Трейси Шевалье - The Virgin Blue

‘No, that's coincidence . You are being seduced by coincidence.’

‘And you by speculation.’

‘That you live now near Toulouse and he lived in Toulouse does not mean that you are relatives. And the name Tournier is not so unusual. And that you dream of his blue – well, it is a blue easy to remember from a dream because it is so vivid. It would be harder to remember a dark blue, no?’

‘Look, why are you trying so hard to prove he's not my relative?’

‘Because you are basing all your proof on coincidence and your guts rather than on concrete evidence. You are struck by a painting, by a certain blue, and because of that and the painter's name is yours you decide he is an ancestor? No. No, I shouldn't have to convince you that Nicolas Tournier isn't your relative; you should be convincing me that he is .’

I've got to stop him, I thought. Soon I won't have any hope left.

Maybe my face reflected this thought, because when Jean-Paul spoke again his tone was kinder. ‘I think maybe this Nicolas Tournier is no help to you. That maybe he is, what is it you say, a red fish.’

‘What?’ I laughed. ‘A red herring , you mean. Maybe you're right.’ I paused. ‘He's taken over, though. I can't even remember what I was going to do about this ancestry business before he appeared.’

‘You were going to find lost-long relatives in the Cévennes.’

‘I might still do that.’ The look on his face made me laugh. ‘Yes, I will . You know, all your arguing just makes me want to prove you wrong. I want to find out proof – yes, concrete proof that even you'd agree with – about my “lost-long” ancestors. Just to show you that hunches aren't always wrong.’

We were both quiet then. I shifted from one hip to the other; Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes at the evening sun. I became very aware of him standing with me on this little street in France. We're only separated by two feet of air, I thought. I could just -

‘And your dream?’ he asked. ‘You still see it?’

‘Uh, no. No, it seems to have gone away.’

‘So, you want me to call the archives at Mende and warn them you are coming?’

‘No!’ My shout made commuters' heads turn. ‘That's exactly what I don't want you to do,’ I hissed. ‘Stay out of it unless I ask for help, OK? If I need help I'll ask you.’

Jean-Paul raised his hands as if he had a gun pointed at him. ‘Fine, Ella Tournier. We draw a line here and I stay on my side, OK?’ He took a step back from the imaginary line, and the distance between us increased.

The next night while we were eating dinner on the patio I told Rick I wanted to go to the Cévennes to look up family records.

‘You remember I wrote to Jacob Tournier in Switzerland?’ I explained. ‘He wrote back and said the Tourniers were from the Cévennes originally. Probably.’ I smiled to myself: I was learning to qualify my statements. ‘I want to have a look around.’

‘But I thought you found out about your family already, with the painter and all.’

‘Well, that's not definite, actually. Not yet,’ I added quickly. ‘Maybe I'll find something there to prove it.’

To my surprise he frowned. ‘I suppose this is something Jean-Pierre cooked up.’

‘Jean- Paul . No, not at all. The opposite, if anything. He thinks I won't find anything.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘I have to go during the week, when the archives are open.’

‘I could take a couple days off, come with you.’

‘I was thinking of going next week.’

‘Nope, can't go then. It's crazy at the office now with the German contract. Maybe later in the summer when it's quieter. In August.’

‘I can't wait till August!’

‘Ella, why are you so interested in your ancestors now? You never were before.’

‘I never lived in France before.’

‘Yeah, but you seem to be investing a lot in it. What do you expect to get out of it?’

I intended to say something about being accepted by the French, about feeling like I belonged to the country. ‘I want to make the blue nightmare go away,’ I found myself saying instead.

‘You think by finding out about your family you'll get rid of a bad dream?’

‘Yes.’ I leaned back and gazed at the vines. Tiny green clusters of grapes were just beginning to appear. I knew it made no sense, that there was no link between the dream and my ancestors. But my mind had made the connection anyway, and I stubbornly decided to stick with it.

‘Is Jean-Pierre going with you?’

‘No! Look, why are you being so negative? It's not like you. This is something I'm interested in. It's the first thing I've really wanted to do since we got here. The least you could do is be supportive about it.’

‘I thought the thing you really wanted to do was have a baby. I've been supportive about that.’

‘Yes, but -’ You shouldn't just be supportive about something like that, I thought. You should want to have it too.

Lately I'd been having a lot of thoughts that I censored.

Rick stared at me, frowning, then made a conscious effort to relax. ‘You're right. Of course go, babe. If it makes you happy then that's what you should do.’

‘Oh, Rick, don't -’ I stopped. There was no point criticizing him. He was trying to be supportive without understanding. At least he was trying.

‘Look, I'll go for a few days, that's all. If I find out something, great. If I don't, it's no big deal. All right?’

‘Ella, if you don't find anything, I'll take you to the best restaurant in Toulouse.’

‘Gee, thanks. That makes me feel a lot better.’

Sarcasm was the cheapest form of humour, according to my mother. My remark was made even cheaper by the hurt look in his eyes.

The morning I left it was crisp and bright; there had been thunderstorms the night before, clearing the tension from the air. I kissed Rick goodbye as he left for the train station, then got in the car and drove off in the opposite direction. It was a relief to go. I celebrated by playing loud music and opening both windows and the sun roof to let the wind whip through me.

The road followed the Tarn up to Albi, a cathedral town full of June tourists, then headed north away from the river. I would meet up with the Tarn again in the Cévennes, climbing backwards to its source. Beyond Albi the landscape began to change, the horizon first expanding as I climbed, then narrowing as the hills closed in around me and the sky turned from blue to grey. The poppies and Queen Anne's lace along the road were joined by new flowers, pink jack-in-the-pulpit and daisies and especially broom, with its sharp, mouldy smell. The trees grew darker. Fields were no longer cultivated but left as meadows and grazed by tan goats and cows. Rivers got smaller and faster and louder. Abruptly the houses changed: light chalk stone became hard brown-grey granite, and roofs were more angular, tiled with flat slate rather than curved terracotta. Everything became smaller, darker, more serious.

I closed the windows and sun roof, turned off the music. My mood seemed to be linked with the landscape. I didn't like it, looking out at this beautiful, sad land. It reminded me of the blue.

Mende crowned both the landscape and my mood. Its narrow streets were surrounded by a busy ring road that made the town feel hemmed in. A cathedral squatted in the centre, two different spires giving it an awkward, unplanned look. Inside it was dark and grim. I escaped and, standing on its steps, stared at the grey stone buildings around me. This is the Cévennes? I thought. Then I smiled at myself: of course I'd assumed Tournier country would be beautiful.

It had been a long drive from Lisle; even the bigger roads curved and climbed, requiring more concentration than straight American highways. I was tired and in an uncharitable mood, which wasn't improved by a dark, narrow hotel room and a lonely supper in a pizzeria where the only other customers were couples or old men. I thought about calling Rick, but knew that instead of cheering me up he would make me feel worse, reminding me of the gap that was growing between us.