6
THE BIBLE
Either the smoke or the cold air from the open window woke me. When I opened my eyes I saw the orange button of a lit cigarette, then the hand holding it, draped over the steering wheel. Without moving my head I followed the arm up to the shoulders and then to his profile. He was looking out over the steering wheel as if he were still driving, but the car was stationary, the engine dead, not even ticking the way it does when it's first switched off. I had no idea how long we'd been sitting there.
I was curled sideways in the passenger seat, facing him, my cheek crushed against the coarse weave of the headrest; my hair had fallen over my face and stuck to my mouth. I glanced between the gap in the seats; the Bible was on the back seat, wrapped in a plastic bag.
Though I hadn't moved or spoken, Jean-Paul turned his head and looked at me. We held each other's gaze for a long time without saying anything. The silence was comfortable, though I couldn't tell what he was thinking: his face wasn't blank, but it wasn't open either.
How long does it take to overcome two years of marriage, two more of a relationship? I had never been tempted before; once I'd found Rick I'd considered the search over. I had listened to my friends' stories about their quest for the right man, their disastrous dates, their heartbreaks, and never put myself in their place. It was like watching a travel show about a place you knew you'd never go to, Albania or Finland or Panama. Yet now I seemed to have a plane ticket to Helsinki in my hand.
I reached over and placed my hand on his arm. His skin was warm. I moved my hand up over the crease of his elbow and the ring of cloth where the sleeve was rolled up. When I was halfway along his upper arm and not sure what to do next, he reached over and covered my hand with his, stopping it on the curve of his biceps.
Keeping a firm grip on his arm, I sat up in my seat and brushed the hair from my face. My mouth tasted of olives from the martinis Mathilde had ordered for me earlier in the evening. Jean-Paul's black jacket was draped around my shoulders; it was soft and smelled of cigarettes, leaves and warm skin. I never wore Rick's jackets: he was so much taller and broader than me that his jackets made me look like a box and the sleeves immobilized my arms. Now I felt I was wearing something that had been mine for years.
Earlier, when we were with the others at the bar, Jean-Paul and I had spoken to each other in French the whole evening, and I'd vowed to continue to do so. Now I said, ‘Nous sommes arrivés chez nous? ’ and immediately regretted it. What I had said was grammatically correct, but the chez nous made it sound like we lived together. As was so often the case with my French, I was only in control of the literal meaning, not the words' connotations.
If Jean-Paul sensed this implication in the grammar, he didn't let on. ‘Non, le Fina,’ he said.
‘Thank you for driving,’ I continued in French.
‘It's nothing. You can drive now?’
‘Yes.’ I felt sober all of a sudden, and focused on the pressure of his hand on mine. ‘Jean-Paul,’ I began, wanting to say something, not knowing what else to say.
He didn't respond for a moment. Then he said, ‘You never wear bright colours.’
I cleared my throat. ‘No, I guess not. Not since I was a teenager.’
‘Ah. Goethe said only children and simple people like bright colours.’
‘Is that supposed to be a compliment? I just like natural cloth, that's all. Cotton and wool and especially – what's this called in French?’ I gestured at my sleeve; Jean-Paul took his hand off mine to rub the cloth between his finger and thumb, his other fingers brushing my bare skin.
‘Le lin. And in English?’
‘Linen. I've always worn linen, especially in the summer. It looks better in natural colours, white and brown and –’ I trailed off. The vocabulary of clothes colours was way beyond my French; what were the words for pumice, caramel, rust, ecru, sepia, ochre?
Jean-Paul let go of my sleeve and rested his hand on the steering wheel. I looked at my own hand adrift on his arm, having overcome so many inhibitions to get there, and felt like weeping. Reluctantly I lifted it off and tucked it under my arm, shrugging Jean-Paul's jacket over my shoulders and turning to face forwards. Why were we sitting here talking about my clothes? I was cold; I wanted to go home.
‘Goethe,’ I snorted, digging my heels into the floor and pushing my back impatiently against the seat.
‘What about Goethe?’
I lapsed into English. ‘You would bring up someone like Goethe right now.’
Jean-Paul flicked the stub of his cigarette outside and rolled up the window. He opened the door, climbed out of the car and shook the stiffness from his legs. I handed him his jacket and climbed into the driver's seat. He slipped on the jacket, then leaned into the car, one hand on the top of the door, the other on the roof. He looked at me, shook his head and sighed, an exasperated hiss through gritted teeth.
‘I do not like to break into a couple,’ he muttered in English. ‘Not even if I can't stop looking at her and she argues with me always and makes me angry and wanting her at both the same time.’ He leaned in and kissed me brusquely on both cheeks. He began to straighten up when my hand, my bold, treacherous hand, darted up, hooked around his neck, and pulled his face down to mine.
It had been years since I'd kissed anyone besides Rick. I'd forgotten how different each person can be. Jean-Paul's lips were soft but firm, giving only an indication of what lay beyond them. His smell was intoxicating; I pulled away from his mouth, rubbed my cheek along the sandpaper of his jaw, buried my nose in the base of his neck and inhaled. He knelt down and pulled my head back, running his fingers through my hair like combs. He smiled at me. ‘You look more French with your red hair, Ella Tournier.’
‘I haven't dyed it, really.’
‘I never say you did.’
‘It was Ri –’ We both stiffened; Jean-Paul stopped his fingers.
‘I'm sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn't mean to –’ I sighed and plunged ahead. ‘You know, I never thought I was unhappy with Rick, but now it feels like something isn't – like we were a jigsaw puzzle with every piece in place, but the puzzle frames the wrong picture.’ My throat began to tighten and I stopped.
Jean-Paul dropped his hands from my hair. ‘Ella, we have a kiss. That does not mean your marriage falls apart.’
‘No, but –’ I stopped. If I had doubts about me and Rick I should be voicing them to Rick.
‘I want to keep seeing you,’ I said. ‘Can I still see you?’
‘At the library, yes. Not at the Fina station.’ He raised my hand and kissed its palm. ‘Au revoir, Ella Tournier. Bonne nuit.’
‘Bonne nuit.’
He stood up. I shut the door and watched him walk over to his tin-can car and get in. He started it, beeped the horn lightly and drove away. I was relieved he didn't insist on waiting until I left first. I watched till his tail-lights winked out of sight at the end of the long tree-lined road. Then I let out a long breath, reached to the back seat for the Tournier Bible and sat with it in my lap, staring up the road.
I was shocked at how easy it was to lie to Rick. I had always thought he would know right away if I cheated on him, that I could never hide my guilt, that he knew me too well. But people see what they look for; Rick expected me to be a certain way, so that was how I was to him. When I walked in with the Bible under my arm, having been with Jean-Paul only half an hour before, Rick glanced up from his newspaper, said cheerfully, ‘Hey, babe,’ and it was as if nothing had happened. That was how it felt, at home with Rick clean and golden under the light of the reading lamp, far away from the dark car, the smoke, Jean-Paul's jacket. His face was open and guileless; he hid nothing from me. Yes, I could almost say it hadn't happened. Life could be surprisingly compartmentalized.
This would be so much easier if Rick were a jerk, I thought. But then I'd never have married a jerk. I kissed his forehead. ‘I have something to show you,’ I said.
He threw his newspaper down and sat up. I kn
elt beside him, pulled the Bible out of the bag and dropped it in his lap.
‘Hey, now. This is something,’ he said, running his hand down the front cover. ‘Where'd you get it? You weren't clear on the phone about where you were going.’
‘The old man who helped me in Le Pont de Montvert, Monsieur Jourdain, found it in the archives. He gave it to me.’
‘It's yours?’
‘Yeah. Look at the front page. See? My ancestors. That's them.’
Rick glanced down the list, nodded and smiled at me.
‘You did it. You found them!’
‘Yes. With a lot of help and luck. But yes.’ I couldn't help noticing that he didn't inspect the Bible as closely and lovingly as Jean-Paul had. The thought made my stomach knot with guilt: these comparisons were completely unfair. No more of this, I thought sternly. No more of this with Jean-Paul. That's it.
‘You know this is worth a lot of money,’ Rick said. ‘Are you sure he gave it to you? Did you ask for a receipt?’
I stared at him, incredulous. ‘No, I didn't ask for a receipt! Do you ask for a receipt every time I give you a present?’
‘C'mon, Ella, I'm just trying to be helpful. You don't want him changing his mind and asking for it back. You get it in writing, you won't have that problem. Now, we should put this in a safe deposit box. Probably in Toulouse. I doubt the bank here has one.’
‘I'm not putting it in a safe deposit box! I'm keeping it here, with me!’ I glared at him. Then it happened: like one of those one-cell creatures under the microscope that for no apparent reason suddenly divides into two, I felt us pulling apart into distinct entities with separate perspectives. It was strange: I hadn't realized how together we'd been until we were far apart.
Rick didn't seem to notice the change. I stared at him until he frowned. ‘What's the matter?’ he asked.
‘I – well, I'm not going to put it in a safe deposit box, that's for sure. It's too valuable for that.’ I picked it up and hugged it to me.
To my relief Rick had to go on his German trip the next day. I was so shaken by the new space between us that I needed some time alone. He kissed me goodbye, oblivious to my inner turmoil, and I wondered if I was as blind to his internal life as he seemed to be to mine.
It was a Wednesday and I badly wanted to go over to the café by the river to see Jean-Paul. Head won over heart: I knew it would be better to leave things awhile. I deliberately waited until I knew he'd be safely buried in his paper at the café before I left the house on my daily rounds. A chance encounter on the street around so many people fascinated with our every move was distinctly unappealing. I had no intention of playing out this drama in front of the town. As I approached the central square Jean-Paul's depiction of Lisle and what it thought of me came flooding back; it was almost enough to make me run back to the privacy of my house, and even use the shutters.
I made myself keep going. When I bought the Herald Tribune and Le Monde, the woman who sold them was perfectly pleasant, giving me no strange looks, even remarking on the weather. She didn't seem to be thinking about my washing machine, shutters or sleeveless dresses.
The real test was Madame. I headed resolutely to the boulangerie. ‘Bonjour, Madame! ’ I sang out as I entered. She was in the middle of talking to someone and frowned slightly. I glanced at her audience and found myself face to face with Jean-Paul. He hid his surprise, but not quickly enough for Madame, who eyed us with triumphant disgust and glee.
Oh, for Christ's sake, I thought, enough's enough. ‘Bonjour, Monsieur,’ I said in a bright voice.
‘Bonjour, Madame,’ he replied. Though his face didn't move his voice sounded as if he had raised his eyebrows.
I turned to Madame. ‘Madame, I would like twenty of your quiches, please. You know, I adore them. I eat them every day, breakfast, lunch, dinner.’
‘Twenty quiches,’ she repeated, leaving her mouth ajar.
‘Yes, please.’
Madame snapped her mouth shut, pressing her lips together so hard they disappeared, and, eyes on me, reached behind her for a paper bag. I heard Jean-Paul quietly clear his throat. When Madame bent down to shovel the quiches in the bag I glanced at him. He was staring into the corner at a display of sugared almonds. His mouth had tightened and he was rubbing his jaw with his index finger and thumb. I looked back at Madame and smiled. She straightened up from the glass case and twisted the corners of the bag shut. ‘There are only fifteen,’ she muttered, glaring at me.
‘Oh, that's too bad. I'll have to go to the pâtisserie to see if they have any.’ I suspected Madame wouldn't like the pâtisserie; what they sold would seem too frivolous to her, a serious bread woman. I was right: her eyes widened and she sucked in her breath, shook her head, and made a rude noise. ‘They don't have quiches!’ she exclaimed. ‘I'm the only one who makes quiches in Lisle-sur-Tarn!’
‘Ah,’ I replied. ‘Well, maybe at the Intermarché.’
At this Jean-Paul made a garbled sound and Madame nearly dropped the bag of quiches. I'd committed the sin of mentioning her arch rival and the worst threat to her business: the supermarket on the edge of town, with no history, no dignity, no finesse. Kind of like me. I smiled. ‘What do I owe you?’ I asked.
Madame didn't answer for a moment; she looked like she needed to sit down. Jean-Paul took this opportunity to murmur ‘Au revoir, Mesdames’ and slip away.
The moment he was gone I lost interest in struggling with her. When she demanded what seemed an outrageous sum, I handed it over meekly. It was worth it.
Outside Jean-Paul fell in step with me.
‘You are very wicked, Ella Tournier,’ he murmured in French.
‘Would you like some of these quiches?’ We laughed.
‘I thought we mustn't see each other in public. This –’ I waved my hand around the square – ‘is very public.’
‘Ah, but I have a professional reason to talk to you. Tell me, have you looked carefully at your Bible?’
‘Not yet. Look, don't you ever stop? Don't you sleep?’
He smiled. ‘I have never needed much sleep. Bring the Bible over to the library tomorrow. I've discovered some interesting things about your family.’
The Bible was an odd size, long and unexpectedly narrow. But it wasn't too heavy and it felt comfortable in my arms. The cover was made of worn, cracked leather, rubbed dull and soft and mottled in shades of chestnut brown. The leather was cracked and wrinkled, and an insect had bored tiny holes in several places. The back cover was blackened and burned half away, but on the front an intricate design of lines and leaves and dots stamped in gold was intact. Gold flowers had been stamped down the spine, and a modified pattern of the design had been tapped with a hammer and a pin into the sides of the pages.
I turned to the beginning of Genesis: ‘Diev crea av commencement le ciel & la terre.’ The text was in two columns, the typeface clear, and though the spelling was peculiar I could understand the French – what was left of it. The back of the book had been burned away, the middle pages scorched beyond recognition.
At Crazy Joe's Bar Mathilde and Monsieur Jourdain had a long discussion about the Bible's origins, Jean-Paul chipping in now and then. I could only partly follow what they said because Monsieur Jourdain's accent was so hard to decipher and Mathilde's delivery so fast. It was always harder to follow a conversation in French when people weren't speaking directly to me. From what I could gather they agreed that it had probably been published in Geneva, and possibly translated by someone named Lefèvre d'Etaples. Monsieur Jourdain was particularly emphatic about the name.
‘Who was he?’ I asked hesitantly.
Monsieur Jourdain began to chuckle. ‘La Rousse wants to know who Lefèvre was,’ he kept repeating, shaking his head. By then he'd downed three highballs. I nodded patiently, letting him have his little joke; the martinis had made me more tolerant about being teased.
Eventually he explained that Lefèvre d'Etaples had been the first to translate the Bible from Latin into
the French vernacular so that people other than priests could read it. ‘That was the beginning,’ he declared. ‘That was the beginning of everything. The world split apart!’ With that pronouncement he pitched forward on his stool and landed halfway across the bar.
I tried not to grin, but Mathilde covered her mouth with her hand, Sylvie laughed outright and Jean-Paul smiled as he leafed through the Bible. Now I remembered that he had studied the page with the Tourniers on it for a long time and scribbled something on the back of an envelope. I'd been too tipsy to ask what he was doing.
To Mathilde's disgust and my disappointment, Monsieur Jourdain had not been able to remember exactly who turned in the Bible to him. ‘It's for this that you must keep records!’ she scolded. ‘Important questions, for someone like Ella!’ Monsieur looked suitably hangdoggish and wrote down the names of all the family members listed in the Bible, promising to see if he could find out anything about them, including those with last names other than Tournier.