Authors: Michael Arditti
‘I’m not throwing myself at you.’
‘Of course not!’ I say, scared that she might be having second thoughts. ‘It’s all been the other way round.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve been entirely celibate since … in the past eight years.’
‘Not entirely, no. I’ve had a few women. To relieve myself; to punish myself; in some perverse way, to prove that I’m still alive and yet not worthy of life at the same time. But no one I’ve truly cared about. Not till now.’
‘No more! If we talk about caring, we’ll talk ourselves out of it. Let’s just stick to tonight or, better still, the next couple of hours.’
‘Of course.’ I wonder whether her pragmatism is innate, or if the years of looking after Richard have hardened her. ‘Shall we go back to my hotel?’
‘We can hardly go back to mine!’
‘I could book a room here.’
‘And tell them what? Our car broke down on the way to Biarritz and we’ve walked here without any luggage? We might as well sign the register Mr and Mrs A. Dulterer.’
‘We’re in France.’ She looks at me wryly. ‘No, you’re right. I’m at the Bretagne. It’s a ten-minute walk.’
We are both so nervous that we make it in six. I pick up my key, which feels more than ever like clocking in, and stand before the proprietress’s desk as if it were Sister Theresa Anthony’s at primary school.
‘Madame … je regrette mais je ne connais pas votre nom.’
‘It’s of no consequence.’
‘Je vous présente Madame Patterson. Une de nos pèlerins.’
‘If you have come to watch the television, you will find many of your compatriots in the bar. We have Sky Sport especially for our English guests.’
‘Thank you, but we have pilgrimage business to discuss,’ I say, abandoning the linguistic struggle. ‘It’s quieter in the room.’
‘Of course, Monsieur. There are two very respectable chairs.’
I summon the clattering lift and lead the way to my room. Halfway down the corridor I remember the photograph of Pippa by my bed, which I fear will prove a greater deterrent to Gillian than all the priests in Lourdes combined. Improvising fast, I announce that the main light-switch is broken and ask her to wait by the door. Then I hurry in and turn on the bedside lamps, first popping the
photograph
into a drawer. The low wattage has the unexpected bonus of bathing the room in a semi-romantic haze.
‘It’s not the Ritz, but I can at least offer you a drink. No tomato juice, I’m afraid. Vodka, vodka or vodka.’
‘What the hell! In for a penny.’
‘I’ll fetch a glass.’ I search the bathroom and come back with a cloudy tooth mug. ‘Or the Lourdes equivalent.’ I pour her a generous measure. ‘Here, have a Minty Mary.’
‘Whenever I’ve imagined having an affair – don’t look at me like that; I said an affair, not an orgy – it’s always been in France.’
‘Alain Delon? Daniel Auteil?’
‘The man was immaterial.’
‘That’s nice to know.’
‘I meant that I pictured a small hotel. Shutters on the windows. Vines climbing up the walls. A millrace down a leafy path.’
‘You had everything planned.’
‘I had everything dreamt.’
‘And here we are. Skegness circa 1980.’
‘Believe me, this’ll do fine.’
‘I wanted you the moment I saw you.’
‘Please don’t say that.’
‘Why not?’
‘It makes me feel arbitrary, expendable. Just a face in the crowd.’
‘No, it wasn’t just your face; it was something deeper. Your spirit, your aura, the energy you give out.’
‘I think someone’s had too many Minty Marys.’
‘Then let’s try something else.’ I kiss her, and for the first time I have no fear of being rebuffed. I let my tongue savour her mouth, as if the confusion of taste and touch will transport us to a realm beyond the senses. After a while, she breaks away and rests her head on my shoulder. I lace my fingers through her hair, marvelling at the richness of every strand, before lifting her face and covering her cheeks with kisses. ‘You’re tickling,’ she says with a smile. ‘No, don’t stop!’ I want to obey, but there is so much of her still to explore and I am worried that the ‘couple of hours’ she specified in the bar may be all that we have. I slip my hands under her jumper and run my fingers over her skin. She flinches.
‘I’m sorry. Are my hands cold?’
‘No. Gentle.’
Moved, I press my lips to her breasts while caressing her stomach. I feel her shiver and myself stir. She is slimmer than I had expected and I thrill to the suppleness and fragility of her flesh. As I reach downwards, she clasps my wrist.
‘No, not like kids in the back row of a cinema.’ She points to the bed. ‘Can’t we make use of all the facilities?’
‘Of course.’ I kick off my shoes and pull down my trousers,
wondering
whether she will be gratified or alarmed by my erection.
‘I never thought I’d make love to another man. Now I know that all we need is a condom.’ She catches the look of dismay on my face. ‘You do have one? I assumed …’
‘What? That I never leave home without one? Whatever you may suppose, I don’t make a habit of this.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Is it absolutely essential?’ I ask, hating myself for broaching a subject that causes her pain. ‘You said you weren’t sure about the symptoms.’
‘I’m still not. But that’s not the only reason to take precautions.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘As I’ve told you, Richard’s drugs have reduced his sperm count, so I’m not on the pill.’
I have no wish to think of Richard, let alone his sperm count, and I refuse to be thwarted by the lack of a condom like a teenager too bashful to talk to the barber. ‘I’ll nip down to Reception,’ I say, pulling up my trousers and shuffling on my shoes.
‘You’re not going to ask that ogress?’
‘For a condom? God no! But I’ll find out where the nearest chemist is. I’ll be as quick as I can. Promise you won’t run away?’
‘What do you think?’
‘There’s BBC World and yesterday’s
Guardian
. Have some more vodka.’
I give her a final kiss and go out. I bound down the stairs two at a time, imagining myself on a chivalric quest. Madame Basic Jesus looks more disapproving than ever, as she stares at me over the top of her glasses.
‘Would you be kind enough to direct me to the nearest
pharmacie
?’
‘It’s nearly midnight, Monsieur.’
‘Don’t you have late-night shopping in Lourdes?’
‘Yes of course, until eight o’clock every evening. Do you or your
friend
–’ Never has a rolled r sounded so forbidding – ‘have a problem?’
‘Just a slight headache. Nothing serious.’
‘Wait here. I will fetch you a pill.’
‘Please don’t go to any trouble. It’ll pass.’
‘It’s no trouble, Monsieur. The health of our guests is our premier concern.’
She retreats to her inner sanctum, leaving me in an agony of
frustration
. Racking my brains, I think of Jamie, whose ‘nothing
ventured
’ philosophy must lead him to prepare for all eventualities. A quick glance at the key-board confirms that he is in his room but, before I can entreat his help, I have to wait for Madame to play her part in a charade of my own instigating.
‘Here you are, Monsieur.’ She comes out and hands me a foil strip containing two huge pills. ‘One for now and one for the morning.’ My throat constricts.
‘Do you swallow these whole?’
‘Mais non, Monsieur. They are
suppositoires
. Far more effective. If you need any help –’
‘No really. That’s very kind.’ I quail. ‘I’ll manage.’
‘I was on the point of saying that you have your pilgrimage doctor in the hotel. I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige.’ She dismisses me with a disdainful smile. I dash up to the fourth floor and pound on Jamie’s door, oblivious of the sleeping neighbours.
‘Who is it?’ he shouts, in a voice that is reassuringly alert.
‘Vincent.’
‘Can’t it wait, chief? I’m busy.’
‘It’ll only take a moment.’
‘I’ve got company.’
I start. Has Jamie been conducting his own romance?
Notwithstanding
his catholic tastes, he would be hard-pressed to find a
suitable
candidate among the Jubilates. The gruesome prospect of an amorous Maggie or Marjorie gives way to the growing fear that he may have played the media card on one of the more impressionable young handmaidens. Doubly determined, I knock again.
‘It’s an emergency!’ After checking that the coast is clear, I call through the door: ‘I need a condom.’
‘What was that?’
‘A condom!’
The door springs open and I tumble on to Jamie, who stands in his shirtsleeves holding a hand of cards. He steps aside, revealing his
company
: Father Humphrey, who sits in a clerical stock over a vast string vest; Father Paul who, either less hot or more reserved, has merely loosened his collar; and two of the older brancardiers. ‘We’re playing poker, chief,’ Jamie says with a grin.
‘So I see,’ I say, struggling to retain a thread of dignity. ‘Who’s winning?’
‘Father Humphrey of course,’ says Father Paul, who alone comes to my rescue. ‘Look at his nuts!’
‘Do you have business to discuss with young Jamie here,’ Father Humphrey asks, ‘or is it just a social call?’
I feel a spark of hope that some unique acoustic in the room may have muffled my words, but Father Humphrey’s smirk, not to mention Jamie’s guffaw, douses it.
‘Just a word about tomorrow’s schedule, but it can wait.’
‘Are you sure, chief?’ Jamie asks, dragging out my humiliation. ‘You said it was an emergency.’
‘You know me, ever one to exaggerate.’
‘Because if there’s anything I can do to help.’
‘Not at all. I’ll see you at breakfast. Enjoy the game.’
I leave his room feeling three foot tall, and walk up to mine, where I find Gillian laid out on the bed like a gift that will have to be returned. I sit down beside her, gently stroking her back.
‘Here,’ I say, handing her the foil.
‘What are these?’
‘Headache pills.’
‘I don’t have a headache.’
‘You will when I tell you that the chemists are closed. Jamie … Jamie can’t help.’ I think it wise to draw a veil over his guests.
‘You asked him?’
‘Don’t worry, he promised to say nothing. Meanwhile we’re back where we started. Please don’t say it’s a sign. If you do, I swear I’ll throw myself out of that window.’
‘Of course it’s a sign: one that you should be more resourceful. I’m not giving myself to a wimp.’
‘What can I do?’ I ask, desperate for a hint that she may be joking. ‘Raid the kitchen for sausage skins?’
‘That’s disgusting!’
‘Besides it’s a continental breakfast. We could steal a car and drive to Biarritz. It’s only a couple of hours. No, I know! Why didn’t I think of it before? Listen, what can you hear?’
‘It sounds as if someone’s having a party.’
‘Near enough. The kids from all the different pilgrimages meet on the bridge after dark and let their hair down. I’ll try them.’
‘You can’t! They’re young. Good Catholics. They’ll be shocked.’
‘Take it from me, every good Catholic boy over the age of sixteen keeps a condom in his wallet, just waiting for what the Lord will provide. Though, if my experience is anything to go by, it’ll be well past its expiry date. No, forget I said that. Think of all the mortal sins I’ll be saving them from. Don’t go away!’
I race down the stairs for the second time in half an hour. To my relief, Madame BJ has been replaced by a male receptionist who greets my parting wave with a friendly smile. I head outside and down the surprisingly busy street. After two sleepless nights, I now
welcome the proximity of the bridge. Young brancardiers and
handmaidens
are bunched along its length: some leaning against
bollards
; others squatting on the pavement; an intrepid pair perched on the parapet, gazing into the fast-flowing waters of the Gave. After checking that there are no Jubilates nearby, I head for a group of boys, whose fair hair and Nordic features, caught by the moonlight, bode well for our mutual understanding.
‘Hi there,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry to butt in. Do you speak English?’
‘Naturally,’ one of them replies with singsong vowels.
‘You may think this odd, but do you happen to have any spare condoms?’ They look at me blankly. ‘Condoms. You know: Durex; johnnies?’ I am rapidly running out of euphemisms. ‘French letters?’
‘You wish to post your letters?’ another asks. ‘You must make inquiries at the hotels.’
Fearing that the language barrier is too great to surmount, I resort to gestures. ‘Do any of you have something to put on this?’ I point to my crotch. ‘I’ll pay.’
Their outraged faces prove that gestures are equally open to
misinterpretation
. I want to set them straight, but the mood has turned ugly. ‘Fuck off!’ one shouts. A second spits and a third crushes his beer can. Heads turn in our direction, and I find myself subject to whatever sixth sense protects clean-living youths from predatory older men. Reluctant either to entangle myself further or to confirm their suspicions by turning tail, I brave the row of hostile stares and continue across the bridge. On the far side, I come to the
Café Pub
,
Au Roi Albert
, a beacon of light in a row of closed souvenir shops. While I know better than to expect a condom machine in the Gents, I hope to meet one customer with some sympathy and, more
importantly
, some solution for my plight. But a glance through the glass door reveals Pete, the widower from the airport, standing at the narrow bar with a crowd of his mates. There is something about his heartfelt faith that humbles me and, for all his jokes about his ‘
good-time
girl’ daughter, I refuse to offend it with my request.
Forced to admit defeat, I turn right down a small side-road, willing to walk for miles to avoid recrossing the bridge. Nowhere but Lourdes could two people go through so much, only to be kept apart by the lack of a condom. Even if I manage to buy some tomorrow,
I fear that the moment will have passed and Gillian be back with Richard. I walk down to the river, where I see the small gypsy encampment which is, according to Father Dave, a sign of
Bernadette’s
universal appeal and, according to Madame Basic Jesus, the source of every unsolved crime in the town. Either way I feel a rush of hope and, trusting in the solidarity of the outcast, I leap over the chain-link fence and scramble down the bank.