Authors: Faith Wolf
“Your big meeting,” Charlotte said. “I thought that was just to … never mind. I'm going.”
“Good,” Gilou said, but then the big man stepped forward.
“Non, non, non,” he said. “Travaillez.”
“You heard him,” Gilou told Charlotte. “Get back to it.”
Charlotte returned to the square, picked up the shovel and began digging, although she wasn't quite sure what she was doing, she only felt that she ought to be doing something because their eyes were on her the whole time. She was pleased that today she was wearing a raincoat, but still she was unsettled by their scrutiny.
Seeing Gilou take orders from another man made her feel frightened and she wished that she had stayed at home today after all.
She remembered how she had turned earlier that week, expecting to find Gilou appraising her, but instead she had found an empty porch. She turned now and found that the big man was watching her, leaning on the decorative fence in front of the house, smoking a cigarette and blowing smoke rings.
Speaking French from the dining room, Gilou called him in and, hesitantly, he shifted his bulk and headed inside.
“Shit,” Charlotte said, though she didn't understand why her being there that day had been such a big deal.
Gilou appeared in the doorway again a moment later with an answer.
“Now they think I'm weak,” he said.
She was about to apologise and ask what was going on, when she saw that he had his dog under one arm.
“Take Patrick for a walk,” he said and threw the dog at her. It landed on its paws at her feet, but immediately turned to head back inside. Seeing its master's face, it sat dutifully at the bottom step instead, imploring him to change his mind. No such luck. “A long walk,” Gilou said and went back inside, slamming the door.
“Come on, Patrick,” Charlotte said, dropping the shovel, and Patrick ran to her side. “We're not wanted.”
~~~
They walked so far that she ended up carrying Patrick most of the way. His little legs simply weren't up to the task. She had never considered herself a dog person, but carrying him under her arms was not so bad. Aside from the fact that he was wet and sometimes found it difficult to keep still, it was nice to be near him, nice to be near anything breathing. She reflected with regret that she hadn't held anyone since leaving the UK. The French kissed on the cheek all the time, she'd even seen someone do it twice on each, but that wasn't the same as hugging someone because you loved them and because they loved you.
She started to think about Mark again. That was always a bad sign, but admittedly she hadn't thought about him for a while, because she'd been occupied with work and animals and Gilou. It was as if Gilou knew that she needed to be busy. Though his manner was brusque and his words sometimes cryptic, she suspected that deep down he was one of the few people who really understood her. At least she had thought so until today.
The walk took them down the hill and then off into a path that cut through the forest.
“Why not?” she thought. “I'm wearing his boots, after all.”
Although the rain had stopped, dripping in the forest remained constant. She enjoyed the sound of raindrops patting on her head.
“It's okay, Patrick,” she said as the dog wriggled to get free. “Ca va, mon beau. Ca va.”
Not all that long ago, Gilou had suggested the proximity of wild boar in this area and she had felt a flush of fear run through her body. Now she felt nothing at the prospect of meeting something big and hairy on the tortuous path. She'd wrestled with chickens, been chased by a cockerel, was kicked in the leg by a horse and peed on by a dog. She was living alone in an isolated cottage in a foreign country in which she could barely speak the language. She was doing it all, despite being told that it would never work. The only thing that scared her now was back at La Gaillarde.
She walked until she was lost. Patrick proved to be no help. When she finally found her way back to the road by some miracle of coincidence, she looked at her watch and decided that she didn't need to get back just yet after all. Her working day ended at five sharp, so if she could arrange to get back at five minutes to five, that would be for the best.
The sun broke through the clouds as she made her ascent back to La Gaillarde. She ended up carrying her raincoat under one arm and Patrick under the other, until, quickly overheated in her jumper, she decided that enough was enough and put Patrick on the road.
He immediately gazed up at her with his enormous eyes and began plaintive whining.
“This is for your own good,” she said. “If you can walk up this hill, then you'll be free to go anywhere, anytime, won't you, boy, won't you? Yes, you will. Now, come on.”
It was slow-going, but they made it back to the top of the hill at about ten to five. She'd been hoping to knock on the door, slip Patrick inside and slink away, but Gilou was sitting on the porch, gazing into space, an open but untried bottle of red wine beside him. Patrick almost knocked the bottle over in his haste to greet his master, but Gilou neither noticed the near-accident nor the dog. Patrick wagged his stubby, white-tipped tail furiously and glanced back at Charlotte as if to say:
“Look at what she made me do! Look at my paws!”
“You'll thank me for this,” Charlotte thought. And then she couldn't avoid it any longer. She had to look at Gilou's face.
He was not looking back at her. He was still staring into space, his lips set firmly together, enduring what appeared to be a great feat of self-control.
Charlotte leaned against the fence. The big guy from earlier had broken it with his bulk.
She knew that if she suggested leaving Gilou to it, he would agree that she should go, but if she said something else …
“It's going to be some time before all that wine evaporates,” she said.
His eyes flicked towards the bottle, as if seeing it for the first time. Wherever his mind had been, it had been very far away.
“I don't really drink,” he said.
“I could show you how,” Charlotte suggested. “The first part is easy.”
~~~
Gilou put two wine glasses on the table in the manner of someone setting out shot glasses for tequila. It was a wonder that the stems did not break. He poured in the same manner, spilling wine on the table.
Charlotte immediately fetched a roll of paper towels.
“Oh, don't bother with that,” Gilou said.
“You didn't polish it,” Charlotte said and wiped up the spill.
“You're not at work anymore,” Gilou said.
“Then, bottoms up,” Charlotte said.
“What?”
Charlotte demonstrated by raising the glass and taking a healthy sip.
“This is good,” she said.
“Of course, it's good,” he said. “I'm French.” He downed the contents of his glass in one and poured again.
“You've done this before,” Charlotte said.
Gilou leaned back in his chair and Charlotte caught herself looking at his chest while he occupied himself with staring at the beams running across the ceiling as if dissatisfied with the job he had done and thinking about a way to take it all apart and start again, a futile, impossible task.
“Who were those guys?” Charlotte asked.
“They're the same wherever you go. Turn over a rock in any country and they're there, calling themselves developers.”
“Like, software developers?”
“No,” he said and smiled for the first time that evening. “Not like software developers. Like men who stand in one town and then stretch a line to the next town and decide that everything in the middle has to go. They don't build anything. Ever. They point and they say: 'Destroy this field, take down this school, chop down these trees.' They give contracts, back and forth, they shake hands, they sign things and they leave. What happens to us is not their concern.”
“That's awful,” Charlotte said. “But you're the mayor, so you can stop them, right?”
He put a hand over her glass.
“I think you've had enough,” he said.
“Why were they here? Asking for your vote?”
“Not exactly. If anybody gets in their way, they simply roll over them. Anybody who does not stand aside becomes part of the foundations in their new project. They came to show me the colour of their money. According to them, everyone has their price.”
“And according to you?”
“Yes,” he said, looking away. “Everybody has their price.”
He stared at the grains of the table.
“That's not all, is it?” Charlotte said. “There's something else that you're not telling me.”
“Yes,” he said.
It turned out that he didn't need much tuition in how to drink after all. He had downed three glasses while she was still on her first. Watching him drink made her want to give up alcohol. He closed his eyes and soon he was breathing heavily. His back rose and fell, slowly, in an easy rhythm. He was at peace and Charlotte was afraid to move in case she woke him.
At last, however, she felt more awkward watching him sleep than abandoning him at the table and so she edged her chair back.
“Don't go,” Gilou said, eyes still closed.
“I'll come back,” she said. “If you like.”
“Come back,” he said.
She returned that evening with a bowl covered in silver foil. She'd also taken the opportunity to change out of her unflattering jumper and jeans and was now wearing a white cardigan over a light, grey dress that accentuated the tones of her skin. She didn't think that Gilou had ever seen her in a dress and heels. Not many people had seen her like this in the last couple of years. Now she was glad that she had packed for all eventualities.
“What is all this?” he asked.
“They're called legs,” Charlotte said.
“Very good,” Gilou said, “but I meant this.” He tapped the bowl she was holding.
“Oh.” She removed the foil with a flourish and held a pasta bake under his nose. “Not the most elegant of meals, but I didn't have time to do a shop and what's important is lining your stomach.” She saw that the bottle was empty now, on the floor. “We need to absorb some of that alcohol you're drowning in.”
“What I mean is, why did you cook for me?”
“Because I … I want you to feel okay,” she said. “It's just as easy to cook for two as it is for one.”
“Sometimes it's easier to cook for two,” he said.
“It's more fun,” she said and began laying the table while the food was still warm. “I suppose it is easier.”
“Did you study English?” Charlotte asked over dinner.
He shook his head.
“But you speak so well.”
“I have some English friends,” he said.
“That doesn't quite explain it,” she said. “Sometimes your English is better than mine.”
“Only sometimes?” he said.
“Oi.” She made as if to stab him with her fork.