in the ravine.
He says, Not that bus ride.
I say Maureen’s name. She doesn’t move. Then, very slowly, she sits up. She says, Isn’t sleep strange, it overtakes us all, whole cities — the activities just stop for hours. It’s just struck me.
Think of all the dead people, I say.
Antoine’s hand emerges from a hatch, waving a baguette. Then his head appears very near Maureen’s thigh. He bites her and she squeals. He beats her stomach with the baguette.
We eat the Norwegian biscuits and dip the hardened bread in cardamom tea in enamel cups, without saying much. The fresh air has made us all sleepy. For a while, there’s commotion as a giant yacht ties up next to Antoine’s.
The three sailors are dressed in Helly Hanson fleece, royal blue, red, yellow. A woman of perhaps forty with a long mane of steely ringlets raises the American flag. The flag flutters weakly and then wraps itself around the mast, like a barber’s pole. A white Styrofoam plate lifts itself off their deck and floats in the water. They each pause and look at it. Then they step over the deck of Antoine’s yacht to get to the wharf.
As he steps from Antoine’s deck, one of the Americans loses his shoe. Maureen tries to fish it out with a long pole, but the shoe begins to fill with water. Antoine climbs over the side. He inches his back down the creosote timber of the wharf with his feet jammed against the yacht. It looks like he will either be crushed or fall into the filthy harbour. A speedboat passes and the yacht moves closer and the space for Antoine is very narrow. The American woman in white pants clutches the arm of the elderly man. The man removes a white baseball cap and rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. Maureen smokes and her hand trembles near her mouth.
All this for a shoe, the man says.
But Antoine scrabbles up, spider-like, and holds the shoe in the air like a trophy. He does a little bow and tips the shoe, letting the water spill out. Everyone applauds.
Early in the morning I go to the yacht club to shower. I meet a woman and child from France, a family who tied their catamaran onto the Americans’ yacht during the night. The woman gets out of the shower and isn’t in a hurry to cover up. She has a tattoo of an orange and black butterfly in the concave dip near her hipbone. She scrubs her daughter with a thickwhite towel. The room is full of steam and the smell of shampoo. The child has the same blond hair as her mother, shiny and pale like mashed banana. The woman tells me she has been on the catamaran for five years. They have been all over the world. Both the children were born while they travelled.
When will you stop, I ask.
We will continue for a long time, she says.
Maureen wears her sunglasses. We have finished the Norwegian biscuits. In the big black lenses of Maureen’s sunglasses the ropes and booms and masts all crisscross like a cat’s cradle. She is crying and the tears slide down her cheeks and hang on her chin. I can’t get a straight answer out of her. She has her arms wrapped around her knees. I sit up on one elbow and wave the Duras novel at her.
I say, This is nothing like what we thought.
She turns and the sun, which is setting, catches in one lens of her sunglasses and it burns a dark piercing amber and she ducks her head and puts her hand over her eyes.
She says, I wanted you to see this life.
It’s foggy the day we leave. My husband shoots a video of Antoine on the dock as the ferry pulls away. He is wearing a navy and white striped T-shirt like a real Frenchman. He waves, and does not stop waving until he is engulfed by the fog.
Maureen and I met him in a bar last summer. He was wearing a faded fluorescent pink undershirt. He has an orange beard, tufts of orange under his arms, and a long orange braid.He told us that his granny, on her deathbed, made him promise never to cut his hair.
Why would she do such a thing?
So I would understand the weight of a promise.
We watch him
He says, Not that bus ride.
I say Maureen’s name. She doesn’t move. Then, very slowly, she sits up. She says, Isn’t sleep strange, it overtakes us all, whole cities — the activities just stop for hours. It’s just struck me.
Think of all the dead people, I say.
Antoine’s hand emerges from a hatch, waving a baguette. Then his head appears very near Maureen’s thigh. He bites her and she squeals. He beats her stomach with the baguette.
We eat the Norwegian biscuits and dip the hardened bread in cardamom tea in enamel cups, without saying much. The fresh air has made us all sleepy. For a while, there’s commotion as a giant yacht ties up next to Antoine’s.
The three sailors are dressed in Helly Hanson fleece, royal blue, red, yellow. A woman of perhaps forty with a long mane of steely ringlets raises the American flag. The flag flutters weakly and then wraps itself around the mast, like a barber’s pole. A white Styrofoam plate lifts itself off their deck and floats in the water. They each pause and look at it. Then they step over the deck of Antoine’s yacht to get to the wharf.
As he steps from Antoine’s deck, one of the Americans loses his shoe. Maureen tries to fish it out with a long pole, but the shoe begins to fill with water. Antoine climbs over the side. He inches his back down the creosote timber of the wharf with his feet jammed against the yacht. It looks like he will either be crushed or fall into the filthy harbour. A speedboat passes and the yacht moves closer and the space for Antoine is very narrow. The American woman in white pants clutches the arm of the elderly man. The man removes a white baseball cap and rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. Maureen smokes and her hand trembles near her mouth.
All this for a shoe, the man says.
But Antoine scrabbles up, spider-like, and holds the shoe in the air like a trophy. He does a little bow and tips the shoe, letting the water spill out. Everyone applauds.
Early in the morning I go to the yacht club to shower. I meet a woman and child from France, a family who tied their catamaran onto the Americans’ yacht during the night. The woman gets out of the shower and isn’t in a hurry to cover up. She has a tattoo of an orange and black butterfly in the concave dip near her hipbone. She scrubs her daughter with a thickwhite towel. The room is full of steam and the smell of shampoo. The child has the same blond hair as her mother, shiny and pale like mashed banana. The woman tells me she has been on the catamaran for five years. They have been all over the world. Both the children were born while they travelled.
When will you stop, I ask.
We will continue for a long time, she says.
Maureen wears her sunglasses. We have finished the Norwegian biscuits. In the big black lenses of Maureen’s sunglasses the ropes and booms and masts all crisscross like a cat’s cradle. She is crying and the tears slide down her cheeks and hang on her chin. I can’t get a straight answer out of her. She has her arms wrapped around her knees. I sit up on one elbow and wave the Duras novel at her.
I say, This is nothing like what we thought.
She turns and the sun, which is setting, catches in one lens of her sunglasses and it burns a dark piercing amber and she ducks her head and puts her hand over her eyes.
She says, I wanted you to see this life.
It’s foggy the day we leave. My husband shoots a video of Antoine on the dock as the ferry pulls away. He is wearing a navy and white striped T-shirt like a real Frenchman. He waves, and does not stop waving until he is engulfed by the fog.
Maureen and I met him in a bar last summer. He was wearing a faded fluorescent pink undershirt. He has an orange beard, tufts of orange under his arms, and a long orange braid.He told us that his granny, on her deathbed, made him promise never to cut his hair.
Why would she do such a thing?
So I would understand the weight of a promise.
We watch him
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