"Hi, darling...."
Jumping up, he buried his face in her neck; he kissed her passionately;
she seemed to taste of everything good, smell of many perfumes. He
helped her remove her rain wet coat, slowly folding its red lining ...
his eyes never leaving her.
In the living room she made a little speech, ridiculous words; she
hugged him and kissed him on the sofa, the fire glow on her face and
hair. He fussed with her hair, smiling.
"Orv ... where's everybody?"
"I thought I told you ... everybody's in the country ... their car broke
down.'"
"So that's why you were eating alone! Then they won't be back tonight?"
"Not tonight ... I guess they'll phone again."
"Swell ... gee, it's our place."
He kissed her, with a long, seductive kiss, easing her against the
cushions, her breasts swelling: not since London ... tonight ... tonight
...
"My god, the months!" he blurted.
"I'd almost given up."
"So had I!"
"Your letters ... you don't say much."
"Or you ... Wasn't that the telephone?"
She was playing with the ring he had bought her in London: her fingers
slid the crudely faceted amethyst round and round: her mind followed it;
then she sought his mouth.
Raising his head, Orville saw Claude Bichain, standing by the piano, one
hand on top.
"Your aunt just phoned again ... she's staying at M. Placier's ... she
was worried ... she thought..."
"Thank you, Claude."
"I'm glad," Jean said.
"Let me get something to drink."
Orville wanted to explore the buffet: together, they knelt on the floor,
both doors open: they nodded: there were vintages and brands across the
years: Orville selected a Charpentier brandy.
"How about this?"
"Good," said Jean.
A gust shook the French doors and windows, it was raining hard once
more. When they returned to the living room, Claude was adding wood to
the fires: he wanted to keep both fireplaces burning, celebrant: for
love, he thought, as he laid oak slabs over a pair of iron griffins.
"To us," she toasted, lifting her glass.
"To us ... to your loveliness."
"To your luck!"
On a settee, close to one of the fires, she burrowed against him,
tasting his brandy lips, her fingers searching between his legs.
"God, I love you..."
"Tonight."
"Yes..."
"Sip it slowly..."
"I am..."
"Like it?"
"Yes ... yes..."
"Should we drink everything in the buffet?"
"Of course..."
"Why not?"
"Sure, why not ...?"
"Are there more wonderful girls in Wisconsin?..."
"No," she kidded.
"I believe that."
"Let me undress you tonight."
"Maybe I won't be able to wait that long."
"Or I."
Shoulders and head against the settee, she told him how grateful she was
to be in Ermenonville ... I escaped from old London ... I love the Petit
Lac ... I love the gardens ... the forest ... the shrines ... I've seen
Jean Jacques' ghost ... oh, yes, at the Lac ... ah, you and Colonel
Ronde, to work things out for me here ... the hospital staff tries,
tries very hard to favor me sometimes ... so many wounded ... but I
think ... no, no, don't stop kissing me ... what difference does all
that make? I'll stop talking ... now ...
With refills, they contemplated the fires, drowsing, yet wholly alive,
eager, stalling like animals, happy animals, sure of
themselves--anticipating through the medium of the firelight, each
other's faces, each other's hands.
He thought of the freckles on her shoulders ... thought of her lovely
breasts ... her perfumed skin.
"Shall we go upstairs?"
"Yes ... but..."
"I know..."
"Yes, it seems..."
"But it's my own room ... my old room..."
"Yes."
"When do you have to return to the hospital?"
"About eleven, I guess."
"Stay all night with me."
"I want to, darling."
"Then..."
"It's not so easy..."
"Cases?"
"Kiss me ... let's not think ... go on kissing ... unbutton my dress ...
kiss my breasts..."
Snuggled together, they listened to wind and rain attack windows and
doors and roof. Claude checked the fires, and said good night. They
were, for all their passion, fighting mental fatigue, fatigue that had
been accumulating for months.
"Let's lie on the floor near the fire," he suggested.
"No ... we'll go to your room..."
"Put your head on my lap..."
"Bend over..."
"Now..."
"Yes..."
"Okay..."
"Hmm ... more..."
Silence!
His hand cupped a breast; she ran fingers through his hair; shall we
ever marry? In some architectural office will he bend over blueprints,
and then pick up his phone and say ...?
We'll never have a house like this one--not seven bedrooms. Ours ...
three bedrooms, $24,000. That would be okay.
She thought of her life: her dad had been a dirt farmer plus rural
teacher, he had never had much time for home; his health had failed
under demanding jobs: skinny, hard featured, hard headed ... Orville
must never get like that. I must get him out of the war, somehow,
somehow!
As they kissed, the room came back, his smiles, his hands, his love.
"Another brandy?"
"No."
"We'll do better tonight than we did in London."
"That was awful that awful room..."
"Shall we go upstairs?"
"Yes."
She was standing by a mantel, her hair against the intricate carvings on
the Caen stone: she was taller than he thought.
"When it's eleven o'clock?" he queried. "Will you?
"Don't think about it."
"There's no taxi at that hour."
"Then we'll walk ... there's no curfew is there?"
"No."
Upstairs, up the dimly lit stairs, he opened the door to his room: a
fire was burning in his fireplace.
"Claude made a fire," Orville said, chuckling.
"How nice."
She hugged her coat against her breasts as she glanced around shyly.
Peering into his mirror on his chest of drawers she saw the gun rack,
rifles, shotgun, fishing rods, botanical prints ... a mounted bass over
his bed.
"What a funny thing to make love under," she kidded.
"I've made a real catch this time."
"Oh, darling..."
She touched the feather-light quilt, admiring its floral pattern: wasn't
one almost like that in a room at home?
"It smells nice in here," she commented.
"It's the pine wood."
Firelight followed their nakedness as they lay facing each other on the
quilt; they were afraid to move: they wanted a moment of serenity before
love making, to see one another: then she smothered her mouth with his
and his tongue probed inside: she sensed the hardening of his belly
muscles: he rolled her over completely, both of them laughing. She
stroked him--cooing, pushing him away to prolong their joy.
Yes, this is the place to have a woman: eyes slit, he glimpsed his rods
and guns. Kneeling in front of her, he dragged her against him. They
tottered to one side. They slipped from the quilt onto the floor,
giggling.
Her breasts rounded to his fingers: they felt cool, wonderful: she was
marshmallow white.
He stood up and she stood and then she jumped against him, swung her
legs around him, clamped her arms about his neck. His hands cupped her
feet. She kissed him, holding their kiss. To feel his strength--his
arms, his belly, his chest.
"No ... no ... not now ... on the bed."
Though he held Jean surely, they swayed and slid to the floor again;
once more on their bed he crawled over her, saying:
"I'm coming in, Jean ... coming..."
"Okay."
Mouth to mouth they made love, her stomach pushing, his flattening, the
bed squeaking: his penis felt hot to her, her vulva felt warm to him;
her perspiring body was in accord with his; he clasped his fingers over
her narrow buttocks; their mutual orgasm began, stopped, then flashed
again and again: Jesus, Jesus, dearest, darling ... yes ... yes ... oui
... your mouth now ...
She lay back.
"It's ours, my dear," she laughed, "the prix de Rome!"
"I accept," he laughed. "We've earned it ... double award."
They never got to the hospital until early morning, she and Orville
striding together, the sun brilliant; after good-byes, after lingering
kisses, he walked away, walked about the village before returning home
for breakfast. After breakfast, he commenced a letter to his mother, to
inform her of his leave. As he wrote on an old leather writing pad,
sitting by his bedroom window, Aunt Therese knocked, and called his
name.
She had aged: her features were reddish and swollen, pudgy contours that
were somehow childish. The mouth smiled and yet there were wrinkles in
the way of her smile. Seven years had done this. They kissed
dutifully.
"I'm sorry," she wheezed. "We just got here, just now ... Claude said
you were upstairs. I'm sorry ... I'm so upset."
"No, no! There's nothing to be upset about. Sit down."
"I think Lena's caught cold ... another cold ... she has too many of
them ... you see we got soaking wet, couldn't raise the top of the car
... that awful downpour ... oh, we had to borrow clothes last night ...
we had to go to bed early!" Orville grinned, in spite of himself.
Hands fluttering in her lap, she continued: she was sixty-seven or
eight, padded at waist and breasts, rings underneath her eyes, her
glasses rimless and dual-lensed, her hair a series of grey-white
streaks. Orville knew she often spoke without pauses, blurring her
words, but now her voice had become harsher and the blurring often made
it difficult to understand her.
Someone tapped on the door.
"Come in," Orville called: he was pleasantly surprised by Lena's beauty,
her athletic body: her face had assumed an esthetic quality; she wore
her black hair combed close to her skull--quite Spanish.
"Hi, Orv!"
"Hi, Lena ... you look great!"
"It's good ... it's good to see you!"
They kissed like kids.
She had always liked or loved him: she admired his masculinity: their
old rapport returned at once: arms around each other they grinned
happily, sheepishly.
"How was your supper last night?" Therese asked.
"Great," Orville said.
"It was probably dreadful. Annette can be so careless. And here you
are, writing a letter, when you should be horseback riding or playing
tennis. Mon dieu--this is your leave! What are we thinking about!"
Orville and Lena laughed at her.
"Come on, we'll go for a walk, then we'll have lunch," Lena said. "Orv
... you and I ... Mama, talk to Annette: let's have something special."
The sun had ducked under and both fireplaces were burning in the living
room. Claude, at the front door, was admitting several people, women
and men laughing--a bass voice saying:
"Take my hat, Claude ... old man, my hat."
"It's Thomassont and some friends," Lena explained, going to greet them.
Orville was introduced to Arthur Thomassont, Celeste de Ville, Pierre
Valeriaud, and Jean Piccard. Piccard pumped his arm, swaying an
alcoholic sway: "I remember you at school ... do you remember me?"
Orville saw from his aunt's face that Lena's friends were tight. In a
moment Pierre buttonholed Orville, cork colored eyes blurred, his goatee
bobbing. Playing with an unlighted cigarette, he said:
"So you are fighting for us ... how noble. Our legionnaire. Well, our
Renault plant has blueprints for bigger, more sophisticated tanks ...
when the war is over. We have an unbeatable staff ... de Gaulle will
get the Nazis out..."
He blinked at his cigarette and blinked at Orville, stepping back, a
little embarrassed by his own verbiage.
Pierre crumpled onto the piano bench, talking to Mme. Ronde, vehement
about the theater, the Parisian theater, its control by the Nazis: such
biased censorship.
Baldheaded Thomassont poked through magazines; Lena, dressed in a sedate
brown skirt and yellow blouse, chatted softly with Celeste, a pretty
woman wearing lavender trimmed with squirrel: her serious face was
painted dramatically over the eyes; the cheeks were ivory white, her
mouth sensual. Presently, she approached Orville.
"Is it like home, coming back?" she asked; she held out a cigarette.
"A little that way," he said, flipping his lighter for her.
"We came by to ask Lena to a party we're giving at my place in Senlis.
I'd like to have you come; we can drive over and pick you up. It's my
birthday."
"When is your birthday?"
"Next Friday."
"My leave will be over by then ... I'll be in Germany."
"Oh ... I'm sorry." She took his hand to say good-bye. "It's risky,
bypassing the Nazis ... I despise them ... my brother has been
imprisoned ... my mother's Jewish ... I hate all this ... Paris is
dreadful ... I wish you luck."
"The war will be over in a day or two," cut in Thomassont, waving a
magazine.
"Good-bye, Orville ... Mother knows you ... you see I was in Switzerland
when you were here ... we're pretty drunk; next time when we come..."
She smiled a sincere, warm smile.
She was speaking English.
"Goodbye," Orville said. "I wish you luck ... you and your family," he
responded in English.
"Then you'll be with us on my birthday, Lena?"
"Of course I will."
Lena tapped Orville's arm.
"Take Piccard to the bathroom," she said. "He has to vomit."
After helping him to the bathroom, Orville waited outside: so this is
why we're fighting a global war: is this why the Russians are staging an
all out defensive last-ditch stand?
At the front door, Valeriaud praised the great tank corps: ah, yes, the
French, the British, the Americans! He opened his fly, scratched,
yanked his zipper half way. Orville went into the living room.
"I attended school with his mother," Therese said to Orville, joining
him on a settee. "She's dead ... a good woman ... he's the only son ...
quite spoiled, spoiled but a superb pianist."
The guest car plunged away--with a rasp of gears.
"Valeriaud manages to obtain gas when we can't buy a gallon ... he works
for a construction company, he's a friend of the Nazis. He's building a
house outside of Ermenonville, mansion, I should say. He has a famous
collection of Rousseau letters and manuscripts. He has the whole of
_Emile_ written on foxed sheets. He wants me to sell the collection. I
may buy it to keep it from going to Germany."
At lunch, the three ate without chatting freely, disturbed by the
visitors; it seemed their family reunion was already becoming
commonplace. Therese fussed at Annette. She mumbled about food
shortages, prices. Lena mentioned movies and plays--entertainment
current in Paris, things she wanted to see. Therese questioned Orville
about ready-made clothing in the U.S. Was it reasonable? There were
nervous remarks about Piccard and Valeriaud.
As soon as possible, Orville excused himself and went off to finish his
letter, shave, dress, and meet Jeannette. In spite of yesterday's rain
it was balmy and he opened his bathroom door that led onto a balcony and
with his face soaped, lingered there, thinking of Jean and their love
making.
The shaving brush was not his but his uncle's: _Lucci-Milano_ was
stamped in gold on the handle: revolving the brush pensively, he
recalled details of Milan, the shops there, pigeons swooping from
rooftops, the great mural by da Vinci! What was it like after the
bombings? He wanted to see the mural with Jean, wanted to rendezvous
old places with her.
He shaved gingerly, wasn't there too much hot water? And the towels on
their racks, weren't they a little too luxurious? He studied the
delicately painted rose buds on the basin: still the same. But the
silver soap tray? The porcelainized towel rods. In Ithaca their
bathroom was plain--nothing to distinguish it from hundreds.
Yet, outside their home, a stream gushed through a rocky glen, and there
were grey squirrels.
Ithaca will be all right ..I'll have my office on State Street ... I'll
obtain contracts for homes overlooking Lake Cayuga ... I'll manage trips
to New York ...
When he finished shaving he held a towel against his face for several
moments.
Ermenonville's narrow streets were almost deserted as he walked
leisurely toward the hospital, thinking of the cobbles, the shop signs,
weathered doors, the plants in windows and window boxes. E. would
always be a core for him, a nucleus rooted in Jean Jacques, microcosm,
reflection of a concept: and cobbles, tiled roof, the church, the
Nonette, converging, spreading. At a certain intersection he imagined
meeting former friends, schoolmates. He had rejected any renewal of
relationships: what have they for me or I for them? He hoped nobody
would visit him at the Rondes'. He had phoned Jean so there would be no
hitch, and she was waiting for him in the hospital garden, her coat over
her arm, bareheaded. The garden, a neglected X of paths, smelled of
damp and earth and carbolic acid. A bird whisked into a chestnut.
Poplars made a line behind the rambling building that was hunch-backed
with age at one end. Honeysuckle-vined where Jean waited.
As Orville entered the garden, a tall man appeared on one of the paths:
he shook hands with Jeannette, a wrinkled, white haired, cane-limping
man.
"Orville," she called. "I want you to meet Dr. Cartier."
Cartier turned, turning on his cane, to stare at Orville.
"My friend, Orville Dennison."
"Ah."
"I'm on leave, doctor ... it's good meeting you."
"On leave here?"
"My father was Robert Saint Denis..."
"Of course, of course ... now I place you. We're old friends, you and I
... I've changed; so have you--welcome back!" He bowed a little,
professionally.
"Are you in charge ... the director?"
"Yes ... some say that I am ... is that right, Jeannette?"