smile. He looks down again.
“Are you very hungry?” he says.
“ Ah , oui .”
“It’s an enormous dinner.” His head is still down. “I don’t even think you can eat it all.”
“ Oh , j’ai faim ,” she pleads.
“All right.”
In back of her they are conversing warmly in a splendid French of which he can hear not a word. His glances are long, too long, but he cannot withhold them. He feels himself becoming sullen. She turns to see what he is looking at, and Dean is suddenly filled with humiliation. She begins to do something beneath the table, to pick at her fingernails which have remnants of polish.
“Please,” he says.
She glances up. There are terrible moments in which one sees love with cold eyes. Her face is a shopgirl’s, Dean can see it plainly, pretty but cheap. He is overwhelmed with impatience. He wants only to be gone from here. They have somehow made him into a delinquent. Anne-Marie says nothing. She can smell his anger. Her hands are hidden in her lap.
They eat slowly, finding little to say. The meal is too big. She loses her appetite and cannot finish, which only annoys him more, and he eats her dessert. She sits silently, pale as a schoolgirl.
“You shouldn’t have ordered it all,” he says.
She reaches up and removes the little earrings hooked through the lobes of her ears, as if preparing for bed.
“I knew you wouldn’t eat it,” he says.
Afterwards they walk around town for a bit. Everything is quiet. She seems withdrawn. Near the cathedral she lags, moving very slowly.
“What’s wrong?”
Her voice is quite weak.
“ Rien .”
He waits for her.
“Do you feel sick?” he insists.
She seems close to tears. She shakes her head reluctantly and standing there, suddenly, beside the looming nave, vomits up the whole meal at her feet, frogs’ legs and oysters splashing onto the stones. She retches and gasps for air. Dean steadies her. He glances around and is relieved to find no one watching.
“How do you feel? Do you want to sit down?”
She merely breathes in exhaustion.
“ Ton mouchoir ,” she asks feebly.
He produces it. She holds it to her mouth and then wipes the corners. She tries to smile. She is worried about her shoes. They are perhaps stained. She leans against him and lifts her feet, one after the other, to see.
“They’re all right,” he tells her. “Would you like some tea?”
“ Non . Merci .”
“I think it’d be good for you.”
“ Non ,” she breathes.
She is ashamed, but purified as well. Her whitened face has lost its harshness and clinging to his arm she follows, chastened, along the dark streets.
The next morning she is recovered. His prick is hard. She takes it in her hand. They always sleep naked. Their flesh is innocent and warm. In the end she is arranged across the pillows, a ritual she accepts without a word. It is half an hour before they fall apart, spent, and call for breakfast. She eats both her rolls and one of his.
In the afternoon they see a Laurel and Hardy movie, a relic of thirty years before. The theatre is a closet. The seats are like torn magazines. Later they walk along the river. The water is grey and seems not to be flowing. She goes down the bank to pick some cattails for her room. Dean waits on the path. He can see her choosing the ones to take, filling her arms. What if she becomes pregnant, he wonders. The clouds are heavy, their bases dark as lead. The thought has come quietly, but it embeds itself in him. He dares not say it aloud. Suddenly he is certain he doesn’t want to marry her. Still, if she were to have a baby, what could he do? He couldn’t simply leave. His feet are cold. His cheeks feel dry. The chill of the afternoon seems to have entered his soul. She is walking along down at the water’s edge. Dean follows above, slowly, wondering how it can end.
[17]
N OW, IN THE WHITE afternoon, past the bare trees of the avenue, the car glints along. There is almost no traffic. The town seems
“Are you very hungry?” he says.
“ Ah , oui .”
“It’s an enormous dinner.” His head is still down. “I don’t even think you can eat it all.”
“ Oh , j’ai faim ,” she pleads.
“All right.”
In back of her they are conversing warmly in a splendid French of which he can hear not a word. His glances are long, too long, but he cannot withhold them. He feels himself becoming sullen. She turns to see what he is looking at, and Dean is suddenly filled with humiliation. She begins to do something beneath the table, to pick at her fingernails which have remnants of polish.
“Please,” he says.
She glances up. There are terrible moments in which one sees love with cold eyes. Her face is a shopgirl’s, Dean can see it plainly, pretty but cheap. He is overwhelmed with impatience. He wants only to be gone from here. They have somehow made him into a delinquent. Anne-Marie says nothing. She can smell his anger. Her hands are hidden in her lap.
They eat slowly, finding little to say. The meal is too big. She loses her appetite and cannot finish, which only annoys him more, and he eats her dessert. She sits silently, pale as a schoolgirl.
“You shouldn’t have ordered it all,” he says.
She reaches up and removes the little earrings hooked through the lobes of her ears, as if preparing for bed.
“I knew you wouldn’t eat it,” he says.
Afterwards they walk around town for a bit. Everything is quiet. She seems withdrawn. Near the cathedral she lags, moving very slowly.
“What’s wrong?”
Her voice is quite weak.
“ Rien .”
He waits for her.
“Do you feel sick?” he insists.
She seems close to tears. She shakes her head reluctantly and standing there, suddenly, beside the looming nave, vomits up the whole meal at her feet, frogs’ legs and oysters splashing onto the stones. She retches and gasps for air. Dean steadies her. He glances around and is relieved to find no one watching.
“How do you feel? Do you want to sit down?”
She merely breathes in exhaustion.
“ Ton mouchoir ,” she asks feebly.
He produces it. She holds it to her mouth and then wipes the corners. She tries to smile. She is worried about her shoes. They are perhaps stained. She leans against him and lifts her feet, one after the other, to see.
“They’re all right,” he tells her. “Would you like some tea?”
“ Non . Merci .”
“I think it’d be good for you.”
“ Non ,” she breathes.
She is ashamed, but purified as well. Her whitened face has lost its harshness and clinging to his arm she follows, chastened, along the dark streets.
The next morning she is recovered. His prick is hard. She takes it in her hand. They always sleep naked. Their flesh is innocent and warm. In the end she is arranged across the pillows, a ritual she accepts without a word. It is half an hour before they fall apart, spent, and call for breakfast. She eats both her rolls and one of his.
In the afternoon they see a Laurel and Hardy movie, a relic of thirty years before. The theatre is a closet. The seats are like torn magazines. Later they walk along the river. The water is grey and seems not to be flowing. She goes down the bank to pick some cattails for her room. Dean waits on the path. He can see her choosing the ones to take, filling her arms. What if she becomes pregnant, he wonders. The clouds are heavy, their bases dark as lead. The thought has come quietly, but it embeds itself in him. He dares not say it aloud. Suddenly he is certain he doesn’t want to marry her. Still, if she were to have a baby, what could he do? He couldn’t simply leave. His feet are cold. His cheeks feel dry. The chill of the afternoon seems to have entered his soul. She is walking along down at the water’s edge. Dean follows above, slowly, wondering how it can end.
[17]
N OW, IN THE WHITE afternoon, past the bare trees of the avenue, the car glints along. There is almost no traffic. The town seems
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