Leaving Madeleine - Part 18
Before she left France, Brigitte wanted to see Nice and the French Riviera. She asked me if I had been. "I have," I told her. "But wouldn't mind going again."
With that, we went about arranging a trip south. A friend of mine in Paris owned a frequently vacant apartment in the Majestic building on Boulevard de Cimiez. With the Matisse museum just up the hill, and Brigitte's unbridled obsession with the artist, the accommodation was close to perfect. The only impediment to perfection was this friend's acquaintance was made courtesy of Madeleine. We took advantage of her real estate at least three or four times together. I wasn't sure if she knew Madeleine and I had separated. I wasn't sure if I alone was held in high enough esteem to be granted the key to her empty flat. I was sure, however, regardless of what she knew and didn't know, regardless of what level of trust and admiration she held in her heart for my existence, if I divulged that I was bringing another woman with me, a woman who was by no means Madeleine, my request would be denied.
The predicament led me to self-reflection. How much of a shit am I? Shouldn't I rent a hotel? Why? It's not wrong to use her place. I would lend her a place if I had one and she asked, regardless of prior affiliations. I gave her a call. What's the worst that could happen? And indeed, nothing of consequence transpired. Instead of inquisition, she responded with a simple, "Pas problème." She didn't ask about Madeleine and made no allusions to our relationship. I didn't offer any information. I still felt a pang of shit about bringing Brigitte to a place I had shared with my ex-lover, but I consoled myself with the hope that this trip would grow what Brigitte and I had, and in the end would justify my transgressions. I thought about the last time Madeleine and I had visited and hoped the maid had cleansed any physical evidence of our previous occupancy.
The final consideration was method of transportation. We both envisioned driving through the French countryside, top down in a convertible, stopping at wineries and fromageries to engulf ourselves in the pleasures of the land. But time was not on our side. A flight was too dull and lacking in scenery, so we opted for the train. We bought tickets online and boarded a SNCF train two days later.
We shared a first class cabin with a young American couple. They were newly weds and very nice, and more thrilled than we were about our shared ability to speak English. After brief exchanges of backgrounds, employment, and cultural experiences, I announced that I was going to read for awhile.
"Good idea," Brigitte said in support. "Who did you bring?"
I pulled my book from the front pocket of my suitcase and showed her the cover. It was Gertrude by Herman Hesse.
"I've never heard of it, is it good?" The American wife asked.
"He's never disappointed me," I answered.
Brigitte retrieved her own book from her oversized purse. The Captive, from the sixth volume of Proust's In Search of Lost Time. I smiled. If I imagined this woman she would be exactly how she is.
"Volume six," I remarked.
"I've only read The Fugitive'" Brigitte admitted. "You've read all seven, of course."
"No. Captive, Fugitive and Swann's Way," I told her. "Whenever I read a Proust, I read a Conrad after," I added.
"Why?"
"No idea. He puts me in the mood for Conrad for some reason."
"You've inspired me to read too," the American wife chimed in. She reached into a bag and pulled out Atonement by Ian Macewan. She held it up so we could see.
"Mmm," I offered. "It's good." I didn't like the ending, but I kept it to myself.
American wife put her hand on her husband's knee. "You should read too, honey."
"I'm going to sleep a little."
"Okay. Try not to snore. We have our own little library here."
Brigitte cast a glance in my direction. The sides of my mouth twitched as I suppressed a grin. The three of us opened our books and were soon lost in our chosen fiction. I fell asleep myself around the time Gertrude fell in love with Heinrich. When I woke, I was alone with the Americans. The wife saw my open eyes.
"She said she was going to take some pictures."
"Thank you," I replied.
"Have you been together long?"
"A few weeks," I reminded her.
"Right. You're so lovely together, seems longer."
"Oh. Thank you. France, right?"
"Yes."
I extracted my 5d from my camera bag. Attached a L-series 25mm-70mm lens, told our travelling companions we'd be back, and exited the cabin. It took some time to locate Brigitte, but I finally found her three cars down. She sat on her knees in an empty passenger seat and held a Nikkon d7000. The glass of the 50mm prime was pressed right up against the window as she captured some white turbines of a wind farm in the distance. Her activity had captured the attention of a few male passengers in nearby chairs. Or maybe it was the short skirt and black ankle boots she was wearing. My sudden appearance didn't dissuade their glares.
"Anything good?" I asked.
"I dunno. Maybe. Tell me after."
"I'm just an amateur."
"A little more, I'd say."
"Sometimes I think I am getting better. But then I look at Calvin's work and I come back to earth."
"Your friend in Hong Kong?"
"Yeah. You'll meet him, I'm sure. But he's a devil, so be careful."
"I'll keep my guard up."
"Don't go that far."
"Okay."
Talking about the future frightened me momentarily. She saw it and kissed me. She glanced at my camera.
"Are you going to take some?"
"I thought since you were..."
"I'm gonna go to the washroom."
"Okay."
She held her eyes on mine.
"These washrooms are not very clean," I told her, interpreting her insinuation.
"How bad?"
"Bad enough."
"Let's go see."
She gently took my hand. We made our way to the washroom and slid the door open. It was unpleasant. Brigitte frowned. I peaked into the next car. There were only four passengers inside. One couple near the coupling doors closest to us and two singles almost on the opposite end.
"Come," I said.
I led her to the middle of the third car and took a seat. I removed my jacket and she place it on her lap.
"Cold?" I asked.
Brigitte smirked. I reached up her skirt and pulled down her panties. She was already there. She opened my pants and looked conspiratorially around her. I pulled my jeans and underwear down just enough. I was ready too. She mounted me. The danger and risk brought our excitement to a quick crescendo. I let go inside her and she collapsed her head into my shoulder. Strands of her hair stuck to her forehead. We kissed and broke into laughter as we recover our propriety.
"What's wrong with us?" Brigitte asked.
"I don't know, " I replied. "I hope the newlyweds took advantage of our absence though."
We laughed again.
With that, we went about arranging a trip south. A friend of mine in Paris owned a frequently vacant apartment in the Majestic building on Boulevard de Cimiez. With the Matisse museum just up the hill, and Brigitte's unbridled obsession with the artist, the accommodation was close to perfect. The only impediment to perfection was this friend's acquaintance was made courtesy of Madeleine. We took advantage of her real estate at least three or four times together. I wasn't sure if she knew Madeleine and I had separated. I wasn't sure if I alone was held in high enough esteem to be granted the key to her empty flat. I was sure, however, regardless of what she knew and didn't know, regardless of what level of trust and admiration she held in her heart for my existence, if I divulged that I was bringing another woman with me, a woman who was by no means Madeleine, my request would be denied.
The predicament led me to self-reflection. How much of a shit am I? Shouldn't I rent a hotel? Why? It's not wrong to use her place. I would lend her a place if I had one and she asked, regardless of prior affiliations. I gave her a call. What's the worst that could happen? And indeed, nothing of consequence transpired. Instead of inquisition, she responded with a simple, "Pas problème." She didn't ask about Madeleine and made no allusions to our relationship. I didn't offer any information. I still felt a pang of shit about bringing Brigitte to a place I had shared with my ex-lover, but I consoled myself with the hope that this trip would grow what Brigitte and I had, and in the end would justify my transgressions. I thought about the last time Madeleine and I had visited and hoped the maid had cleansed any physical evidence of our previous occupancy.
The final consideration was method of transportation. We both envisioned driving through the French countryside, top down in a convertible, stopping at wineries and fromageries to engulf ourselves in the pleasures of the land. But time was not on our side. A flight was too dull and lacking in scenery, so we opted for the train. We bought tickets online and boarded a SNCF train two days later.
We shared a first class cabin with a young American couple. They were newly weds and very nice, and more thrilled than we were about our shared ability to speak English. After brief exchanges of backgrounds, employment, and cultural experiences, I announced that I was going to read for awhile.
"Good idea," Brigitte said in support. "Who did you bring?"
I pulled my book from the front pocket of my suitcase and showed her the cover. It was Gertrude by Herman Hesse.
"I've never heard of it, is it good?" The American wife asked.
"He's never disappointed me," I answered.
Brigitte retrieved her own book from her oversized purse. The Captive, from the sixth volume of Proust's In Search of Lost Time. I smiled. If I imagined this woman she would be exactly how she is.
"Volume six," I remarked.
"I've only read The Fugitive'" Brigitte admitted. "You've read all seven, of course."
"No. Captive, Fugitive and Swann's Way," I told her. "Whenever I read a Proust, I read a Conrad after," I added.
"Why?"
"No idea. He puts me in the mood for Conrad for some reason."
"You've inspired me to read too," the American wife chimed in. She reached into a bag and pulled out Atonement by Ian Macewan. She held it up so we could see.
"Mmm," I offered. "It's good." I didn't like the ending, but I kept it to myself.
American wife put her hand on her husband's knee. "You should read too, honey."
"I'm going to sleep a little."
"Okay. Try not to snore. We have our own little library here."
Brigitte cast a glance in my direction. The sides of my mouth twitched as I suppressed a grin. The three of us opened our books and were soon lost in our chosen fiction. I fell asleep myself around the time Gertrude fell in love with Heinrich. When I woke, I was alone with the Americans. The wife saw my open eyes.
"She said she was going to take some pictures."
"Thank you," I replied.
"Have you been together long?"
"A few weeks," I reminded her.
"Right. You're so lovely together, seems longer."
"Oh. Thank you. France, right?"
"Yes."
I extracted my 5d from my camera bag. Attached a L-series 25mm-70mm lens, told our travelling companions we'd be back, and exited the cabin. It took some time to locate Brigitte, but I finally found her three cars down. She sat on her knees in an empty passenger seat and held a Nikkon d7000. The glass of the 50mm prime was pressed right up against the window as she captured some white turbines of a wind farm in the distance. Her activity had captured the attention of a few male passengers in nearby chairs. Or maybe it was the short skirt and black ankle boots she was wearing. My sudden appearance didn't dissuade their glares.
"Anything good?" I asked.
"I dunno. Maybe. Tell me after."
"I'm just an amateur."
"A little more, I'd say."
"Sometimes I think I am getting better. But then I look at Calvin's work and I come back to earth."
"Your friend in Hong Kong?"
"Yeah. You'll meet him, I'm sure. But he's a devil, so be careful."
"I'll keep my guard up."
"Don't go that far."
"Okay."
Talking about the future frightened me momentarily. She saw it and kissed me. She glanced at my camera.
"Are you going to take some?"
"I thought since you were..."
"I'm gonna go to the washroom."
"Okay."
She held her eyes on mine.
"These washrooms are not very clean," I told her, interpreting her insinuation.
"How bad?"
"Bad enough."
"Let's go see."
She gently took my hand. We made our way to the washroom and slid the door open. It was unpleasant. Brigitte frowned. I peaked into the next car. There were only four passengers inside. One couple near the coupling doors closest to us and two singles almost on the opposite end.
"Come," I said.
I led her to the middle of the third car and took a seat. I removed my jacket and she place it on her lap.
"Cold?" I asked.
Brigitte smirked. I reached up her skirt and pulled down her panties. She was already there. She opened my pants and looked conspiratorially around her. I pulled my jeans and underwear down just enough. I was ready too. She mounted me. The danger and risk brought our excitement to a quick crescendo. I let go inside her and she collapsed her head into my shoulder. Strands of her hair stuck to her forehead. We kissed and broke into laughter as we recover our propriety.
"What's wrong with us?" Brigitte asked.
"I don't know, " I replied. "I hope the newlyweds took advantage of our absence though."
We laughed again.
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