—But isn’t your union a strong one, in France?—
She hadn’t got it right; he was eager to guess past her mistakes. There was laughter and he squeezed her a moment.
—Ah, but you’re intelligent, you know what’s going on in the world, I can tell... What a pleasure, to be with a girl you can talk to... and you tell me you can’t speak... ! Let me explain, the unions—they don’t work, those fellows—we work for them, and they get fat on it—
The subject distracted him from his awareness of her body and his determination to make her aware of his ; she could see in his face he didn’t want to get caught up in such talk, yet someone who would listen was not to be resisted, either.
—And if the socialists come to power ?—She had to construct sentences experimentally in her mind, before she spoke.
—Mitterrand ? He would sell out to the Communists—
—Then the workers will be strong. Not the patrons.—
He stopped dancing, broke the rhythm. He held her away from him.—I want what is mine, êh ? My parents worked for it. When my father dies, his house is mine, êh? The Communists won’t allow that. I would be robbed of my own father’s property—you know that ?—
Katya called him ‘Rosa’s mason’:—The first time you’ve been out with a brick-layer, I’ll bet.—The two women were amused at this example of sheltered childhood.
—I want to see the house you are going to inherit.—
—Comment ?—
Again her sense was not clear; at last he understood, but was still surprised.—Ah it’s nothing to see. Old people without money, it needs a lot of fixing up—
It was a small farmhouse-cum-villa with the burnt umber and rose tiles the people of the region had always used, and an automatic washing-machine in the kitchen. His mother brought out fancy glasses and the father a bottle of his own wine; they exchanged smiles with the strange girl but did not attempt to talk to her, and she could not make out the dialect they spoke with their son, only that the conversation was the kind that takes the opportunity to cover a lot of ground when parents have a chance to consult with an adult son or daughter. The three became a family, briefly, while she walked with them down the hillside garden: the son leaping ditches in his elegant boots, the mother and father padding along in muddy slippers, all talking, explaining, objecting. Father and son were absorbed in disagreement over how to deal with a tree that threatened to fall. Rosa was taken by the mother to see drills of young vegetables she bent to lift, here and there, rumpling the grey soil; through leafy shelters and rickety sheds where seedlings were green and transparent, past baskets of stored walnuts and a bucket—alive as a cheese with worms—of swarming snails gathered for eating. Under olive and cherry trees a long table was covered by flowered plastic below a lamp wired in the branches: there was a pet sheep staked to mow the grass within the radius of its rope, and a swing for grandchildren. Rosa sat eating the cherries the father filled her lap with, and the son ran at her, head lowered to make them all laugh, and sent her up into the air; she got back to her feet at last, laughing, holding her throat as if something were about to fly from her.—I like your inheritance.—
—Ah, when the mistral starts, that tree’s going to smash the power line—that will cost plenty! I’ve told my father. It’s a serious offence in France to obstruct installations—
Madame Bagnelli invited the friends Georges and Manolis to share the home-grown asparagus Rosa was given. One of the intimates ‘smelled them cooking’ as Madame Bagnelli said, and called up, at the gate just as Rosa carried the settings for the table onto the terrace. Bobby was the immensely tall Englishwoman with beautiful legs who at sixty still wore without looking ridiculous bullfighter’s pants that ended at the knee, and toenails shaped and painted like fingernails. If Rosa came upon her sitting on the place on her usual bench she seemed to think they might have had an arrangement to meet; she would jump up, moving her mouth welcomingly, kiss the girl and insist on buying her a coffee, taking up as if the two had been involved in it together some local story of a dispute or crisis in the village.—Well, the great event didn’t come off yesterday, after all. They waited for a phone-call, but it was only when the brother-in-law turned up—you know, the little fat one, from Pegomas, unappetizing if you ask me—In the straw bag she carried rubber gloves and often a newspaper, magazines (that was the source of the Vogues and copies of Plaisirs de France Katya placed in her guest’s room) or a flowering branch from the large, locked house with a majolica virgin on the façade she looked after for absentee owners. As far as Madame Bagnelli knew, she was smuggled into France by a Free French officer who had fallen in love with her when she was in the British women’s navy during the war. The village crones derided the claim that she had been in the Resistance.—She was part of the village when I came. He used to have a house, he used to come every few months—they tell me at one time he actually lived there with her. Since I’ve been here, he would come when he could, just like Ugo... We were waiting for his wife to die. Well she was so ill... We used to ask about that woman’s health, it seemed so hopeful, she had every disease you could wish for. He died first. Oh I don’t think by then...Bobby never expected—she’s lived here so long, she has her ways... Sometimes now if you mention her Colonel she’ll answer as if she knows who you’re talking about but it’s the way you cover up when you haven’t really caught on.—
Manolis’s voice preceded the pair of invited guests, giving directions in his Greek French as if advising how to steer an awkward burden through Madame Bagnelli’s dark little house. The fragile cargo was Georges manoeuvring himself.—He has hurt his leg. Last night. He should not walk up steps, I tell him.—Manolis switched to the English he had learned from Georges, so that it was spoken with both French and Greek accents. His smooth, narrow, yellow face with its dark moles and sorrowful glittering black eyes was dramatic in haughty disapproval and anxiety. Georges made an entrance, leant on a cane.—I had to ask one for him all around—in the end, it was old Seroin, but what a trouble: it’s from his papa, it’s from when he was a gouverneur en Indochine, if it should be damaged ta-ra-ra—
Georges grinned with a free arm held out for the women to come and kiss him.—Manolis had new curtains ready, I was standing on top of the armoire, you know, the treasure Katya found for us in Roquefort-les-Pins—yes—I must have fallen two metres—He smelled of suede (the supple shirt he wore) and lemon cologne and his blue eyes and white hair cut like Napoleon’s were close to Rosa, a presence sure of its androgynous vitality, while he talked past her ear and hugged her. Bobby looked on with head raised from the preoccupations she carried comfortably around like a piece of invisible needlework.—Outside my door it’s been like that for a month. You could break your neck. Not a light, pitch dark. The gang of Arabs just leave their picks and spades at five o’clock—they don’t care.—
—But here we’ve got exactly the person you need. Let Rosa see, Georges. Come quietly into my bedroom—get on the bed—let a qualified physiotherapist examine you... it’s free!—Madame Bagnelli presented her house-guest in another capacity, as much to be taken on trust, for the others, as the wild stories of the country she came from.
—You’re a nurse ?—Manolis was strict.
—A doctor is the only one to touch it.—Bobby spoke confidentially to Madame Bagnelli, wrinkling her nose. Her voice was louder when she thought she was whispering.
—Not the bedroom—I won’t move now I’m here—Manoli, put the cushions on the floor—
Madame Bagnelli, curtseying easily up and down, weighty on her thin ankles, arranged it all swiftly.
—I’ll take off his shoes, no ?—
The girl was in charge, smiling, her chin lifted.—Roll up your trouser-leg. That’s no good—right up. No—you wear your pants too tight around the thigh: take them off.—
—She’s not slow, êh ? All right, if you say—
They laughed down at him as he pulled in his waist nattily, unfastened belt and
flourished zipper. Manolis drew the pants off with the air of preparing a corpse, bringing more laughter. Georges’s chin pressed on his chest in a grimace showed teeth worn laterally to the bone that were more of a private vulnerability revealed than was the body he wore like an outfit he knew would make a good impression. Rosa Burger’s hair had grown enough to fall across her face; they saw only her mouth firm in professional concentration. Her hands moved with the grip and sensitivity they had not put to use for a long time. The doctor says there’s no crack in the patella ? You were x-rayed ? And there was no dislocation ?
Manolis appealed to everyone:—Nothing is wrong! But look how Georges is, he cannot even turn in the bed!—
—I might be able to ease it a bit. Give me half-an-hour.—
They deferred to her, Manolis going off to finish setting the table and Madame Bagnelli trailing Bobby into the kitchen where she added final touches to the sauce.
Several glasses of wine released the urbanely concealed concern over himself Georges had been keeping from his lover. The tone meant specifically for him reached Manolis as he swabbed vinaigrette with a piece of bread; at once his attention fixed in his great dark, mournful gaze (when Manolis laughed, those eyes shone as if he were crying) and his lips drew tensely against other chatter.
—It’s better. I said: I think it’s definitely better. It’ll be all right. I can move the knee—well, I won’t but I feel I could.—
—We were supposed to be going to the Algarve next week. A great day, to be able to go to Portugal. We’ve waited a long time for that.—
The two men lifted their glasses with ceremony.
Madame Bagnelli assured:—Of course you’re going. Rosa will come and massage Georges every morning won’t you ? Of course—
—I shouldn’t have thought it was such a wonderful thing—people I know’ve been having holidays there for years, it was so cheap, even cheaper than Spain.—
—We wouldn’t have gone ever while Salazar lived, even for nothing.—
Bobby was unaware of reproaches as she was of being ignored. —Of course they say it’s finished now—people have been chased out of their houses by the Communists—English people who’ve retired there, put every penny—
Georges took more sauce, miming a kiss to Madame Bagnelli in praise of its excellence.—If we couldn’t afford Chile under Allende, at least we can afford Portugal under Gomes. I wouldn’t miss it. People in this village! Did you hear what Grosbois said ? If everything’s so fine in Portugal now, why haven’t all the Portuguese who’re digging the streets here with the Arabs gone home... There has to be prosperity overnight, êh, or that’s proof the Left is making a mess of things—One year, that’s all it is—
It was true that Madame Bagnelli could still take on, like an old challenge to all comers, something like the blazonry of attraction and sexuality; a kind of inward caper to match the boxer-like prance—hefty, light on her feet—she sometimes broke into about her terrace.—It was lovely, last year when we all danced on the place—Georges?—
Georges indicated her to Rosa.—You should have seen her, with a red carnation behind the ear.—
—And you ? We all went crazy. Oh some people just thought they were at the battle of the flowers in Nice—never mind...—Manolis and Georges had brought a special white wine; she lifted the third bottle dripping high, from the bucket, and was going round with it. —And what about Arnys ? Rosa—Amys didn’t know any Portuguese revolutionary songs so she sang one she remembered about La Pasionara, from the Left Bank in ’36—she cried to me afterwards, she says she once had a great love in the International Brigade.—Madame Bagnelli stood with her glass in her hand as if she were about to make a speech or sing a song herself.—Where this girl comes from, April meant the end of the whites in Moçambique, right next door... you realize what that must have been?—
Manolis regarded Rosa the way he did when she had taken charge of Georges professionally.—What an experience. To be down there in Africa—êh.—
The girl stood up, too, palms on the table. She could see the flood-lit castle behind the black paint-brushes of cypress; music and voices were the single insect-chorus of the summer night. She looked from one face to another at the table in expansive impulses, even affectionate, even appealing.—There were no red carnations. —
But Georges and Manolis prided themselves on being thoroughly informed. They stirred, reflective. Bobby politely, pettishly mouthed that she wanted another piece of bread.
—Black people were ecstatic—Frelimo fought for eleven years... But if you came out in the streets—that’s impossible there... You wouldn’t dare celebrate. There was one mass meeting, people went to prison—
—Not just overnight, waving banners, and headline interviews with the heroes in the papers next day, like it is here when there’s a political rumpus—Madame Bagnelli kept up a counterpoint of emphatic interruption.
Manolis waved her aside to exact acknowledgment; he had the experience of the Greek colonels in his blood although he had not been in his country during their rule.—And the white people? Of course they are afraid the same thing will happen down there, that’s it ?—
—The refugees kept coming in, people looking like us, you know, people could look at themselves, and them—bringing their grandmothers and refrigerators, white people—Rosa’s light eyes were indiscreet, trusting. She was her own audience, ranged along with the faces.
—What can they expect! They’ve asked for it. They allowed themselves to be brain-washed into believing they’re a superior race. Running with refrigerators! It will come. Three hundred years, enough! You are outcast... they throw you in prison to die if you try to change them—Madame Bagnelli had the air of one carried away by whatever company she found herself in to profess preoccupations and opinions at one with theirs. With the Grosbois, she was as animated a participant in their decision to eat organically-grown vegetables or Gaby’s interest in the alterations Nice-Matin reported were being made to the villa of the Shah of Iran’s sister.
—This girl could make a good living here. She would do well. I mean it—Georges leant forward to draw everyone to the sudden idea of supporting their own local political refugee.—The yacht people, there are always pains and aches when you take too much exercise... they hurt themselves water-skiing and I don’t know what. Really, it’s amazing, how my leg feels, you know, relaxed—the muscles—The convinced shrewdness of his blue eyes canvassed.
—And even in the village!—
—No one who does that kind of work—
—Aië, aië, what about papers ?—Madame Bagnelli looked at Rosa gaily in the enthusiasm of Georges and Manolis.—She has to have permission to work, a permit—
Georges mimed away the maunderings of despised officialdom. —Pah-pah-pah. She doesn’t ask. No one knows. She gets paid in cash, she puts it in her pocket.—Fingers extended fastidiously, with the ring set with a gold seal from the reign of Alexander the Great worn in betrothal to Manolis, the palm of one hand wiped itself off against the other.
Katya took Rosa to hear nightingales. They locked the gate but rooms were open behind them, the candles smoked on the littered table. Up on the terrace, they might still have been there, in the warm still night voices hung.
Down the steep streets with gravity propelling them gently, under street-lamps fluttering pennants of tiny bats, shouldered by the walls of the houses of friends, through lilting staccato-punctuated voices swung about by music coming from the place, whiffs of dog-shit and human urine in Saracen archways, arpeggios of laughter flying in the chatter of knives and dishes from the restaurant where a table of French people sat late under young leaves of a grape-vine translucent to the leaping shadows of their gestures. (—You never understand what makes them so euphoric in the ritual of feasting together—not even when you understand their language perfectly.—Katya was proudly fascinated by the tribal impenetrability of the people she lived among.) Past the little villas of the dead with the urns of the
ir marble gardens sending out perfume of cut carnations as from the vase in any family livingroom ; the hoof-clatter of linked couples approaching and trotting away on their platform soles, the stertorous swathe cut by motorcycles, the quiet chirrups of older people wandering the village as at an exhibition of stone, light, doorways fringed with curtains of plastic strips, the faces of carved lions melted by centuries back to the contours of features forming in a foetus. In the remnant of forest ravine all this familiar element was suddenly gone like torn paper drawn up a flue by the draught of flames. It had lifted away above the flood-lit battlements of that castle domestic as a tame dragon. Katya plunged through littered thickets, some quiet vixen or badger of a woman, cunningly coexisting with caravan parks and autoroutes. Rosa strolled this harmless European jungle.
—Wait. Wait—
Katya’s breathing touched her as pine-needles did. All around the two women a kind of piercingly sweet ringing was on the limit of being audible. A new perception was picking up the utmost ring of waves whose centre must be unreachable ecstasy. The thrilling of the darkness intensified without coming closer. She gave a stir, questioning; the shape of Katya’s face turned to stay her. The vibrating glass in which they were held shattered into song. The sensation of receiving the song kept changing; now it was a sky-slope on which they planed, tipped, sailed, twirled to earth; then it was a breath stopped at the point of blackout and passing beyond it to a pitch hit, ravishingly, again, again, again.
Katya hooked the girl’s arm when the path widened. Their feet carried them towards the village.—It goes on all night. Every summer. If I can’t sleep, I just come out at two or three in the morning... Oh I have them always, every year.—
In the middle of winter, seven months pregnant, to teach night-classes in some freezing old warehouse...okay, I was ‘disciplined’—how ashamed I was !—had to be disciplined because of my bourgeois tendencies to put my private life first. I remember I cried...
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