Luncheon of the Boating Party

by Susan Vreeland

  Uncle Titi ferried Gustave and the racing master out to the anchored barge that was both the starting point and the finish line, since all races went upstream and then back. Over a megaphone Gustave called for canotiers of single-man périssoires to take their positions. She liked the authoritative sound of his voice, stronger than his usual deference. This was his day too.

  Raoul stood up. “Wish me luck.” He leapt onto the dock in an awkward, tipping plunge and Alphonsine gasped, but he managed to get into a boat.

  “He’s not a canotier, is he?” Ellen asked.

  “No, he’s a cavalier,” Auguste said. “But if he can win this, he’ll have a chance at the championship, and if he wins that, since he’s in the painting already, I can choose my own quatorzième!”

  Gustave announced, “Canotiers, take your mark!” the racing master shot the starting gun, the canotiers dug in their paddles.

  Raoul kept up on the upstream, but lost position at the turnaround. Alphonsine cheered for him until the end, but he didn’t place. A man from Guy’s team who went by the name of Tomahawk won first and Monsieur Le Hook from Bougival won second. Raoul came back grinning and exhilarated. “Just wait until next week when I have wind in my sails.”

  “A lot of good that’ll do me this week,” Auguste said.

  The two-man périssoires were next. Pierre was standing to stretch.

  “Ask Alphonse to put you in Lutin,” Alphonsine said. “It’s the lightest.”

  “With a name that means wanton and roguish, are you sure that’s the best boat for us?” Pierre asked.

  Alphonse came up from the dock to advise them. “Paul, you take the forward position. Come up with the turning marker on your right. Pierre, you backstroke on the right while Paul does tight forward strokes on the left to turn you tightly.”

  “Bonne chance,” Alphonsine said.

  Guy appeared wearing white blousy pants, a red waist sash, and a maillot of blue and white stripes. “Today, my name is Loup d’Eau Douce.” He growled and showed his teeth.

  “Well, then, Freshwater Wolf, are you racing in the two-man sculls?” Raoul asked.

  He growled an exaggerated “Oui,” half animal, half human, a demeanor that fit with his bushy mustache, and gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. “With Petit Bleu.”

  Alphonsine laughed. Petit Bleu was his friend Jean. “Bravo, Jean. You chose the name of the best wine in the Île de France. From Argenteuil.”

  “Forget the wine. Pour us some victory champagne now,” Guy said. “We’ll be back before the bubbles are gone.”

  Alphonsine stood on her toes. Gustave called out, “Take your marks.” The gun went off, the trumpet blared, the crowd shouted, “Oh hisse! Ho!” and Guy and Jean shot out in front of all but Le Hook. The two boats stayed bow to bow until the turnaround, and Guy and Jean nosed ahead to finish first. On the dock they shook hands all around and Pierre and Paul came back to the table with their arms slung over each other’s shoulders.

  “Guy and Petit Bleu are good possibilities,” Ellen said. “Not bad-looking.”

  “But Guy and Auguste have no use for each other,” Alphonsine said.

  Between every two races there was a break, and immediately the water was filled with yoles and pedal boats. The impresario bellowed out the virtues of canotage while mimes accompanied his words with buffoonery.

  Out of the milling crowd stepped Aline. As soon as Auguste spotted her, he maneuvered his way to her side and brought her to the group.

  The trumpet on the barge struck a fanfare and Gustave announced the triplettes, sculls for three rowers and a coxswain. Guy’s team came in second. That meant his teammate, Tomahawk, a big blond fellow with hair like a haystack and a thick neck, was a possibility.

  “Do you have any yellow paint left?” Alphonsine teased.

  “Very funny, mademoiselle. I’m going to die laughing,” Auguste said.

  Anne served eel stew to Guy’s team. Alphonsine poked Guy on the shoulder. “That’s for your energy. There’s a surprise riding on these races.” He ate quickly and was off for the four-man race.

  “If Guy’s team wins, Tomahawk just may be our quatorzième,” Pierre said.

  “And if they don’t, I could have Monsieur Le Hook,” Auguste said. “What a happy choice.”

  “But Le Hook’s team has a handsome fellow in the fourth seat,” Ellen said. “I wouldn’t mind him gazing at me in the painting.”

  Le Hook’s team and Guy’s team with Tomahawk in the second seat shot off ahead of the pack.

  “I’m betting for Guy,” Raoul said.

  “That would set Tomahawk as a possibility in the painting, depending on whether he’s going to race in the slalom,” Pierre said.

  “Tomahawk is a brute,” Paul said. “I’m rooting for Le Hook.”

  Le Hook gained on the return, and when they approached the finish, Le Hook and Guy were prow to prow.

  “Allez, Guy! Allez!” Raoul yelled with some of the models.

  “Plus vite, Hook! Plus vite!” yelled Pierre and others.

  With some misgivings, Alphonsine took up Raoul’s chant for Guy. In the last ten meters, Guy won by half a length, and Raoul went wild, cavorting and lunging, saving himself from falling just in time.

  The band played dance music while the race master set up buoy markers for the side-by-side slalom courses. Loud conversations crossed each other on the terraces, knives and forks clattered on plates, absinthe, madère, and orange-flavored bishop spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg flowed, and champagne corks popped at every table where there were winners. Alphonsine circulated among the tables to congratulate all the contestants.

  The slalom of the narrow as, the most precarious, was a highlight second only to the jousts. At the last minute, Paul signed up.

  “You’re crazy,” Pierre said.

  “I’m feeling lucky.”

  “Have you ever paddled an as?” Pierre asked.

  “No. How difficult can it be? Just dig and drag, left right left?”

  “Ha! You’ll see,” Alphonsine said. “Just don’t lean.”

  All the boats bore a racing name for the day. Guy’s was Le Barbare Joyeux, and he did look like a jolly barbarian with that outrageous mustache, and that small tongue of a beard below his lower lip. One was Double Pression, Tapped Beer, and Tomahawk’s was Le Jupon Léger, The Loose Petticoat. Le Hook’s was called Quel Chahut, What an Uproar, referring to the dance. Paul’s was La Verseuse, The Coffeepot, the kind with the side handle, liable to overturn.

  “Oh, bad luck for him,” Pierre said.

  “Brave canotiers,” Gustave shouted. “Take your numbers.”

  Two boats competed side by side in each race. The gunshot cracked.

  “And they’re off, ladies and gentlemen, galloping nose to nose,” Raoul shouted.

  “This isn’t a horse race, Raoul,” Alphonsine said.

  “No, lady, but it is a competition,” he replied. “Who better than me to announce it?” He pretended to hold a megaphone. “Curving to the right, left, right, like snakes slicing the water.”

  She and Aline laughed. He was swaying back and forth to the rhythm of his announcing.

  “As close as they can get to the markers. Tomahawk in The Loose Petticoat leads by a nose, holds her lead on the turnaround. Tapped Beer scrambles at the turn. Tips. Rights herself. Presses on. It’s Loose Petticoat by a chin, a neck. Loose Petticoat holds the lead for three more turns, two, one—and it’s Loose Petticoat by a neck, the winner in race one, and Tomahawk is one step closer to being the champion in the painting.”

  “Ugh!” Auguste groaned. “A neckless pile of hay smack in the middle of my painting.”

  “Race two,” Gustave announced. “The Coffeepot versus What an Uproar. Take your mark.”

  This was Paul’s race so they all cheered for him, but he had trouble keeping his prow straight even in the setup.

  “It doesn’t look good,” Pierre said.

  “Le Hook in What an Uproar shoots
off,” Raoul shouted. “He stays close to the course. Paul in The Coffeepot swings wide, passes the first buoy, swings left, passes the second. Uproar pulls ahead. The Coffeepot oversteers, grazes the buoy, tips, rights itself. Paul’s still in, still in, friends. Oops! No, yes, he’s still in but wobbling. The Coffeepot approaches the turnaround, tries a tight turn. The Coffeepot tips. The brave canotier digs in his paddle, too hard. He tips the other way. The Coffeepot pours him head first into the river. What an Uproar wins by default.”

  “Oh, no!” shouted Aline. “Does he know how to swim?”

  Raoul continued. “A yole is dispatched to retrieve the unlucky canotier. He refuses the offered oar. He swims, ladies and gentlemen, swims to the bank and climbs up, red-faced and grinning. Grinning, ladies and gentlemen!”

  Paul came to the table shaking off water. “I was just getting the hang of it.”

  “Be glad you’re better with the sword than the paddle!” Pierre said.

  Such a man, this fellow Paul, Alphonsine thought. He didn’t brood over what might have happened in the duel. He threw himself into life again.

  Guy was next in Le Barbare Joyeux. He skimmed each buoy neatly, pulled ahead, danced arabesques on the water. “The Joyous Barbarian wins his race, but that’s not all, ladies and gentlemen,” Raoul said. “The finals are yet to come, pitting the three winners against each other.”

  Tomahawk won against Le Hook, and in the final race, Tomahawk kept Guy a half-length behind on the upstream. Auguste groaned miserably the whole time, but Tomahawk swung too wide and Guy paddled like a maniac and won. Adding his points from all races, he took the championship. On the platform, Papa anointed The Joyous Barbarian with the Rowers Championship Cup, Coupe du championnat des rameurs, and “a chance to appear in the championship painting, Les canotiers de la Maison Fournaise!” and the band played “La Marseillaise.”

  Alphonsine and Auguste looked at each other. “Well, it could have been Tomahawk,” he said.

  Alphonse’s big jousting event, les joutes à la lance, was next.

  “If he doesn’t win,” Alphonsine murmured, “he’ll feel he let Papa down. And they’ll both be raving mad that he spent Sundays posing instead of practicing.”

  “A fine thing to tell me now,” Auguste said.

  Teams of eight rowers, one helmsman, and one jouster were dressed in white with either blue or red sashes. Wearing canvas shoes with rubber soles, the jousters strapped on their padded shields and took up their three-meter lances equipped with flat leather discs at the forward end.

  The two heavy wooden barques, the red and the blue, were waiting at the barge, each one having a tintaine at the stern, a raised platform two meters above the water where the jousters would stand. Uncle Titi ferried the teams to the barge so they could hear Gustave announce the rules.

  Papa stood on the dock, and Maman came out to stand beside Alphonsine.

  “Alphonse is worried about Hugo,” Maman said.

  “I can understand why,” Pierre said. “He’s bigger than Alphonse.”

  “You can write an article,” Paul said to Antonio, “for your journal in Milan.”

  “Good idea. This will be entirely new to them.”

  “Jouteurs sur les tintaines,” the master of the jousts called, and the first two teams, from Bezons and Bougival, stepped into each boat and the jousters mounted the platforms.

  “You can write that for more than a century,” Paul said, “the sons of the lance have observed the same ritual, adapted from medieval tournaments.”

  “I see. The horse replaced by the barque, the field by the river,” Antonio said.

  “But the ardor, the bravery, and the challenge remain the same,” Paul said. “This keeps alive le patrimoine, our national cultural heritage.”

  Far enough apart to build up speed, at the trumpet’s blare, the rowers bent to their oars like machines, and the water churned behind them.

  “It looks like they’ll ram each other,” Antonio said.

  “Yes, sometimes that happens,” Pierre said matter-of-factly.

  A thud, and one jouster was shoved, but he kept his stance. The barques were rowed to the opposite starting marks and charged toward each other again. In a powerful blow, the jouster from Bougival was thrown back and tumbled into the water. Cymbals crashed, tambourines rattled.

  “Now what happens?” Antonio asked.

  “Two new teams take their places,” Paul said.

  Croissy with Hugo the Bull on the tintaine beat Petit Gennevilliers. Argenteuil and Chatou were next.

  “Alphonse is up against Jacques the Red,” Alphonsine said. “He’s a vegetable farmer, a big show-off. It would be Alphonse’s worst humiliation to lose to him.”

  The oarsmen plowed the water and La Barque Rouge got a quick start, but La Barque Bleue dug in and gained speed.

  Raoul took up the role of announcer again. “The best-known jouster, Alphonse Fournaise, nicknamed the Hippopotame, stands solidly on the tintaine, lance in the air, muscles taut, ready for the colossus in red. Rumor has it that Hippopotame has not been at practice. He’s been lounging on the terrace for weeks, posing for some painter. We’ll see whether he’s got what it takes to send this wiry farmer flying. First encounter, Jacques thrusts his lance and it grazes Alphonse’s shoulder. He tips, he rights himself. No score. Second encounter. Alphonse plows into Jacques’ stomach. The man doubles up, remains standing. Third encounter, neither combatant is willing to yield the tintaine. It appears to be an impasse. Bout four, and Jacques the Red breaks his lance against Fournaise’s shield.”

  Alphonsine winced. Maman cried out. Alphonse was pushed backward, but he thrust forward his arms. Bent-kneed, he righted himself.

  “Five bouts,” Auguste said in amazement.

  “Once more the master of the jousts bellows, ‘Allez-y!’” Raoul was shouting now. “They meet. They clash. The blue lance pounds into the shield of the red-sashed jouster. He’s shoved backward. One leg lifts. He teeters. He’s out of control. He’s in the water, ladies and gentlemen. In the water indeed.”

  “Bravo à vous, Jouteur Bleu!” Angèle sang out, which started a chant that spread along the bank. Even Maman yelled it.

  The winning teams Bezons and Croissy fought, and the winner, Croissy, remained to take on Chatou.

  “This is the one he’s worried about,” Auguste said. “Hugo the Bull. A bruiser and a fighter.”

  Alphonsine held Maman’s hand.

  “I hope he won’t get hurt.” Maman’s voice quavered.

  “Oh hisse! Ho!” The barques drove at each other, and the Barque Rouge, skewed at an angle, rammed Alphonse’s boat. Alphonse was thrown off balance and fell to his knees, but he stayed on the tintaine.

  “Point against Barque Rouge,” Gustave declared.

  “He’s tired. He wouldn’t have been knocked down otherwise,” Maman said.

  They heaved at each other again. Alphonse broke his lance against Hugo’s. He took up the spare for the next bout. Both of them delivered blows. Neither was unboated. On the fifth encounter Alphonse heaved forward his lance, perfectly timed, expertly aimed to strike Hugo’s shield off center, spinning him off balance and sending him flying. The splash drenched rowers of both teams.

  Earsplitting cheers rent the air. “Bravo à vous, Jouteur Bleu!”

  “Nice try, fatty,” Pierre shouted.

  The band played a fanfare, and Uncle Titi ferried Alphonse’s team ashore. Alphonse raised his lance over his head with one arm and held it aloft all the way to the dock. The crowd made way for him and slapped him on the back as he strode up to the platform, the lance still over his head. Papa, with chest puffed up like Alphonse’s, bellowed, “True to old traditions, Chatou takes the honors of the day. Alphonse Fournaise is declared the champion!” He presented him with the Coupe du championnat des joutes à la lance, and the band played “La Marseillaise” yet again.

  Guy’s and Alphonse’s teammates and their friends together with the models took over the upper t
errace for the victory champagne.

  Alphonsine tugged at Auguste’s sleeve as they went upstairs. “Guy can decline and that would free you. I know the two of you aren’t on easy terms.”

  He didn’t give her a clue to what he was thinking.

  On a big silver tray on the table sat la pièce montée, an enormous mounded dessert awarded the winners every year, a boat of cream puffs, stuck together with caramel. Above it in almond nougatine was the sticky Arc de Triomphe, ordered from Paris. Guy got the first taste, Alphonse the second. Papa poured champagne amid general rowdiness.

  “Now we have two champions in the painting,” Ellen said.

  “And it’s painted by a champion painter of Chatou,” Papa said.

  She felt her throat constrict. She tried to say to Guy with her eyes: Refuse politely. She had another solution.

  “Tomorrow?” Auguste asked Guy.

  “I’m a workingman during the week. It will have to be very early.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Her mind tumbled and boiled.

  They all settled down to enjoying the dessert.

  A drunken canotier leapt onto the iron grille to the terrace, reached through the bars and lifted Ellen’s skirt. Gustave pulled her away and Alphonse hurled himself over the railing onto the rogue and carried him, flailing and throwing punches, to the bank and tossed him into the river to hoots of laughter from his teammates.

  The small orchestra on the barge played Offenbach’s Barcarole again and people began to promenade along the bank. The music gentled the crowd as twilight approached. A second barge for dancing was towed to the middle of the river, and Uncle Titi ferried people back and forth.

  Maman nudged Alphonsine in the small of her back. “Go and dance.”

  She went downstairs and let Uncle Titi take her. Everyone was changing partners. Alphonse was dancing with Ellen, and Angèle was with Raoul. She waltzed with Paul, with Antonio, and then with Raoul, lurching along. He was so gallant and had been so entertaining that she said she would cheer for him as well as for Gustave the next week at the sailing regatta. But it was Auguste she really wanted to dance with. She felt he owed it to her. A dance. What was a dance, after all? Lasting only a few minutes, a privacy of two in a swirling crowd, an opportunity for something to pass between them.