Je T'aime

by Ursula Whistler

  “You are American?”

  “Yes.” Étienne set a cup of milky smooth coffee in front of her. His hand rested on her shoulder a bit, relaxing her enough that she sat in one of the chairs at a round wood table.

  “On holiday?”

  “I consider it an exploration trip. I’m working on inspiration for a line of clothing.”

  “Ah.” Armand set the plate of crepes, rolled with a reddish preserve in the middle, and a plate of sausages in the middle of the table. Étienne sat beside her with Armand seating himself across from her. “You are a designer? This is what you do in America?”

  “I am a seamstress in a costume store. I make custom pieces for Carnival, and I make formal dresses as well. Mostly, I make costumes. It is my goal to be more,” she babbled nervously, telling this stranger more than Étienne knew. It all seemed wrong and made her wriggle in her seat.

  Armand nodded. “Ah. You are young with plenty of time. You, of course, know what Étienne does.”

  “A little. Um,” she shifted, as a sudden wave of anxiety washed over her. “Enough.” She glanced at Étienne, wishing he understood English better or that she could speak French better. If he could save her from this conversation, she’d feel so much better.

  Waving his fork around, Armand said, “The work is hard. He pours himself into it. Leaves little time for women. He throws himself into that, too. Finds one, gives it a try on for size. But, eh, it never lasts with him. Life is too short for that.”

  She nodded, too aghast and shocked to say anything. All the beauty of waking up beside her bronze god vanished. Poof! Gone like a puff of smoke on a windy day, never be seen again.

  “You agree, eh?” Armand seemed so pleased with himself, as if he’d made her day better by ridding her of the notion of being with Étienne longer than these two days. “I am sure he does.” He waved his hand toward Étienne.

  She glanced sideways at Étienne’s furrowed brow, as he attempted to understand their English. How much had he comprehended, and what was he saying now in French to Armand? All she could parse from his snarled words was the word for speak. He was certainly unhappy. His lip curled, and he’d pushed back from the table.

  Armand shrugged. “He says I should not speak for him, so I won’t. But you understand, I know. I can tell. Here for a short time. Fuck a Frenchman for the memories, and then you’ll be gone with your stories and inspiration.”

  Anger bubbled inside. This man couldn’t know her, and she’d not planned on fucking a Frenchman during her trip. Her journey here had been to fill her mind with visions, shapes, and experiences. Vistas like the sun setting over the Rhone River and the glow of the orange sun on the face of the Palace of the Popes. Or the living wall on the parking garage, growing and changing with the seasons. Even the vision of Étienne as he laughed his way around the market with her, pronouncing each word slowly as if she were a child and making her repeat it each time.

  Those were the experiences she’d yearned for. Anything outside of her life in New Orleans was an inspiration. They took her mind to a different place than the Crescent City could. Though it was varied, so much of her home drained her. La Seyne sur Mer gave her a boost, and the entire day in Avignon filled her to the brim. Which she realized right before she was about to berate Armand for his presumptuous words, had included four amazing fucks.

  “But,” Armand continued, “let us eat. I know you must be on your way. Étienne will, of course, show you Aix, and I do think you should see Le Castellet. It is very quaint, and the view can be gorgeous this time of year.” He turned to speak to Étienne in French.

  She gathered her shattered emotions, piecing them together as the two men chatted in their native language. Her pride demanded she make it through the day without shedding a tear at not being special or shouting out a curse word for falling into the trap of letting a moment rule her night. Since her first Mardi Gras as an adult, she’d resisted the “let it all hang out” influence of events. Now this! No, I will not let this ruin my day. I will not.

  Étienne spoke in heavily accented English, “We travel to Aix?”

  “Yes.” She swallowed her anger along with her pride. “To Aix, and Le Castellet. I read about it on the plane.”

  “Ah, good. To food, friends, and fucks.” Armand lifted his coffee cup and didn’t seem to mind that no one else at the table joined his toast.

  Chapter Six

  One day, Étienne would get revenge on Armand. His first thought was to punch him for the “fuck” comment, but the man had led him out of many dangerous situations in their early days together. In one instance, he owed him his life. His second thought consisted of leaving bad reviews of the small bed and breakfast, but as that would be lying, he quickly forgot it.

  After spending two hours in Aix with a sullen, unfocused Genevieve, he knew whatever revenge he would enact needed to be well thought out and painful for Armand to endure. The man had taken away the vivacious, intuitive woman and replaced her with a quiet, reserved mouse not caring she was in a gorgeous town with happy college kids. He hated Armand.

  As he led her up the steep hill to Le Castellet, a medieval town set atop a hill that overlooked the Mediterranean in the distance, he broke the uneasy silence that settled between them since leaving Aix. “You like this place.”

  “I think you mean ‘I will like this place.’” She smiled, but it didn’t travel beyond her mouth.

  “Yes.” He left it at that as they entered the arched gateway with its large wooden gates studded with iron nails and hinges. The thick stonewalls and buildings had endured hundreds of years, and while many people didn’t call this place home, the charm persisted despite the overly pervasive shops. Instead of speaking to her, he watched, trying to find the subtle communication of the day before.

  Her head twisted down and up, and then back down to the center of the stone streets and alleys. Up, down, up, down. She twirled in a circle before letting her hand dive into her bag. She opened her sketchbook. The scratch of the charcoal across the fiber pages brought heat into his chilled heart. He could still bring her joy.

  When she finished one sketch, he touched her elbow, wanting to lead her to a favorite entrance of his.

  She shifted away from his touch. “What do you want to see?” Her voice barely carried over the hum of other conversations near them.

  He grinned. “You spoke perfectly.” She truly had. Pride swelled inside him. She’d be speaking French well in another month or so. His heart sank at the reality. She’d be leaving in two weeks. There would be Carnival, and she’d be gone.

  “Thank you. Let’s go.” She tilted her head to the side in a clear move of impatience.

  He bowed as he motioned with his hand down a short alley. “This way.”

  As they traversed the short stone walkway with a gutter in the middle, she looked up at the walls towering beside them. In one thin window, a ginger cat lounged with one leg dangling. “Un chat. Right?”

  “Oui.” Just as he answered a dog carrying a half-eaten baguette sauntered by.

  “Un chien avec une baguette.” She pointed at the dog.

  “Very good.”

  “I try. It is too bad I don’t have more time to learn.”

  Did he hear disappointment in her voice? Was that why she had been so quiet and withdrawn earlier? Perhaps it wasn’t Armand’s comments that made her sad. Eh, he thought, it was his boorish friend. It had to be. Genevieve had a plan coming to France, and he knew it didn’t include finding a man. She hadn’t even been prepared for last night. Just what she planned, he didn’t know. Ah, this language barrier. He hated it. He would study more tonight. English had so many rules, and none of them made sense. “There is little time for more.”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t want to think about her leaving, so he took her hand and led her faster down the path. “There.”

  A pointed arch framed an opening guarded by a half-open iron gate. Behind it lay modern glass doors and the flickering
light of a candle shop.

  “Majestic and picturesque. Perfect.” Her face lit up in a smile. His heart warmed.

  He told her the words in French as he shrugged in apology. “I teach when I can.”

  She frowned but followed it up with a smile. “I draw. You hush.”

  He laughed at her mash up of English and French. He knew what the finger to her lips with that rush of breath meant.

  He leaned on the wall across from the shop as she sketched. The scratch of her pencil joined in with the chatter of people at a nearby café. He’d made some happiness return to her. He wished he could fill her final days here with nothing but cheer. There had to be a way to do it. Since he was still on leave, he had time to figure out exactly how to make her happy.

  From the shop nearby, a man emerged, babbling rapidly in French. While Étienne understood the rapid-fire words, he knew Genevieve could not. For now, she was using her favorite defense mechanism against this type of intrusion—ignoring it all.

  “You draw. You draw. Come see what I paint.” The man repeated his words as he waved his misshapen hands toward her.

  When he reached her, and she turned in despair to Étienne, the man slowed his words. “Pardon me. You draw.” He tapped his chest. “I paint. Please, come.”

  “Moi?” She folded her sketchbook to her stomach protectively.

  “Oui.”

  Étienne reached for her, wanting both to shield her and push her to expand her horizons. “He paints. ‘Please come,’ he is asking.”

  “Ah. Okay.” She followed the man into a wide arched doorway where a large piece of paper lay on a stone table.

  “Here. Here.”

  ****

  Before Genevieve settled beside the artist, she begged Étienne to come closer with her gaze. This man with gnarled hands and a forward attitude alarmed her, especially in the dim interior of this large room with roughhewn stone walls. Paintings hung from coarse ropes slung over iron pegs. The spotlights above the worktable and on the artwork created deep shadows.

  The atmosphere made her crave someone beside her, and not just anyone. She wanted Étienne. Her annoyance at the entire morning threatened to return, but she shoved it away. It was fine to enjoy someone’s company for a short time and then leave. Did she truly care if Étienne thought she was using him? Did she care if he was using her?

  She grunted. She’d think about that later and not in the wonderful hilltop fortification turned into tourist town. She tapped her head as she tried to think of the French. She babbled out what she thought was correct. “Show me. Ack.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  With Étienne’s comforting hand warming her back, she watched the man. There were no brushes around him. It appeared the only tools he used to paint were his hands and a small piece of plastic about the size and width of a credit card. He scooped paint with one crooked finger and smeared it in a corner of the paper. With the card held between his odd stumps of fingers, he shifted the paint back and forth, creating a fascinating pattern across the bottom of the paper.

  Layer by layer, color by color, he created an underwater coral scene, or that’s what she assumed it was. It made her think of her grandmother’s crazy seventies and eighties patterns and paintings, but his technique with the right colors could be amazing. He flicked the card back and forth, correcting with his nubs from time to time.

  As she watched him more, she realized that he’d not be able to hold a brush. His fingers were either missing or so crooked to be of little use. If she’d seen him on the street, his hand deformities would make him grotesque, even scary, but as he created a picture from smears, her admiration of his spirit grew.

  She wondered if he could make a scene with colors she liked, not these muted pastels more suited to an old lady’s bedroom. “Étienne, please ask him if I can pick the colors he uses.”

  Étienne said something, and the man nodded as he spoke in his too quick speech. “He says you point, he will paint, but on smaller paper as he may not like what you choose.”

  “Tell him I like his technique.”

  “I think he knows. Your face shows it.”

  “Good. I hope I’m hiding the dislike for the colors.”

  “That,” he shrugged, “not so good.”

  “Oops.” Her face flushed. “Not what I intended.” Ignoring her embarrassment, she tapped on a dark blue. Slowly, she asked in French, “What is your name?” She needed to know his name to get his attention.

  As he grabbed the paint between the nub of his pointer finger and bent thumb, he answered, “Michel. Do you like blue?”

  “Yes, I like that blue.”

  “You said it in English, but you hear his question in French. Try answering in French.” Étienne elbowed her.

  “J’aime le bleu.” She wrinkled her nose at Étienne, unsure if she should have added the le before the French word for blue, unsure of exactly how to say it. She waited for the artist’s reaction.

  Michel grumbled, and she was pretty sure he said something about somber.

  She shook her head at him. “It won’t be.”

  She tapped, and he painted in his way. When she noticed he wasn’t moving the paint in the direction she’d like, she pulled out her sketchbook and drew lines demarcating where different colors should be. She reached for the tubes of paints, taking off the tops and placing a dot of color where she wanted him to paint on his paper. In the first area, she put a smear of blue. As she made more dots in different areas, she named the colors.

  “Red. Yellow. Orange. Black.” She pointed to two of the lines when she touched the black to her sketchbook.

  Michel tilted his head. “Shoo.”

  “No. I want to watch.” She grabbed the side of her head to try to say what she needed to say in French and mumbled it out.

  “No.” Michel fluttered his misshapen hands at her. “Aller.”

  “Porquoi?” This wouldn’t do. She needed to watch him, to guide his hand, so to speak.

  Michel rattled off something too fast for her to understand. She twisted to Étienne who stood behind her with his hands behind his back. A small smile tugged his mouth upward.

  “What did he say? I can’t figure it out.”

  “Concentrate. You know what he says.”

  “No. Please. Tell me.”

  Étienne lowered his gaze, sighed, and told her, “He needs you to go.”

  “What should we do?”

  Again, Michel answered quickly with a double wave of his deformed hands. “Kiss at a café table. It is warm for February.”

  She rolled her eyes. That word she understood. Kiss. As if. “I go to café. I no kiss.” With no more mangled French left in her head, she stormed out of the cave-like studio. Once outside, she leaned on the wall.

  “I would still kiss you.” Étienne’s bass voice thrummed through the rock along her back. Chills of delight sneaked from her spine to her core.

  She sighed, letting the sensations ebb. “We are not meant to be.”

  “Why?”

  She closed her eyes, unable to look at him. “I leave soon.”

  “We capture the days.”

  She snorted. “Seize the day. Carpe diem.”

  “Yes. We do this.” His hand enveloped one of hers.

  Warmth spread up her arm. Her mouth watered as she remembered his hands upon her breast, kneading, bringing her such bliss.

  “Look at me.” Fingers fluttered against her cheek.

  She opened her eyes to find him staring at her. “I cannot—”

  His eyes glimmered in the afternoon sunlight. A finger pressed on her lips. “Yes. You can. I can. We will. Please.”

  “Étienne…” She didn’t know what to say. Of course, she could pretend last night meant nothing to her and that all of this was for a sexual adventure. Armand’s words left such a sting, because for those glorious hours, she had allowed herself to believe that they’d made love and not simply had crazy, amazing sex. Damn! She would tangle with him again an
d again, but would it only be sex until she left on the sixteenth? Or would she leave devastated and broken hearted?

  “Ah, come.” Michel emerged from his studio. His hands waved them to the dim interior. He clicked a light on with his foot and pointed to the hand smeared bolder colors on the small piece of paper. “Voilá.” His eyebrows lifted.

  “Yes. Yes, oh yes.” Vibrant fans and swirls of colors popped out from the paper with the black adding a dramatic flair. Immediately, she imagined this as a textile to be used as a dress or skirt. Her heart raced in her chest, and she put her hand on breastbone as if that would calm it.

  She squeezed Étienne’s hand, and he gave her one in return. “Very beautiful.” That French she knew as Étienne had said it to her repeatedly the night before.

  Michel offered it to her. “For you.” He rattled something off in French as he pointed to his other works.

  “He says it doesn’t fit well. Too bold.”

  “True.” She wanted to say so much to Michel. Would he let her have a fabric printed like this to make into clothes? Would he paint more for her to turn into eye-catching fashion statements? It could make such a gorgeous clothing line. She was going first thing tomorrow morning to that place that offered French lessons in Toulon. She’d go every day if she had to so she could talk to Michel and fabric suppliers. Étienne could help her practice after dinner each night.

  Her racing thoughts crashed into reality. She wouldn’t be here much longer. She wouldn’t have Étienne much longer. She placed both hands on his arms. “We must talk.”

  She turned to Michel. “Thank you very much. You are an extraordinary artist.”

  Michel bowed to her, handed her the painting, and a card. “Email me. Translate for me.”

  “Ah, yes.” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you. Thank you.” She backed out of the store with a renewed sense of purpose. “So much to do, Étienne. Take me home.”

  He waggled a finger at her. “In French, or we go nowhere.”

  “Seriously.” She planted her hand on her hip as she narrowed her eyes at him. He had some nerve telling she wouldn’t be going anywhere if she didn’t answer in French.