Dockside (2016 rewrite)

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Perhaps a mile up the road we came to a little stone cottage; it was well away from the old dirt lane and hiding in deepest shadow, for twilight sat well on this forgotten valley. Little windows full of glowing amber held back the night, pale blue smoke drifted from an unseen chimney, filling the air with gauzy memories of distant evenings, the warmth of my mother's comforting smile lingering through time to hold me once again.

We turned up a winding, narrow path that led to the house, the dirt ahead lined with proud round stones, and we made our way past sleeping gardens to an ancient door. A little board adorned the passage, faded wood painted slate blue like the door, the name 'Ricard' carved by a steady hand long ago; the small lamp above the board gold and warm, and Michelle knocked on the door.

A single voice speaks, the rustling of feet across the floor whisper as dry leaves might through an autumn forest. The door opening, kind eyes settle on the woman by my side, flurries of recognition fall from the stars and the coming of love fills eyes that have waited far too long in the twilight. A tear, a sigh, skin seeking skin in the only immortality we will ever know, this passing on of ourselves, a small laugh passes in the still air, small because the joy is so big.

She is ancient, this woman, and beyond her, in the small light of the warm room, I see her husband, Michelle's grandfather, sitting in a pool of firelight, a blanket over his legs. He did not, could not stand, but his eyes were sharp and clear and his surprise seemed complete; his granddaughter ran to his side and they held one another as though it had been far too long in coming. I was welcomed and asked in, taken to a favored chair by the fireplace, and I listened to a language I had once so incompletely known and I understood almost nothing that was said, but really, words were unnecessary, indeed, they seemed out of place in this here and now.

Michelle and her grandmother slipped into the little alcove off this room, into what was their kitchen, and soon the room filled with the sound of pots rattling against pans and the subtle scent of a love others might call food. Michelle's grandfather sat with his hands on his lap, the fingers of his hands pointed up, forming a line of slender steeples, and his eyes sparkled with firelight.

"She tells me you sailed by yourself, from America to London," he said out of the blue. "What did you learn?"

It took a moment, just a moment, to catch what he'd said, so heavy was his accent, but even so the question caught me unawares.

"Perhaps what most impressed me was how bright the stars are, so far from land, and how dark the night can be."

"An interesting observation, certainly, but was this truly something you learned?"

His eyes smiled, he flexed his fingers, pressed them together.

"Perhaps not," I said. "I guess I learned the validity of certain assumptions, namely that you can't run away from yourself, from your problems."

"You guess?"

"Yes. I remain unconvinced, despite overwhelming evidence of the contrary."

He laughed. "Good for you. Go down fighting." Then: "What do you think of Ted Sunderland?"

"Ted?" What could I say? The truth? "I think he plays the gentleman very well."

"And?"

"I would have to say he's clever, very clever, and vicious."

"The two often walk hand in hand, do they not?"

"Too often," I said.

"Do you play chess?" He seemed to consider his next move closely.

"Badly."

"Indeed? Well, perhaps it is time you learned a few new moves."

He cautiously pulled a pipe and pouch of tobacco from his vest, looked over his shoulder at the kitchen, then he looked back at me, shook his head conspiratorially and smiled while he quietly turned his attention to the ancient pipe in his spotted hands. He prepared the pipe slowly, methodically, then lit a match, his leathered skin glowing in the flare of light. When the pipe was drawing as he liked it, he tossed the match into the fireplace with practiced ease. He looked at me again, his eyes full of dancing mischief, then he laughed a long time.

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"He's a character," I said to Michelle while she helped me tuck a sheet onto an old bed on the sleeping porch out back.

"He never talks to people anymore, but there was a time, well, when he did."

"Oh? He didn't say much about himself."

"Yes. That is his way. He was a philosopher, no; that is the right word? Yes, he studied at the École Normale Supérieure, right after Sartre, then joined them for several years, he and Simone de Beauvoir, until the war. Grandfather joined the resistance, but after the war he fell apart from all the intellectuals. He came here with Gran-Mama, to this valley, to the house of his grandparents, and here he has remained. When my father was still a young man, Grandfather began to cook . I mean seriously to cook, and he worked in a place, a small inn, near the palace in Avignon. He became somewhat famous, and one day Sartre came. No one knows, eh, what happened, but the next day he came back to this cottage in a great anger, then he fell sick. He was sick for a long time, and then he could not walk afterwards."

"My God, a man like that. To be cut down. Like that."

"Perhaps. But he began writing. In the early fifties. His oldest friends never abandoned him. Camus, Thomas Mann, they all came to see him, and I think they envied him. You have not seen this valley in the spring."

"Is it so lovely?"

"It is, yes, I think so, but it is impossible for me to separate him from this place now. Perhaps it is that I have always considered him to be so pure, the essence of what is human. And to love this place, this valley, the villages just a few minutes walk from here, for me, this is my humanity."

"So your father learned to cook? From him?"

"Oui. And from Gran-Mama, but there is not so much to teach, or to learn. It is just that you must find the best, the most fresh food, combine this and that, but always in moderation. That is the secret."

"Sounds like a decent recipe for living . . ."

"No, not sounds like. Moderation is the only concept worth holding to. There is never goodness in excess. Never."

"Ah, so you are a philosopher as well."

"One cannot prepare food for a living and not become so."

I had to laugh at that. Michelle did too.

"I wonder if I could ever love you too much."

She pretended to stop and think for a moment, a smile working its way slowly across her face. "Hm-m, I do not know, but I am prepared to let you try. For a little while, anyway."

"Would it be against the rules, uh, tonight, out here?"

"If we do not, Grandfather will become angry. And I will be very sad."

"Ah, wretched excess. I love it. Anyway, I'm glad it's cool out."

"Oh?"

"Might work up a sweat out here, ya know."

"Ah."

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Henri and Michelle's mother Didi arrived long before the dawn; long before we woke up, anyway, and this proved to be a surprise for me, for Didi was a California girl. Born and raised in Beverly Hills and the daughter of a hard driving studio boss, she was as unassuming and pleasant as another human being could be. She still had that easy-going California thing about her, right down to the way she dressed, but I could see a real strength and elegance about her, too. Anyway, we hit it off and were off to the races in a hurry. She didn't miss America but liked to hear about things.

Henri disappeared into the kitchen and went to work, leaving the rest of us at loose ends. Michelle led Didi and I through the gardens and up a trail behind the house that wound up a ravine and, eventually, to a bluff that looked out over Avignon and the Rhone. The view was worth the walk, particularly as the sun was just slipping up over distant Alps. Venus was still just visible, and how appropriate, I thought, to be out with two such staggeringly dynamic women with her ancient light still in the gracing the sky.

Leslie Dufour arrived, and we had some kind of monumental breakfast that would have made the masters in New Orleans sit up and take note of the error of their ways. We talked about London and sailing, and at one point -- right out of left field -- Henri mentioned wanting to buy a Smart Car, and I told him about the one we'd bought just a few weeks ago. It was, in fact, sitting in a garage in Honfleur, and I mentioned how fun it had been be to drive across France in the thing. And there was so much more to see...

"You want to drive? I do this drive with you!" he implored, and Michelle looked at me, gave me a little, indecipherable shrug of the shoulders that seemed to imply: "Go for it, if you're brave enough."

Didi chimed in: "Lloyd, dear, don't you do it. In his next life Henri wants to be a race car driver."

Henri took ready offense at this: "In my next life! You think I'm finished with this one!"

"I'd hate to think of racing anywhere in that car, Henry," I said, "but a mad dash across France with you sounds like a blast and a half. Maybe next week, okay?"

"Sure, name the day."

Didi and Michelle rolled their eyes.

There was, of course, the indelicate matter of two rather less than faithful spouses to attend. An ugly business, true, but I felt better now. Better, you see, because I'd just been shown a few new moves.

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Leslie and her microscopic Renault carried us in a blue streak back to the station in Avignon; she wished us the best luck and hoped to see us soon, then a sleek, orange TGV slid silently along the platform and doors hissed open. Michelle and Leslie hugged again and we sat, watched her fall away as the train pulled away from the station.

"So, now you have met everybody. They were, until a year ago, all I held of importance in my life. Then there came Ted..."

"I doubt there was anything you could have done to prepare for that encounter. He's world class."

"Yes. Did Henri have much to say about him?"

"Oh, not much. Detests him, didn't at first, though. I think it was your Grandfather who first saw through him. That's what I gathered, anyway."

"Yes. He would."

"I suppose there's not much that man's eye misses. He's the real deal, isn't he?"

"What does this mean -- this 'real deal'?"

"There are a lot of pretenders out there. Lot's of academics and politicians who claim to know so and so, and use that to press some thin agenda down your throat. It's an altogether different thing to have been a part of something grand, to take those memories with you and hold on to them in silence. Not try to use them, or sell them. I could talk to him for days, or for the rest of my life."

"Why don't you? He'd love that."

Night was falling, and as if on cue rain began smacking along the windows, smearing the blue glow of evening into streaky trails as the lights of cars and houses streaked by. The train seemed to be moving with incredible speed, but it was still smooth, silent, belonging to a world apart from the gathering darkness.

"What do you think of driving down with Henri?"

"You're insane if you do, but you'd have fun. Both of you."

"Would you rather make the drive? The two of us?"

She seemed to gather her thoughts for a moment. "No, no. If you must drive the car, better you make the trip with him. He would love the excuse to drive such a distance once again, and you would learn something of each other. He'll drive you crazy, though, so you are warned, okay?"

"Yes, alright." She was looking out the window, seemed almost agitated. "What's wrong?"

"I can't say why, but I'm hungry."

"Want to try the dining car?"

"Could we? Yes. I think so."

"Yes, why not. After the past few days, it's probably a good idea to have some truly dreadful food. You know. Re-acclimate to the real world."

"You're kidding, right? This is a French train. The food will be wonderful."

And she was right. Again.

Why was I not surprised?

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We just managed to catch the last flight to Gatwick, and crawled bleary-eyed through the terminal and down to the express into London, then grabbed a taxi to the marina. There was, of course, a note taped to the companionway door.

A note from Ted. He was most courteous, I must say, given the circumstances. He asked that Michelle call as soon as we got in, and she took out her cell phone and retreated to a far corner of the marina and called. I wanted to crawl through the boat, look for booby trapped doors and trip wires set to detonate huge bombs, but in the end restrained myself. I knew that, in the end, Ted was a gentleman of sorts and would refuse to blow up any vessel moored right outside his restaurant. Insurance would never cover the damages after even the most cursory investigation.

Michelle returned.

"He wants to meet with us. He said something about your wife wanting to be here, as well."

"Excellent."

"What?" she exclaimed, and she looked worried now.

And I looked at my watch, then took the sat-phone from its cradle at the Nav Station and dialed my home number.

"Hello?" That voice, so gratingly familiar. I wondered if she was alone, but found I really didn't care.

"Claire. How are you?"

"Well, the Flying Dutchman, as he lives and breathes. Where are you? Paris? Honfleur? A bordello in Hamburg?"

"No. London. On the boat."

"I've talked to this Sunderland fellow. He seems a nice man."

"Yes, he is. Did he like the idea? Us meeting, perhaps for dinner, over here this week?"

Michelle's eyes went round, and she appeared a trifle angry.

"Yes. Yes he did. I've booked a flight Friday evening on British Airways. Get in Saturday morning about seven."

"Alright Claire. Now it's a bit difficult, but you clear customs first, then pick up your bag and go through another checkpoint. Pack light, and I'll meet you just outside that second checkpoint."

"Oh, Lloyd, you don't have to go to that . . ."

"Nonsense. Claire, I mean it, pack light, but bring something nice for dinner, and perhaps a play. I'll get you a room here in the marina."

"Why can't I stay with you on the boat?"

"She's a mess, Claire. Stinks to high hell."

"Oh, alright, but you could stay with me, you know?"

"We'll see. Lot's of workmen scheduled the next few weeks. Anyway, I'll see you Saturday morning."

"Lloyd, thanks for understanding. I think we can work this out, patch things up, if you still want to."

"Yes, we've got a lot to talk about. Saturday morning then?"

"Alright Lloyd. Goodnight."

"Night."

I pressed the 'end' button and, expecting the worst, turned to Michelle.

"What was that all about?" she asked, a mixture of anger and perplexed amusement rolling across her face.

"Ah. Just a new move. One your Grandfather taught me."

"Oh, my."

"Oh, my. Indeed. So tell me. What kind of woman is Ted attracted to? Other than French chefs?"

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Claire arrived, as promised, Saturday morning, and I was waiting for her outside customs in the main lobby. She was, as I'd assumed she would be, dressed to kill. Men passing by turned and cast appraising glances at her legs, possessive wives whacked errant husbands' attentions back to more acceptable focal points, and I even cast an approving look at her once or twice. She was still aggressively sexy, at least when she wanted to be, and she knew it, too. In any duel, a dark, sultry look was still her weapon of choice, and I found this predictability comforting, indeed, most reassuring.

I wanted her off balance, of course. She was in a defensive posture, trying to protect her king, most comfortable on her part of the board. I assumed the best way to do this was to come on to her, appear contrite and apologetic, fawn over her a bit and so draw her out; she would think, hopefully, to have gained the upper hand and try to turn the tables on me. Her ego would take care of the rest.

There was no better way to do this than to take her shopping, and to spend an outrageous sum on making her irresistibly sexy. This, of course, was something she knew how to do; indeed, Claire had this sort of assault down to a well-honed art. I had simply to supply the American Express card and get out of the way. Sparks would surely fly.

Of course we started at Harrod's, then we walked among the better shops in Knightsbridge. And I had never been so slavishly simpering toward her in all my life; to say that I fawned over her would be to insult all deer everywhere. I was a slut, a whimpering, tremulous slut, and after an hour she was beginning to regard herself as something of a dominatrix, and enjoying her public humiliation of me in a most English way.

I've never had so much fun with my clothes on.

We went to the Savoy and had a late lunch, then I took her back to the hotel.

By that point she wouldn't even think of sleeping on the boat, and when I asked if she wanted me to stay the night with her, she said she'd have to think about it. I retreated, tail between my legs, to the elevator. After the door closed I started to laugh so hard I began to cry.

So this was what it had all come down to. Almost thirty years of marriage, dashed on the rocks of a practical joke. There was a mirror in the elevator, and a quick look revealed the face of a stranger that in some ways resembled me. But he was no doppelganger. No, not at all. That man's eyes were empty, devoid of charity.

I looked at the stranger in the mirror.

"About goddamn time," I said to him, "you fucking wimp."

The walk to the boat was lonely, and frightening. I smiled all the way.

+++++

There is a certain measure of comfort in predictability, and until one finds oneself in that yellow wood at the fork in the road, I suspect more than a few of us are really quite dreadfully predictable. I detest manipulative people, always have, which was why I was in such a peculiar state that day. It's fair to say that as I moved around the boat that afternoon I hated myself completely, and yet I was loving every minute of it. C'est la vie, eh?

But, I was there, now. That fork in the road was staring me in the face, taunting me, daring me. But who was moving the pieces on this board?

Well? You know, don't you?

We were to meet in the hotel bar for a drink, then head out for dinner at an allegedly quite upper crust club that Ted belonged to. I walked up to the hotel a few minutes early and found 'the Sunderland's' already visibly ensconced inside the comfortable gloom of a nice, dark corner table. I stopped by the bar and ordered one for myself and one for Claire, though if she remained true to form she'd be late. Quite late.

Well, actually, predictably late.

And she was...but it time well spent.

She had made a full court press this time. I'd never seen her so gloriously over the top before. A vision in black, even Michelle seemed taken aback; Claire walked into the room and men simply stopped what they were doing and stared. No, they drooled, as she walked by, and more than one woman did too. I've never seen a more sophisticated combination of elegance and pure out-and-out whorishness. She looked like Cartier's version of a steely eyed dominatrix: black strapless dress replete with over the elbow gloves, glittery black stockings and outrageously high heels, dripping a dozen years worth of Christmas presents from Harry Winston, and all crowned by a slim black mink casually draped over her shoulders.

And poor Ted Sunderland. His eyes were about half way out of their sockets. I could see veins pulsing in his temple, his nostrils flaring, and could only imagine what was going on under the table. Pocket billiards, perhaps?

I introduced Claire to the Sunderlands and for a moment, just a moment now, I was afraid the evening would soon be going tragically wrong, for Ted seemed tongue-tied and -- dare I say it -- twisted? He was smitten, and Claire could hardly stand it. But of course I remembered that no response would more thoroughly arouse her, and while he stammered and fawned and made a complete ass of himself I felt almost overcome be a kind of wild glee. Tragic, but wild.