A Girl Called Flotsam

by John Tagholm

  The wrong-headedness of the response didn’t deter Beatrice. ‘Was Dad like other men you’d been out with, then?’ It was a final attempt to come in under her mother’s radar but, like the others, it failed.

  ‘I wasn’t that sort of girl, Beatrice, as I’ve told you before. Now I have to go and meet Joan. We’re going to the market, the one by the fountain. Are you going to join us?’

  It was an indifferent offer, take it or leave it, but nevertheless Beatrice walked alongside her mother to the market where she met Jean, who, in a matelot top and chinos, looked more the part for a Provençal market than her mother who was in another floral print dress.

  ‘What do you do?’ Joan asked, as Eileen busied herself buying an olive wood spoon.

  ‘I make films.’

  ‘Really. Your mother never mentioned that.’

  They strolled on between the colourful baskets and bolts of cloth patterned with cigalas. ‘She said you were in television, but I got the impression that you might be some sort of assistant.’

  ‘My mother doesn’t fully understand what I do.’

  ‘I don’t suppose many people know how to make films.’

  ‘That’s true, Joan. I’m trying to make one about Joseph Troumeg and I’m getting nowhere at the moment.’

  ‘Such a charming man,’ Joan said. ‘I believe he saved my marriage. I couldn’t cook a thing until he came along. Made it all so simple and yet glamorous. He was like one of those characters in a pantomime, sort of unbelievable and yet adorable.’

  ‘That’s very well put and quite true. So you’d want to see my film?’

  ‘Oh, of course.’

  ‘Even if it showed you another side of his life, one that we might not know?’

  ‘Do you think there is one? I can’t imagine it.’

  Why couldn’t I have had even this brief conversation with my mother, Beatrice thought and wondered yet again at the culs-de-sac that most of their exchanges produced. And later, on the train, she was left with the dissatisfaction of having even attempted a more direct conversation with her mother, the vague feeling that she was still expecting to find an answer when all she would reaffirm was her mother’s rigidity.

  *********************************

  Marseille was a city to match her mood, restless and vaguely uneasy, the dark shadows of the narrow streets and the blinding light of the sun in the open spaces a challenge to her senses, an assault continued in the unblinking stares of the Arab traders and the noise of the traffic. She could feel the eyes on her, scanning her body and once of twice she felt the brush of a stray hand across the top of her legs and when she turned to look or challenge was met by those same eyes, now innocent. She climbed the long gloomy steps underneath the lines of washing, towards the old town, pulled deeper into the maze of lanes and alleys where the Greeks and Romans had traded. Kids in trainers slapped past her and old men in doorways watched. Graffiti covered the lower walls and she began to lose her sense of direction, the alleyways constantly in the shade beyond the slant of the sun, her map unable to keep pace with this latticework of passages. She tried to picture a young Joseph Troumeg in these streets, knowing his way, speaking the patois, in the early years of his career before money lifted him from the city and gave him to the world. Having twice got hopelessly lost, retracing her steps and almost starting again, she stumbled on rue de Petit Puits at the sharp angle where it joined the rue de Panier. Bread and water, a happy conjunction for a man who, over the years, had been elevated to the status of god in the world of food. She looked for number 12, but not all the doors were marked. She estimated that it might be a plain restaurant with old metal chairs and tables on the uneven road outside. Two men were eating what looked like couscous with chicken and preserved lemon, shovelling the food into their mouths, looking over their forks at her breasts and legs. A thin Arab stood stock still behind the counter, almost lost in the dark and she went in to ask him if this was number twelve. With a gesture of his thumb upwards he indicated where she should look. To the right of the restaurant was an arched doorway with the head of a cherub in the centre. The eyes of the two men were still on her as she pressed the buzzer and when she didn’t get an answer, she walked over to the table to ask them if they knew when Joseph Troumeg would be back. They shook their heads and continued eating. She didn’t want to sit and wait although she knew that both men and the thin face watching from inside, would have known about the comings and goings of Joseph Troumeg.

  Further along another café offered a less threatening arena and she sat outside and drank a beer and watched the shadow creep across the road until it touched the opposite curb. She had a view of both approaches to the doorway so she just sat nursing one beer and then another until the sun had left completely and an appropriate gloom had closed around the ancient streets of old Marseille. Perhaps the men had told him on his return, or had relayed a message, for it was obvious from the way he approached that he knew she was waiting. He drew alongside and the look he gave her was quite different from the coldly suspicious eyes of the diners, or the greedy gaze of the sexual predators.

  ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do than follow me around?’

  And with that he shuffled along the street to disappear into his doorway. She followed to find the door open. She hesitated just a moment before stepping into the blackness of the interior.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  She is walking over the bleached white rocks to the south of the town, where the water in the coves seems lit from beneath making the sea the most brilliant of pale blues, like the stones in her mother’s jewellery. She sits alone in the shade of a tree and watches the distorted outlines of the fish in the translucent water.

  Her mother said that the boy’s father had asked her to make a ring of gold and she knows that her response to this information would decide whether she would make it or not. The way her mother spoke told her that she could decide one way or the other. She sees the ring as a natural successor to the brooch, the first a symbol of her becoming a woman, the second of her arrival at marriage. Although she feels no hesitation in her heart, she still wants some time to carry the information with her before giving her mother an answer. She takes off her clothes and from the edge of a rock she had swum from many times before, raises her arms above her head, feeling the shape of her body, the tautness of her stomach and thighs, before diving into the sea, pushing herself underwater, enjoying its coldness, widening her legs, completely free. The wind, which had been blowing hard from the north for five days, has now dwindled to the breeze which brushes her face as she breaches the surface. She can feel the dimensions of her body, its extremities and she has ownership of it all. She pulls herself on to a flat rock and lies back in the sun, the sea water running between her legs and glistening on her breasts. She shuts her eyes and although she was expecting to think about the boy, it is her father that first comes into her mind, his face on the bridge and the wind that had blown up the river and made them both turn away. She sees in his eyes the trust and pride he had in her, a belief that she would carry on after he had gone. And then she sees her mother’s eyes, different and more rebellious, but conveying the same message of belief in her daughter, that no matter what her spirit would not be broken. Behind her she can hear the chatter of the small birds she often sees here, their beautiful heads of gold and red, moving in groups in the shade of the branches high above, just out of reach.

  Her body had now dried and the breeze is beginning to chill her but the decision had been made, or at least confirmed. She returns to her mother and sees her at work amongst the silver and gold, the clasps and pendants. She approaches her side and stands with her, slightly taller now and sees a line of three rings on a plain dark cloth. They are all gold, the first and largest with a raised top and the pattern of a cross, the second a plain band and the third a thick strand of gold evenly twisted, which she picks up. It is too large, but nevertheless she slips it onto her finger and then h
olds her hand out to her mother who takes it and kisses its back.

  The decision had been made.

  Later she sees the boy and tells him. They walk together, up the hill to where the basilica would one day be built and sit looking down at the port. He puts his arm around her and they stay until the sun has disappeared behind the old town.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The darkness of the hallway swallowed her and she stopped, suddenly unable to see, her arms feeling for the walls. And then ahead of her the outline of a partly opened door and she moved cautiously forward assuming that Troumeg had expected her to follow. She entered a large kitchen with a central unit of light grey marble into which had been set a range and a sink. On top lay the bags that Troumeg had been carrying. Beyond was an elaborate conservatory, painted dark green and hung with two wire chandeliers. She looked behind her where the red tiled floor led to a seating area with a day bed of bright cushions and a handsome open stone fireplace. The restaurateur was nowhere to be seen so she wandered through to the conservatory and its long wooden table at the centre of which was a large bowl full of different fruits. In the distance she heard a door click open.

  ‘Enchanting, isn’t it?’ he said, drying his hands as he approached, once again acting as though she had been expected.

  ‘Do you have somewhere like this in every city?

  He appeared to ignore her. ‘I don’t own this. I do my photo shoots here and the odd programme. Those television people wreck everything in their path, as you know.’

  She did. ‘Very sensible.’ Beatrice noticed the sheets of lighting gels rolled up in one corner secured by a large clip. It was an excellent place for filming, she could see and deduced that it must face north so that the sun would be less of a problem. Troumeg came past her and sat at the long table.

  ‘So what are we going to do with you?’

  She looked at him but he had turned away and was in the process of taking plates from a cupboard and wiping them with the towel he had brought from the bathroom.

  ‘In a way,’ he continued, ‘I quite admire you but I do wonder if you haven’t got something better to do with your time.’

  ‘What’s wrong with this?’

  ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Is that important?’

  He wandered through to the kitchen and from the fridge he brought some cheese and cold meats on a yellow plate and laid it on the table.

  ‘Let’s see, about thirty-six, I guess.’ Again, he wasn’t looking at her, but continued to shuffle between the kitchen and the conservatory collecting two glasses and a bottle of pink wine.

  ‘Almost thirty-seven.’

  ‘And you want to chase around after me.’ It wasn’t so much a question as a statement.

  ‘Is there anything you want to hide?’ she said.

  ‘We’ve all got something to hide, my dear. Even you.’ A further shuffle and a pair of linen napkins were tossed on to the table. ‘Especially you, perhaps.’

  She frowned. ‘How do you mean?’ Once again Troumeg had turned the process of interrogation on its head.

  He shrugged. ‘How’d you feel about someone wanting to make a film about you?’

  ‘It’s different,’ she said. ‘I’m not famous.’

  ‘But you don’t want to make a film about my fame, do you?’

  He was looking at her now and she shook her head. ‘But it wouldn’t be interesting unless you were famous.’

  ‘To you, maybe. To you.’ He sat opposite her and opened his hands towards her. ‘Bon appetit.’ He poured her a glass of pink wine.

  She cut a corner of cheese and took a sip of the wine.

  ‘You’re not really interested in food, are you?’ he asked, looking at her. He got up to return with two sticks of celery in a glass and salt and black pepper in small bowls.

  ‘I’m interested in you in the same way I was interested in the women in the refuge.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  Joseph Troumeg, she saw, remained entirely in charge, able to move the conversation wherever he wanted. ‘You made up the name Troumeg.’

  ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It sounded better than Leval.’

  ‘Or Levy?’

  Not missing a beat, he cut another slice of cheese and took a sip of wine. ‘Not the best sort of surname to have in Paris between the wars, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘But you’ve never talked about this,’ she said, betraying slightly more eagerness than she’d wanted.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ he said, wiping his mouth, ‘I don’t do the past, not in that way at least.’

  ‘Just as a series of dishes dressed up, in a beautiful setting, so you can perpetuate the well polished story of your life.’

  ‘Something like that. But I expect you do exactly the same thing.’

  ‘Except that I’ve never had to. I’ve never been famous.’

  ‘What difference does that make? I would guess that you didn’t want people to know about your boyfriends and how you got to thirty-seven without one of them. Am I right?’ The way he spoke made her feel that he knew about her and so she looked away and stared at the bowl of fruit before she answered.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Voilà,’ he said, getting up again and shuffling towards the kitchen to take a large frying pan off the wall. From the fridge he took a bowl and poured its contents into the pan and flicked on the gas ring. Beatrice watched through the glass and then joined him to spectate. Troumeg took a bowl of strawberries, hulled them whilst the liquid was warming and then tossed them in, followed by a handful of pink peppercorns. She watched as the sauce began to bubble and the strawberries soften, releasing a sweet smell which filled the kitchen. Troumeg shook the pan gently before spooning some of the contents on to two green plates. He leant across to the freezer to bring out a carton of ice-cream, adding a dollop to one. ‘I imagine with a figure like yours, you’re happy to have a little ice cream? The strawberries have been sautéed in a reduction of lemon and lime juice so may be a little tart even with the castor sugar.’

  They sat and ate. ‘Do you cook?’ he asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘So how long are you going to do this television business?’

  ‘That’s the sort of question my mother might ask.’

  ‘And you would resist answering, I imagine. Children?’

  ‘Who knows?’ she said, the tables fully turned once again.

  ‘What about you? Do you have children?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Did you want them?’

  ‘Heavens, no. Looking after me is a full time occupation.’

  She laughed at this easy admission.

  ‘You didn’t think much of the chef in Paris?’

  ‘He’s rather pleased with himself and not that interested in me. Apart from one thing, of course.’

  ‘What about the others?’ Troumeg said, standing again to put a kettle on the stove.

  ‘Oh, they all want that as well.’

  Now it was Troumeg’s turn to laugh. ‘So do you think your luck will change? Before it’s too late, I mean.’

  Beatrice didn’t know how to answer and in the pause Troumeg continued.

  ‘I gather I’m sounding like your mother again.’ Outside a pair of brightly coloured birds landed on a fig tree. ‘What does she think, anyway?’

  ‘She gave up on me a long time ago,’ Beatrice said. ‘Doesn’t understand my work or my boyfriends.’

  ‘And you want to persuade her otherwise?’

  ‘I thought I did.’

  Troumeg pushed a small but heavy cup towards her and half filled it with coffee. ‘You’re going to persist, aren’t you?’

  At first Beatrice wasn’t sure to what he was referring, although the answer she imagined would have been the same whatever. ‘Yes, I guess so. Why didn’t you go to your mother’s funeral?’

  Again there was no hesitation in Trou
meg’s reply. ‘Because we didn’t see eye to eye and I chose to do something about it.’

  ‘What did you fall out over?’

  ‘What did you fall out with your mother about? Everything and nothing.’

  ‘But I’ll go to my mother’s funeral.’

  ‘So you say,’ Troumeg said, taking the plates back into the kitchen and leaving them on the marble top by the sink. ‘So you say.’

  ‘What happened to your father?’ Beatrice was looking at his back as he rinsed the plates.

  ‘I can’t put these in the dishwasher,’ he said. ‘They’re early Wedgwood and I’ve had them since I first came to Marseille. No dishwashers back then.’ He laid them carefully on the grey surface. ‘That you’ll have to find out,’ he said, responding to her question.

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Who was he, indeed.’ Troumeg dried the plates and stacked them in a cupboard. ‘And your father? What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘He died when I was twelve. Heart attack. He was an actuary. He worked a lot and I didn’t see much of him. So you’re part Jewish?’ Beatrice wrenched the conversation back to Troumeg.

  ‘That’s a fair deduction,’ he said.

  ‘But your father wasn’t Jewish?’

  ‘Indeed not.’

  Troumeg was silent and he walked over to the day bed where he adjusted the cushions and sat down.

  Beatrice followed. ‘I’m not sure if my father or my mother really liked children. I was an only child and sometimes, listening to my mother, I wonder whether she didn’t consider me a mistake from the start.’

  ‘Not a nice feeling to have. No wonder you haven’t had children.’ And he laughed.

  Beatrice began to smile too, partly promoted by his mirth but also at the idea she might not want children.

  ‘Are you going to disappear again?’

  ‘I might, I might. But I imagine you’d find me. You’re that sort of girl. You’re likely to wash up anywhere. Like flotsam.’