continue to be long and comfortable. There was no need to prepare for an afterlife when the present was so good.
So like many people of her time and place, Jo didn’t spend much time thinking about the afterlife. But now she pondered mortality. The image of Christ in his tomb caused her to appreciate how lucky she was to be alive, healthy and happy. And at no time was she more alive and happier than when she thought of Luc. Death was forever, and life—whatever life had to offer her—was but a blink. Shouldn’t she grab at whatever joys it offered her while she could?
And life is offering me a prize. A perfect prize.
How could I possibly refuse it?
The group pushed on and when she reached the top of the path and the ancient Chapelle, Jo was completely drenched with perspiration. The sun was merciless and the dim, dank interior of the tiny church welcomed her.
Mopping his wet forehead with his bandana, Luc invited everyone to crowd around and get a close look at the church’s most famous treasure—a tiny Madonna carved of dark wood. A skinny Christ child perched uncomfortably on her boney knees. He told them the faithful believed that when a miracle was about to take place, the ninth century bell hanging from the ceiling over her head would ring. She had been credited with one hundred and twenty six miracles, he said. Jo stared hard at the tiny roughly hewn face and wondered what constituted a miracle, and how the story had begun.
Through no intention of her own, she soon found herself standing beside Luc as he told the group about this Black Madonna, in particular, and Black Madonnas, in general.
“Black Madonnas, or Virgins, have been found all over the world. No one can really explain their popularity, and their dark color. But there are many different theories to explain their prevalence throughout Europe and South and Central America, and their color. Most people believe that the hands and faces of the Madonnas and their children have turned black with time. Or that the artists were either Moors or influenced by the Moors.”
“Quite so,” interrupted Professor Arnold. “Sunlight, soot, wax, and grease are other possible explanations for their dark coloring.”
“Yes. Thank you, Professor. This particular example,” Luc said, “is carved of black walnut. So it was already dark to begin with.”
Recognizing that Thomas Arnold was the specialist, Luc graciously invited him to share more of his expertise on the subject.
At first Thomas supported what Luc had already said. “Because this carving is dated to the twelfth century, it is reasonable to believe that over seven hundred years the wood has naturally darkened.”
Everyone murmured assent. This theory made sense. As Thomas spoke, Jo noticed Ellen nodding her head rhythmically in agreement with her husband.
Thomas went on. “Another explanation is that some of these artifacts had been buried, possibly for centuries. Marauding bands of infidels pillaged churches like this one, and burying the most sacred objects kept them safe. Sometimes objects like this were lost, or forgotten. Remaining buried for hundreds of years would certainly affect the wood.”
More murmurs and nods of agreement, especially from Ellen. This, too, made sense.
But the Professor wasn’t done. “Yet another theory holds that such carvings were ritually bathed in wine. It is easy to see how such a practice could darken the color of the wood.”
Peter chortled. He liked this idea. He said that everything and everyone would benefit from a wine bath now and then.
“These three theories, then, are generally seen as traditional Christian explanations for the dark color of such figures,” Thomas continued, “but they do not account for the vast numbers of dark Madonnas that have been found—especially those depicted in paintings. So some people, especially in recent years, have discounted these traditional explanations and looked for broader ones.”
Glenda asked, “Isn’t it mostly feminist historians who are re-evaluating these traditional beliefs?”
Thomas said, “Yes, you are partly right. But different academic disciplines have become interested in the images for many different reasons.
“Because there have been so many pictures and figures of Black Madonnas, or Virgins, found around the world, many scholars believe they depict a pre-Christian mother, who was naturally dark-skinned. She is the original
mother figure then, who was most certainly black. A Moor, perhaps, as Luc has said. For, as anthropologists argue, we all evolved from African ancestors. Therefore, she can be seen as an archetypal mother, the eternal life-giver, who was worshipped by pre-Christians. And,” he added, “she could also be seen as a universal symbol of the dark female forces operating in the natural world.”
Ellen’s grey head was bobbing up and down more emphatically now.
Thomas’s words fascinated Jo and she hung onto every one. She slid down his cultured English accent to imagine sitting in his lecture theatre at Oxford where she’d once taken a summer course. He was really a very good speaker, she thought, and she loved the idea that Negroid Madonna figures were found scattered all over the world. They must have been very important at one time.
The idea that pre-Christians worshipped a black female figure seemed thrillingly subversive. She had never seen a Black Madonna before, even though she’d studied art history. Why? Maybe she’d just never looked all that carefully. Religious art didn’t interest her until the Renaissance.
Glenda piped up again. “Yes, I remember now that the Virgin Mary is likely a Christianized pagan goddess. What we now call the Cult of the Virgin grew wildly during the early Middle Ages. She became so popular because people believed she would forgive any repentant sinner, and so was worshipped in her own right. Some even though she helped women in particular by lessening the pain of childbirth, and even taking their place in bed so their husbands wouldn’t discover their adultery.”
This last tidbit caused everyone in the group to respond at once as laughter and lewd jokes filled the tiny chapel.
Jo was astounded, and amused. It was one thing to imagine early Christians calling on the mother of God to forgive their indiscretions. But to believe the Virgin aided and abetted adultery! That she covered for women who wanted to cuckold their husbands! What a fascinating idea! Talk about subversive!
She laughed, along with the others, as her mind and her blood raced to think of the possibilities for sinning and salvation.
* * * *
“I am indebted to you both,” Luc said sincerely to Glenda and Thomas. He was surprised to have learned a thing or two about the Virgin himself. “Thank you.”
But he hadn’t really been paying attention. He was too busy watching Joanna.
She was without a doubt the most appealing woman he had ever met. The most charming combination of temptress and innocent. Self-awareness and self-denial. It was irresistible in a woman so beautiful.
It was obvious to him that she was surprised by what she heard. He was excited by the changing expressions on her face as she listened to the historians. He saw shock, amusement, fascination and something he couldn’t recognize. When their eyes met over the bent head of Glenda, who was examining the Virgin’s little face more closely, he felt a surge of pure desire. He was absolutely sure Jo felt the same way.
But unlike Jo, Luc had to be careful to keep his excitement from making itself visible. He adjusted his pants slightly, and, he hoped, discretely.
Oh man—what I’d give to fuck her right here, in this holy site. Right under the eyes of the Virgin. On that pew over there. I’d bend her over the back and ram into her as hard as I could. Then I’d take her again, up against the old oak door. We’d make the hinges rattle.
* * * *
“There’s something else,” Luc said, forcing himself to continue the history lesson. “Some people hold the idea that the Black Virgins, as they’re called in France, are either connected to, or depictions of, Mary Magdalene. Despite being called virgins, these figures symbolize qualities that are the antitheses of those represented by the Virgin Mary. The Virgin Mary signifies the female virtues of purity and submissiveness, but Black Virgins signify female power.”
Ellen had stopped nodding. The group was silent.
Jo felt a flush of heat rise over her chest and up into her face. She saw that Luc was looking at her, again, and she quickly looked away. As she felt herself growing even warmer in the close air of the room, she turned her attention back to Thomas, who supported Luc’s statement by saying, “Yes, and although this idea has been suppressed by the Catholic church in recent centuries, today the Black Madonnas are believed by many scholars to symbolize a dark, dangerous, subversive female force.”
Jo began to tingle at the idea. She’d always known it wasn’t really the devil causing her body to thrum every time she thought of Luc. It was her self. Nothing or no one else was to blame. She was her own instrument of destruction. And pleasure.
Excited by this new knowledge, she embraced the idea that her own sexuality, which she shared with other women, many of whom were long dead, was seen as a threatening force. The idea made her feel strong. It also vindicated her.
She looked up at Luc, who was now smiling at the ceiling. What she’d just learned somehow made her desire for him more legitimate. She was a part of some force larger and older than her self. A member of a cult-like group of women whose very nature threatened the idea of civilization. The Cult of the Black Virgin. And, like them, she was protected by not only a forgiving mother figure, but one who would actually enable her to sin without fear of consequence.
Oh, if only I could believe this stuff! I’d be guilt-free!
A slight smile spread across her face and stayed on her lips as she followed Luc through the church’s narrow doorway with a little sway in her hips.
The heat of the late morning sun was still fierce and slowed the steps of everyone as they made their way up to their next stop—the grand château at the top of the town. But the walk was worth it—the views were spectacular. After taking them through the formal gardens, Luc led everyone out to the end of a long, narrow viewing platform made of solid stone. It extended far over the Alzou Valley hundreds of yards below, and was crowded with tourists.
Jo pushed her way right out to the end of the platform and removed her hat and sunglasses so she could feel the breeze on her face. Directly below she could see the striped umbrellas on the patio where she had enjoyed Happy Hour the night before.
For anyone with vertigo, it was a frightening spot to be in, but she was enchanted by the beauty of the panorama spread before her.
* * * *
Spinning around, Jo exclaimed to the people behind her, pointing down, “Oh look! There’s our patio umbrellas!”
Luc had followed Jo to the end of the pier to find that the crowd had pushed him so close to her that she fell into him as she turned. He saw she was trapped—she couldn’t move backward because of the stone wall behind her, and he couldn’t back away from her because of the crush of people behind him. She looked as if she had been slapped when she realized their bodies were touching—her breasts resting against his chest, her raised forearm on top of his as she struggled to protect her space.
He was as surprised as she looked, as he watched the expression on her face change from excitement to horror to confidence in a flash. Then, locking her eyes onto his, she froze.
Time stopped for Luc. It seemed he and this damned American woman were the only two people left on the planet. He had to stop himself from impulsively wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in the crook of her neck.
Oh non, non, non! Sois sage—behave!
Fais pas ça. Arrête donc! Stop it! This is insane!
Then the running monologue in his head also came to a dead stop as he saw her calmly dip her head at him. He was vaguely aware of his own head nodding back at her in what could only be acquiescence. He didn’t know what was going on, but it seemed the right thing to do. He watched her eyes grow a little wider.
He sensed some space opening up behind him and was able to move backwards just enough to free her. She slowly turned around, and presented her back to him.
He stared at her ponytail for a few seconds, overcome with a desire so intense he was afraid he would stammer if he tried to speak.
Putain alors! Fucking hell!
“Hmmgh.” He cle
ared his throat. “Time for lunch, everyone. Let’s get back to the hotel.”
With relief he found he could back up, turn around, and get away.
I have to have her. I have to. Behind a bush. Beside the river. Under the stars. Anywhere.
How? When?
Will she?
* * * *
The descent to the hotel left everyone overheated, and despite her excitement Jo felt particularly tired. Lunch was a light meal in the bar, along with plenty of cool mineral water. Luc had gone off to pick up the company van to take the spelunkers to the caves, so he didn’t eat with them. It was too hot to have much of an appetite, and Jo looked forward to spending the rest of the day inside, away from the burning sun.
It was going to be a treat to have the entire afternoon to herself. She hadn’t had the luxury of privacy for weeks. She thought she might go out later to explore the town, have coffee in one of the charming cliff-side cafes, or do a little shopping. But right now she needed to be absolutely alone. Not just because the heat was making her feel irritable, but also because of the morning’s events. Her eavesdropping at breakfast changed the way she thought about Luc, she couldn’t deny that. And learning about the Cult of the Black Virgin changed the way she thought about herself. Now she reveled in a power she had never known before.
Then there was the look that had passed between her and Luc on the pier. It made her see what that power could do.
At first she’d been shocked when she’d turned around on the pier to find Luc had been somehow pushed so he was practically on top of her. She’d shyly looked up into his face, about to stammer an apology.
But she’d stopped short, her mouth open, when she saw the curious and disturbing expression on the face looking down on her. It showed surprise, longing, and something like panic.
He looked vulnerable. He seemed almost afraid.
Well, that settles it. He’s into this as deeply as I am. And we’re both afraid. Oh God—we’re both in trouble.
