A sluggish stream of French soldiers, horses, wagons, guns, ammunition carts and pack mules was passing the door of the Lieutenant Colonel’s billet as Sandrine tore out from it. She fell back against the heat of the sun scorched wall of the house and watched the soldiers pass. They looked dashing and irresistible, dressed like exotic flies in their blue uniform overcoats with flashes of red pantaloons and caps. They trudged past, muttering amongst each other in their ranks, faces set grim for the journey towards the east. Occasionally one would look over and wink at Sandrine, who, despite her anger at that ignorant English officer, returned their attentions with a blown kiss or a little wave of her fingers. Their Sergeant called them to order and urged them down the street. Sandrine watched them turn out of sight and a little shadow suddenly fell across her, as if her heart was a sun which had slipped behind a cloud.
She looked back up at the window of her ex-lover’s house and then hurried quickly across the road, as if scurrying from prying eyes. The street into which she rushed was dark and cool, masked by tall buildings and wide roofs which blocked out any of the warmth. She felt her skin prickle with goosebumps as she lightly danced along it, heading for the shimmering glare of the main market square beyond. She plunged into the light and heat and came to a halt a little way in, standing with her head turned skywards, her arms tight by her sides, letting the sun wash over her like clear water. For how long she stood there she didn’t know, but she was aware of people shuffling hurriedly past, mumbling quietly to themselves as they were forced to step around her. Eventually she lowered her eyes and opened them on Alessandro and his stall.
She didn’t go to Alessandro immediately. She watched him from where she stood, serving the staccato stream of nervous hurried customers shopping for their weekly meat, always showing disapproval of what Alessandro was able to offer by their heavy shrugs faced with his war-rationed offerings – returned with a good-humoured shrug from him. The war had taken its toll in many ways. The armies needed feeding, with both men and produce. Some families gave with their wares; others donated to the cause in more devastating ways.
“Alessandro!” she called, skipping forward.
“Sandrine!” Alessandro cheered, wiping his bloodied hands on his towel as he saw her approach. He gave them a final rub on the front of his apron and leaned forward to greet her with kisses. “How is it that you look even more beautiful with your clothes on than with them off?”
“Alessandro, I always feel more beautiful when I see you,” she teased, and kissed him again, this time on the forehead.
Alessandro’s name suggested a heritage more exotic than the truth. He had been born in Arras twenty six years ago to Henri and Margot Dequois. Henri was so certain that he was directly descended from Roman emperors that he gave his first son a Roman sounding name. You could tell in an instant by Alessandro’s pallid complexion that his roots were firmly buried in the benign rolling hills of north east France rather than the rich heat and romance of southern Italy.
Alessandro’s fame as a butcher had originated courtesy of his father, from whom he inherited the business when arthritis forced Henri to sit out his days on the veranda of his modest townhouse. Alessandro’s prowess in butchery, and his eye for recognising the best farmers, quickly took the business from being simply admired to being city renowned. All the best cooks used Alessandro’s produce, all those wishing to impress dining guests chose from his choice wares. At least they did, before the war came. Now, he sold what he could to whoever was left in the city.
“Why are you not with your lover?” he asked, his eyes glinting.
Sandrine blew loudly through her lips.
“He was a fool!” she replied. “And a terrible lover!” she lied.
Alessandro roared and slapped his thigh.
Sandrine laughed too. “I hope the British are better fighters than they are lovers.”
“Ah, so he was British?! Well, I am not surprised to hear he could not make love. What do the British know of making love? They are too busy burning their beef and building their railways.” Sandrine laughed and Alessandro laughed with her. He watched the way her breasts moved beneath her dress and longed desperately to reach out and pull her to him, the sensation almost overwhelming. He thought of her in the arms of her lover last night in an attempt to subdue his passion. Their laughter slowly fell away. “So what are you doing now?”
“Now? I was going to find out if there was any truth in the news of Fampoux. What have you heard? Tell me what you know!”
“Only rumour,” replied Alessandro. “Some say it was taken last night after a terrible battle. Others,” he turned his head to one side and scratched behind his ear, “they say the Germans still hold it.”
“There is a lot of movement,” Sandrine said hopefully, looking around the square, “of soldiers going east.”
The butcher nodded. “There is. Now, do you want some of my finest produce?” he asked, as if the talk of battles unsettled him. “I’m afraid I don’t have much. This war, it is taking its unfair share. They take it, Sandrine, the authorities they take it and they boil it and put it into tins! My finest cuts! For the soldiers! To think of it. My award winning liver, boiled and pushed into little metal pots.”
“I was wondering if I could stay with you tonight.”
The question came quickly and unexpectedly. It struck Alessandro like a stunning blow. He stood stock still, his face frozen like a mask.
“You can always say no,” Sandrine said, but her hands were clasped expectantly tight to her chest.
“No,” Alessandro said. Sandrine at once blanched and Alessandro heard a noise come out of her. “No,” he said again, stutteringly, his face brightening with each word he was able to get out. “I mean, no, please, yes, that would be …” His spirit flashed with elation and desire. “I would love you to stay but …” He laughed thinly and shrugged, racked with uncertainty. “But … why?” He was standing with his hands held awkwardly by his side, his fingers twitching like the tails of irritated cats. He crossed his arms. They slipped together but instantly slipped apart and he found himself an uncomfortable and inelegant pose against the counter of meat, where he rested his clumsy body. Of course, he knew he was being used, as he’d been used before, but as he gazed at her loveliness, faced with her heart and beauty, he knew without a moment’s doubt that he didn’t care.
Sandrine giggled and rose, her clasped hands raised to her face, framing her delicate features.
“Why? Well, I say why not?”
She smiled and Alessandro felt he could fall long and deep into her wide and beseeching eyes.
“Why not indeed!” he chuckled breathlessly, and then he shrugged and the pair of them both laughed. He could feel a force between them, an enchantment pulling their bodies together. He allowed himself to be drawn towards her, but stopped short of draping his arms around her, despite so longing to do so. “So, you know where …”
“Alessandro, I know where you live, my darling,” answered Sandrine, leaning forward the remainder of the short distance between them and kissing him briefly on the lips. “I will see you at …”
“Five?”
“Five is perfect,” she said, catching sight of a contingent of Catholic Priests stepping purposefully across the square towards them. She reached forward and kissed Alessandro again. “Till later,” she called, and then vanished into the hubbub of the market.