A FEAST OF LOVE is beginning. Everything that has gone before is only a sort of introduction. Now they are lovers. The first, wild courses are ended. They have founded their domain. A Satanic happiness follows. They are off to Besançon on the weekend, filled with feathers, floating in pure joy. The spring road flies beneath them. She likes to talk about it. Tell me what you want, she says. I want to please you.
“I like it when you do,” he says.
“No,” she insists, “tell me.”
They walk in the park, submerged in a coolness like old walls. The benches are empty. They are alone. At this hour of evening the sun is gone. The sky, as if summoning itself for the last time, is a piercing, a pale blue, so clear it frightens. It seems that every sound has fled.
They walk without speaking, hip against hip. He feels an utter, a complete happiness. The dark fragrance of the trees washes down on them. Their shoes are dusty. The last light fails.
In the dining room they sit across the table from each other. The hotel is spacious and in need of small repairs. Dean is filled with a sense of certainty. It’s all familiar. He feels he has been here many times before. This is a returning. If he asks her to go upstairs after the soup, she will put her napkin on the table without hesitation. His eyes examine her face. She smiles.
The owners of the hotel, she points out, are probably pieds-noirs, Algerians. Dean looks around. The two young men behind the cashier’s desk are very dark. Maybe juifs, she adds.
“They don’t look it.”
“You can tell,” she says.
In the room she seems thoughtful. She takes her things off slowly.
“How is it that you are not married?” she asks.
Dean is protean. He is aware of his muscles, his teeth. Life seems to have saturated him, and yet he feels quite calm.
“Go slow,” she says.
“Oui.”
His devotion is complete; he is beginning to sense the confusion that arises from the first fears of what life would be like without her. He knows there can be such a thing, but like the answer to a difficult problem, he cannot imagine it.
There are many days now when he is perfectly willing to accept the life she illustrates, to abandon the rest. Simple, vagrant days. His clothes need pressing. There are flea-bites on his ankles.
“No,” she says. “Not fleas.”
“Listen, I know what they are.”
“There are no fleas in French hotels,” she says.
“Of course not.”
They stroll along the streets, pausing at shoe stores. He allows her to walk on a bit without him. She stops and turns. They stand this way, twenty feet apart. Then, slowly, he comes to her. They walk hand in hand. Her mother has invited them to lunch the first of April. Dean nods. It doesn’t alarm him.
“We can go?” she says.
“Yes, of course.”
“She wants to meet you.”
“Fine.”
He likes to start into her sometimes while she is talking. She falls still, the words floating down like scraps of paper. He is able to make her silent, to form her very breath. In the great, secret provinces where she then exists, stars are falling like confetti, the skies turn white. I see them in the near-darkness. Their faces are close. Her mouth is pale and tender, her lips unrouged. Her open body radiates a warmth one must be quite close to feel. They are discussing the visit to St. Léger. She describes it all. It’s very pleasant to arrange the day, the hour they will go, who they are likely to encounter. She talks about her parents, the house, the woman next door who always asks about her, the boys she used to go with. One has a Peugeot now, that’s not bad, eh? One has a Citroen. Her mother tells her about all the accidents—that’s what worries her most. Dean listens as if she were unfolding a marvelous story full of invention, a story which, if he wearies of it, he can suspend with the simplest of gestures.