The Virgin Blue

  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.’

  That's no answer – look at me, I thought, but didn't say it.

  ‘You see,’ he said, ‘we protect Jean-Paul a little. We meet a pretty American woman, with much spirit, like a little cat, with her eyes on Jean-Paul but married, and we think –’ he shrugged again – ‘maybe this is not so good for him, but we know he won't see that. Or he sees it but she is a temptation anyway.’

  ‘But –’ I couldn't argue back. If I countered that every American doesn't run home with her tail between her legs – not that I hadn't considered that option myself in my more alienated moments – Claude would just bring up my being married. I couldn't tell which he was emphasizing more; perhaps that was part of his strategy. I disliked him too much to probe.

  What he was unarguably saying was that I wasn't good for Jean-Paul.

  With that thought – combined with my lack of sleep and the absurdity of sitting on this bench with this man telling me things I already knew – I finally cracked. I leaned over, elbows on my knees, and cupped my hands around my eyes as if shielding them from strong sunlight. Then I began to cry silently.

  Claude sat up straight. ‘I am sorry, Ella. I did not say these things to make you unhappy.’

  ‘How else did you expect me to respond?’ I replied sharply. He made the same gesture of defeat with his hands as he had the night before.

  I wiped my damp hands on my dress and stood. ‘I have to go,’ I muttered, brushing my hair back from my face. I couldn't bring myself to thank him or say goodbye.

  I cried all the way home.

  The Bible sat like a reproach on my desk. I couldn't stand being in a room by myself, not that I had much choice. What I needed was to talk to a female friend; it was women who usually saw me through moments of crisis. But it was the middle of the night in the States; besides, it was never the same on the phone. Here I had no one I could confide in. The closest I'd come to a kindred spirit was Mathilde, but she had enjoyed flirting with Jean-Paul so much that she might not be too pleased to hear what had happened.

  Late in the morning I remembered I had a French lesson in Toulouse in the afternoon. I called Madame Sentier and cancelled, telling her I was ill. When she asked, I said it was a summer fever.

  ‘Ah, you must get someone to take care of you!’ she cried. Her words made me think of my father, his concern that I'd be stranded out here without help. ‘Call Jacob Tournier if you have any problems,’ he'd said. ‘When there are problems it's good to have family close by.’

  Jean-Paul —

  I'm going to my family. It seemed the best thing to do. If I stayed here I would drown in my guilt.

  I've taken your blue shirt.

  Forgive me.

  Ella

  Rick didn't get a note; I called his secretary and left the briefest of messages.

  7

  THE DRESS

  She was never alone. Someone always remained with her, Etienne or Hannah or Petit Jean. Usually
it was Hannah, which Isabelle preferred: Hannah could not or would not speak to her, and was too old and small to hurt her. Etienne's arms were now loose with rage, and Petit Jean she no longer trusted, with his knife and the smile in his eyes.

  How has this happened? she thought, linking her hands behind her neck and pressing her elbows to her chest. That I can't even trust my own little son? She stood in the devanthuis and looked out across the dull white fields to the dark mountains and the grey sky.

  Hannah hovered in the door behind her. Etienne always knew what Isabelle had been doing, yet she had not been able to catch Hannah speaking to him.

  —Mémé, close the door! Petit Jean called from within.

  Isabelle looked over her shoulder into the dim, smoky room and shivered. They had covered the windows and were keeping the door shut; the smoke had built up into a thick, choking cloud. Her eyes and throat stung and she had begun to walk around the room ponderously, slowed down as if she were moving through water. Only in the devant-huis could she breathe normally, despite the cold.

  Hannah touched Isabelle's arm, jerked her head towards the fire and stood aside to usher her back in.

  There was spinning all day during the winter, endless piles of hemp waiting in the barn. As she worked, Isabelle thought of the softness of the blue cloth, pretending she was holding it rather than the coarse fibre that raked at her skin and left a web of tiny cuts on her fingers. She could never spin the hemp as fine as she had wool in the Cévennes.

  She knew Jacob must have hidden the cloth somewhere, in the woods or the barn, but she never asked. She never had a chance to; yet even if they had been left alone for a moment she would have let him keep the secret. Otherwise Etienne might have beaten it out of her.

  She found it hard to think in the smoke, faced with the endless hemp, the dark, the muffled silence of the room. Etienne often stared at her and did not look away when she stared back. His eyes were harder without eyelashes and she could not meet his gaze without feeling threatened and guilty.

  She began to speak less, silent now by the fire at night, no longer telling the children stories or singing or laughing. She felt she was shrinking, that if she kept quiet she might become less visible, and be able to escape the suspicion entrapping her, the nameless threat hanging in the air.

  First she dreamed of the shepherd in a field of broom. He was pulling off the yellow flowers and squeezing them between his fingers. Put these in hot water and drink it, he said. Then you will be well. His scar was gone, and when she asked him where it was, he said it had moved to another part of his body.

  Next she dreamed that her father was poking through the ashes of a broken chimney, the ruins of a house smoking around him. She called out to him; intent on his search, he did not look up.

  Then a woman appeared. Isabelle was never able to look directly at her. She stood in doorways, next to trees and once by a river that looked like the Tarn. Her presence was a comfort, though she never said anything or came near enough for Isabelle to see her clearly.

  After Christmas these dreams stopped.

  Christmas morning the family dressed in the customary black, their own clothes this time that they had made from their hemp crop. The cloth was hard and coarse but it would last a long time. The children complained that it scratched and itched. Isabelle silently agreed but said nothing.

  Outside the Eglise Saint Pierre they saw Gaspard among the crowd gathered in front of the church and went over to greet him.

  — Ecoute, Etienne, Gaspard said, I saw a man at the inn who can get you granite for your chimney. Back in France, a day's ride, there is a granite quarry, near Montbéliard. He can bring you a big slab for the hearth in the spring. You tell me the size and I will give a message to the next person going that way.

  Etienne nodded.

  — You told him I would pay in hemp?

  — Bien sûr.

  Etienne turned to the women.

  — We will build a chimney in the spring, he said softly so that their Swiss neighbours would not hear and take offence.

  — God be thanked, Isabelle replied automatically.

  He glanced at her, tightened his lips, and turned away as Pascale joined them. She nodded at Hannah, smiled uncertainly at Isabelle. They had seen each other at church several times but had never been able to talk.

  The minister, Abraham Rougemont, approached. As he was greeting Hannah, Isabelle took the opportunity to speak softly to Pascale.

  — I'm sorry I have not come to see you. It is – difficult now.

  — Do they know about – about —

  — No. Don't worry.

  — Isabelle, I have the —

  She stopped, flustered, for Hannah had appeared at Isabelle's side, her mouth set, eyes fixed on Pascale's face.

  Pascale struggled for a moment, then said simply: — May God watch over you this winter.

  Isabelle smiled wanly.

  — And you as well.

  — You will come to our house between the services?

  — Bien sûr.

  — Good. Now, Jacob, what do you have for me this time, chéri?

  He pulled from his pocket a dull green stone shaped like a pyramid and handed it to her.

  Isabelle turned to go in. When she glanced back she saw Jacob whispering to Pascale.

  After the morning service Etienne turned to her.

  — You and Maman will go home now, he muttered.

  — But the service at Chalières —

  — You're not going to it, La Rousse.

  Isabelle opened her mouth but stopped when she saw the set of his shoulders and the look in his eyes. Now I won't see Pascale, she thought. Now I won't see the Virgin in the chapel. She closed her eyes and pressed her arms against the sides of her head, as if expecting a blow.

  Etienne grabbed her elbow and pulled her roughly from the crowd.

  — Go, he said, pushing her in the direction of home. Hannah stepped to her side.

  Isabelle held out her hand stiffly.

  — Marie, she called. Her daughter jumped to her side.

  — Maman, she said, taking the outstretched hand.

  — No. Marie will go to church with us. Come here, Marie.

  Marie looked up at her mother, then over to her father. She let go of Isabelle's hand and went to stand halfway between them.

  — Here. Etienne pointed to a spot next to him.

  Marie looked at him with wide blue eyes.

  — Papa, she said in a loud voice, if you hit me the way you do Maman, I'll bleed!

  Etienne's anger made him taller. He took a step towards her but stopped when Hannah put a warning hand out and shook her head. He glanced at the crowd: it had gone quiet. Glaring at Marie, he turned and strode away in the direction of Gaspard's house.

  Hannah turned down the path that led towards their farm. Isabelle didn't move.

  — Marie, she said, come with us.

  Marie remained standing in the same spot until Jacob came up to her and took her hand.

  — Let's go to the river, he said. Marie let him lead her away. Neither looked back.

  Jacob played with Marie while the cold trapped them indoors, inventing new games with his pebbles. He taught her to count, and to sort them in various ways: by colour, size, origin. They began outlining objects with the pebbles. They laid a scythe on the floor and placed pebbles all the way round it, then picked up the tool and left behind its outline in stone. They did this with rakes, spades, pots, the bench, smocks, breeches, their hands.

  — Let me outline you, he suggested one evening.

  Marie clapped her hands and laughed. She lay on her back on the floor and he carefully pulled at her dress so that the pebbles would outline its full shape. He chose the pebbles carefully: Cevenol granite around her head and neck, white around the dress, dark green for her legs, feet and hands. He was meticulous, following the lines of the dress, even marking the cut of the waist, the tapering of the arms. When he was done he helped Marie up witho
ut disturbing the pebbles. They all admired the outline of the girl, arms and legs spread on the dirt floor. Isabelle glanced up and noticed that both Jacob and Etienne were looking at it intently. Etienne's lips were moving slightly.

  He's counting, she thought. Why is he counting? A wave of fear swept over her.