LAUSANNE—November 1995
On Saturday morning, Kersti spends the entire two-hour study hall choosing something to wear. Cressida can’t help her with an outfit because she’s at Model United Nations practice again; they’re going to The Hague at the end of November, so she’s never around. Kersti will be happy when it’s over.
Lunch is the usual roast chicken and french fries, but Kersti saves her appetite for beer fondue. When the bell rings and they’re released from school, all the boarders spill out the front door, wild with their freedom. Kersti hangs back for a few minutes, not wanting Magnus to think she’s overly anxious, and then saunters out to find him leaning against his uncle’s Mercedes, wearing a leather jacket over a Nirvana T-shirt. Kersti tries not to look at him as she slides into the passenger seat. She doesn’t want him to see how red her face feels or how hard it is for her not to smile.
They drive through the countryside outside Lausanne, neither of them saying much. Kersti is looking out her open window, still awed by the scenery. In the autumn sunlight, the grass shines like emeralds against a backdrop of flaming red and orange trees. Beyond the hills, which are patched with cobblestone villages and red-roofed farmhouses, the jagged Alps rise up to meet the white sky, taking her breath away.
“Does it still impress you?” she asks Magnus, turning to face him for the first time since they left the Lycée.
“What?”
“This countryside, the Alps, Lake Geneva . . .”
He shrugs.
“How can it not?” she asks, incredulous.
“This is why I like hanging out with you, Kuusk,” he says, smiling at her.
She doesn’t respond, choosing instead to savor the moment and not bungle it with one of her awkward, overthought retorts.
They drive until they reach a red-shuttered farmhouse in the middle of a meadow, where cows are mingling languidly and the air smells of Edelweiss. There’s something charming about the way the place has been preserved in time, nestled in the shadows of the Jorat forest. The name of the restaurant, Auberge de Chalet-des-Enfants, is painted on a wooden sign out front. In spite of the November chill, people are eating outside under a canopied patio.
Magnus orders for her—beer fondue for two and a bottle of Chasselas—which is thrilling. She doesn’t drink wine when she’s out with friends, only beer, and it feels wonderfully grown-up, something her parents would do.
“My mom loves Chasselas,” he says, lighting a cigarette. She notices his knee bouncing under the table. Every so often, it hits the table and their glasses shake.
“Are your parents together?” she asks him.
“No. My mom’s remarried. She lives in Stockholm with her new family. I spend the summers with my dad in California.”
“When do you see her?”
“I don’t,” he says matter-of-factly. “I used to go home for Christmas, but I can’t stand my stepfather and their kids are assholes. I go to Gstaad now with the school.”
“That’s kind of sad.”
“Is it?”
She can’t tell if his response is bravado or genuine indifference. “It must bother you,” she says. “Never seeing your mother?”
He shrugs. The fondue shows up and he looks relieved. It’s sublime and they’re both happy to eat for a while in silence. “Don’t pretend your life is The Cosby Show,” he says, looking up at her.
“I never did—”
“Most of us don’t wind up at the Lycée because we’re wanted,” he says.
She looks down at her plate, stung. He’s right. The chasm between Kersti and her family has become even more palpable since she’s been in Lausanne. Her three sisters are inseparable. They look the same, dress the same, finish each other’s sentences. They even speak their own language, which their mother calls “Estonglish.” They’re twenty-three, twenty-four, and twenty-six. They all still live at home, although Jutta is engaged to her boyfriend, Rasmus, and will probably move out after her wedding. Kersti has nothing in common with them. When Kersti goes home for the holidays, they call her Swiss Miss and exclude her from everything. Even though they’re so much older than her, she finds them immature, silly, and unworldly. She feels much closer to her friends at the Lycée. In some ways, she even feels closer to Mme. Hamidou than to her own mother, whose silent recriminations have always shone through her judgmental blue eyes.
“Don’t sulk, Kuusk,” Magnus says.
She has an urge to smack his smug face, but he returns her anger with an irresistible smile and she softens.
“How do you like the fondue?” he asks her.
“It’s delicious,” she mutters, pulling a rope of cheesy bread out of the pot.
“Wait till you taste the flan.”
He orders dessert and more wine, which alarms her. He has to drive back to Lausanne.
By the time they leave the restaurant, the sky is dark and they can see their breath in the air. Magnus can barely walk in a straight line and Kersti is afraid to get in the car. She’s drunk, but not completely incoherent. “What are we going to do?” she asks him. “You can’t drive.”
“Hmm,” he says. “What can we do?”
She’s not sure what his agenda is, but she’s starting to feel nervous. He takes her by the hand. “Follow me, Kuusk.”
He leads her to the woods and she’s so caught up in the thrill of holding hands with him, she forgets to worry about what’s going to happen next. Leaves crunch beneath their shoes as they trip over branches and rocks, leaning on one another for support. “Are you going to murder me?” she asks, half-joking but really beginning to wonder.
He laughs.
“You know, like that preppy murder in Central Park a few years ago?”
“Murder’s not what I had in mind.”
She stops walking and makes him stop and face her. “What do you have in mind?” she asks him.
“Well. We need to kill at least an hour, right?”
“Don’t tell me a hike through the woods in the dark?”
“You don’t know me at all,” he says. “I smoke too much to hike. You’re not really afraid, are you?”
The moon, just shy of being full, is throwing a fair bit of light across the night sky. “Should I be?”
“Of course not,” he says, laughing and pulling her toward him. Her heart is thrashing inside her chest. She hears some little creature scurrying nearby, but doesn’t care. She’s standing in the forest with Magnus Foley and his face is coming toward her. She closes her eyes and it’s exactly like in her fantasies: his lips on hers, soft and wet; the taste of cigarette, which somehow is a turn-on; his big hands on either side of her face, holding it in place while he kisses her. Everything happens quickly after that.
Magnus manages to find a big rock and, breathing heavily, gently eases her down onto it. He opens her coat. She squeals when she feels his cold hands on her bare skin, but when his fingers find her nipples, the squeals turned to moans. No one has ever touched her like this before, or anywhere for that matter. She’s never even been kissed.
He’s her first. Her first real kiss, her first breast touching, and finally, her first lover. He has a condom in his jeans pocket. “SIDA,” he mumbles in her ear. “We have to be safe.”
She’s too confused, elated, and drunk to protest. She’s outside of herself, experiencing it almost as a bystander. He whips off his coat and, gentleman that he is, lays it on the rock underneath her. He has his pants down at his knees almost as quickly as he has hers down. She’s grateful for the fur lining of his leather jacket. She feels warm. And there’s also the heat from his body and their heavy breathing, and from all the moving and grinding up against each other.
“Are there wolves here?” she asks him. He just laughs some more and resumes what he’s doing, which is making her feel damn good.
“I don’t know what to do,” she murmurs, not really embarrassed but wanting to warn him in advance.
“Don’t worry,” he pants, kissing her on the mouth and then her neck and in her ear. His tongue feels so good. He knows exactly where to put it to make her spine arch. Her fear begins to vanish, her anxiety quiets down.
And then the pain comes. An excruciating stab between her legs, like something tearing. It’s worse than when she had her ears pierced and she screamed in the middle of the department store. She cries out now, her voice echoing throughout the woods.
“You okay?” he manages, but doesn’t stop. The deeper he pushes himself inside her, the better it feels—for him. His pleasure seems to increase proportionally with her pain. She’s in agony. Each thrust makes her cry out again. She’s gripping his shoulders, digging her nails into his shirt, which has the effect of riling him up even more. He starts pounding harder, faster, making weird noises. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh. Fuck. Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh. Fuck. Uh. Uh.
Kersti’s eyes are wide open, staring up at the dense black canopy of trees where two raccoons are fighting noisily on a branch. She remembers her Natural Biology teacher mentioning something about how the North American raccoon is becoming a problem in some Swiss forests. It’s almost funny, the way they’re scrapping up in the tree while she and Magnus go at it down here. Magnus is still pumping away on top of her like he’s doing push-ups on a gym mat, but she never takes her eyes off those raccoons. It’s a good distraction and makes her think of home—bonfires in the backyard, camping trips in Gravenhurst. She pretends she’s enjoying the sex, moaning where it seem appropriate, calling out his name here and there, like she’s seen in movies.
And then he lets out a loud noise, like a goat bleating, and he collapses on top of her. She’s sopping wet between her legs and hopes it isn’t blood. She strokes the back of his head, something else she’s seen in movies.
“Oh my God,” he says, panting in her ear. “Oh my God. You sweet little virgin. That was . . . wow.”
Now that it’s over, she feels so close to him. She holds him tight while he tries to catch his breath. She’s never felt so wanted, so revered. It’s absolutely empowering, lying beneath the full weight of him, his heart beating against her breast. She tickles his neck with her fingers and he rests his face in the slope of her neck. She forgets they’re on a rock outside in the cold. She’s warm and content, the pain completely forgotten.
“I think I’m in love with you,” she whispers. She knows it’s impulsive, but after the things he’s just said to her, it feels right. “I’m so happy right now.”
“You’re so real,” he says hoarsely. “So down-to-earth and authentic. It’s beautiful. Really.” He leans up on one elbow and kisses her nose. “You sweet little virgin,” he repeats. “What a nice surprise.”
“I told you I didn’t know what to do.”
“I meant when I invited you out for a drive,” he clarifies.
“So your plan all along was to have sex with me?”
“Of course,” he admits, sitting up and pulling on his pants. “There’s just something about you.”
She looks down at herself and even in the dark, she can see blood all over her thighs and the fur lining of his jacket. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she mumbles, embarrassed.
“That’s what dry cleaners are for,” he says, tousling her hair. “Don’t worry.”
She pulls up her pants and they each light a cigarette. The moment is utterly perfect. The moon, the rustling trees, Magnus.
She’s no longer a virgin. Magnus Foley is her first, will always be her first. Nothing and no one can ever change that fact and the realization fills her with indescribable joy. She can’t wait to tell Cressida. Cressida lost her virginity at thirteen to an actor in one of her father’s plays; Kersti is relieved to have caught up to her and have it over with now.
When she gets back to Huber House, still dazed and euphoric, Mme. Hamidou is about to lock the doors. She looks at her watch and frowns.
“Sorry,” Kersti says, rushing upstairs. She’s surprised to find her room dark and Cressida already asleep. It’s barely after ten. “Cress?” she whispers.
Cressida rolls over. “Kerst?”
“Are you asleep? Didn’t you go out tonight?”
“Too tired,” Cressida says. “I was at MUN till after dinner. We got Malawi. How was your date?”
Kersti turns on the bedside lamp and snuggles in next to Cressida. “We did it,” she blurts.
“You slept with him?” Cressida says, sitting up, fully awake now.
“I’m not a virgin anymore,” Kersti confides, beaming. “Can you believe it? But oh my God it killed. Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Where were you? Where did you do it?”
“He took me for lunch at this place called the Auberge de—”
“Chalet des Enfants.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s his favorite place.”
Kersti doesn’t like the sound of that. It implies Cressida knows things about him.
“Then what?” Cressida says, not sounding nearly as happy for Kersti as Kersti thought she’d be.
“We had a lot of wine,” Kersti tells her. “He couldn’t drive, so we went for a walk in the woods—”
Cressida interrupts with a snicker.
“And then it just, like, happened.”
“On the ground?”
“On a rock,” Kersti says, beginning to get annoyed. “What’s your problem? You’ve never liked him—”
Cressida shrugs.
“Do you like him?” Kersti asks, panic flooding her chest.
“Of course not,” Cressida says, her expression inscrutable. She leans over and turns off the light. “I’m happy for you,” she mutters, lying back down.
But she doesn’t sound happy at all.