The Virgin Blue. Tracy Chevalier
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territory with Jean-Paul, that the words were a psalm, that I only had the dream after sex. Since I had to pick and choose what I told him, the process was more self-conscious and not nearly as therapeutic as it had been with Jean-Paul, when it had come out involuntarily and naturally. Now that I was telling it for Rick’s sake rather than my own, I found I had to shape it more into a story, and it began to detach itself from me and take on its own fictional life.
Rick took it that way too. Maybe it was the way I told it, but he listened as if he were half paying attention to something else at the same time, a radio on in the background or a conversation in the street. He didn’t ask any questions the way Jean-Paul had.
‘Rick, are you listening to me?’ I asked finally, reaching over and pulling his ponytail.
‘Of course I am. You’ve been having nightmares. About the colour blue.’
‘I just wanted you to know. That’s why I’ve been so tired recently.’
‘You should wake me up when you have them.’
‘I know.’ But I knew I wouldn’t. In California I would have woken him immediately the first time I had the dream. Something had changed; since Rick seemed to be himself, it must be me.
‘How’s the studying going?’
I shrugged, irritated that he’d changed the subject. ‘OK. No. Terrible. No. I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder how I’m ever going to deliver babies in French. I couldn’t say the right thing when that baby was choking. If I can’t even do that, how can I possibly coach a woman through labour?’
‘But you delivered babies from Hispanic women back home and managed.’
‘That’s different. Maybe they didn’t speak English, but they didn’t expect me to speak Spanish either. And here all the hospital equipment, all the medicine and the dosages, all that will be in French.’
Rick leaned forward, elbows anchored on the table, plate pushed to one side. ‘Hey, Ella, what’s happened to your optimism? You’re not going to start acting French, are you? I get enough of that at work.’
Even knowing I’d just been critical of Jean-Paul’s pessimism, I found myself repeating his words. ‘I’m just trying to be realistic.’
‘Yeah, I’ve heard that at the office too.’
I opened my mouth for a sharp retort, but stopped myself. It was true that my optimism had diminished in France; maybe I was taking on the cynical nature of the people around me. Rick put a positive spin on everything; it was his positive attitude that had made him successful. That was why the French firm approached him; that was why we were here. I shut my mouth, swallowing my pessimistic words.
That night we made love, Rick carefully avoiding my psoriasis. Afterwards I lay patiently waiting for sleep and the dream. When it came it was less impressionistic, more tangible than ever. The blue hung over me like a bright sheet, billowing in and out, taking on texture and shape. I woke with tears running down my face and my voice in my ears. I lay still.
‘A dress,’ I whispered. ‘It was a dress.’
In the morning I hurried to the library. The woman was at the desk and I had to turn away to hide my disappointment and irritation that Jean-Paul wasn’t there. I wandered aimlessly around the two rooms, the librarian’s gaze following me. At last I asked her if Jean-Paul would be in any time that day. ‘Oh no,’ she replied with a small frown. ‘He won’t be here for a few days. He has gone to Paris.’
‘Paris? But why?’
She looked surprised that I should ask. ‘Well, his sister is getting married. He will return after the weekend.’
‘Oh. Merci,’ I said and left. It was strange to think of him having a sister, a family. Dammit, I thought, pounding down the stairs and out into the square. Madame from the boulangerie was standing next to the fountain talking to the woman who had first led me to the library. Both stopped talking and stared at me for a long moment before turning back to each other. Damn you, I thought. I’d never felt so isolated and conspicuous.
That Sunday we were invited to lunch at the home of one of Rick’s colleagues, the first real socializing we’d done since moving to France, not counting the occasional quick drink with people Rick had met through work. I was nervous about going and focused my worries on what to wear. I had no idea what Sunday lunch meant in French terms, whether it was formal or casual.
‘Should I wear a dress?’ I kept pestering Rick.
‘Wear what you want,’ he replied usefully. ‘They won’t mind.’
But I will, I thought, if I wear the wrong thing.
There was the added problem of my arms – it was a hot day but I couldn’t bear the furtive glances at my erupted skin. Finally I chose a stone-coloured sleeveless dress that reached my mid-calf and a white linen jacket. I thought I would fit in with more or less any occasion in such an outfit, but when the couple opened the door of their big suburban house and I took in Chantal’s jeans and white t-shirt, Olivier’s khaki shorts, I felt simultaneously overdressed and frumpy. They smiled politely at me, and smiled again at the flowers and wine we brought, but I noticed that Chantal abandoned the flowers, still wrapped, on a sideboard in the dining room, and our carefully chosen bottle of wine never made an appearance.
They had two children, a girl and a boy, who were so polite and quiet that I never even found out their names. At the end of the meal they stood up and disappeared inside as if summoned by a bell only children could hear. They were probably watching television, and I secretly wished I could join them: I found conversation among us adults tiring and at times demoralizing. Rick and Olivier spent most of the time discussing the firm’s business, and spoke in English. Chantal and I chatted awkwardly in a mixture of French and English. I tried to speak only French with her, but she kept switching to English when she felt I wasn’t keeping up. It would have been impolite for me to continue in French, so I switched to English until there was a pause; then I’d start another subject in French. It turned into a polite struggle between us; I think she took quiet pleasure in showing off how good her English was compared to my French. And she wasn’t one for small talk; within ten minutes she had covered most of the political trouble in the world and looked scornful when I didn’t have a decisive answer to every problem.
Both Olivier and Chantal hung onto every word Rick uttered, even though I made more of an effort than he did to speak to them in their own language. For all my struggle to communicate they barely listened to me. I hated comparing my performance with Rick’s: I’d never done such a thing in the States.
We left in the late afternoon, with polite kisses and promises to have them over in Lisle. That’ll be a lot of fun, I thought as we drove away. When we were out of sight I pulled off my sweaty jacket. If we had been in the States with friends it wouldn’t have mattered what my arms looked like. But then, if we were still in the States I wouldn’t have psoriasis.
‘Hey, they were nice, weren’t they?’ Rick started off our ritual debriefing.
‘They didn’t touch the wine or flowers.’
‘Yeah, but with a wine cellar like theirs, no wonder! Great place.’
‘I guess I wasn’t thinking about their material possessions.’
Rick glanced at me sideways. ‘You didn’t seem too happy there, babe. What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know. I just feel – I just feel I don’t fit, that’s all. I can’t seem to talk to people here the way I can in the States. Until now the only person I’ve had any sustained conversation with besides Madame Sentier is Jean-Paul, and even that isn’t real conversation. More like a battle, more like—’
‘Who’s Jean-Paul?’
I tried to sound casual. ‘A librarian in Lisle. He’s helping me look into my family history. He’s away right now,’ I added irrelevantly.
‘And