Трейси Шевалье - The Virgin Blue

Lavaur was a cathedral town about three times the size of Lisle-sur-Tarn, with an old quarter and some semblance of nightlife: a cinema, a choice of restaurants, a couple of bars. I checked a map, parked next to the cathedral, a lumbering brick building with an octagonal tower, and walked into the old town. Even with tantalizing night-time activities there was no one around; every shutter was shut, every light dark.

I found the address easily: it was hard to miss, marked by a startling neon sign announcing a tavern. The entrance was in a side alley, the shutters of the window next to the door painted with what looked like faceless soldiers guarding a woman in a long robe. I stopped and studied the shutters. The image unnerved me; I hurried inside.

The contrast between outside and inside couldn't have been greater. It was a small bar, dimly lit, loud and crowded and smoky. The few bars I'd been to in small French towns were generally grim affairs, male and unwelcoming. This was like a chink of light in the middle of darkness. It was so unexpected that I stood in the doorway and stared.

Directly in front of me a striking woman wearing jeans and a maroon silk blouse was singing ‘Every Time We Say Goodbye’ in a heavy French accent. And though his back was to me, I knew immediately that it was Jean-Paul hunched over the white upright, wearing his soft blue shirt. He kept his eyes on his hands, occasionally glancing at the singer, his expression concentrated but also serene.

People came in behind me and I was forced to slip into the crowd. I couldn't take my eyes off Jean-Paul. When they finished the song there were shouts and prolonged clapping. Jean-Paul looked around, noticed me and smiled. A man to my right patted my shoulder. ‘Better watch out – that's a wolf, that one!’ he shouted, laughing and nodding toward the piano. I turned red and moved away. When Jean-Paul and the woman began another song, I squeezed my way to the bar and miraculously found a stool free.

The singer's olive skin seemed to be lit from within, her dark eyebrows perfectly shaped. Her long brown hair was wavy and dishevelled, and she drew attention to it as she sang, pulling her fingers through it, tossing her head, holding her wrists to her temples when she hit a high note. Jean-Paul was less flamboyant, his calm presence balancing her theatrics, his playing underlining her sparkling voice. They were very good together – relaxed, confident enough to play around and tease each other. I felt a pang of jealousy.

Two songs later they took a break and Jean-Paul started toward me, stopping first to speak to every second person. I pulled nervously at my dress, wishing now that it covered my knees.

When he arrived at my side he said, ‘ Salut , Ella,’ and kissed my cheeks the way he had ten other people. I grew calmer, relieved but vaguely disconcerted that I wasn't given special attention. What do you want , Ella? I asked myself furiously. Jean-Paul must have seen the confusion in my face. ‘Come, I'll introduce you to some friends,’ he said simply.

I slid off the stool and picked up my beer, then waited while he got a whisky from the barman. He gestured toward a table across the room and put his hand on the middle of my back to guide me, keeping his hand there as we pushed through the crowd, dropping it when we reached his friends.

Six people, including the singer, were sitting on benches on either side of a long table. They squeezed together to make room for us. I ended up next to the singer with Jean-Paul across from me, our knees touching in the cramped space. I looked down at the table, littered with beer bottles and glasses of wine, and smiled to myself.

The group was discussing music, naming French singers I'd never heard of, laughing uproariously at cultural references that meant nothing to me. It was so loud and they spoke so fast that after a while I gave up listening. Jean-Paul lit a cigarette and chuckled at jokes, but otherwise was quiet. I could feel his eyes rest on me occasionally; once when I returned his gaze he said, ‘ Ça va? ’

I nodded. Janine the singer turned to me and said, ‘So, do you prefer Ella Fitzgerald or Billie Holiday?’

‘Oh, I don't listen to either very much.’ This sounded ungracious; she was after all giving me an opening to the conversation. I also wanted to convince myself that I wasn't jealous of her, her beauty and effortless style, her link to Jean-Paul. ‘I like Frank Sinatra,’ I added quickly.

A balding man with a baby face and two-day stubble sitting next to Jean-Paul snorted. ‘Too sentimental. Too much “show-biz”. He used the English phrase and fluttered his hands next to his ears while putting on a cheesy smile. ‘Now, Nat King Cole, that's different!’

‘Yes, but -’ I began. The table looked at me expectantly. I was remembering something my father had said about Sinatra's technique and trying desperately to translate it quickly in my head: exactly what Madame Sentier had told me never to do.

‘Frank Sinatra sings without breathing,’ I said, and stopped. That wasn't what I meant: I was trying to say he sang so smoothly that you couldn't hear him breathe, but my French failed me. ‘His -’

But the conversation had gone on; I hadn't been fast enough. I frowned and shook my head slightly, annoyed at myself and embarrassed the way you are when you start telling a story and realize no one's listening.

Jean-Paul reached over and touched my hand. ‘You remind me of being in New York,’ he said in English. ‘Sometimes in a bar I could hear nothing and everyone yelled and used words I didn't know.’

‘I can't think quickly enough in French yet. Not complicated thoughts.’

‘You will. If you stay here long enough you will.’

The baby-faced man heard our English and looked me up and down. ‘ Tu es américaine?’ he demanded.

‘ Oui .’

My response had a strange effect: it was like an electric current raced around the table. Everyone sat up and glanced from me to Jean-Paul. I looked at him too, puzzled by the reaction. Jean-Paul reached for his glass and with a jerk of his wrist finished the whisky, a gesture laced with defiance.

The man smiled sarcastically. ‘Ah, but you're not fat. Why aren't you like every other American?’ He puffed out his cheeks and cupped his hands around an imaginary paunch.

One thing I discovered about my French – when I was mad it came out like a jet stream. ‘There are fat Americans but at least they don't have huge mouths like the French!’

The table erupted in laughter, even the man. In fact he looked ready for more. Dammit, I thought. I've taken the bait and now he'll get at me for hours.

He leaned forward.

C'mon, Ella, the best defence is offence. It was Rick's favourite phrase; I could almost hear him saying it.

I interrupted him before he could get a sentence out. ‘Now, America. Of course you will mention, wait, I must get the order right. Vietnam. No, maybe first American films and television, Hollywood, McDonald's on the Champs-Elysées.’ I ticked off my fingers. ‘ Then Vietnam. And violence and guns. And the CIA, yes, you must mention the CIA several times. And maybe, if you are a Communist – are you a Communist, Monsieur? – maybe you will mention Cuba. But finally you will mention World War II, that the Americans entered late and were never occupied by the Germans like the poor French. That is the pièce de résistance, n'est-ce pas? ’

Five people were grinning at me while the man pouted and Jean-Paul brought his empty glass to his mouth to hide his laughter.

‘Now,’ I continued. ‘Since you are French, maybe I should ask you if the French treated the Vietnamese better as colonizers. And are you proud of what happened in Algeria? And the racism here against North Africans? And the nuclear testing in the Pacific? You see, you are French, so of course you are a representation of your government, you agree with everything it does, don't you? You little shit,’ I added under my breath in English. Only Jean-Paul caught it; he looked at me in astonishment. I smiled. Not so ladylike, then.