Castle of Water: A Novel(50)

And so … patience. Barry fished and painted, Sophie carved and designed, and together, when there was nothing but time to kill, they built overly elaborate sand castles, went for long afternoon swims, played a crude form of Stone Age pétanque, and even tried baseball—Barry taught her the basics with a driftwood bat and tight ball of rags, and Sophie, oddly enough, enjoyed it, laughing before each pitch when Barry told her to “put a little mustard on it.” The fact that they loved each other ceased to be an improbable oddity and instead became as natural and reliable as the rains. And just like the rains—the heavensent water that filled their two rock cisterns—it was very much what kept them alive. Although it was never spoken, there was a mutual understanding that without the other, neither would have survived alone on the island. Their relationship was the bulb that burned on in the darkness; their love was the rigging that kept the sails intact. And they didn’t need a preacher or a priest or an until death do us part to place benediction upon that which was abundantly clear.





34

They had just made love the first time it happened. It started like this: Sophie was resting her head on Barry’s panting chest, stroking his arm, when she mentioned, all rather casually, that she wished they could have met each other like normal people. Somewhere else, someplace far away.

“Like where, for example?” Barry asked with a tired chuckle. “Lisbon? Eating octopus salad?”

“No, not Lisbon, although we would definitely go there someday.”

“We would?”

“Yes. I would take you to the Alfama and we would drink ginjinha together and listen to fado music.”

“What’s ginjinha again?”

“It’s the sweet liqueur made from sour cherries.”

“And what’s fado music?”

“It’s the songs that the women sing when their men are out at sea. They’re full of sadness and longing.”

“I think the last thing I’d want to hear is a song about sadness and longing, or being lost out at sea.”

“No, they’re beautiful. You would love it.”

“I’ll take your word for it. But where would we meet, if Lisbon’s out of the question?”

“Paris. We would meet there.”

“Why Paris?”

“Why not? You Americans always think it’s a romantic city. Why not Paris?”

“You don’t think it’s romantic?”

“I don’t know. It is a city, like any city. It has good and bad. But that’s where we would meet.”

“All right, Paris it is. And how do we meet?”

“Well, you would be visiting of course. You’d come for just a few months to work on your paintings. You’d rent a little studio in the tenth that doubled as your apartment.”

“Where exactly in the tenth? I’ll need to arrange this with my travel agent.”

“Rue du Chateau d’Eau. I used to walk down it on my way to work. I think that street would be good for a painter. Most people think it’s ugly, but there was something I always liked about it. It had character and charm. Something unique.”

“You mean a certain je ne sais quoi?”

“We never say that, you know. And while we’re on the topic, we never say c’est la vie, either, so you might want to stop. You don’t sound French, you just sound ridiculous.”

“Okay, sorry. Continue.”

“So yes, you’d live on Chateau d’Eau.”

“Castle of Water?”

“No. Well, literally, it means ‘Castle of Water,’ but it also can mean a water tower.”

“I think I like ‘Castle of Water’ better. It has a little more romance to it than ‘Water Tower.’”

“Well, you can call it that if you like.”

“I will. And what would I do on this Castle of Water Street?”

“You would stay in your little apartment and have breakfast at the café on the corner in the morning and work on your canvases in the afternoon. You would have a few affairs with other artist girls you meet there, but nothing would come of it. Just casual, you know?”

“Sounds very bohemian.”

“Oh, yes. Very bohemian. That’s why you’d live on Chateau d’Eau. You’re like me, you would know it’s mal entretenue, but you would find great beauty in it.”

“I can see that. But when would you come into the picture?”

“Be patient, I’m getting there.”

“All right, then, go on.”

“Alors. One night you would be waiting to meet one of your little cocottes, at a café down the street called Chez Suzette. Only she wouldn’t show up, because she’d become very ill.”

“What kind of illness?”

“Oh, some form of hemorrhagic fever, something nasty.”

“And I’m there all alone?”

“Oui, you’d be drinking a glass of beer all alone. But you’d notice a girl across the room, sharing a bottle of wine with her friends.”

“Would she be pretty?”

“Mais oui, une beauté incroyable. She would be wearing a blue dress from a little thrift shop and red Yves Saint Laurent lipstick, and you would love her smile. You’d want to go talk to her.”