Трейси Шевалье - The Virgin Blue

‘Thank you for the coffee.’

He nodded. ‘Ella, I must go to work now.’

‘Are you sure?’

He smiled in reply.

‘I feel like I didn't get any sleep,’ I said.

‘Three hours. You can sleep more here if you want.’

‘That would be strange, being in this bed without you.’

He ran a hand up and down my leg. ‘If you want you maybe wait until there are not so many people in the street.’

‘I guess so.’ For the first time I heard the shouts of children passing; it was like kicking down a barrier, the first intrusion of the outside world. With it came the unwelcome furtiveness, the need to be cautious. I wasn't sure I was ready for that yet, or to have him be so sensible.

Pre-empting my thoughts, he held my gaze and said, ‘It's you I think of. Not me. It's different for me. It's always different for a man here.’

It was sobering, such straight talk. It forced me to think.

‘This bed -’ I paused. ‘It's way too big for one person. And you wouldn't have two tables and lamps like this if it was just you sleeping here.’

Jean-Paul scanned my face. Then he shrugged; with that gesture we really did re-enter the world.

‘I lived with a woman for a while. She left about a year and a half ago. The bed was her idea.’

‘Were you married?’

‘No.’

I put my hand on his knee and squeezed it. ‘I'm sorry,’ I said in French. ‘I should not have mentioned it.’

He shrugged again, then looked at me and smiled. ‘You know, Ella Tournier, all that talk in French last night has made your mouth bigger. I am sure of it!’

He kissed me, his lashes glittering in the sun.

When the front door shut behind him everything seemed to change. I had never felt so strange being in someone else's house before. I sat up stiffly, sipped the coffee, set it down. I listened to the children outside, the cars passing, the occasional Vespa. I missed him terribly and wanted to leave as soon as possible, but felt trapped by the sounds outside.

Finally I got up and took a shower. My yellow dress was crumpled and smelled of smoke and sweat. When I put it on I felt like a tramp. I wanted to go home but forced myself to wait until the streets were quieter. While I waited I looked at his books in the living room. He had a lot on French history, many novels, a few books in English: John Updike, Virginia Woolf, Edgar Allan Poe. A strange combination. I was surprised that the books weren't in any order: fiction and non-fiction were mixed up and not even alphabetized. Apparently he didn't bring his work habits home with him.

Once I was sure the street was clear, I felt reluctant to leave, knowing that after I'd left I couldn't come back. I looked around the rooms once more. In the bedroom I went to the closet and got out the pale blue shirt Jean-Paul had worn the night before, rolled it into a ball and stuffed it in my bag.

When I stepped outside I felt like I was making a big stage entrance, though as far as I could see I had no audience. I ran down the stairs and walked quickly toward the centre of town, breathing a little easier when I reached the part I often walked in during the morning, but still feeling exposed. I was sure everyone was staring at me, at the wrinkles in my dress, the rings under my eyes. C'mon, Ella, they always stare at you, I tried to reassure myself. It's because you're still a stranger, not because you've just – I couldn't bring myself to finish the thought.

Only when I reached our street did it strike me that I didn't want to go home: I saw our house and a wave of nausea hit me. I stopped and leaned against my neighbour's house. When I go inside, I thought, I'll have to face my guilt.

I remained there for a long time. Then I turned around and headed toward the train station. At least I could get the car first; it gave me a concrete excuse to put off the rest of my life.

I sat on the train in a daze, half sweet, half sour, barely remembering to change at the next stop for the Lavaur train. Around me sat businessmen, women with their shopping, teenagers flirting. It seemed so strange to me that something extraordinary had happened, yet no one around me knew. ‘Do you have any idea what I've just done?’ I wanted to say to the grim woman knitting across from me. ‘Would you have done it too?’

But the events of my life made no difference to the train or the rest of the world. Bread was still being baked, gas pumped, quiches made, and the trains were running on time. Even Jean-Paul was at work, advising old ladies on romance novels. And Rick was at his German meetings in a state of ignorance. I drew in my breath sharply: it was only me who was out of step, who had nothing else to do but pick up a car and feel guilty.

I had an espresso at a café in Lavaur before returning to my car. As I was swinging the car door open I heard ‘ Eh, l'américaine! ’ to my left and turned to find the balding man I'd fought with the night before coming toward me. He now had three-day stubble. I pulled the door open wide and leaned against it, a shield between him and me. ‘ Salut ,’ I said.

‘ Salut, Madame .’ His use of Madame was not lost on me.

‘ Je m'appelle Ella ,’ I said coldly.

‘Claude.’ He held out his hand and we shook formally. I felt a little ridiculous. All the clues of what I'd just done were set out for him like a window display: the car still here, my rumpled dress from the night before, my tired face, would all lead him to one conclusion. The question was whether he'd have the tact not to mention it. Somehow I doubted it.

‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘No, thank you, I've had one already.’

He smiled. ‘Come, you will have a coffee with me.’ He made a gesture like he was rounding me up and began to walk away. I didn't move. He looked around, stopped and began to laugh. ‘Oh, you, you are difficult! Like a little cat with its claws like this -’ he mimed claws with stiff, bent fingers – ‘and its fur all ruffled. All right, you don't want a coffee. Look, come sit with me on this bench for a moment, OK? That's all. I have something to say to you.’

‘What?’

‘I want to help you. No, that's not right. I want to help Jean-Paul. So, sit. Just for a second.’ He sat on a nearby bench and looked at me expectantly. Finally I shut the car door, walked over and sat down next to him. I didn't look at him, but kept my eyes on the garden in front of us, where careful arrangements of flowers were just beginning to bloom.

‘What do you want to say?’ I made sure I used the formal address with him to counter his familiar tone with me. It had no effect.

‘You know, Jean-Paul, he is a good friend of Janine and me. Of all of us at La Taverne.’ He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to me. I shook my head; he lit one and sat back, crossing his legs at the ankle and stretching.

‘You know he lived with a woman for a year,’ he continued.

‘Yes. So?’

‘Did he tell you anything about her?’

‘No.’

‘She was American.’

I glanced at Claude to see what reaction he was expecting from me, but he was following the traffic with his eyes and gave away nothing.

‘And was she fat?’

Claude roared with laughter. ‘You!’ he shouted. ‘You are – I understand why Jean-Paul likes you. A little cat!’

‘Why did she leave?’

He shrugged, his laughter finally subsiding. ‘She missed her country and felt she didn't fit in here. She said people weren't friendly. She was alienated.’

‘Jesus,’ I muttered in English before I could stop myself. Claude leaned forward, his legs apart, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. I glanced at him. ‘Does he still love her?’

He shrugged. ‘She's married now.’