Gwennie's Girl Page 26

  They had drinks at his hotel one evening. They had dinner at the beautiful Perle du Lac looking over Lac Leman at the Jet d’ Eau with the sun setting and a velvet night reaching out to them. They had been lovers. They had sat together in the Theatre de Verdure and wandered around the rose gardens, Parc de Grange and des Eaux Vives. They listened to some unknown jazz player who sent golden notes flitting into the summer’s evening and the elegant trees. The man’s arms were around her, and she rested against him on the grass. It was gentle and easy, and she knew it was an interlude.

  It had been a long time since she had written anything for pleasure but she wrote that evening when he left her and returned to his hotel. She wrote for the sheer joy of feeling like writing again and out of gratitude for the gentle gift that he had given her—even if he didn’t know he had given it.

  This

  is my gift

  to you.

  We shall never

  say the words

  or promise

  or expect

  but

  this is my gift

  to you:

  If I ever write

  a poem

  of yearning,

  of springing to life

  inside

  of feeling my skin

  and his

  flow about me

  like the satin

  of a mountain lake—

  if I ever write

  of summer evening trees

  with music

  and ‘I wish, I wish’,

  caught in their branches—

  of folding together

  in a garden

  of golden velvet light…

  of the strength

  of a man

  in a smile

  and a touch

  that gentles me…

  of a kiss

  that slowly unfurls

  all my senses…

  If I ever write

  such a poem…

  you should know

  that it’s for you.

  Then she made the mistake of showing him the poem when they had dinner together for what she knew would be the last time. He had already explained at great length, again, why he couldn’t leave his wife. He stuffed the piece of paper away as if afraid of it. Lizzie was pretty sure he would tear it into little pieces and flush it down the toilet so that it would never be found by the comfortable wife. It didn’t matter. The joy, for her, had been the writing. And the loving, of course. It had been a perfect summer interlude in a romantic, graceful city. The only hint he ever gave of himself and his dreams that went beyond his money-making and his property, the only clue to the man she thought may once have dreamed of a great love, was to talk of wild horses. He said he had dreamed of finding wild horses and of running with them.

  They had been sitting on a leafy shaded terrace under the hill of the Chateau at Annecy. They could see the lake and the mountains across the water where earlier, they had taken a red pedalo, giggling like teenagers as both of them tried to pedal and both tried to steer. The lake at Annecy was pure and clean, green from the mountains and blue from the sky and glimmering from the sun’s reflections. They pedalled well out, then stripped to their bathers and swam in the mirror. It was cool as glass, and when they touched, the beads of water on their skins melted and slipped between them. Then they dried, close together, on the platform behind the seats of the pedalo.

  Later, they strolled through the old town with its narrow streets, tourist cafes and shops, watched the swans paddle against the current in the channel, peered through the bars to look inside the old prison. When she turned to tell him to look in, his face was beside her, and he kissed her gently. ‘Do you know I think I love you?’ That was when she thought she felt the fear in his voice.

  They decided against the tourist cafes and found the leafy terrace. As they sat, Lizzie saw the brightness of the paraponts sailing down from the mountains. She watched, and she had longed to know what it felt like to fly under those coloured silks. The memory was interrupted briefly as Lizzie did know, had flown with the brightness. Admittedly, not off a mountain, but she had flown. She knew that one day, she would return to Annecy, sit by the lake and watch bright, butterfly men parapont from the high mountains.

  She would smile, remember a friend forgotten and wonder, ‘Did he ever find his wild horses?’ A nice man. A nice, wealthy, probably rather powerful, sad man. Of course, she never heard from him again. Strange that she should think of that brief time, sitting in the desert night watching flames and stars. Strange that music from another world could bring back memories. Lizzie did not understand the music, just heard the haunting in her own colours and her own feelings out of her own world. She just heard the haunting.

  Gradually, the mood around the fire was changing. Now there was a faster beat of drums, a faster singing. Some of the men were dancing as the tempo of the evening changed and El Shef was standing in front of her, his hand held out inviting her to join the dance. But there were no other women dancing. The firelight flickered on his face as he looked down at her, and it was all too sudden. Good grief, had she really said that line?

  This is so sudden, Mr Bulky.

  Now she should simper and flutter her eyelashes like one of those camels. She didn’t. Nor did she accept the invitation to dance so El Shef shrugged and asked one of the Germans, a young buxom blonde who stood up quickly. Then the music became a parody of a belly dance, and El Shef circled, and the young woman wiggled, and everyone was having a good time.

  Abdul sat down beside her and grinned, ‘You do not like to be the star of the tourist show, Lizzie?’

  You are so right, Abdul. She would have felt and looked a fool. Geriatric gyrations under the palm trees? No thanks. I’m fine just sitting here, watching.

  And she was. It was comfortable to be the onlooker and have time and space for her own musings.

  As the fire sank, people began straggling back along the dark path. Lizzie was surprised that the heat stayed with them because she had thought in the desert it would always be cold at night yet this was a heat that pressed down upon her. It was a relief to enter again the space with the pool. It was softly lit with candles set inside clay holders that had patterns of slits and holes so that there was movement, a sense of dappled light in the shadows.

  The pool was a gem of turquoise. It was not deep, maybe less than a metre, and people sat at the edges with their feet paddling in the cool. It was a quiet, softer time. Lizzie found a place, removed her sandals and felt the water between her toes and rising to her knees. Bliss: music, food, a warm night, cool water, a luxurious bed waiting. What more could anyone want?

  Well, well, look who is actually wading in the pool, in tiny little bathers, what’s more. It is Mr Bulky alias El Shef. He is offering a glass of wine. I haven’t seen wine at all in this trip. I thought it was probably culturally incorrect. Yes, thank you, El Shef; I shall have a glass. I don’t want to refuse again after not dancing with you. Abdul, you are here too, sitting on one side of me while El Shef is lounging on the other. Why am I beginning to feel a little cornered? This is not great wine but you see, I am sipping it slowly. My feet are moving rhythmically in this delicious pool. I am smiling and nodding while Abdul talks to me and talks to El Shef. It has been a long day, and I think I am ready for bed. Any minute now, I shall excuse myself and retire to that inviting boudoir. I can feel my legs slowing down, and my eyes are getting sleepy. Stretch and smile. Hand back the glass. Nod towards your room.

  I beg your pardon, Abdul?!? Did you say what I think you said?

  ‘Now, you will sleep with El Shef’

  You did say that. You are saying it again. ‘Lizzie, now you will sleep with El Shef.’

  You are not even asking a question. You are making a statement. In that lovely voice coming from your quite gorgeous mouth you are, ever-so-simply, telling me that now I will sleep with El Shef. Just a minute here, guys. When did this come into the script? What gave you the idea
that I was ready to play this game? What is going on here, guys? El Shef is nodding approval to Abdul. Abdul, have I been the chosen goat, being fattened up—or at least softened up—for delivering to the chief? I certainly didn’t give you any indication that I was interested in anything like this.

  Oh shit! The private cave. The private dinner. Even the biggest, bloody camel. Oh shit!

  ‘Sleep well, tomorrow will be a big night.’

  Oh shit! Shit! Shit!

  Abdul, El Shef, I love you. At least she hadn’t said that aloud. You are wonderful men—the prince of guides. I shall be your slave forever.

  Oh, Oh. Oh. Shit. Shit. Shit. I didn’t say those things but I thought them, and I accepted all the special treatment. And I bet you thought I was just being coy last night and being discreet or something when I didn’t dance. And I bet you think you are onto a sure thing with the aging single lady not wearing a wedding ring and smiling and probably looking as though she hasn’t had a screw in ages and she’d be desperate—or grateful.

  Oh. Oh. Oh. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Now, don’t panic, Lizzie.

  What the fuck do you mean, don’t panic? What the fuck should I do? It’s obvious they think I’ve been leading them on. Why would they think anyone would be stupid enough not to realise what was happening?

  Well, you did wonder, back in the cave. But I didn’t think—well, not really—Oh, oh, oh, shit, shit, shit. Well, say something.

  ‘No, thank you, Abdul.’

  Oh brilliant! He is not offering you a plate of scones. You’ll have to do better than that, my girl. See, he thinks you don’t understand.

  ‘Yes, Lizzie, now you will sleep with El Shef.’

  Stop saying that!

  ‘No thank you Abdul. It is very kind…but thank you. I don’t think I will sleep with EL Shef.’

  El Shef is asking Abdul what’s going on. That’s it, Abdul, spit it out. She says she won’t sleep with you. Now what are you saying, El Shef? You don’t look particularly perturbed. What are you saying?

  ‘Lizzie, El Shef thinks that perhaps I have not been clear. Tonight, you will sleep with him. It is arranged.’

  Well un-arrange it, mate! I might have been stupid…OK…I have been stupid, but I will not, repeat will not, sleep with El Shef. Are you getting my message? I hope it is sounding polite the way I’m saying it to you but the answer is definitely no! So tell that to your boss.

  You are. Now there’s a longer discussion. El Shef is giving you more to say. What’s going on, now? He still doesn’t look like a man who has been rebuffed. He’s looking a little impatient, that’s all. Abdul, am I hearing you properly? This is the biggest load of bullshit that has ever been handed as a line to a female by a member of your gender. El Shef has just lost his wife? Ten days ago? Ten days ago, you said? She died in childbirth? Twins? Of course, it was twins. Boys, I suppose? Of course, twin boys. Yes, Abdul, it does sound very sad. Yes, I can see that El Shef is upset. His head is now hanging slightly. Yes, yes, Abdul. That must have been very painful. It is very painful. Yes, I can see that El Shef is very, very sad. Poor El Shef. Poor Abdul for having to spin this yarn. Ten days ago? El Shef is very brave. He does not show his pain. He sure doesn’t, mate! Are you working up to the punchline, here, Abdul? Yes, here it comes, with a shrug of your shoulders, a huge sigh from El Shef and a clasping of your hands.

  ‘So, you see, Lizzie, El Shef has not had a woman for many days. This is very sad for him. So, now, Lizzie, you will sleep with El Shef.’

  I have to believe that somewhere among desperate, middle-aged tourists, this line works because it could not have been dreamt up without some sense that it works. But it is amazing. Quite, quite amazing. Ten days, and the poor man is afraid it’s going to drop off from lack of use. And women fall for this?

  Back to the matter in hand. At least, back to the matter which is not and will not be in hand. Be sympathetic. Be very sympathetic. Appear to believe every word of this crock of shit. You could even sigh a little. And now deliver that brilliant piece of oratory, that sparkling verbal riposte, that clever, tactful, diplomatic exit line.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Add your sympathies, say you are flattered. Oh, Germaine Greer and sister feminists, forgive me, but this is time to exit. Forget the politically correct response.

  ‘No thank you.’

  El Shef is not receiving this news smilingly. He is looking decidedly disgruntled. Lots of talking going on here now. Lots of hand waving and frowning and no lounging, just straight backs and I am afraid you are getting the blame, Abdul. Just a minute. There is a change of mood. Was that a shrug of acceptance that I saw? Abdul, are you indeed a master diplomat? Have you interpreted that refusal so that it does not rankle? Are you soothing the situation? Abdul, you are wonderful.

  ‘Lizzie. El Shef has made a decision.’

  Another one?

  ‘El Shef agrees that he will sleep with the young German lady…’

  Wonderful, wonderful Abdul.

  ‘…and you…’ Big smile. ‘…you will sleep with me.’

  Oh, oh, oh. Shit, shit, shit.

  Now is time to bring down the curtain. Stand up. Fix your skirt as demurely as Reverend Mother could ever have done it. Look him firmly in the eye—or however one looks someone in the eye. Take two steps towards your room. Deliver the line.

  ‘No thank you, Abdul.’

  Now move! Get to that room with its one big bed. How could you have been so thick? Move it, Lizzie. Close the door. Thankfully, there is a key. Turn the key. Throw yourself dramatically on the bed and ask yourself how the fuck you get yourself into these situations? Why are you not back in suburban Melbourne joining a sewing circle or a book club or playing tennis? What the fuck are doing in the middle of a desert, virtually on your own, being propositioned by gorgeous men who look as though they’ve just stepped out of a movie? Well, put it like that…

  She heard the door to the next room open. Two voices. The door closed. Silence. She held her breath. The door opening. Abdul. A woman’s voice. El Shef’s voice. Abdul saying goodnight. A few murmurs. Different voices. Noises going on for a quite amazingly long time. Really, El Shef, I am impressed. And I can tell the young lady is impressed too. Oh, El Shef, that’s enough, now. I want to go to sleep. O help, why aren’t these rooms soundproofed?

  The next morning, Abdul, El Shef and the German lady all looked refreshed, even glowing while Lizzie had circles under her eyes and felt like a zombie. Where was the justice? She was ignored by El Shef for the rest of the day, and Abdul was distant. Lizzie felt like the runt of the litter chasing after the group and scrambling for a drink as she perched on the end of a crowded table waiting to be fed scraps. Come off it! Well, she certainly noticed the difference in treatment and was relieved when the vehicles pulled up in front of the Hôtel de l’ Orange late that evening. It looked like home. Her bag was dropped on the step, and El Shef drove off in a cloud of dust. Then Abdul was at her side.

  ‘Goodbye, Lizzie.’

  He was smiling warmly. He was definitely knock-down-dead gorgeous. ‘I have a small gift for you. It may not give you wishes or take away that sometime sadness in your eyes, but perhaps when you look at it, you will remember me?’

  He put something into her hand, touched her hair, got back into the truck and drove away. It was a small, clay oil-lamp with a smiling face, like something out of Aladdin. There was no genie, but there was a beautiful memory so Lizzie smiled, hoisted up her bag and went into the light of the reception area. She had been still smiling when she boarded her plane the next day. Lizzie recalled that she had felt amazingly rested and confident.

  Well, the confidence must have built from there although there had been a few moments on her most recent trip that had scared the hell out of her. Brazil had not been easy. And she was tired tonight too. She guessed the effort of it was catching up with her. A good night’s sleep would fix it, a sleep without worrying about who or what was after her—or, maybe, just a sl
eep without her imagination at full gallop as it had been in Brazil? She stepped back into the warmth of her apartment, switched off all the lights, slipped under her duvet, registered that it was dark and she was alone and she was not at all afraid, smiled thinking of Sam and slept.

  Trust Me

  Geneva moved languidly into summer. The Genevois took their children to the mountains or the lakes, leaving the city largely to foreigners, the tourists and the businessmen who were far too important to leave their banks and their empires. The UN organised Working Party after Working Party and the “internationals” met with hosts of visitors who always timed their work trips to coincide with Europe’s summer. Now Lizzie was really anticipating her holidays. Sam travelled up from Paris often, and they spent lazy weekends and long soft evenings together. They hired bicycles from the Swiss railways and pedalled easily around Lac Leman stopping often to sit on the rock walls and eat ice cream from the vendors along the walkways. They visited the fairy tale Chateaux at Chinon and Nyon with the terraced gardens of neat vegetable plots clinging to the sides facing the lake. The turrets and the flags rested easily as visitors wandered the Cinderella setting and marvelled at the crazy, russet and bronze pattern of the roofs of the Old Town.

  Across the water, the often-hazy Alps made their white-lidded way into France and around the square, geraniums and petunias sat in controlled glows near polished brass knockers and plaques. The narrow steps and winding streets wound coolly between fountains and tiny shops with antiques and wonderful old leather bound books as the remains of Roman glory stood watching from high gardens and coloured umbrellas held sway down below where bottles of Evian water stood on tables across the lake from its source.