SAM ROBERTS

France

C had known P six hours before inviting him to France. She was fifty, he was thirty-four. From her late father’s home, they lay watching the olive groves and the cypress trees and the small pink village that stood between the house and the mountains.  

This is pretty crazy, he said. Have you ever done this before? he said.

Do you want the answer which will make you feel special and unique, or would you like the answer closest to the truth? she said.

The one that will make me feel special and unique.

Then no, she said. I’ve never done this before and I’ve never felt so satisfied from any other man, especially in the afternoon, she said.

Good answer, he said.

I’m excited to show you the village, she said. I think it will inspire you, she said.

The village was home to under two thousand people. Those they passed on their walk said bonjour and ça va? and they heard no cars and no commotion, just the buzzing of the cicadas and of their own feet hitting the ground and of the soft breeze lifting and dropping the leaves that had fallen by the old stone walls.  

She steered him towards the central square, through the slender cobbled streets idly guarded by cats and past the one shop which was also a gift shop and a post office and a visitor centre and a fashion boutique for the local children needing clothes for school.  

That is pretty much it, she said. There are only four restaurants and they are asleep in the afternoons and only open for dinner. She looked at the steps which ran past people’s rooftops and led from the church towards the bottom of the village. There is a café we can visit where we can share a bottle of wine and maybe eat some food? The food is not excellent but it is passable and I’ve worked up quite an appetite, she said.

Everything she said sounded good to him.

The café was located on the edge of a hillside. To one side lay the sea and the outline of Cannes and Saint-Raphaël and to the other, the beginning of the Alps.

The wine is very good, he said.

And cheap, she said, much cheaper than in London.

Why did you leave this place again? he said. Forgive me but I don’t understand it, he said.

You can quickly grow tired of a place with four restaurants and two thousand people. It is nice to come back but I don’t think I could ever not live in a city, or at least a large town, she said.

I could live here, he said. I hate London and its noise and its dirt and the way everything you earn immediately leaves your bank account as soon as you hit the street.

Yes, I know. You’ve told me at least six times how much you plan to leave London. So why are you still there? she said.

It’s not that easy, he said.

It seems easy to me, she said. Perhaps you are not brave enough, she said.

You know little about me, he said.

This is true, she said.

The owner of the café brought them a collection of pastries unsold from breakfast.

Je suis désolé mais la cuisine est fermée, she said.

She says the kitchen is closed, C said.

Thank you, he said. And looking at the owner. Merci, he said.

The owner began cleaning a table nearby. They were the only people sitting outside.

C topped up their glasses.

And you don’t want children? she said.

Not right now, he said.

And in the future?

I don’t think so, he said.

What about a woman your own age? I can see you with a nice younger woman who reads books and knows the writers you talk about and tells you you’re great and has her whole life ahead of her. I am none of those things, she said.

I like this, he said. I’m drinking wine with an interesting stranger and nobody wants anything from me. I see my friends having children and turning into their own parents and that just looks like hell to me, he said.   

Yes, but you can’t do this forever, she said. How old are you again?

I’m thirty-four, he said.

Exactly, she said. It sounds to me like you are running away from life, she said.

I think you would benefit from being more direct, he said. What do you want from life? he said.     

Just to be happy, she said.

That’s not asking for a lot.

It’s asking for everything, she said.

With somebody else?

I guess that depends. I don’t ever want to share a home with anybody again and I never want to be expected to do another man’s washing. Any man I meet would have to fit into my life and give me my space when I need it. Do you understand?

He nodded.

How we looking on that wine? he said.

The heat hit their faces, which were already warm and flushed from the drinking.

Perhaps we take a bottle back to the house? she said. I can’t imagine why but I’ve suddenly become very tired and could definitely return to bed.

He found her very attractive. Especially like this when she was wearing little makeup and her hair was scrunched up and she was ever so slightly sweating through her t-shirt and he liked the idea of going back to the house very much.

It was late in the afternoon when they rose from the bed and she put on some coffee so they could clear their heads for the evening.

There’s a pool, she said. Out back. It’s shared with the neighbours but I think they are away, she said.

He asked to see the pool and they took their cups of coffee up some steps and through some trees and then to an opening with a huge clean pool which had perfectly clear views of both the Alps and the village.

We should swim, he said.

It is not heated, she said, and even though the weather today is hot, the water won’t be warm for a few more weeks, she said.

I still think we should swim, he said. It would be a shame not to swim, he said.

If you insist, she said. 

They finished their coffee and took off their clothes. It was strange but he noticed more about her body outside by the pool than he did while they were together in bed. She had a small scar across her stomach and several tattoos, also small, which he had observed but hadn’t until now studied closely. On her right forearm read a date: 18/07/04, with a neat pink heart above it. Her other tattoos were pictorial. Pretty little things but nothing that would fill him with questions like the date on her arm. He noticed they had the same number of tattoos. Seven. And that they were all on the arms and that the rest of their bodies were clean. 

That date, he said. On your arm. It must mean something special, he said.

She was warming her toes in the water.  

That’s personal, she said. You ask too many questions, she said.

You are not always easy, he said. And dived into the water. He discovered she was right about the water being cold.

That evening, they strolled through the village looking for a place to eat. It was busier at night but not overcrowded and the restaurants were half-full with many people sitting outside.

We can visit one of the two good places, she said. Or we can stop at a pizza truck on the street next to ours which is very cheap but also very good.

That works, he said. 

They took a pizza up to the deck, where they sat facing the pool and the village.

The tattoo on my arm, she said. It’s for my daughter, she said.

What’s her name?

Her name was Laila, she said.

I am very sorry, he said, and tried to comfort her.

Don’t, she said. I know you’re trying to be kind but please don’t.

OK, he said, removing his arm from her back. That’s OK, he said.

They sat for a while watching the village.

Would you like to talk about her? he said.

Not right now, she said. There are not many words I have not already used, she said.

He topped up their wine and thought of what he could say that would not be about her daughter but would also not seem disrespectful by changing the topic too quickly.

Would you mind awfully if I went to bed? she said. I know it’s early but I’ve been up for a very long time and I can’t seem to keep my eyes open.

He looked at his phone. It was a little after 9 p.m.

It’s not early, he said. You go to bed. Get some sleep, he said.

He watched her disappear down the steps and decided he would see some more of the village. He figured she needed some space and he was not yet tired himself. He was in that warm comfortable place that six bottles of rosé creates in a person.

He covered nearly every street before the old green lanterns pulled him towards a restaurant slightly off the main stretch. A few people were still sitting outside, so he moved to a nearby table and ordered a glass of rosé which the young waiter quickly brought.  

Are you alone for tonight? the waiter asked.   

Yes, my friend is a little unwell, he said.

I am sorry to hear that, the waiter said, clearing the rest of the table. And you will be eating? he said.

Just the wine, he said.    

The waiter nodded, topping up the glass.           

A couple on the next table seemed smitten, happy, relaxed. P remembered this feeling. He remembered how quickly this feeling used to dissipate once reality returned. It made him think of T who had finally ended their tempestuous relationship a year or so before. He began to wonder who she was with and whether she was well. Then he remembered the stress they had put each other through and tried to think of something else. He began to crave the intimacy he had only a short walk away. Even though it wasn’t any kind of permanent intimacy, he needed the close feel of another person and he felt that C might also need the comfort of a body and the sense that somebody else was there. He finished his glass and returned to a gently snoring C who had fallen asleep in all of her clothes except for her shoes.  

The temperature had hit thirty-two degrees by the time he woke and he was greeted with a coffee and a fresh pastry from the boulangerie.  

I am sorry for last night, C said. Sometimes I just need some time alone. You understand that? she said.  

He thanked her for breakfast and told her he understood and not to worry and asked what she wanted to do for the rest of the day. She suggested they could visit some nearby villages but she did not seem excited, nor did it seem she particularly wanted to go and P had experienced this kind of feeling many times before. He was fine and comfortable with this feeling as he had learned some time ago to never get too close to any one person and to never outstay his welcome, whether with a friend, a partner, or a woman he’d known for only two days.  

I’m thinking I will try and find a flight tomorrow, he said. Let you have your space, he said.

That’s sweet, she said. We should see the villages before you go, she said.

Sure, he said.

They returned to the hillside café and ordered two café au lait to the same table overlooking the Alps and the sea.

Would you mind if I do not join you when you visit the villages, she said. I hate the thought of being a bad host but I really don’t think I have it in me, she said.

Tell me, he said, would you prefer me to leave today? I would quite like to see the villages and I am sure I can find a cheap room in one of them and if not, it’s thirty-five degrees, so I will find a bench to sleep on with views of the mountains.

I would hate you to think I am throwing you out, she said. You are welcome to stay, she said.

The café was busier than the day before but still peaceful and he imagined staying there free of company and writing and drinking for hours.

I think I will finish my coffee and grab my things. It will be good to spend as much time as I can exploring the villages, he said.

Good idea, she said. I think I will have a nice long sleep after you leave and then I will work on my tan and read by the pool. I haven’t read for ages, she said.

At the house, he planned his first stop. Mons was the highest of the villages and the furthest from the airport, so he figured it was best to start there. None of the local buses made the journey through the mountains, so he phoned for a taxi which quoted him the same price as six bottles of wine.

I have enjoyed this very much, he said. He took a final look at the house and the garden and the steps which led to the pool.

I am happy you came, she said. It’s been a long time since I’ve had such young, vibrant company. 

You make it sound like I’m twelve, he said.   

Goodbye, young boy, she said.

Once the taxi hit the road, he felt sad and wished she was joining him on his visit to Mons. He would find a place to stay then buy himself a bottle of rosé and slowly the sadness would pass. He knew how these things worked and had it all planned out. Mons was meant to have the finest views out of all the villages and even though he had little money, he considered delaying his flight and working his way around the mountains. He enjoyed being alone even though he often longed for company. Trying his best not to think of anything greater than the moment he was in, he sat back and viewed the village one last time while the driver spoke loudly on his phone.

 Sam Roberts is a writer living in London. He works for Granta Magazine.