Herve Le Tellier - The Intervention of a Good Man

They drive along. Her perfume instantly pervades the car despite the open windows. It is such a distinctive fragrance, lily of the valley mingled with vanilla. The smell of their rare moments of Parisian intimacy, of her pretty naked body beneath his, of the nape of her neck docile to his kisses. It is a gentle perfume but a heady one that he took everywhere with him, that stayed with him for hours, long after he had made love to her. It is an almost painful scent as the two of them drive along to the Glen Carron Park Hotel.

Occasionally, as a riposte, our hero would spray himself with Chanel Pour Monsieur. Eau de toilette versus perfume, cistus and oak versus lily of the valley, it was an unequal battle. Be that as it may, in his haste, he has forgotten to bring the bottle.

In which our hero finds renewed hope .

In which our heroine shows signs of hesitation .

The car trundles along the small Scottish roads toward the hotel, the Glen Carron Park Hotel. He has not tired of saying its name, which has such a charming ring to it. Your hotel’s very nice, she concedes. I’d rather you called it our hotel, our hero manages ironically. Silence on the passenger seat. I’d also rather you went ahead and attached yourself with that, he adds, pointing at her seat belt which she is holding halfheartedly across her chest. Then he thinks about his choice of words and goes on, But I do know you have trouble getting attached. He smiles, she meekly fastens her seat belt.

We can see here that, yes, our hero is capable of smiling. In fact, from this point on and until notification is given to the contrary, the reader should only be picturing our hero with a smile on his lips. This smile may be ironic, genuine, seductive, amused, or sad, but he will not abandon it and give in to moody pouting. It is a question of dignity but also of survival.

They park in the hotel’s lot, the Nissan slips between two luxurious German sedans. They take the bike from the trunk, and she immediately crosses the road to secure it to a lamppost. The building is indeed very impressive. A two-story, brick-built coaching inn, looking delightful in the sunshine. A Virginia creeper sprawls over its walls, framing the bedroom windows. The spacious lobby with its marble flooring has an air of Mediterranean luxury.

Our heroine does not go with him, preferring instead to stay outside to have a cigarette. She smokes too much but our hero couldn’t give a damn if this affects the health of those around her. In order to get back to her as quickly as possible, he abandons his bags to the bellboy and simply makes a mental note of the room number. Because he feels his time is limited.

He looks around for her. Fails to see her right away. For a brief moment he thinks she has left, that he will never see her again. It would be absurd. But he now has his doubts about everything.

There is a lounge bar alongside the hotel and he suggests they have a drink on the terrace. She orders a glass of cider and he has sparkling mineral water. These details are of only minor importance, but every now and then it is appropriate for insignificant details to be given their full weight. It is a hot day, too. With a determined flourish, our hero opens an umbrella ( Always Coca-Cola! shrieks the red canvas) and takes cover in its shade. He would loathe it if his scalp, whose capillary betrayals are already familiar to him, now started shining like a mirror.

Our heroine is reserved but has a lot to say. She talks and explains and hopes she is being persuasive. Her mother, whom she never sees enough, a few weeks, once or twice a year, her boyfriend, who is due to arrive soon and will be staying with her, and him, so incongruous in this place. She does not want her mother to guess, from her serial absences, that she is having an affair. More important, she does not want the Other, who knows nothing of her infidelity, to find out about it and possibly suffer as a result. He doesn’t deserve that, she adds.

Then she talks about her mother, at length. She tells such a sad and intimate story that he feels quite disarmed. He maintains his idiotically frozen smile even though there really is nothing to smile about. She points this out to him. He says he is very sorry, erases any trace of jollity from his face. He wishes he knew how to console her, how to leave her alone with her mother, alone with her family. He understands. Honestly.

They fall silent. She brings her cider up to her lips. The bitter taste surprises her, she makes a face.

But anyway, our hero says. I’m here now. What to do? She smiles. It is a pretty smile, it really is. Although he has never been an authority on women’s smiles and what they mean, our hero thinks to himself that no one can smile like that without feeling something. He responds with a different smile, of the happy variety. It all calls for a bit of sense and sensibility. If even Jane Austen says so, then it must be true.

He takes her hand.

She surrenders it to him.

For a moment.

The beautiful Glen Carron Park .

Sheep, droppings, and swans .

A brief discussion .

Opposite the Glen Carron Park Hotel, for all to admire, lies Glen Carron Park, which leads to Eilan Castle and to the smaller of the two lochs, Loch Fannich. The more inquisitive reader can refer to the lush green images languishing on the Internet. A northern sun shines down, it is very hot. Our hero is carrying his jacket, a so-called middle-season garment and completely pointless. They have to cross the road to reach a trail that is asphalted but meant only as a footpath. He looks the wrong way, she holds him back by his sleeve before he launches himself under the wheels of a truck. A sign reads: Eilan Castle, 2.1 miles.

Two point one miles is a half-hour walk, at a good pace, the very pace adopted by our heroine. Our hero conforms to her speed, even though it is hardly fitting for a lovers’ stroll. In any event, she will not let him hold her by the waist or, from now on, by the hand. He does not insist. Our hero’s shoes squeak and our heroine makes fun of him, not unkindly. They are walking shoes, sturdy old ones, but with every step they give a little sound like a timorous mouse. He has never noticed it in all the bustle of the capital. This discreet squeaking escorts them on their way.

She talks, haphazardly, about Scottish sheep, Scottish moors, Scottish thistles, Scottish seagulls. Whether he likes it or not, he agrees to discuss these rustic and nationalist topics with her. He thinks that “Thistle Song to a Seagull” would be a good song title for Joni Mitchell, but does not mention this.

He listens to her and watches her, distressed. He finds everything about her spellbinding, and our hero hates himself for this spell she casts on him so effortlessly, just by being dazzling, without even trying, and — worse — without even wanting to. So many have fallen, and will still fall for her charms. He does not hold this injustice against her, but it pains him. He can also tell that, whatever lengths he goes to, he will not cast a spell on her. Be careful what you wish for. Can our hero settle for being one of those plain people that others get used to rather than one of the beautiful ones they tire of?

He scrutinizes her, tries in vain to grasp what it is about this young woman he likes so much. She’s not all that pretty, he tells himself several times, before fuming, because, in spite of everything, she is so very pretty. He also suspects that she could easily be even more so: she would simply have to want to be, for his sake.