Chapter Twenty-nine

A Visit to Sète

Geneviève and I held hands as we walked along the ancient stone wall of Impasse Pierre Rouge, now plastered over with peeling film posters. The wooden gate creaked as I pushed it open and she looked around the garden. “So this is your new digs.”

“Do you like it, chérie? It is a real hideaway. We can be private here. Not like the old place.”

“Of course I like it,” she said, following me across our patio to the French doors of our apartment.

“Although, I have to warn you,” I continued, “there’s no shower. And we have to share a sink with Rick downstairs. But he’s hardly ever here. He’s with his girlfriend most of the time.”

I opened the double doors with my key and we passed through Rick’s empty room. After climbing single file up the narrow staircase, I shut my bedroom door behind us. Geneviève dropped her duffel bag with a thud and turned to put her arms around me.

“I missed you,” I said fitting my head under her chin.

“Mais, oui,” she breathed, turning the word, “oui” into a drawn-out, wistful sigh. “Seeing you two weekends in a row and then not at all for three weeks!”

I murmured, “Except for a phone call. I’m so happy you got your phone.” I pointed to the big bed. “That’s another thing that is better. No more single mattress.”

We fell onto it and kissed hungrily. But the abandon we’d felt in Lyon was missing. I felt a heaviness in her. I didn’t want to ask her about it. Not yet. I snuggled up to her and pulled the big, old-fashioned, embroidered spread over us. She started snoring softly. Geneviève was always tired when she got off the night train from Paris. She never slept well in the sleeper car. I dozed off too while listening to the wind in the trees.

When she awoke, Geneviève sat up abruptly and glanced around as though she didn’t know where she was. When she looked over at me, relief softened her features. “I had a bad dream,” she said. “I was a prisoner in a ship going out to sea. Some of my brother’s friends kidnapped me. They were thugs. They tied me up and put me on the ship.” She grimaced. “I thought it was real. I think I dreamed this because when we were little, I used to wrestle with my brother and his friends. They used to pile on top of me and they wouldn’t let me up. Sometimes I could hardly breathe.”

I hugged her. I was getting to know her ups and downs. “Of course it’s not real,” I said softly, brushing my face through the dark waves of her hair. “Mmmm, your hair is so soft.” I breathed deeply. “You smell good.” She leaned into me, stroking my arm.

I could hear her stomach rumble. I asked, “Want to get some lunch?”

“Yes. I’d like to go down to the sea. We are so close. Have you ever been to Sète?”

“No, I’ve heard it’s very pretty.”

“It’s one of my favorite places around here. There is a good restaurant there on the quay. When I was a child we always used to go to the southern coast for our vacations. The seaside is a good place for me.”

“I love it too. That’s why I came here.” I laughed. “That was a joke on me, because Montpellier is nine kilometers away. But still, it’s close. Shall we take the bus?”

“Yes. They go by the central square.”

“I’ve seen them. In fact, I’ve always wanted to jump on one of the buses marked Sète and see where I ended up.”

We waited for the bus in the cool sunshine of the Place de la Comédie.

“Did you know that the poet Paul Valérie was born there?” she asked as we rolled out of the city.

“No. That must be why they named my university after him.”

She nodded. “I know how much you like poetry. There is a Paul Valérie museum we could visit.”

“And I know how much you like history. And museums about anything dead and gone.”

“You are right, but perhaps today I would prefer to just sit by the sea.”

The town was crisscrossed by canals like in Venice. On our walk to the quayside restaurant, we passed colorful old buildings. Then, closer to the sea, sailboats bobbed, their masts clustered liked reeds. We ordered mussels and swordfish. The mussels came from the lagoon behind us, the fish from the sea in front of us. We had white wine and watched the November sun move in a gray arc over the horizon, talking lazily about many things. She told me more about her family and growing up. I did the same. Boats bobbed in the wharf as gulls screamed, hustling up their own fish dinner.

Geneviève’s idea to come here had been a good one. The whole place was serene and timeless, far from the bustle of the city. Here we were safely cocooned, nestled below a small mountain that cut down to the water on one side and a network of canals and boats on the other. I felt more the way I did in Lyon that afternoon, maybe because we were again away from where either of us lived, away from each of our individual lives and concerns. It would have been nice to just stay there all night in one of the hotels on the hill, falling asleep to the sound of the waves lapping against the cliffs. But I couldn’t afford it and I couldn’t ask her to pay. After dinner, we walked among the canals until lights started to wink on in the houses. We watched the fishing trawlers come in with their catch, one by one docking and unloading baskets onto dockside trolleys that the fishermen pushed and pulled skillfully away toward sheds, followed by gangs of screaming gulls.

Geneviève and I slept soundly in the big bed on Impasse Piere-Rouge that night, worn out by exercise and sea air.

In the morning, I slipped out of bed and went out to the nearby bakery for croissants. I made coffee by pouring water through a filter. Rick hadn’t come home that night, so we sat at the small table downstairs by the French doors. We didn’t talk much. Afterward we put on our coats and explored the garden and let ourselves out the creaky gate. The day was warmer and sunnier than yesterday. We passed down the silent, sleeping lane, as church bells announced that at least some of its inhabitants were on their way to mass. We walked side by side, swinging our arms, until we had passed through the narrow streets of the old town and had climbed the steps to the park above the city.

This was where she’d asked me to meet her in Lyon last time. I felt disconnected from both of those two last visits; I didn’t know why. Something was different this time. I wondered how to ask Geneviève about it. We walked in silence, admiring the view from the hill. No one was around.

Finally, I asked, “Is something wrong, Geneviève?”

We stood at the parapet looking out. Misty clouds blocked our view of the sea. All we could see were the red-roofed houses below and gray high-rises receding into the distance.

She gripped the cement railing with one hand and turned her head toward me. “I didn’t want to talk about it right away,” she said quickly. “I didn’t want to spoil our visit. I had a nice time with you in Sète yesterday, Sophie. I always do.” Her voice dropped. “But not as nice as it could have been.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, when you talked to me on the phone the other day and told me you had moved…it was a shock for me. You did it without telling me.”

“But I had to move! Things weren’t going well at the other house. I told you. I thought you’d be pleased that we have a private place almost to ourselves.”

“Yes, but you said you would think about moving to Paris. Then I find out that you have gone to the trouble of moving, but not to Paris—to another place in Montpellier. Can you see how I felt?”

“Well, yes but…” I looked into her steely gray eyes.

“What hurt me the most was when you talked about your little patio. Remember that?”

“My patio?”

“Mais, oui. You said, ‘when it gets warmer I can sit out and have my breakfast on the patio.’ Remember that?” I sucked in my breath and nodded. I did remember saying that. “That’s when I thought—she has no intention of ever moving to Paris. She is talking about spring, about still being here when the weather warms up.”

“I was just talking. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Have you thought about Paris at all?”

“Of course I have. But I am not ready. I told you.”

“Yes, I know that. You have been here for, what, about six weeks? You have made friends. You have a little life of your own, just as you wanted. But what about me? What about how I feel? Do you ever think about that? Is everything to be on your terms?”

A sharp pang of guilt seared through me. I was a selfish, immature twit. As she said, my plans were all about me. I’d been afraid all along that I wasn’t ready to handle a relationship. Well, I didn’t know how to handle this one right now. Fortunately, my emergency self spoke up. She’s talking about how she feels. Ask her how she feels, you idiot! “Tell me how you feel,” I said.

“How I feel? Sophie, you are here in France for such a short time. It would be different if you lived here. Then we would have years for a long-distance relationship. But as it is? Before I know it, you will return to the US.”

“But we still have lots of time left. I told you I would let you know when I was ready.”

“My question is, will you ever be ready?”

The question slammed against me with its implicit lack of trust. Her eyes were now shielded by a hard veneer. “Of course I will.”

“When?”

“I can’t tell you that!” I said, angry now. “Geneviève, it doesn’t help when you pressure me.”

“You wanted to know how I feel. I would feel better if I knew what your plans were.”

“I don’t have any plans. Not exactly. I will tell you when I do.”

She stood up. “That is not good enough. To have no plans. Am I not worth making a plan for?”

“That’s not fair,” I murmured. I looked up to where she towered over me. Tears trickled down my face. “Of course you are worth it. You don’t understand.” I paused to gather my thoughts, wiping my tears with my fist. “I like my life here. I love our weekends together too. If I tell you a definite date that I will move to Paris, it’s like I am already packing up my life here. I am already saying good-bye. It ruins everything. Don’t you see that?”

“I see that you don’t want to change anything.”

I swallowed. “We are different, Geneviève. You like things to be all set and decided, and I like things to be up in the air sometimes. Because that way I feel free. I can breathe. Otherwise it’s like I am in a box.”

“You and your freedom! What about love? I thought you loved me.”

“I do love you. You know I do.”

She stood with her arms crossed, her heavy brows furrowed. “I love you too, Sophie.” Her voice had softened a bit, but still, there was a tension in it. “I don’t think there is any point in continuing this discussion right now.”

I looked at her face and her rigid stance. I wanted to give her what she wanted, but if I did, it seemed like I would be robbing myself. I didn’t know what I could do or say to make things better. I stood up from the bench. We walked slowly back to my place. The day was ruined. She packed up her few things as I watched from the unmade bed.

“Good-bye, Sophie,” she said after zipping up her overnight bag. Only, in French it was “au revoir,” which means, until we see each other again. At least that didn’t sound as final as it would have in English.

“When…when will I see you again?” My voice was shaky.

“We will talk on the phone,” she said.

I followed her down the stairs and out the double door. On the patio, she bent to kiss me lightly on the lips, then turned briskly toward the gate. It was clear she didn’t want my company on the walk to the station. I stood there with tears in my eyes long after the gate clanged and the bobbing of her head was no longer visible above the wall. The cold stone wall seemed to surround my heart, keeping me away from her, maybe forever.