Liz Nugent - Unraveling Oliver

My bunk was next to his in the dorm. I knew when he was sneaking out to meet my sister in the night. To my shame, I once followed them and watched as the moonlight glanced off the contours of their graceless humping. Not at all what I had expected. I had read Lady Chatterley’s Lover twice. Well, some of it. I had gleaned that sex was an earthy kind of thing, but somehow in my mind I expected it to be balletic. In reality, it looked base and animalistic. Definitely more Joyce (I had read bits of that too) than Lawrence. I felt like quite the pervert; firstly feeling lust for a man , and secondly watching my sister in the act. Shame on me.

It seems obvious, looking back now, that they must have known I was gay. I wasn’t particularly camp in my behavior, but my obvious lack of interest in the local damsels might have aroused some suspicion. On a stifling night toward the end of July, after several jugs of the local wine and a few puffs of a sweet-smelling cigarette from one of the locals, I could contain myself no longer. We were playing an old innocent childish game of Truth or Dare, although we had rechristened the game “Truth or Drink.” When asked a direct personal question, one had to either answer honestly or drink two fingers of wine from the jug. It was once again my turn, and one of the girls asked which of them I would like to kiss. I think now it might have been a leading question. There was an expectant hush as they awaited my response. Around the brazier, in front of all gathered, I threw my arms around Oliver with abandon (gay) and wildly declared to the assembly, “I am in love with Oliver!”

Laura smacked me in the face. Oliver laughed. His laughter hurt me more than the slap. Laura pulled me out of the tent, cursing my drunkenness. She was absolutely furious with me, insisting that I was making an utter fool of myself. I couldn’t be a gay. Dad would kill me. It was immoral. Father Ignatius would be scandalized. What was Oliver going to think? Et cetera, et cetera.

I don’t remember going to bed that night, but the next morning I woke in my bunk early with a sense of horror, fear, and shame. I turned toward Oliver. He was lying on his back, hands behind his head, facing me.

“Don’t be a queer,” he said. “I dislike queers, filthy bastards.”

I turned away in misery and blinked furiously to keep the tears at bay.

“You just haven’t found the right woman yet. You need the ride. That’s all that’s wrong with you. Bloody virgin. Leave it to me. I’ll get you fixed up.”

He bounded out of bed, reached over and tousled my hair, and flicked his towel toward my ass underneath my sweat-drenched sheet. If he was trying to turn me off him, he was doing a spectacularly bad job. I decided to go along with the charade, however. After all, Oliver disliked queers.

Oliver pointed out that Madame Véronique was a widow. Widows, he said, were notoriously “sex-mad.” Plus, she was French, and therefore sexy. He didn’t think that the fact she was twice my age should be an impediment. Oliver encouraged me to get closer to her. Offer to help out in the kitchen at mealtimes, compliment her on her clothing, her hair, etc. Ludicrous, I know, but it meant I could confide in Oliver, spend time with him.

Unsurprisingly, Madame was utterly baffled by my attentions. But what a marvelous woman! She taught me everything I know. In the kitchen.

She aroused my palate if nothing else. Ireland in those days was a gastronomic wilderness. Parsley sauce was considered the height of sophistication. Here, I learned that boiling was not the only way to treat a vegetable; that pastry was an artist’s medium; that meat could be smoked, cured, grilled, and braised; that herbs and spices added flavor; and that garlic existed.

My culinary education started by accident. Literally. When I presented myself at the kitchen door offering assistance that first morning, I witnessed the very event that was to shape my future. Ann Marie, the elderly kitchen helper, tripped and fell on her way to the sink while carrying a large tray of freshly made brioche, breaking her right arm in the process. It wasn’t a terribly bad break—there were no bones piercing skin or anything like that—but it was obviously painful. She yelped in agony and an enormous fuss ensued. The doctor from the village was sent for. Ann Marie was brought to the local hospital and we didn’t see her again for the duration of our stay. As I was already on the scene, and the show had to go on, Madame demonstrated what needed to be done with the brioche (sprinkle with water and pop into the oven), and assigned me to kitchen duties for the rest of the week. What bliss. I was a quick learner, and by the end of that day I had prepared my first vinaigrette, steamed six fresh trout (steamed!), roasted a sack of carrots, and sautéed some zucchini. Of course, it was some time before I could whip up a sauce velouté or produce my own peach barquettes, but I took to it like a canard à l’eau. Madame was an excellent teacher, but, if I may say so, I was an excellent student. Besides, I was indoors doing work I actually enjoyed, and though the heat could be monstrous with two ovens going, it was still better than sweating it out in the fields.

When I came back to the dorm that night, I was glowing with excitement. Oliver assumed that Madame had piqued my interest, but in fact I had completely forgotten that my mission was to seduce her.

Of course, Laura was furious: her brother was living it up in the kitchen; her boyfriend was leading an even more refined life in the library; and there she was, a mere paysanne . I tried to pacify her by telling her how well she looked. The physical work was toning her nicely, and once she had got past the broiled-face thing, she had developed quite a tan and was beginning to resemble a diminutive Amazonian warrior. She didn’t accept the compliment graciously, but complained continually of feeling tired and excluded. To my eternal regret, I paid little attention to her plight.

I made a few pathetic attempts to flirt with Madame, but she remained as unconvinced as I was. The language barrier made it that bit more awkward (as if it wasn’t futile enough), but I was determined not to disappoint Oliver. He gave me a few tips and I had my instructions.

At the end of one particularly hot and sweaty day, I brushed Madame’s hair out of her face and asked if I might comb it for her. Oliver insisted it was a guaranteed winner of a move. She was a little taken aback, but assented. Oliver was right. Women love their hair to be handled. As I was combing her hair, I had a marvelous idea. Madame’s hair was quite long. I took a thick strand in one hand and began to weave it into another strand so that it was sort of knotted on the top of her head . Tr è s chic. I had just invented a hairstyle. How stereotypical of me. It was actually a “chignon,” a typical French style popular in Paris in the forties, but how were we to know? I had never played with a woman’s hair before, and Madame may have known her bain-marie from her sabayon , but she was bloody hopeless in the style department. Still, she was no fool.

“ Tu es homosexuel? ” she said.

Luckily, the word translated very easily.

“ Oui ,” I said. And then I cried for an hour.

Madame was terribly sweet about it all. I haven’t a damn clue what she was saying, but there was much miming of finger to lips to reassure me that she would keep my secret. She wasn’t at all perturbed by the news—didn’t have me thrown out, didn’t laugh at me, wasn’t horrified. It all fell into place for her. A mystery was solved. Via sign language, I admitted that I was in love with Oliver, and that scandalized her a bit all right. She knew, as everyone did, that Oliver and my sister Laura were an item. She gave me a maternal hug and said a lot of stuff in French while gesticulating up the hill. I think she meant that I should go for a walk. I did. It didn’t help.