I Do Not Think That They Will Sing to Me
Athena, 27
Clermont-Ferrand, 2001
The cold French countryside blurred past Athena’s wet eyes in the early morning light. A dull orange and muddy green, dotted with little villages and train platforms, the motion of the train anaesthetising the passengers. Athena sat opposite a tracksuit-wearing older woman with a stripe of grey hair and a big black dog she called Fifi that cried like a broken whistle the entire journey. He stopped when she put him on her lap, but only for a few minutes. The woman’s companion, a middle-aged man, wore a faded olive-green shirt and quietly read Geo magazine, occasionally offering the lady and Fifi mutterings of support.
As the sun rose Athena saw blue and cloudy sky, church spires, smatterings of gravestones, the early autumnal forest. There were houses with slanted roofs, the occasional one painted a bright primary colour, and windows with square shutters like a child’s drawing.
She clutched her ticket, stamped Clermont-Ferrand.
Many years ago Athena had won a school prize to go to Europe on a student exchange program for one term. She’d chosen Clermont-Ferrand by closing her eyes and putting her finger on a map in the classroom. She’d wanted to get as far away from her family as possible, and a school exchange program seemed like a legitimate way to do so. Athena had lived with Madame Astier and her husband and son for a school term, speaking French that she had never forgotten.
‘I cannot believe you are leaving me to live with strangers,’ her mother had said, in tears at the airport. ‘Wear your máti. And ring me straight away. And don’t trust people.’
Athena looked at her wrist, where she had nothing but the edge of her black shirt over her veins. The gold bracelet with her máti on it was in her jewellery box in London. Maybe she should have worn it more. Maybe things had started going wrong when she stopped wearing it.
She had only called Madame Astier the day before, from Gare du Nord, after an uneventful Eurostar journey.
Athena had asked if she could come and stay for the weekend. She was living in London now. She apologised for the late notice. Of course, of course, Madame Astier said. She would meet her at the train station.
_____
Madame Astier smiled more than any other French person Athena had ever met. A mini, spritely middle-aged lady dressed in neutral tones with her matching Longchamp handbag (an apparently obligatory accessory for all French women over the age of forty). She was slightly smaller and frailer than the last time they had been at this platform.
‘Athena, how are you? We haven’t seen you in years,’ she said in French.
She leaned towards Athena and kissed her on her cheeks. Madame Astier was using the polite vous form to address Athena. She was conscious of responding in the same manner.
‘It was so lovely to hear from you. I had hoped you would come and visit us again sometime,’ she said, leading Athena to her car.
Madame Astier drove her out of the town centre, past an eclectic mix of old and contemporary buildings. Outside the town she waved towards the left. The infamous Michelin factory was still there. It was big and grey and ugly but Madame Astier was proud of it all the same. It was good for the economy. Athena recalled that she had spoken the exact same words to her on her first visit. Athena remembered being mortified that she had chosen to stay somewhere with a tyre factory (too close to her parents’ yoghurt factory). Athena had thought that choosing a town right in the middle of France (albeit with her eyes closed) would be absolute bucolic Frenchness. Sophisticated, yet homely.
And then she saw a glimpse of it, just like she remembered. The black cathedral, like a spectre towering over the town, made of volcanic rock.
_____
Madame Astier pulled into a charming old cottage bordered by flowering fruit trees beginning to tinge orange and red.
‘Chez nous,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you remember it.’
Athena recalled the stab of excitement when she first saw their house. Nervous and jetlagged after her flights from Perth, expending energy she didn’t have trying to form sentences and conjugate verbs. Doing her best to be French enough.
Madame gave Athena a detailed tour of the house. Not much had changed. The pattern of a tablecloth, the stem of a wild rose, the shape of a door handle. It was eerily familiar, like a house she had visited in a dream.
But with every ornament, every window, every yellowing photograph, it felt like the family had moved out, moved on. Jacques would never live here again.
_____
Madame entered the salon, followed by an elderly man with glasses, thinning hair and a brown woollen cardigan with suede patches at the elbows.
‘So nice to see you again, Athena,’ Monsieur Astier said, kissing her on both cheeks.
Madame Astier waved at them to sit at the table for lunch. Athena smiled at the numerous knives and forks framing the place settings indicating that there would be courses. Madame Astier returned from the kitchen with a big bowl of green leafy salad drizzled with balsamic vinegar and set it next to her.
‘Servez-vous, Madame,’ she said to Athena.
Athena scooped a small portion of the salad onto her plate. She passed it to Madame, who passed it to Monsieur Astier, who passed it back to Madame.
Athena ate the salad slowly, conscious that she’d put a lot less on her plate than the others had. Madame offered more salad and she took a little more.
When they had finished their first course, Madame picked up the plates, told Athena to sit down when she offered to help and retreated to the kitchen. Some minutes later she returned with a big open plate and set it next to her.
‘Pot au feu,’ she announced. ‘Do you like pot au feu?’
‘Oh yes, I love it,’ Athena said, smiling.
‘That’s good, very good. It’s very good to like pot au feu,’ said Monsieur Astier.
The pot au feu comprised big chunks of tender meat, whole soft carrots, potatoes and leeks in a clear broth. She was asked to serve herself again. This time she did so a little more confidently. It tasted so warm and comforting and full of something she had not tasted in what felt like forever. The exact opposite of the MSG-laden butter chicken in a foil box masquerading as food she had been eating alone every night for God knows how long.
Even though it was quite different to the food her mother cooked, it was somehow the same. Made with love and time and experience. By someone who could actually cook.
‘You just don’t have the cooking gene, Athena,’ her mother had said to her countless times. Athena had tried. For a long time she had tried, but eventually she had acknowledged that she would be forever doomed to buying pre-made food.
After the pot au feu Madame presented four cheeses arranged on a platter. She explained that there was a local blue, a local chèvre, a cantal and, most importantly, St Nectaire, the most famous of the Auvergne cheeses. Athena remembered that Madame was proud of St Nectaire. It was something that set the Auvergne apart from the other provinces.
Athena sliced a small portion of each cheese onto her plate and tasted each with the accompanying crispy baguette. Each mouthful was crunchy and creamy. She succumbed to a dream-like state and listened to the banter between Madame and Monsieur Astier. It was fast and hard to follow, so she drank more wine, smiled and nodded where it seemed appropriate to do so.
Finally, Madame took away the cheese and returned with a cake decorated with pineapple that reminded her of the front page of an old Women’s Weekly cookbook from the 1980s on her Mum’s bookshelf. Athena didn’t remember her mother actually ever making the cake, just that they had the book. It was probably when French cooking was considered the height of sophistication, before fusion, before celebrity chefs - just classic Frenchness.
‘I really hope that you didn’t go to too much trouble for me, Madame,’ she said. ‘The food is amazing.’
‘Oh no, Athena. We are so pleased to see you. Maybe next time you will bring your husband.’
Athena flicked a smile and then focused on an oil painting in a gilded frame behind Madame. Green and turquoise and white. Impressionist. She wondered if it was an original.
If Madame sensed anything from Athena’s non-answer, she didn’t seem to show it. The cake melted into Athena’s mouth. Soft and syrupy and delicious. She devoured a second piece.
Athena rested in the afternoon and sort of read the local newspaper in French. She hadn’t brought a novel with her or anything to actually do. Athena hadn’t thought much past getting out of London. When her head hurt from the French, she walked down the road, breathing in the reddening trees.
_____
At dinner, Athena sat in the same chair she’d occupied at lunch time.
‘Pâtes des pommes,’ Madame announced entering the room and then lowering a concoction of thinly sliced potatoes with a layer of cream and pastry on top onto the table.
‘Thank you, Madame,’ Athena said in French. ‘It looks beautiful.’
‘It’s so easy to make this. You should make it at home. What you do is you peel the potatoes, then slice them very thinly, like you would if you were making a gratin, then you add herbs and spices. You can add salt and pepper and parsley and whatever herbs you have in your garden. Then you put a layer of cream on the top. Then you put the pastry over it and make some piercings in the top of the pastry for the vapour to get out. Then you put it in the oven and when the potatoes are cooked you can take it out and serve it with salad.’
‘That sounds great, I will try it in London,’ she said after tasting the delightful but unlikely combination of potatoes, cream and pastry.
‘Don’t forget to put the holes in the top of the pastry.’
Athena nodded.
‘I can write it down for you if you like.’
‘That’s alright, I’ll remember,’ Athena said and hoped that Madame didn’t sense that she was lying. She would never be able to make something like this.
Madame retrieved the cheese plate from lunch from the kitchen. Athena had a little more St Nectaire to Madame’s approving nod.
She suspected that there would also be dessert. Madame presented a domed glass bowl full of colourful fruit salad on the table.
‘The mirabelles are from our garden,’ Madame said. ‘The end of the season.’
Athena remembered the first time she’d been here. She’d never seen one before and looked up a translation. Mirabelles were small yellow plums. The fruit salad was served with a plate of plain biscuits and wafers on the side.
By this time Athena had drunk probably a little too much red wine. She wondered how Monsieur and Madame Astier had met. Was it love at the local fromagerie? A well-orchestrated set-up? They always seemed to be having a good time together. How was this possible?
Occasionally, she even saw Monsieur Astier’s hand graze his wife’s hand, nod and wink at her in appreciation of the amazing meal. Athena would never have noticed these things on her first visit.
Then she had been too busy trying to speak perfect French to Jacques and look as nonchalant as she possibly could. He had just shaken his head at her and grinned, asking her questions about Australia. Kangaroos and koalas. Swimming and sharks. The usual stuff. He spoke in fast English at the dinner table so the adults wouldn’t understand.
‘To them, you may as well have come from the moon,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Anywhere out of Europe is another planet.’
But now Jacques had moved on. He wasn’t there mumbling witty things. He had found a nice, shiny American wife and they were living in Los Angeles. He visited once a year, but never in autumn.
_____
After dinner Athena sat on the bed in the room she had slept in all those years ago. She breathed in the scent of the sprigs of lavender that Madame had placed thoughtfully in a little jar in water, a white ribbon tied around it in a small bow.
Why was there always something sad about an old bedroom? Was it because you remember the dreams you had lying on that bed? Was it sad if you hadn’t fulfilled those dreams? Or sadder if you had? Your life was already partly finished now. There had already been choices. You weren’t just waiting for life to happen. For love to find you. There had been moments. Really important moments and conversations and commitments.
When she thought about London, it felt black and cold. Marble and stone. Black and white. Him – out at 6 am, home at 11 pm every night. Her – out at 9 am, home at 6 pm. Ships in the night, although she hated that expression.
It wasn’t what the first months of marriage were meant to be like. And although Athena had agreed to the open relationship, it still hurt. She had thought all the bad stuff, the undoing, if it ever did happen, would happen later, when they were old. If at all. But had she really thought that anything would change by getting married?
_____
Athena woke to the sound of a rooster’s morning call as if it were on script. She showered, using lavender-scented bath gel, and patted herself dry with a shell-pink towel. She remembered her body the last time she was here, standing in this bathroom (possibly in the same towel?). Neither her body nor the towel were so new anymore. She had polluted it with alcohol and cigarettes and too many late nights. And where had that got her?
Madame had already laid the dining room table. There was a white tray with croissants and a platter of fruit and a selection of jam, honey and yoghurt.
Oh, the yoghurt.
Athena walked past the table and into the kitchen. Her eyes wandered over to a clock set on the kitchen bench with L.A. taped to the top of the clock-face, so they knew what time they could call their son. It was so endearing, and she suddenly wished she could speak to someone about what was going on. But it was too far to go back to Perth. It would be too much of a big deal. And there would be so much I told you so that Athena couldn’t bear the thought of it. She could never tell her mother any of this. She could never say anything negative about Richard.
‘Oh yes, it’s all very confusing with this time difference to Los Angeles, you know,’ Madame said.
Athena looked down at the terracotta-tiled floor.
‘Please come to the table and we will have breakfast.’ Madame ushered her back into the dining room.
Athena sat in her designated chair. She felt like she had been here her whole life. By now she had eaten so many meals at this table that this was her home, her table, her chair.
Madame set a pot of coffee next to her and for a moment Athena scanned the table for a cup. There were none. She looked at the bowl in front of her and remembered how Jacques had sipped his coffee from the bowl. She had copied him, as if she had drunk coffee like this every day of her life.
Athena poured a little coffee into the big bowl and passed the coffee pot to Monsieur Astier, who did the same, but filled it closely to the brim and then topped it up with milk. He dunked his entire croissant into the bowl. She smiled and dunked hers in a little; she liked the crispness of the pastry too much to dip it in all the way.
Monsieur Astier laughed at her. ‘This is a real French breakfast here. What do you usually eat for breakfast in London? Eggs? Bacon? You anglaise with your bacon for breakfast.’ He roared with laughter at this and she smiled.
He continued to snigger ‘bacon, hahahaha’ between mouthfuls of soggy croissant, as Athena observed the remnants of her coffee in the bottom of her bowl and wondered if it meant anything. Her grandmother said that there was a woman in her village in Aeaea who used to read coffee cups.
‘Did you have yours read?’ Athena asked her grandmother once.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Yiayia Sia. ‘I told you when you were a little girl, remember?’
‘And has it been true? What she said?’
‘So far,’ said Yiayia Sia, tilting her head and closing her eyes.
_____
Later that day, they drove closer and closer to the cathedral, and Athena felt her chest tighten. She would have to go in there.
They ascended the stairs into the towering monster, where she was temporarily consumed by its high ceilings and cold stained-glass shapes.
She hadn’t been inside a church since that day in Perth at the Greek Orthodox cathedral. When she and Richard had stood in front of everyone they knew. They had worn crowns joined by a white ribbon and walked around a table three times. Chrissie’s daughter Eleni had been her koumbára. Her friend Sally had been relegated to an usher. Athena had worn the white dress. She had participated in the ritual, God had joined them, and now only months later she and Richard were broken. All that ceremony and ritual and fuss in front of everyone, including Greek Orthodox God, had meant nothing.
She followed Madame Astier to the altar and then to the front pew, where she sighed and sat down.
‘Monsieur Astier and I were married here.’
‘Oh,’ Athena said, and looked at the stone floor.
What would happen with them? She loved Richard. She did. And she knew what he was like.
Some minutes passed before Athena spoke.
‘Were you ever worried that you’d made a huge mistake?’ Athena asked.
Madame Astier exhaled. ‘Athena, dear, you are very young. You are too young to be unhappy. So, maybe he is not right for you and now you know and you can end it before it has begun. But Athena, you know, les anglaises don’t like to admit it but it’s very hard to get everything you need from one person. People are just people. And we are not here forever.’
Madame Astier rose from her pew and shuffled towards her husband, who was at the back of the church talking to a middle-aged woman with bright, red lips and a pink-and-orange silk scarf swirled around her neck. Athena watched Madame Astier greet this woman with brief kisses on both cheeks and a comment on the scarf. The three of them laughed, although Madame Astier for not as long as the other two.
Athena looked up at the ever-expanding ceiling, like an Escher drawing. The cathedral would be here long after her lifetime. It would outlast them all. They were all just people. Fragile, fickle, temporary. Capable of fleeting moments of love and connection to others in their short lives. They shuffled into the car and Athena mouthed goodbye to the cathedral. She would go back to Richard. She had committed to him, to their special kind of relationship. She would keep her promise to him.
Monsieur Astier drove past the tyre factory and spouted some statistics that she didn’t follow.
At the train station Madame Astier got out of the car. Madame Astier kissed her on both cheeks and squeezed her hands.
‘So, I hope that we will see you again soon. Please come any time.’
Athena smiled and thanked her. After she said goodbye and walked towards the train, Athena realised that Madame Astier had used the informal tu with her. The vous had disappeared somewhere between the cathedral and the train station.