“If you say so.” Thomas makes a waving gesture, showing his weariness of hearing Gallatin sing the praises of England. The man is an Anglophile as well as a Femme-ophile.
“Brush me off all you like, but it’s true. The English model of government is perfect.”
“Perfect?”
“All right, nothing’s perfect except in our imaginations. But there’s better and there’s worse. And I say England is better and France is a lot worse.”
“Good thing I don’t report back to the police anymore. Or my old friend Collier would have you locked up. And throw away the key.”
“You did it long enough. You were smart to call it to a halt, though I know you hated losing the coins. But that last year, you only passed on lies, did you not?”
“More or less, and he began to figure me out. When I told him I’d done it enough, he didn’t object. However, your ravings about England a moment ago are too good not to use. I think I’ll get in touch with my man again.”
“I assume you’re joking.” Gallatin has an uncertain smile.
“You’ll know by sundown,” says Thomas, deadpan. “When they come to take you to the Bastille.” The face allows a slow smile. “If I were really going to betray you, do you think I’d tell you in advance?”
Gallatin acknowledges with his face that’s likely true. He halts his walking pace and reaches out to grasp Thomas’s shoulder. “If you’d do some serious reading, my friend, you’d come round to my way of thinking, you would. England is the place for all rational men.”
“They don’t have vineyards over there, do they. Or cheese or bread.”
“They do so. Well, cheese and bread at least. And they import our wines.”
“But nothing else. They don’t have anything we Frenchman eat. We have cuisine. Their food is only grub.”
“Thomas! It’s only across the water, for God’s sake. Pardon the expression. For reason’s sake.”
Thomas doffs his hat to his friend as they begin to walk again. “Will you be able to move back to France if England isn’t what you think it is?”
“It will be, mark my words. But, if God forbid, it were not how could anyone stop me? I could almost swim.”
“Do you swim?”
“No, but I could hire a boat.”
Thomas shrugs. He’s never left France. He has no idea if it’s easy or difficult to go from one kingdom to another or for that matter, from one loyalty to another. Can it be as simple as changing shoes, or simpler still, changing shirts? Thomas takes a breath. He keeps that question to himself.
“Anyway,” says Jean Gallatin, “It’s time I put my ass where my mouth is.”
Thomas winces. Gallatin does the same an instant later. “Sorry,” the bookseller says. “It’s time to practice what I preach.”
“You’ll sell the bookshop?”
Gallatin nods.
“But then how will you make a living? Over there, I mean. You don’t speak English, do you?”
“No, but I read it. A lot. So how hard can it be to speak? The English speak it, after all. I’m the match of any of them.”
Thomas supposes that’s true enough. He remembers a teacher priest once telling the entire class that English was a little language. Little and with none of the complexity, beauty or subtlety of French. He suspects the priest was exaggerating but that there was more than a kernel of truth. Thomas imagines English is like the French that the peasants speak. It will have a small vocabulary, nothing polished and refined. Gallatin’s right. Learning that little foreign language should not be too hard.
Once again Gallatin places a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder. They come to a full stop. “You have to keep everything I’ve just told you in confidence. You know that, don’t you, Thomas?”
“I do.”
Thomas adds a firm nod to show just how well and deeply he understands. He appreciates that Gallatin has just made this conversation a confidence matter. There are not many things he likes more than having a secret, especially one as potentially dangerous as this one. That his best friend is leaning toward a kingdom other than the one in which he is living and in which he was born. They begin walking again, Gallatin visibly relieved and Thomas very pleased.
“There’s more,” says Gallatin. “I in fact have already found a position. It’s not official yet, but it soon will be. A distinguished customer came in the shop a few weeks ago, and it seems I impressed him with my knowledge.”
“If you do say so yourself.”
“Yes, I do. Well, it turns out that he is an ambassador from Holland.” Gallatin’s face shines as if he were basking in warm summer sunshine though it is a chill November afternoon. “It seems he’s been appointed to England. Yes. Well, he was looking for a suitable tutor for his children. Wants a Frenchman, of course. So right there and then, after we’d spoken about authors and books for half an hour, he asked me if I’d consider the post.”
“And you said…?”
“I said I’d think about it, but that was only for show. I decided the moment he asked me. I should be gone before the end of the year or not long after. Once he’s settled in as the ambassador he will write to me and I’ll be away.”
“Well, congratulations, I guess.” Thomas’s words, however, sound like he’s disappointed.
To the slap and tap of their shoes as they make their way along the cobbles Thomas urges his downcast mood to lift. He wants to let Gallatin know he’s happy his friend is getting something he wants, even though he feels left out. No, it’s more than that. It’s that Gallatin is doing something Thomas has never once even considered. The bookseller is selling his occupation and starting over as something else in another land.
“That’s great, Jean. I’m happy for you.” Thomas’s lips and eyes offer a reasonable facsimile of a smile.
“Thanks. Maybe you’ll come and visit sometime. To London. See for yourself.”
Thomas nods. “Sure, that would be … amusing.”
“Amusing? Yes, I suppose it might. We’d be Londoners together. How about that?”
“No, how about this?” Thomas crooks his arms on high and tight upon his chest while his legs kick stiffly out from side to side.
Gallatin instantly does the same. For a full minute the two young Parisians forget all about their aches and pains. And about Gallatin’s imminent move. Instead they strut down the street like marionettes.
“Londoners, we’re Londoners.” Thomas speaks through a grin, his arms beating the air and flailing about.
“Londoners!” shouts Gallatin, doing exactly the same.
When they tire of their prank and return their arms and legs to a normal walk, Gallatin is the first to speak: “And Madame? What about Madame?”
“What?” says Thomas through a happy uncomprehending smile. “What’s that? Who’s Madame?”
“Marguerite. Marguerite Salles, the widow. Your bride to be. Will she come along to London as well?”
Thomas’s eyes close in recognition. He’d completely forgotten about Marguerite. The mirth of the moment disappears. “Oh yes. I’d forgotten I’m soon to be wed.”
“Aha. Best you keep that to yourself.”
“Yes, indeed. To myself.”
—
The coupling ends as it began, as a passionless and tedious exchange. Each takes turns providing the required stimulus and response, but with no great result for either sprawled atop the bed. When it’s finally over it’s a relief to both. Neither has much to say. What communication there is comes with furtive glances and averted eyes. The wedding ceremony is only a day behind them and already it feels far, far away. Something elusive has begun to rear its head.
Marguerite wonders if the problem might be the bed. It’s a four-poster with a bright yellow hanging overhead. It’s only the second time sh
e has had Thomas join her there, on the very same mattress she used to share with her late husband. On the other hand, the yellow hanging is new, so it’s not exactly the same. The colour brightens the room considerably she thinks, especially as it’s reflected in the mirror above the dresser across the way. It fills the room with a lovely glow. Yet if the bed is the problem, well then they’ll have to move it out and bring in something new. She wants their life together to be what she imagined it would be.
Marguerite supposes Thomas might be a little put off to have to perform in the same bed as his predecessor, who was much richer and higher ranked than he. Truth be told, however, the first husband never did some of the things Thomas does to her, nor nearly half so well. Yet something’s not right, just the same. And what if that something turns out not to be the bed? Marguerite turns onto her side.
Thomas too is puzzling over what went wrong. His soldier was almost limp when they began, not something that has happened before. Therefore, he decides, Marguerite has to be the source. Marguerite is a little older and heavier than he might prefer, with a few folds he’d rather she didn’t have, but that’s hardly a surprise. Is it that he’s missing his visits to the stalls? It brought a variety, it did. But, no, his last visit was only four days ago. No, Thomas thinks it’s more likely that his mood of disappointment has to do with the realization that his marriage to a well-off widow may not be all he needs. It’s a definite advancement to be sure, but look at Gallatin, for god’s sake. He changed kingdoms to get ahead. Now tied to Marguerite, Thomas can do no such thing.
Thomas rolls onto his back. He stares at the yellow hanging overhead. Its bright colour is an indictment of a glow he does not feel.
Luckily, thinks Thomas, Gallatin wasn’t at the marriage ceremony. Safely in England, the former bookseller did not have to block his ears or look away when the priest made bride and groom repeat their vows and take part in the mass that followed. Gallatin would have smirked at the talk, the idea of a sacrament and how a man marrying a woman was akin to Christ and the Church. Of course, Thomas repeated the words the priest had him say. Why would he not? If such words help him get ahead, what’s the harm in that? Marrying Marguerite makes good sense. About that, Gallatin always agreed. Nonetheless, while his head counts up the advantages, Mister Dangle – which is what Marguerite calls the thing with a mind of its own between his legs – is not inspired.
The newlyweds roll back toward each other. It’s a half-hearted act. Each would prefer to get up and wipe off their sticky parts, but it’s too soon for that. So each stays put. Marguerite speaks first. She pushes back from her husband and pulls the sheet up to cover herself up to her neck.
“Does this…” Marguerite makes a sweeping motion with her hands, “does it mean anything to you?”
She rolls her head to take in Thomas’s reaction. He stares back as if she is some sort of puzzle. Marguerite squints at the blank expression on her husband’s face.
“Making love with me, I mean. Is that how you see it too? As lovemaking? Or just as something to satisfy an urge? A duty with someone twice your age?”
Thomas gets up on an elbow. He looks at his bedmate and bride from above.
“Marguerite, it’s a pleasure not a duty. And of course it means something.”
Her furrowed brow tells him that what he’s said is not enough.
“It’s an expression of love. Between man and wife. It’s what we are pleased to do. It pleases the senses and it’s a sacrament to the Church.”
The brow is smoothing out. Thomas thinks he can detect a hint of a smile.
“We do this to be close, as close as two can get.” Thomas reaches over and pulls down the sheet that is covering his bride. His thumb and pointer finger want to tweak the closer of Marguerite’s nipples. She bats the hand away and re-covers her chest with the sheet.
“Sometimes when you speak, Thomas, it sounds, I don’t know, a little contrived.”
Thomas lets his upper body come down to the flatness of the bed. He gives a loud exhale.
“No, Marguerite, I speak from the heart. But sometimes, sometimes, a man is not his normal self. He can be tired, I guess.”
Marguerite’s expression shifts. She allows that what her husband says might be true. Maybe men’s little pistols can’t always shoot.
“You need to tell me such things, my husband.” Marguerite cups a hand to Thomas’s groin. “Maybe I can help.”
Thomas gently removes her hand and covers himself with a portion of the bed cover. “Maybe I need a nap?”
“It’s my bed, but yes, of course, you do that.”
Thomas keeps his eyes closed until Marguerite has left the room. Once she has gone, the door pulled softly shut, he takes in the chinoiserie clock on the mantle. He listens to its ticking. He sighs deeply and decides that maybe a nap is not what he needs after all. He throws back the cover and gets out of bed. As he dresses, he hears some lines.
Fruit to stem, so very bound
Fearing the flight
The waiting ground.
A heaviness, a weariness?
Yes
A love unripe.
Thomas doesn’t much care for the verses. Then he allows a smile. Maybe they still deserve to be written down. His paper, ink and quill, however, are over in his own room, not here in Marguerite’s. Since the insufferable Madame Dufour is coming for dinner in a couple of hours, he’d better record them while they are still in his head. Any conversation with dear cousin drives his muse far away.
—
“Entwined,” Thomas says aloud.
He reaches out to touch one of the buildings along the Quai des Augustins as he goes by. He likes to see if the mortar between the stones if smooth or rough. He notices the glare from two men approaching in the opposite direction. They clearly don’t like anyone talking to himself or touching walls.
“Sorry,” says Thomas with a laugh, tipping his tricorn in their direction. They both look away. “But yes,” Thomas mutters softly to himself, “the entwining is the best part.”
For the past few minutes, as he weaves his way through the streets on the right bank of the city in the last light of the day, Thomas has been mulling over what exactly it is that keeps him going once a week to the prostitutes despite his recent marriage to Marguerite. He’s decided that it’s less the culminations, the little deaths as some would have it, than the tentative beginnings. No longer is Thomas merely about the in and out, over as fast as he can be and do. Now he wants the touch of limb and torso, the tentative explore and fondle, each time different. It’s the expectation of unexpected nuances, of being with someone he’s never met before, that keeps him going back for more. He gets enough ordinary sex with Marguerite. With unfamiliar women he gets what she can’t give, the unknown.
It comes to him that he must soon write Gallatin back. In the last letter from London, Jean opined that England was way ahead of France in denying the existence of any god. Thomas doubts that this is in fact the case. Moreover, he does not like the topic at all. It makes him nervous because he half expects the sky to open up and lightning to strike him down. But he thinks he can have some fun with the subject of God in his own way. He will write to his friend telling him the best argument for God is the existence of women. Gallatin will widen his eyes at that. Yet Thomas is serious. How could there be such a wondrous creature without some kind of intervention from above? Thomas beams at the idea. Will Gallatin scoff or might he for once be forced to agree? Ah my, Thomas misses having Gallatin around for the stupid banter they used to have.
Thomas again runs a finger along a line of mortar that separates two courses of the nearest stone wall. He likes the way the hardened mix feels on his fingertips. It’s both rough and smooth, and it reminds him of Vire. He would walk the streets in the early morning hours and touch masonry walls here and there. One particular morning co
mes back to him. Hot it was already. The air thick with moisture and nowhere for it to escape. Along one wall, the one that defined the west side of the Ursulines’ if his memory serves, his nostrils were teased by a damp, rich perfume of blossoms unseen. It was a heavenly scent. The blossoms he imagined were a deep red. Their scent was coming from the other side of the stone wall, from the sisters’ unseen world. He imagined that there was a stream of water running through the grounds. And a square of grass with nearby flowering shrubs. It struck him then as it strikes him now, that such unseen gardens and hidden scents are best. Those who give their lives over to an unseen god deserve to have pleasures that go to them alone and no one else.
Thomas blinks at the memory. He wonders why it comes to him now. What is the link? Oh yes, the wall. The tips of his fingers on rough mortar. The same sensation, then and now.
His thoughts stay with recollections of Vire. He recalls that as a boy, expectation was his abiding faith. So much lay in the future. The unknown could be anything, which made it the best. Grow up, move away, rise high, be something his father was not. The expectations were multiple. How he almost wishes he were back in that state, able to look expectantly ahead.
It occurs to him that it is much the same with the loins. Nothing seems to heighten pleasure so much as a longing not instantly satisfied. The wanting of what you do not have. He wonders if he should write to Gallatin about this. About the pleasures of delay. Like the chocolate warming in the pot before it swims upon the palate. Pastries stared at in windows but not yet put in the mouth. Hot loaves of bread resting on their peel. The glance exchanged by two first-time lovers about to go somewhere they’ve not been before. The brush of skin on skin, an accidental touch.
Thomas grins at the absurdity of the argument taking shape in his head. If what he has just said is true then would we not all be happier if we never acted on urges and desires? If instead of us giving in we left our pleasures always unfulfilled? The greatest pleasure would be a never-ending anticipation. Clearly, that will never happen, for the species insists on having what it wants. Still, Thomas concludes as he crosses over the Pont Neuf, it is better to draw things out, to delay then delay some more. He will demonstrate the theory, if only for himself. He will not go straight to the rooms where his new unknown pleasure waits. He will follow a more circuitous route, a long way round, which starts by strolling first along the Seine.
Thomas, A Secret Life Page 27
