Amour Provence (2 page)

It was odd that in the days that followed, Sabine Dombasle, whom he'd never noticed in particular, seemed to be constantly out and about in the village. One afternoon he saw her sitting at the door of the tea shop near the central fountain, whose grotesque heads spouted forth water fed by mountain springs. Sabine's white legs were crossed and Didier
saw a flash of pale thigh as he passed on the way to his father's field just beyond the town.

“Didi, how do you manage to work so hard and go to school too?” she asked him. “My son, Manu, never could!” Didier shrugged, not sure what to say. “Why don't you sit down a minute. Here, have a piece of cake.” Sabine held out her plate to him. He shook his head, and mumbled something about no time. She smiled and tilted her face up at him, revealing her sharp foxy teeth, and Didier felt he'd made a mistake, as he would have enjoyed eating the cake and passing a few moments with her. But he'd missed the opportunity and it was too late to say yes.

When he was working, especially on weekends, he often saw Sabine in her garden above, hanging up laundry or slashing back spring flowers and blooming bushes with a small scythe. Sometimes she simply leaned over the parapet, gazing into the distance, but Didier had the feeling that her eyes were often directed right at him.

Toward the end of April, Didier spent all of Saturday morning in the vineyards. There was spraying to be done and his father helped him to fill the enormous metal container attached to the back of the tractor that dispensed what was needed to treat the newly budded grapes. By midday, he'd completed about a third of the work to be done, so at lunchtime he parked the tractor at the edge of their property just below the village. He decided to walk up through town and then descend the cobbled streets through the ancient Porte de la Bise. In the old days, the arched stone gateway had not only been closed and locked at night to keep out marauders, it also helped to block the fierce mistral,
the buffeting wind of the north that threatened to sweep away everything in its path. The mistral was called
la bise
, the kiss
,
and the old, north-facing gate had been named after it. That day, his mother, Patou, had told him that she would leave his lunch in the oven since she and his father would be out. As he mounted the steep hill, Didier guessed the meal would be the cassoulet made with beans and preserved goose they'd eaten the night before, and his empty stomach twisted in anticipation.

He passed by the Dombasles' long stone farmhouse. The dried-up stems of last year's morning glory would soon be replaced by a new young vine that had already sprouted and was twisting up the base of the metal drainpipe. As he made his way up the dirt track, the farmhouse door opened and Sabine appeared in the dark rectangle of the embrasure.

“
Salut
, Didier,” she said to him.

“Salut,”
he replied. Sabine's hair, bound by no scarf that day, was loose and wild. She wore a light white shift that in the shadow could have been a nightgown or even an underthing. As he slowed, his shoulders seemed to turn of their own accord toward her and he noticed her feet shod in lavender espadrilles. His eyes rose up her nicely shaped legs, over the luminous shift, and then to the pale face surrounded by the lion's mane of pitch-black hair.

“I've been watching you,” she said. “You always work so hard.”

“There's a lot to do,” Didier replied.

“I've made strawberry tartlettes. Come in for a second and have some,” she said, stepping back. “You must be hungry.”

He jerked his head, indicating the uphill climb. “I'm on my way home for lunch.”

“All right, then, I'll give you one to take with you.” She opened her mouth and her teeth were once again revealed in that dazzling, eager smile. Sabine stepped back to make room for him as he walked through the doorway. When she closed the door behind him, only a gray, filtered light came through the shuttered windows, the air thick with an aroma of warm fruit and honey. Sabine turned and put her hands on his shoulders. “You've turned into a real man, Didier,” she said. “The girls must all be after you.” He shook his head, trying to think of how he might respond, but nothing came. She ran her hands slowly down his chest, still smiling.

Didier stepped back and stammered, “Where is your husband . . . Monsieur Dombasle?”

“Bruno? He's fishing in the Morvan. He comes back Wednesday.” She again approached, letting her hands glide over Didier's chest. Though he felt a swell of desire, Didier turned away and in two steps found himself in front of the doorway, his hand already on the iron latch.

“I better go,” he told her.

“All right,” said Sabine. “But come back later for your dessert. It will be even better when it's cool.” Sabine again gave him her strange smile and Didier opened the heavy timbered door and let himself out onto the street.

When he returned to the field that afternoon, Didier kept glancing up at the Dombasle house. His work made him breathe deep and he smelled the earth release a living scent as he broke up clods of clayey soil with his heavy-soled boots while moving down the rows of vines. He became
aware of the wild thyme that plunged long roots into the dry earth and now, blooming a delicate purple, released its perfume along with that of rosemary and other herbs that grew hither and thither on the rough ground. In late afternoon when the sun was low, a breeze blew up over the plain and there came a chilly bite, but Didier didn't notice it. He felt only the exiguous rays of the sun that pulsed around him, over the vines, up onto the hillside and the house on the hill where the shutters remained shut tight.

The innate politeness of a child made Didier wonder for a moment if he should stop at Sabine's on the way home to pick up the dessert she had offered. But then his body, which still felt the sensation of her hands upon his chest, told him that it was prudent to stay away. When he passed near the old grange where Manu now lived, he realized that his former schoolmate was just two years older than he was, and the pleasant flicker of desire that had flamed for a moment sputtered with the thought that Sabine was old enough to be his own mother. As twilight descended he took the long way around through vineyards and olive groves, then up the dirt path that ran beneath the ramparts so as not to pass before her door.

The following Saturday, Didier found himself in a different patch of vines. He'd been put to work attaching young stems to wire leads that his father had installed that week. He was bent over the lowest rung when, along with a rustle, there came a glimpse of something pink and he stood to find Sabine next to him. This time her black hair was pulled back and twisted in a shiny clip and she was dressed in rosy cotton with a print of tiny flowers. Her
white throat looked like the pale breast of a wild bird and he felt that he could see the flutter of her pulse upon it.

“You never came to eat the dessert I made,” she said. “I had to eat it myself.”

“I'm sorry. I forgot.”

“Never mind. It's funny, I hate to cook, but I enjoy making pastry. And with Bruno away so often, I don't have to make dinner for anyone, so I eat pâtisserie instead. I suppose I'm just an indolent housewife. Here.” She lifted a package wrapped in white linen out of her satchel. “I brought you a
petit goûter
. Just a little snack.” She unfolded the linen and held out a square of chocolate cake. “I thought maybe you didn't care for tarts, so I decided to tempt you with something else.”

He took it from her, feeling strangely exposed alone with her there in the field. Then he lifted it and took a bite. At first, his mouth was very dry and he wondered if he could manage to swallow, but quickly the unctuousness of the rich chocolate made his salivary juices flow and he smiled with pleasure.

“Bon,”
she said before she turned away. “I just wanted to be sure that I hadn't lost my touch.”

“Thank you,” said Didier politely, his mouth still full of cake. But by then she was at the end of the row of vines where a red rosebush was covered with just-opening buds, and she didn't look back.

In May came the long weekends celebrating the various religious holidays, but he never saw Sabine. Perhaps she had gone off with her husband somewhere. He often spied Manu working in distant fields. School was still on for another
month, but it felt like summer and Didier had trouble concentrating.

“Monsieur Falque, are you dreaming or are you completing those mathematical exercises?” asked Madame Morin one hot afternoon when everyone couldn't help but gaze out the window at the pure blue sky rather than keeping their heads down and grinding away at the quiz she'd given them. His friend Jeannot snickered. Didier made a few marks by the equations, but the numbers seemed to him nothing more than garbled nonsense.

One night when he'd finished his homework and there was nothing to do, he noticed that even though it was nearly nine o'clock, it was still light, so he went for a walk. He took the gravelly, zigzag path up the mountainside to the ruined garrison at the top of the town. Beneath a half-moon, the white stone edifice looked gaunt as a haggard face, making for an eerie feeling way up there in the deserted wastes where no grass grew. Didier careened down the slippery slope of the opposite path and found himself in the church square where egg-shaped river stones embedded in the sidewalk were arranged in a fan shape that resembled the half-moon in the sky above. He descended a steep alleyway until he was on the curving road that looked over several hectares of his family's vineyards, the ones that abutted the Dombasles'. There he leaned against the stone wall and gazed down into the valley. No one was out. The church bell tolled the hour and Didier noticed a sliver of light coming from the terraced garden that extended from the side of the Dombasle house. A door thrown open to the night. He sauntered down the street to take a closer look, telling himself
that it was nothing more than idle curiosity that led him to see if someone was out and about. But when he reached the edge of the garden, the door made a creaking sound as it was pushed wide open.

“Why, Didi, what are you doing out so late?” Sabine's voice was deep, as if she hadn't spoken in a while. She emerged slowly from the doorway, once again dressed in something pale that skimmed close to her body. Her pile of dark hair blended in with the vines and bushes that grew in the garden behind her.

“Just taking a walk,” he said. He put his hands into the pockets of his blue jeans and closed them into fists, ashamed of his rough workingman's fingers.

“Well then, come in for a moment,” she said. “Climb over the wall there into the garden.” At the end of the garden the wall wasn't high, but it was still a drop of a few feet, so he swung his legs over and jumped. A thorned quince tree grazed his arm, leaving several razor-thin scratches, but he ignored them.

“Come,” said Sabine. She cupped her hand and motioned for him, and he entered through the door into a cellar.

It was dark and he tripped going down a step he hadn't seen, bumping into Sabine. A wisp of her wild hair brushed against his face, but she pushed him away as if he was a nuisance. Then she went up a flight of stone steps and he followed, wondering all the while if he should turn around and exit through the garden the way he had come. But seeing a dim light through a doorway above, he passed into what looked like a hallway. Then she turned.

“I don't think you should be here at all,” she said. “I don't know why you came.” She put her hand on his chest as if to push him again, but her touch was electric. In an automatic motion, his arms went around her, lifting her up, and they were moving down the hallway into the kitchen, she up against the kitchen table making small cries and then sighing deeply. At first, he thought he'd made a mess of things, he'd been so excited. But he kept kissing her and she helped them both undress, and then she took her time and directed him and he did his best to follow.

It was close to midnight when he came to his senses.

“Your parents might ask where you've been,” Sabine told him as he pulled on his clothes. “I think you should tell them you ran into a friend. Who could that be?” She tapped the table with the flat of her hand. “Maybe Jeannot Pierrefeu. Your parents aren't particular friends with his parents, so that should be a safe little lie.”

But that night he didn't see his parents when he got home. Didier couldn't sleep from pure excitement and wonder as to how this remarkable thing had happened to him.

After that, he never got through his work in the fields without certain prescribed delays, and thanks to Sabine's suggestions, he always had a credible excuse. He amazed himself as the false tales slipped off his tongue. His parents never questioned him at all.

But the two of them had to be careful, more than careful. Sabine impressed that upon him. There was her husband, Bruno, who, above all, must be kept in the dark, and that also included her son, Manu, and all the villagers who spent
their days looking for the slightest thing out of the ordinary that might be interesting to pass on as gossip.

At the edge of a stand of live-oak trees perched on a cliff about a kilometer from the village stood an abandoned
cabanon
, really just a stone shack with a door. They began to meet there, each taking a separate route through the woods so no one would see them coming or going together. Sabine brought a thick comforter that Didier hid up in the rafters. The
cabanon
had no lights and no window and they didn't dare leave the door ajar, so Didier supplied a small flashlight that they tilted up against the rough wall when they were together. Sometimes Sabine would grab it and move the spotlight over her body or dance, slowly swirling it over her belly, her breasts, her hungry mouth. Standing over him, she would open her legs so he could glimpse the pink madder of her sex that glistened like a budding rose under rainfall. In his overwhelming desire, Didier would have liked to crush her to him, to squeeze her and kiss her hard, his natural inclination, but he learned to be gentle because they couldn't risk the tiniest bruise or mark, anything that might give them away. The gentleness was intoxicating, Sabine a perishable flower in his hands. Her breasts were soft and white with translucent marks like pale veins. She'd had a son, after all. Sometimes he playfully swung them back and forth when she leaned over on top of him, but she didn't like that. “Don't mock me, Didi,” she'd say. “Am I just an old woman to you?” And Didier would pull her to him and tell her she was everything he had ever imagined a woman could be.