the biggest source of warmth I could imagine, if only I stayed the winter.
How much was this man going to ask of me? Would I have to offer my soul and more?
I kissed him hard on the mouth. Then I un-wrapped the papoose and announced that I was going to get ready for our holiday at the Bastille Day celebrations at Palavas. And I went into the shower alone, more than a little relieved that he did not try to follow.
IV
Hours later we stood with Monique and her son on the docks next to the Canal at Palavas-les-flots, awaiting the start of “ La Fête Nationale ,” which commemorated the storming of the Bastille in 1789 and the birth the French Republic—along with the blood-dripping death of a lot of her aristocracy.
T he event promised to be relaxing despite the crowds. The blazing July heat had conveniently diminished. Tour boats and fishing boats and pleasure crafts, either docked or out to sea, reflected a brilliant afternoon light that winked off the water, car windows, and glass-encased porches. The awnings of cafes and restaurants vaunted red and white and yellow and blue, and under them silverware clinked and laughter rang out like that of contented children at a birthday party.
Over the canal arched a narrow bridge crawling with people: suave, tanned locals, camera-laden tourists, children hoisted on strong masculine shoulders, couples holding hands, and teens on their horrible mopeds.
Everyone was French, even if just for the day. Like me. My Night Terrors seemed far away already—as if they had hightailed it out of here to New York where they belonged.
Monique linked her arm through mine while Jeannot looked on, smiling. “This is your first fourteenth of July in France, Pilar,” she said. “So we celebrate the French way!”
“ Yup. I mean: ‘ Oui-oui ,” I said mockingly.
She turned to the child dangling on her hip. “ Papa is almost ready! You see, ma puce? Down there!”
The skinny dark-haired man from her library photos waved up at us. He stood in one of six brightly painted gondolas floating like flower petals in the shimmery canal.
“ I will introduce you after the joust,” she told me. “You will love this, I promise.”
“ Funny tradition. I’m glad you don’t re-enact beheading.”
“Oh, Louis might prefer beheading. He hates jousting. He does not wish to be collected from the water. It is dirty. He wishes to say non to his friends, but it is not possible. Poor Louis. So we will cheer him.”
Her husband, like the other s on his team, dressed sharply in white, a blue band at the waist. The men in the other gondolas also wore white, but with different colored bands to differentiate their teams—and match the gondolas. Blue and red teams had already lined up parallel in the narrow inlet. Poles in hand, waiting to begin, they teased and elbowed one another in a high-spirited way that needed no translation.
I wanted to understand the game better , though. Monique explained that the blare of trumpets from the “musical boat”—including drums and oddly shaped noise makers—would signal the first two gondolas to launch. But what was their goal? To score points or simply knock members of the other team into the brackish water? The musical boat had towels handy, I noticed. And when one of the players briefly fumbled while perching at the bow, drums began to pound. The crowd hooted and cheered; they wanted to see these immaculately dressed men get dunked…
Monique turned back to her little boy , peeking under the brim of his hat at his chubby, cerise-cheeked face. “ Coucou ,” she murmured, smile brighter than her yellow sundress. Louis Junior swatted the tip of her nose with his small fingers and giggled “ Arête! ”
He was adorable, this child. I had the impulse to reach out and touch his silky hair, his downy skin—but of course I didn’t. It was an instinct I distrusted.
I shoved my hands into my pockets and looked away.
V
The first two gondolas faced each other
How much was this man going to ask of me? Would I have to offer my soul and more?
I kissed him hard on the mouth. Then I un-wrapped the papoose and announced that I was going to get ready for our holiday at the Bastille Day celebrations at Palavas. And I went into the shower alone, more than a little relieved that he did not try to follow.
IV
Hours later we stood with Monique and her son on the docks next to the Canal at Palavas-les-flots, awaiting the start of “ La Fête Nationale ,” which commemorated the storming of the Bastille in 1789 and the birth the French Republic—along with the blood-dripping death of a lot of her aristocracy.
T he event promised to be relaxing despite the crowds. The blazing July heat had conveniently diminished. Tour boats and fishing boats and pleasure crafts, either docked or out to sea, reflected a brilliant afternoon light that winked off the water, car windows, and glass-encased porches. The awnings of cafes and restaurants vaunted red and white and yellow and blue, and under them silverware clinked and laughter rang out like that of contented children at a birthday party.
Over the canal arched a narrow bridge crawling with people: suave, tanned locals, camera-laden tourists, children hoisted on strong masculine shoulders, couples holding hands, and teens on their horrible mopeds.
Everyone was French, even if just for the day. Like me. My Night Terrors seemed far away already—as if they had hightailed it out of here to New York where they belonged.
Monique linked her arm through mine while Jeannot looked on, smiling. “This is your first fourteenth of July in France, Pilar,” she said. “So we celebrate the French way!”
“ Yup. I mean: ‘ Oui-oui ,” I said mockingly.
She turned to the child dangling on her hip. “ Papa is almost ready! You see, ma puce? Down there!”
The skinny dark-haired man from her library photos waved up at us. He stood in one of six brightly painted gondolas floating like flower petals in the shimmery canal.
“ I will introduce you after the joust,” she told me. “You will love this, I promise.”
“ Funny tradition. I’m glad you don’t re-enact beheading.”
“Oh, Louis might prefer beheading. He hates jousting. He does not wish to be collected from the water. It is dirty. He wishes to say non to his friends, but it is not possible. Poor Louis. So we will cheer him.”
Her husband, like the other s on his team, dressed sharply in white, a blue band at the waist. The men in the other gondolas also wore white, but with different colored bands to differentiate their teams—and match the gondolas. Blue and red teams had already lined up parallel in the narrow inlet. Poles in hand, waiting to begin, they teased and elbowed one another in a high-spirited way that needed no translation.
I wanted to understand the game better , though. Monique explained that the blare of trumpets from the “musical boat”—including drums and oddly shaped noise makers—would signal the first two gondolas to launch. But what was their goal? To score points or simply knock members of the other team into the brackish water? The musical boat had towels handy, I noticed. And when one of the players briefly fumbled while perching at the bow, drums began to pound. The crowd hooted and cheered; they wanted to see these immaculately dressed men get dunked…
Monique turned back to her little boy , peeking under the brim of his hat at his chubby, cerise-cheeked face. “ Coucou ,” she murmured, smile brighter than her yellow sundress. Louis Junior swatted the tip of her nose with his small fingers and giggled “ Arête! ”
He was adorable, this child. I had the impulse to reach out and touch his silky hair, his downy skin—but of course I didn’t. It was an instinct I distrusted.
I shoved my hands into my pockets and looked away.
V
The first two gondolas faced each other
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