Part 5

Hardly had he placed the receiver on its hook when the phone rang. Picking it up indifferently, he said:

"Hello."

"Orville, it's you! How nice. Oh, Orville, I'm so glad you are home. When did you get home? I've been trying to get you, but this wretched phone..."

"Hi, Aunt Therese! I got here an hour or so ago. You sound far off or the connection's bad. Where are you?" He dropped into her kind of French, the kind she had taught him, Ermenonville's patois.

"I'm out in the country about ten or twelve miles, at a horrible, dirty farm. Our car has broken down ... I'm afraid I won't get back till late. Maybe not till tomorrow. Lena and I are here--we're so disappointed not to be home ... to welcome you. Tell Annette to fix a supper. Claude will look after you..."

Therese's effusiveness annoyed him but he sent his love to Lena and assured them that everything was all right.

" ... Lena's fine ... we got awfully wet because we had the top folded down, and we couldn't get it raised again. Such a muddy road. And then our engine had to act up. Have you seen Jeannette? Have you phoned her?" She was sputtering. Orville remembered her volubility; she went on chatting about nothing, Orville nodding, smiling.

"Their car broke down ... they won't be back until late or tomorrow," he explained to Claude, who was offering a pack of cigarettes. "They're at Placiers."

Bichain nodded.

"Anything you want?"

"No ... I'll let Annette know."

Orville walked about the elegant room. Yes, it had been seven years since his last visit: he and his mother had stayed several weeks during that summer. During those seven years he had ample time to finish high school, enroll at Cornell, make the crew, go to war!

In front of the alabaster bust of Chopin he shoved his hands into his pockets. Chopin's face seemed more poetical than he remembered it. The man's eyes stared absently into his eyes. The lips had their absinthe smile.

No, the furniture had not been changed; of course the settees, sofa and chairs had been reupholstered with the identical pattern of pomegranate flowers: that was Therese's way. The woodwork had been dusted and polished two thousand times and Claude had waxed the parquet--over and over. Parchment lamp shades seemed to be new. He bent over a cloisonne vase: its birds and flowers were in the same Kyoto greenery. He glanced up: ah, it was there, the gold and silver and green fresco of oak and laurel leaves, twined in their ceiling wreath.

Dark red curtains ...

Tired, he dumped himself on a settee, his thoughts reverting to his trip, a sick and quarrelsome woman, the SS troopers playing poker, a boy begging for food ... a half hour slipped away.

He absorbed the quiet. Had the rain stopped? He hoped so. The fires in the twin fireplaces spread their warmth. Maybe the war was ending ... maybe it would end while he was home; certainly it was the right place. Yet assurances were missing.

Shall I go upstairs, to my room?

He closed his eyes as he sensed the firelight.

Claude woke him to say that supper was ready.

Colonel Ronde's meticulous oil portrait dominated the wall alongside the dining table: the gold fame was heavy and ornate: the Colonel was wearing his 1918 captain's uniform, a trench helmet and a pistol, and a pair of grey gloves lay on a table beside him: he appeared to be a reticent, egocentric, stupid man. Orville remembered how dictatorial he had been: you kids get out of the greenhouse ... you kids are not to ride your bicycles through the garden ... you kids must come to dinner punctually ...

Orville was relieved that the old boy was not around: the portrait's frame was tarnishing: pigment was flaking: the Ermenonville forest background was fading: good.

Orville fiddled with the table silver, idly aware of the monogram, the crystal candleholders, the cut glass sugar creamer: three days ago, less than seventy-two hours ago, it had been hell itself at the front: fooling with his knife, eyeing its ornate handle, he wondered where it had been crafted; he sampled the entree, glad that Annette was putting herself out to please him.

When will I be eating alone like this, in such middleclass pomp!

Annette served roast duck, stuffed artichoke, creamed parsnips, and buttered carrots. Finger rolls were a specialty of hers. He recognized the dry local wine ... he imagined, as he tasted it, the wines, brandies, liquors inside that inlaid buffet ... Therese would soon be insisting. He would come across some favorites.

The kitchen door widened a crack.

"Everything all right?" Annette asked, hands pouching her apron, smiling attentively.

"Just great!" Orville said. "It's a treat, having you and Claude look after me ... like old times. Where's the Colonel these days?"

"He's in Marseilles."

"Good ... then he's not caught in the thick of it."

"But he's, ah, on duty ... he's ... well, you know how it is."

The door shut but not before he realized that Annette could lose twenty pounds across her stomach and another five through her breasts. Obviously, she knew how to provision her Ermenonville larder.

The dining room was a cluttered place: it reflected neglect or unconcern: unmatched chairs rectangled an ormolu table of cherry, the antique silver service on the Louis buffet represented several periods: the flowered wallpaper and a bevy of melancholy still lifes in oil were unharmonious. Orville could not remember the room as it had been years ago but felt it was quite different.

He heard Jean's voice. "What a surprise!"

"Hi, darling...."

Jumping up, he buried his face in her neck; he kissed her passionately; she seemed to taste of everything good, smell of many perfumes. He helped her remove her rain wet coat, slowly folding its red lining ... his eyes never leaving her.

In the living room she made a little speech, ridiculous words; she hugged him and kissed him on the sofa, the fire glow on her face and hair. He fussed with her hair, smiling.

"Orv ... where's everybody?"

"I thought I told you ... everybody's in the country ... their car broke down.'"

"So that's why you were eating alone! Then they won't be back tonight?"

"Not tonight ... I guess they'll phone again."

"Swell ... gee, it's our place."

He kissed her, with a long, seductive kiss, easing her against the cushions, her breasts swelling: not since London ... tonight ... tonight ...

"My god, the months!" he blurted.

"I'd almost given up."

"So had I!"

"Your letters ... you don't say much."

"Or you ... Wasn't that the telephone?"

She was playing with the ring he had bought her in London: her fingers slid the crudely faceted amethyst round and round: her mind followed it; then she sought his mouth.

Raising his head, Orville saw Claude Bichain, standing by the piano, one hand on top.

"Your aunt just phoned again ... she's staying at M. Placier's ... she was worried ... she thought..."

"Thank you, Claude."

"I'm glad," Jean said.

"Let me get something to drink."

Orville wanted to explore the buffet: together, they knelt on the floor, both doors open: they nodded: there were vintages and brands across the years: Orville selected a Charpentier brandy.

"How about this?"

"Good," said Jean.

A gust shook the French doors and windows, it was raining hard once more. When they returned to the living room, Claude was adding wood to the fires: he wanted to keep both fireplaces burning, celebrant: for love, he thought, as he laid oak slabs over a pair of iron griffins.

"To us," she toasted, lifting her glass.

"To us ... to your loveliness."

"To your luck!"

On a settee, close to one of the fires, she burrowed against him, tasting his brandy lips, her fingers searching between his legs.

"God, I love you..."

"Tonight."

"Yes..."

"Sip it slowly..."

"I am..."

"Like it?"

"Yes ... yes..."

"Should we drink everything in the buffet?"

"Of course..."

"Why not?"

"Sure, why not ...?"

"Are there more wonderful girls in Wisconsin?..."

"No," she kidded.

"I believe that."

"Let me undress you tonight."

"Maybe I won't be able to wait that long."

"Or I."

Shoulders and head against the settee, she told him how grateful she was to be in Ermenonville ... I escaped from old London ... I love the Petit Lac ... I love the gardens ... the forest ... the shrines ... I've seen Jean Jacques' ghost ... oh, yes, at the Lac ... ah, you and Colonel Ronde, to work things out for me here ... the hospital staff tries, tries very hard to favor me sometimes ... so many wounded ... but I think ... no, no, don't stop kissing me ... what difference does all that make? I'll stop talking ... now ...

With refills, they contemplated the fires, drowsing, yet wholly alive, eager, stalling like animals, happy animals, sure of themselves--anticipating through the medium of the firelight, each other's faces, each other's hands.

He thought of the freckles on her shoulders ... thought of her lovely breasts ... her perfumed skin.

"Shall we go upstairs?"

"Yes ... but..."

"I know..."

"Yes, it seems..."

"But it's my own room ... my old room..."

"Yes."

"When do you have to return to the hospital?"

"About eleven, I guess."

"Stay all night with me."

"I want to, darling."

"Then..."

"It's not so easy..."

"Cases?"

"Kiss me ... let's not think ... go on kissing ... unbutton my dress ... kiss my breasts..."

Snuggled together, they listened to wind and rain attack windows and doors and roof. Claude checked the fires, and said good night. They were, for all their passion, fighting mental fatigue, fatigue that had been accumulating for months.

"Let's lie on the floor near the fire," he suggested.

"No ... we'll go to your room..."

"Put your head on my lap..."

"Bend over..."

"Now..."

"Yes..."

"Okay..."

"Hmm ... more..."

Silence!

His hand cupped a breast; she ran fingers through his hair; shall we ever marry? In some architectural office will he bend over blueprints, and then pick up his phone and say ...?

We'll never have a house like this one--not seven bedrooms. Ours ... three bedrooms, $24,000. That would be okay.

She thought of her life: her dad had been a dirt farmer plus rural teacher, he had never had much time for home; his health had failed under demanding jobs: skinny, hard featured, hard headed ... Orville must never get like that. I must get him out of the war, somehow, somehow!

As they kissed, the room came back, his smiles, his hands, his love.

"Another brandy?"

"No."

"We'll do better tonight than we did in London."

"That was awful that awful room..."

"Shall we go upstairs?"

"Yes."

She was standing by a mantel, her hair against the intricate carvings on the Caen stone: she was taller than he thought.

"When it's eleven o'clock?" he queried. "Will you?

"Don't think about it."

"There's no taxi at that hour."

"Then we'll walk ... there's no curfew is there?"

"No."

Upstairs, up the dimly lit stairs, he opened the door to his room: a fire was burning in his fireplace.

"Claude made a fire," Orville said, chuckling.

"How nice."

She hugged her coat against her breasts as she glanced around shyly. Peering into his mirror on his chest of drawers she saw the gun rack, rifles, shotgun, fishing rods, botanical prints ... a mounted bass over his bed.

"What a funny thing to make love under," she kidded.

"I've made a real catch this time."

"Oh, darling..."

She touched the feather-light quilt, admiring its floral pattern: wasn't one almost like that in a room at home?

"It smells nice in here," she commented.

"It's the pine wood."

Firelight followed their nakedness as they lay facing each other on the quilt; they were afraid to move: they wanted a moment of serenity before love making, to see one another: then she smothered her mouth with his and his tongue probed inside: she sensed the hardening of his belly muscles: he rolled her over completely, both of them laughing. She stroked him--cooing, pushing him away to prolong their joy.

Yes, this is the place to have a woman: eyes slit, he glimpsed his rods and guns. Kneeling in front of her, he dragged her against him. They tottered to one side. They slipped from the quilt onto the floor, giggling.

Her breasts rounded to his fingers: they felt cool, wonderful: she was marshmallow white.

He stood up and she stood and then she jumped against him, swung her legs around him, clamped her arms about his neck. His hands cupped her feet. She kissed him, holding their kiss. To feel his strength--his arms, his belly, his chest.

"No ... no ... not now ... on the bed."

Though he held Jean surely, they swayed and slid to the floor again; once more on their bed he crawled over her, saying:

"I'm coming in, Jean ... coming..."

"Okay."

Mouth to mouth they made love, her stomach pushing, his flattening, the bed squeaking: his penis felt hot to her, her vulva felt warm to him; her perspiring body was in accord with his; he clasped his fingers over her narrow buttocks; their mutual orgasm began, stopped, then flashed again and again: Jesus, Jesus, dearest, darling ... yes ... yes ... oui ... your mouth now ...

She lay back.

"It's ours, my dear," she laughed, "the prix de Rome!"

"I accept," he laughed. "We've earned it ... double award."

They never got to the hospital until early morning, she and Orville striding together, the sun brilliant; after good-byes, after lingering kisses, he walked away, walked about the village before returning home for breakfast. After breakfast, he commenced a letter to his mother, to inform her of his leave. As he wrote on an old leather writing pad, sitting by his bedroom window, Aunt Therese knocked, and called his name.

She had aged: her features were reddish and swollen, pudgy contours that were somehow childish. The mouth smiled and yet there were wrinkles in the way of her smile. Seven years had done this. They kissed dutifully.

"I'm sorry," she wheezed. "We just got here, just now ... Claude said you were upstairs. I'm sorry ... I'm so upset."

"No, no! There's nothing to be upset about. Sit down."

"I think Lena's caught cold ... another cold ... she has too many of them ... you see we got soaking wet, couldn't raise the top of the car ... that awful downpour ... oh, we had to borrow clothes last night ... we had to go to bed early!" Orville grinned, in spite of himself.

Hands fluttering in her lap, she continued: she was sixty-seven or eight, padded at waist and breasts, rings underneath her eyes, her glasses rimless and dual-lensed, her hair a series of grey-white streaks. Orville knew she often spoke without pauses, blurring her words, but now her voice had become harsher and the blurring often made it difficult to understand her.

Someone tapped on the door.

"Come in," Orville called: he was pleasantly surprised by Lena's beauty, her athletic body: her face had assumed an esthetic quality; she wore her black hair combed close to her skull--quite Spanish.

"Hi, Orv!"

"Hi, Lena ... you look great!"

"It's good ... it's good to see you!"

They kissed like kids.

She had always liked or loved him: she admired his masculinity: their old rapport returned at once: arms around each other they grinned happily, sheepishly.

"How was your supper last night?" Therese asked.

"Great," Orville said.

"It was probably dreadful. Annette can be so careless. And here you are, writing a letter, when you should be horseback riding or playing tennis. Mon dieu--this is your leave! What are we thinking about!"

Orville and Lena laughed at her.

"Come on, we'll go for a walk, then we'll have lunch," Lena said. "Orv ... you and I ... Mama, talk to Annette: let's have something special."

The sun had ducked under and both fireplaces were burning in the living room. Claude, at the front door, was admitting several people, women and men laughing--a bass voice saying:

"Take my hat, Claude ... old man, my hat."

"It's Thomassont and some friends," Lena explained, going to greet them.

Orville was introduced to Arthur Thomassont, Celeste de Ville, Pierre Valeriaud, and Jean Piccard. Piccard pumped his arm, swaying an alcoholic sway: "I remember you at school ... do you remember me?" Orville saw from his aunt's face that Lena's friends were tight. In a moment Pierre buttonholed Orville, cork colored eyes blurred, his goatee bobbing. Playing with an unlighted cigarette, he said:

"So you are fighting for us ... how noble. Our legionnaire. Well, our Renault plant has blueprints for bigger, more sophisticated tanks ... when the war is over. We have an unbeatable staff ... de Gaulle will get the Nazis out..."

He blinked at his cigarette and blinked at Orville, stepping back, a little embarrassed by his own verbiage.

Pierre crumpled onto the piano bench, talking to Mme. Ronde, vehement about the theater, the Parisian theater, its control by the Nazis: such biased censorship.

Baldheaded Thomassont poked through magazines; Lena, dressed in a sedate brown skirt and yellow blouse, chatted softly with Celeste, a pretty woman wearing lavender trimmed with squirrel: her serious face was painted dramatically over the eyes; the cheeks were ivory white, her mouth sensual. Presently, she approached Orville.

"Is it like home, coming back?" she asked; she held out a cigarette.

"A little that way," he said, flipping his lighter for her.

"We came by to ask Lena to a party we're giving at my place in Senlis. I'd like to have you come; we can drive over and pick you up. It's my birthday."

"When is your birthday?"

"Next Friday."

"My leave will be over by then ... I'll be in Germany."

"Oh ... I'm sorry." She took his hand to say good-bye. "It's risky, bypassing the Nazis ... I despise them ... my brother has been imprisoned ... my mother's Jewish ... I hate all this ... Paris is dreadful ... I wish you luck."

"The war will be over in a day or two," cut in Thomassont, waving a magazine.

"Good-bye, Orville ... Mother knows you ... you see I was in Switzerland when you were here ... we're pretty drunk; next time when we come..." She smiled a sincere, warm smile.

She was speaking English.

"Goodbye," Orville said. "I wish you luck ... you and your family," he responded in English.

"Then you'll be with us on my birthday, Lena?"

"Of course I will."

Lena tapped Orville's arm.

"Take Piccard to the bathroom," she said. "He has to vomit."

After helping him to the bathroom, Orville waited outside: so this is why we're fighting a global war: is this why the Russians are staging an all out defensive last-ditch stand?

At the front door, Valeriaud praised the great tank corps: ah, yes, the French, the British, the Americans! He opened his fly, scratched, yanked his zipper half way. Orville went into the living room.

"I attended school with his mother," Therese said to Orville, joining him on a settee. "She's dead ... a good woman ... he's the only son ... quite spoiled, spoiled but a superb pianist."

The guest car plunged away--with a rasp of gears.

"Valeriaud manages to obtain gas when we can't buy a gallon ... he works for a construction company, he's a friend of the Nazis. He's building a house outside of Ermenonville, mansion, I should say. He has a famous collection of Rousseau letters and manuscripts. He has the whole of _Emile_ written on foxed sheets. He wants me to sell the collection. I may buy it to keep it from going to Germany."

At lunch, the three ate without chatting freely, disturbed by the visitors; it seemed their family reunion was already becoming commonplace. Therese fussed at Annette. She mumbled about food shortages, prices. Lena mentioned movies and plays--entertainment current in Paris, things she wanted to see. Therese questioned Orville about ready-made clothing in the U.S. Was it reasonable? There were nervous remarks about Piccard and Valeriaud.

As soon as possible, Orville excused himself and went off to finish his letter, shave, dress, and meet Jeannette. In spite of yesterday's rain it was balmy and he opened his bathroom door that led onto a balcony and with his face soaped, lingered there, thinking of Jean and their love making.

The shaving brush was not his but his uncle's: _Lucci-Milano_ was stamped in gold on the handle: revolving the brush pensively, he recalled details of Milan, the shops there, pigeons swooping from rooftops, the great mural by da Vinci! What was it like after the bombings? He wanted to see the mural with Jean, wanted to rendezvous old places with her.

He shaved gingerly, wasn't there too much hot water? And the towels on their racks, weren't they a little too luxurious? He studied the delicately painted rose buds on the basin: still the same. But the silver soap tray? The porcelainized towel rods. In Ithaca their bathroom was plain--nothing to distinguish it from hundreds.

Yet, outside their home, a stream gushed through a rocky glen, and there were grey squirrels.

Ithaca will be all right ..I'll have my office on State Street ... I'll obtain contracts for homes overlooking Lake Cayuga ... I'll manage trips to New York ...

When he finished shaving he held a towel against his face for several moments.

Ermenonville's narrow streets were almost deserted as he walked leisurely toward the hospital, thinking of the cobbles, the shop signs, weathered doors, the plants in windows and window boxes. E. would always be a core for him, a nucleus rooted in Jean Jacques, microcosm, reflection of a concept: and cobbles, tiled roof, the church, the Nonette, converging, spreading. At a certain intersection he imagined meeting former friends, schoolmates. He had rejected any renewal of relationships: what have they for me or I for them? He hoped nobody would visit him at the Rondes'. He had phoned Jean so there would be no hitch, and she was waiting for him in the hospital garden, her coat over her arm, bareheaded. The garden, a neglected X of paths, smelled of damp and earth and carbolic acid. A bird whisked into a chestnut. Poplars made a line behind the rambling building that was hunch-backed with age at one end. Honeysuckle-vined where Jean waited.

As Orville entered the garden, a tall man appeared on one of the paths: he shook hands with Jeannette, a wrinkled, white haired, cane-limping man.

"Orville," she called. "I want you to meet Dr. Cartier."

Cartier turned, turning on his cane, to stare at Orville.

"My friend, Orville Dennison."

"Ah."

"I'm on leave, doctor ... it's good meeting you."

"On leave here?"

"My father was Robert Saint Denis..."

"Of course, of course ... now I place you. We're old friends, you and I ... I've changed; so have you--welcome back!" He bowed a little, professionally.

"Are you in charge ... the director?"

"Yes ... some say that I am ... is that right, Jeannette?"

Laughing, she said, "Of course."

Dr. Cartier used his cane to pin down a leaf.

"We have too many cases ... compulsory cases ... just flooded."

"Jean has mentioned the problem..."

"More than that," exclaimed the doctor, beginning to walk away, "more than that ... I could use ten nurses like Jean ... we lack equipment. So, so you came back to France to help! My best to Mme. Ronde, and remind her of our dinner engagement tomorrow night. She works with my wife ... more problems. It's a time of problems, as you know."

"Be careful." He stopped walking to emphasize his warning. "There are many who want to talk, who make trouble." He smiled a smile at himself, a sad smile, and turned away.

Orville kissed Jean, encircling her in his arms. Remember her perfume, something said. Remember!

"Darling," she said.

"Do you like Dr. Cartier?"

"Yes ... I assume he is very capable?"

"Yes ... he's our Albert Schweitzer."

At one side of the garden they found a rusty wrought iron bench beside a hedge, half-dried daisies around them, the flowers shredded by the rains, a puddle holding a single maple leaf, skiff-like, near their feet.

"How was your day?"