Honey, Cinnamon, Lemons Ch. 09-10

CHAPTER NINE. MONDAY. Tim paints and later practices boules with Paul.

When he awoke, he felt that something was wrong with the bed: it felt different, harder, and did not smell of Sab. He sat up with an effort and realised that he was not in her bedroom. He staggered over to the window, where dazzling fingers of sunlight were shining in through the cracks between the closed shutters. The metal fasteners were stiff and difficult to release, but at last the left shutter flapped outwards, caught by the breeze, and banged against the wall. Across the street Augustine Ribot looked up from her conversation with two old women.

'Bonjour, Monsieur Tommy!'

The window cill was on the level of his thighs and he was naked. He backed away a little to take his bits out of her line of sight, waved and called back 'Bonjour, madame!'

Augustine said something to her friends and all three burst out laughing. The two ladies waved at him. 'Go, go, and paint! But don't work too hard, you are meant to be resting your health.'

He waved back, then retreated into the room; it was the bedroom next to his studio, and he presumed he must have stripped and fallen into bed as soon as he had got up the spiral staircase the night before. He was relieved to see that Augustine was alive, but worried about what he had admitted to her. At least he wasn't surrounded by police, so it seemed that she really was prepared to protect him, but for the life of him he couldn't understand why.

His head was heavy and his eyes ached: he buried his face in his hands and massaged his temples as he went through to the studio then rubbed his eyes, shook his head and looked up. Paul was standing over the canvas of Polly, and their eyes met.

'Oh, scuse me, young man! Did you paint this?'

Tim scurried back into the bedroom and pulled on trousers and t-shirt.

'Yes, I did,' he shouted through the doorway.

'It's not bad. Nice chick. Looks familiar. Did you have her in here? You know, sitting for you, if you'll pardon the expression?'

'No, I'm working from photo and memory.'

'Nice bit of stuff! You can get her round if you want, I wouldn't mind meeting that! Try out the old charm. Haven't had a kid for ages. How old is it?'

'She is twenty-one and she's my granddaughter, and I don't think I want you getting anywhere near her.'

'Oops! Treading on toes, am I? Muscling in where I'm not wanted? OK, I can see why you'd want to keep her for yourself.'

A hangover rage welled up in Tim's breast, and it took a huge effort to keep his voice level; he spoke calmly, but his eyes were cold.

'I'd prefer it if you didn't talk like that. She's my granddaughter and she's a married woman. You should understand, at your age; you've got kids and grandkids. I don't want to be an ungrateful guest, so I'll leave if you like.'

'Keep your hair on! I wouldn't dream of kicking out a friend of Bunny's. It's just that she's a real dish, and you shouldn't begrudge an old man his wistful yearnings. You should understand; at your age; old man.'

'Touché.'

'I'd like to buy the painting, when it's done. How much?'

'It's not for sale, it's a present to my granddaughter.'

'Two hundred? And does she have a name?'

'Her name is not your affair; and it's not for sale.'

'I see you're doing two copies. I'll buy one, then Miss X will still get her present.'

'I'm sorry, but I won't sell. I should leave.'

'Nah, come on, don't take life too seriously! Change the subject. Conkers de pittank -- boules competition - next Saturday. I'll train you up and we'll enter together, as a team, if you're any good. You painting today?'

Tim took a deep breath and rubbed his temples, then looked up at Paul. 'This morning, yes. Probably leave it this afternoon to dry off a bit; I'll be using oils and I can't overwork it or it gets muddy.'

'We'll go out on the piste at two. Bun'll show you where it is.'

'Actually I can't get out today.'

'The piste isn't "out", it's only down the garden. Be there, OK?'

When he'd gone, Tim went to see if Sab was in her apartment. He found her in bed, just as her alarm went off. She sat up immediately, wide awake and alert. 'Oh, hi, hun. How are you this morning? Got over last night?'

'Where've you been?'

'Excuse me! I've been working, and now I'm in my own bed. You know I work, don't you? Don't start getting possessive. Where the fuck were you last night, for that matter?'

'Sorry, Sab. I had a few drinks. I'm not really possessive. Just a bit worried, that's all. I mean I didn't know where you were.'

'Drinks with who?'

'Madame Ribot, she lives across the street. She's ninety-six, you know.'

'Bloody hundred and six more like! What you doing drinking with her? She's a bloody old gossip!'

'No, I don't think she'll gossip; we got on quite well. Are we quarrelling? I thought you didn't do jealousy.'

'You need to be in love to quarrel. Sorry, I don't mean to put you down, but...'

'I'm sorry. Forgive?'

'Yes, of course I do. I wouldn't be jealous of her. I can be quite a tiger if I like -- if my freedom or territory is threatened. But don't be scared; you might enjoy being scratched and mauled sometime. But for now, make me some coffee, sweety-pie. Real coffee in the machine. And strong.'

He sat on the bed and took her breasts in both hands, then bent to kiss them. She backed off and pulled up the sheet. 'Coffee first, naughty boy! If it's good we'll see about something else.'

While he was making her coffee he heard her phone go, and when he brought her drink through she was gone. A scribbled note lay on the warm bed. Piste -- go down windy stairs and look behind you, see door, corridor leads to courtyard, door at opposite corner leads to garden, walk straight down towards statue of fucking fairies, listen for boules, take your own, in cupboard. He covered her cup with a saucer, and drank his own alone, but she didn't return and eventually he made his frustrated way to his studio.

#

He painted until half-past one, then found the set of boules and followed her directions to the piste. He saw no fucking fairies, heard no clacking of boules, but eventually spotted, through an opening in a high hedge, a large expanse of gravel edged by a log border. A man was raking the gravel over in the far corner. 'All ready, monsieur. The boss is on his way.'

He began doing practice throws. He had six boules, so he played against himself, three boules a side, with a small plastic cochonnet as a target. He was in turns frustrated and pleased with his shots, but gradually began to improve.

'Who's winning? Hahaha!' Paul came swaggering across the gravel, grinning.

'Me of course.'

'You fucking liar! I just seen you lose to yourself! Come on and I'll show you how it's done. Three boules each, win at thirteen, toss for starters. Oops, you win, not a good start for me. Here's the little piggy. Minimum six metres, maximum ten.'

'Thanks. I do know the basic rules, you know.'

He threw the cochonnet a legal distance, then managed to get within a metre of it. Paul threw a good shot, but it hit a pebble and deviated badly. His second was better and Tim failed to beat him with his last two boules. Paul managed to throw a good final one, and called out, 'two nil to me.' He clocked it up on a scorer hanging round his neck. He was obviously pleased.

'You ain't bad. We'll bring you along nicely for the competition if you watch how I do it and practice a bit every day.'

They played for an hour and a half, and Tim beat him twice, to Paul's three wins.

'I gotta go see a dog about a man. Do some more practice on your own. Try shooting. Have my boules and lay a row of six out about six and a half metres, then take pot-shots with the rest. Hit the target on the fly properly. No rolling! I'll be the shooter in the actual match, but you need to know how to stand in if necessary.' He turned on his heel and walked off.

Tim was getting hooked on the game, and keen to show Paul what he could do. He started shooting in earnest, but was only hitting the target about once in 20 shots. The French gardener was watching him. He sauntered over and said, 'You throw too high. Then you throw too low. Try with this.' He walked off to the side and returned trundling a contraption which he placed at roughly the half way mark between Tim and his targets. It had pram wheels and supported an inflated bike inner tube and tyre. He used a handle to crank the tyre up to about Tim's shoulder height. 'Throw through the tyre. And do a proper backswing.'

He watched a few throws, then said 'You throw too hard and you throw with your arm. If you want to reach your target you must throw with your mind. You stare at the bouchon; you identify with the bouchon; you see a curving path through the air, it is not a straight line, it is the path of gravity; you know now what you need to do because you have thought about it and found the good path. You send your boule along the good path you have seen. You reach your goal. That is the secret of life, my friend.'

Tim blinked. 'Thank you.' The gardener shook his hand and walked off back towards the chateau.

Following the man's instructions gave Tim a headache. Each time he aimed and threw, he focussed, imagined, visualised; sometimes the effort paid off but more often he missed. All the same, the sense of purpose and the feeling of taking hold of his destiny in the small matter of hitting an iron ball with another iron ball exhilarated him.

An hour later he called it a day, having improved his strike rate up to perhaps one in ten hits. He strolled back through the gardens, vaguely lost, taking his own and Paul's boules with him, and feeling good after the exercise: the air was very clean here and he enjoyed rinsing out his lungs with deep slow breaths.

This time he did find the Fairies, a sculpture of two figures, and paused to study it. It was an extremely well executed piece, apparently marble, and he supposed that some old wealthy and debauched aristo had commissioned it for his personal love-nest, or vice-den - it surely couldn't have been erected in an open garden where family members could see it? The lady fairy, a bit smaller than life size - but she was a fairy after all - was bending forward, splay-legged, with the skirt of her diaphanous dress flung forward to cover her back and head. Although carved from solid marble, the curves and hollows of her body seemed to be visible beneath the stone's surface, as though showing through filmy fabric: even her smiling face was discernible, and she seemed to be inhaling sharply, sucking the filmy gauze into her mouth so that full lips and pointed teeth could be seen. It was amazing that solid stone could be used in such a subtle way, far more impressive than the simple muscle-carving of the ancient Greeks. Her androgynous male partner was taking her from behind, barely penetrating her, but obviously ready for a deep thrust. He was holding a long bronze spear high in the air with its point hovering an inch above the small of her back; the effect was gruesome. Tim ran a hand down the bumps of her spine, passed his fingers beneath the blunt spear tip and polished a cold, smooth buttock; he shivered despite the heat. There was a cough and a chuckle and he turned to see the gardener sitting in a rose arbour, smoking and grinning. 'She's beautiful, monsieur, isn't she? But she is in danger. Would you go to her rescue if she asked?' Tim waved, then turned away and wandered off back towards the chateau: he was blushing like a schoolgirl.

He was pleased with his progress on the piste, and certainly intended to practice every day so that he could avoid public disgrace at the boules competition. His stubble was coming on well, but was starting to itch annoyingly. He had four days before Saturday, and he was going to stay in seclusion in the chateau, growing his whiskers, painting in the mornings, practicing petanque in the afternoon, then more painting. He knew that Sab would be busy during the day, but they could relax in the evenings. No telly, though: the thought that his picture might be broadcast terrified him. For the competition he would have to rely on his new beard, sunglasses perhaps, and a baseball cap with a long peak. With luck, the spectators would be more interested in Paul than him and, from what he had seen of the high standard of play of the locals, he doubted that they would gain the limelight by winning the tournament.

He left Paul's boules in the corridor outside Sab's apartment, and stowed his own away in the cupboard. Sab had left him another note, saying that she would be away again until the next day. He was disappointed, but a bit relieved; he was not as vigorous as he had been in his younger days, and was glad to have a rest from her energetic love-making.

He made a light supper from Sab's store cupboard, then managed to get in a couple of hour's painting before the light began to fade. He worked near the open window, and enjoyed the sound of French voices in the street. He also heard English a couple of times, once a northern couple talking about Paul, and later west country accents bickering peevishly. When he went to close the shutters, Augustine waved at him and made a two fingered victory salute. He blew a kiss, then went to finish the Beaujolais he had opened for dinner.

CHAPTER TEN. TUESDAY-FRIDAY. A busy week; Paul seems to recognise Polly from her portrait; a tour of the chateau and a disturbing dinner.

He spent the next four days growing his beard and working on the two portraits of Polly. One was turning out better than the other, but he wasn't sure why.

He was painting one canvas meticulously, working on a feature at a time, trying to bring each one up to a high level of finish before moving to the next, using her photo on his laptop to guide him. He started with the eyes, then the brow up to the hair line, then down to the nose. Cheeks, mouth and chin. Off to the side for the ears and the off-focus line where the face met the background. He did much blending with a dry brush, gently so as to keep the paint clean. He decided that he needed a context for this close work, and so brushed in a burnt umber and cobalt swathe of hair and a pale violet background. Ochre and cobalt mix on the shadowed throat, and a vivid blue dress over the shoulders and poitrine. He wasn't happy with it, and overpainted the background lightly with a Naples yellow scumble. It still looked bad.

He laid a sheet of newspaper over the canvas and brushed it down with his largest stiff bristle brush to lift the impasto off the canvas and to blur the whole thing. It made a slight improvement, and he decided let it be for a while and to switch to the other canvas.

This time he worked rapidly, using big brushes and paint straight from the tube with no added oil or turpentine. He worked the whole of the canvas at once, taking touches of colour from one feature to mottle and break up other areas and to unify the picture. He scraped off and repainted poorly executed sections, and once or twice wiped the whole canvas down with a rag and recommenced over the ghostly remains of Polly's face.

By Friday he was exhausted from the mental effort of painting and the physical effort of throwing boules around for a couple of hours each afternoon. Both paintings were reaching a standard close to what he felt was the best he would achieve. He began to add highlights, and the pictures started to sparkle; he was delighted to see Polly's eyes looking straight back at him, full of life and mischief. He added tiny pink-white highlights to make her lips moist, as Vermeer had done in his painting of the girl with a pearl earring. He dry-brushed golden reflections over the dark brown hair, and accentuated its depth and texture with deep blue-black marks to create voids.

He put the two pictures up on easels side by side and studied them. He thought of them as his 'vermeer' and his 'vincent freud'. His 'vermeer' was polished and almost photographic from a distance, it certainly gave the impression that a real woman was there looking back at the viewer. The other was, like the 'vermeer', derivative - a cross between Lucian Freud and Vincent van Gogh. He was proud of them both, even though he knew they were not Art, not original. But they were made for Polly, not for critics, and he felt that she would like them. They showed a beautiful young woman, and he hadn't needed to flatter her, simply painted what he had seen and photographed.

He lunched off bread and ripe camembert, with one glass of Beaujolais, then mopped his forehead with his sleeve and went to he close the shutters; off to the south the sky was dark and a hot breeze hit his face, the thick air difficult to breathe. He lay down for a siesta and sweated for a while before falling asleep.

#

The noisy passage of an over-revved motor-bike woke him. He got up groggily and went next door to look at his work. What he saw took his breath away: instead of little Polly in the 'vermeer' painting he found himself looking at her gran, his Polly, the girl he had lost in the sixties. On her cheek was a small black beauty spot, exactly where he remembered it. And on the table was an open tube of black paint; the spot had obviously been applied by dabbing with the open nozzle of the tube.

As he stood there wondering what to do with it, Paul walked in.

'What do you think of my little touch?'

'Why did you do it?'

'Because, she reminds me of someone I knew ages ago, and I thought I'd enhance the resemblance. Makes all the difference if you ask me.'

'Hmmmm. It makes a big difference, but it isn't my granddaughter any more, and the picture's for her.'

'Come on, you've got two. I'll pay good for one of them. Makes me quite sentimental actually. Look, you choose which one, and let me have it, with a spot, and you take the other. Can't say fairer than that.'

'I'll think about it.'

'Good man! Listen, we need to have a team bonding sesh today. I'll give you a tour around the old estate, and then we'll eat together at my place. Meet by the monkey-puzzle at three, OK?'

'OK.'

Tim left the spot on the painting for the time being; he could easily take it off with the point of his knife, but he was fascinated by it. He was also deeply puzzled over Paul's claim to be reminded of someone from long ago. Surely he couldn't have known Polly in the sixties, Tim's Polly, young Polly's gran? He didn't like the direction his thoughts were taking, so forced himself to tidy up, concentrating on the humdrum job of scraping the glass palette clean with his knife, wiping it off with a turpsy rag, and washing his brushes in white spirit. From time to time he paused, frowned and scratched his itchy stubble. Later he made himself some proper coffee and sipped it slowly, smoking and pondering until it was time to head for the monkey-puzzle tree.

#

In the gardens the air was still close and hot, the sky was overcast, the stifling breeze still blew, and he was sweating by the time he arrived beneath the enormous tree. He saw Paul sauntering across the lawn towards him, punctual for once. As he watched him approach, a sudden clap of thunder exploded almost directly overhead. 'Storm tonight, mate. But tomorrow should be okay if the meteo lads have got it right. Come on.' He led the way along a wide gravel pathway and as they strolled he recited a potted history of the chateau, fluently as though he had done it many times before. Tim nodded and grunted politely when it seemed appropriate. They rounded a bend and a low stone building came into sight, circular and without windows, its mossy domed roof making it look like a green igloo. 'And here's the glaciere! The ice house! They used to cut the ice from the lake in winter and keep it here for their cocktails in summer. Look at this.'