Tin Man(28)

The sounds of breakfast rose from downstairs.

Le café est prêt! shouted Madame Cournier.

I awoke hungry. I slipped out from under the sheet and walked to the window. I opened the shutters and the warm breeze wrapped around my body. I looked back at him sleeping. I wanted to wake him. I wanted him all over again.

I moved away from the window and pulled on a pair of swimming shorts. I knelt by the bed and thought, he’ll wake up soon and he’ll wonder what happened last night. And he’ll wonder what it means he’s become. And he’ll feel shame and the creeping shadow of his father. I know this because I know him. But I won’t let him.

He stirred. He opened his eyes. He sat up disorientated and scratched the salt in his hair. And there it was – all of a sudden – the reddening, the bewilderment, the withdrawing. But I caught it before it settled. Last night was amazing, I said. Amazing, amazing, amazing. And I kissed my way down his stomach – amazing – till he filled my mouth, and we smothered one another’s coming till we could barely breathe.

The morning took us back along the coast road, past Boulouris and the red dirt cliffs dotted with bougainvillaea. He slowed and dropped behind. He got off his bike and left it at the side of the road. He walked out to the tip of the promontory, overlooking the bay. I cycled back to him and left my bike next to his. Fishing boats were out, the sea was still, the glare of the sun, white. We sat down on the ledge.

What is it? I said.

What if we don’t go back home? he said.

You serious? I said.

What if we don’t. Could we work?

Sure. We could pick grapes. Work in a hotel, a café maybe. People do. We could.

What about Mabel? he said.

Mabel would understand, I said.

I put my hand on his back and he didn’t push it away.

You could paint and I could write, I said.

He looked at me. How incredible would that be? I said. Right, Ell?

And for the four remaining days – the ninety-six remaining hours – we mapped out a future away from everything we knew. When the walls of the map were breached, we gave one another courage to build them again. And we imagined our home an old stone barn filled with junk and wine and paintings, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and bees.

I remember our final day in the villa. We were supposed to be going that evening, taking the sleeper back to England. I was on edge, a mix of nerves and excitement, looking out to see if he made the slightest move towards leaving, but he didn’t. Toiletries remained on the bathroom shelves, clothes stayed scattered across the floor. We went to the beach as usual, lay side by side in our usual spot. The heat was intense and we said little, certainly nothing of our plans to move up to Provence, to the lavender and light. To the fields of sunflowers.

I looked at my watch. We were almost there. It was happening. I kept saying to myself, he’s going to do it. I left him on the bed dozing, and went out to the shop to get water and peaches. I walked the streets as if they were my new home. Bonjour to everyone, me walking barefoot, oh so confident, free. And I imagined how we’d go out later to eat, and we’d celebrate at our bar. And I’d phone Mabel and Mabel would say, I understand.

I raced back to the villa, ran up the stairs and died.

Our rucksacks were open on the bed, our shoes already packed away inside. I watched him from the door. He was silent, his eyes red. He folded his clothes meticulously, dirty washing in separate bags. I wanted to howl. I wanted to put my arms around him, hold him there until the train had left the station.

I’ve got peaches and water for the journey, I said.

Thank you, he said. You think of everything.

Because I love you, I said.

He didn’t look at me. The change was happening too quickly.

Is there a taxi coming? My voice was weak, breaking.

Madame Cournier’s taking us.

I went to the open window, the scent of tuberose strong. I lit a cigarette and looked at the sky. An aeroplane cast out a vivid orange wake that ripped across the violet wash. And I remember thinking, how cruel it was that our plans were out there somewhere. Another version of our future, out there somewhere, in perpetual orbit.

The bottle of pastis? he said.

I smiled at him. You take it, I said.

We lay in our bunks as the sleeper rattled north and retraced the journey of ten days before. The cabin was dark, an occasional light from the corridor bled under the door. The room was hot and airless, smelt of sweat. In the darkness, he dropped his hand down to me and waited. I couldn’t help myself, I reached up and held it. Noticed my fingertips were numb. We’ll be OK, I remember thinking. Whatever we are, we’ll be OK.

We didn’t see each other for a while back in Oxford. We both suffered, I know we did, but differently. And sometimes, when the day loomed grey, I’d sit at my desk and remember the heat of that summer. I’d remember the smells of tuberose that were carried by the wind, and the smell of octopus cooking on stinking griddles. I’d remember the sound of our laughter and the sound of a doughnut seller, and I’d remember the red canvas shoes I lost in the sea, and the taste of pastis and the taste of his skin, and a sky so blue it would defy anything else to be blue again. And I’d remember my love for a man that almost made everything possible.

A weekend towards the end of September, the bell above the door rang and there he was in the shop. Same old feeling in my guts.