The Memory of Place Ch. 02

"Is this an American number, or a satellite number?" he asked.

"Satellite," I advised.

"You really must get a local number. Coverage is excellent and cheap through this organization. I can arrange for you to get one in Paris." I thanked Luc, said I'd take him up on the offer and he smiled, satisfied now that he had returned a favor.

I laid eyes on Madeleine Lebeq for the first time in my life not an hour later.

Actually, Luc introduced me to her. Fate turned that evening on my meeting Luc and Claire almost three years earlier in a lagoon in the South Pacific. When I think back on the circumstances, it really was breathtaking.

And to be exact, she was introduced to me as Doctor Madeleine Lebeq. She was a physician, a specialist in infectious diseases who had vast experience in tropical medicine accumulated in over fifteen years of volunteer work with Médecins Sans Frontières, and I could not have conjured up a more opposite number to Liz if I had worked on it for years.

Where Liz was tall and willowy, Madeleine is short and looks purpose built to work in small, confined spaces. While Liz was known best for her almost obtuse loquaciousness, Madeleine is studious, quiet to the point of being regarded as snobby, and rarely speaks unless addressed first - unless she is giving a lecture on medicine somewhere. Liz, athletic, a great swimmer; Madeleine intellectually dexterous, and had never been swimming in her life, at least not until she met me, and not under the best of circumstances.

Anyway, Madeleine had made her way over to talk to Claire, and Luc introduced us. I had been talking to Jean Paul when Luc first tried to get my attention; it was Jjean Paul who tugged on my elbow and asked me to turn around.

I turned to Luc, caught on that he was trying to make an introduction, but I almost didn't see Madeleine. She was caught in the ebb and flow of the meeting, and it just has to be driven in here that she is not at all tall, and that she does not stand out in a crowd. Indeed, I'd have said when I first laid eyes on her that she had gone out of the way to be as unobtrusive as possible. And I'd have been wrong. Madeleine simply didn't give a damn what she wore, never had, and probably never will.

Anyway, she was wearing a teal colored turtleneck sweater and taupe gabardine slacks; her hair is auburn, a little to the reddish side if you ask me. No makeup whatsoever. And she had the most stunning eyes I'd ever seen in my life. Penetrating, intelligent eyes, the deepest blue-gray I've ever seen. I was a good foot taller than she, and I looked down at her while Luc tried to cover for my less than stellar attentiveness. After a minute she moved off to join another conversation, and I watched as she walked away with a lump in my throat.

I rejoined Jean Paul and our conversation about Mom's arrival two days hence, and we confirmed plans to drive together to Charles De Gaulle to pick her up and take her to lunch at Le Grand Vefour. We continued to talk about Marie and the problem of divorce in general when I felt a tug on my shirt-sleeve and turned to see Madeleine Lebeq.

"I understand that you are a sailor, like Luc. I would like to learn, but never have had the time. Could you teach me?"

"Madeleine! Do you know this is the world famous sailor Thomas Deaton? Of course he can't teach you - he's too busy!"

"Oh, knock it off, would you, JP?!"

"So, you are a famous sailor, Thomas?"

"No, not in the least. Jean Paul likes to make me look like an idiot sometimes, if you know what I mean."

"Now, now, Tom. Why would I do that when you are so accomplished at doing that on your own?" I threw a pointed glance at Jean Paul, then turned to Madeleine.

"What do you have in mind? I'm not really going to be sailing until I get down to Marseilles, perhaps in August or September."

"What are you doing now. Luc said you were on your boat. I assumed here in Deauville."

"Not anymore, Doctor. I'm on the Seine now, the mast is down. I'm motoring across France, through the canals. Then I will put the mast back up, in Marseilles, and move on."

"Where? Where exactly do you plan to move on to?"

"I haven't decided yet. To Greece, perhaps, or maybe to Corisca. Maybe both. Who knows?"

"That sounds . . . I don't know . . . odd, yet nice. To not know where one is going . . . to just go. I sounds almost like heaven. You are very lucky. So?" she added, "you wrote a book."

"Ah, yes, my wife and I did. About two years ago, about sailing through the South Pacific."

"You are married?"

"No, like all Americans, I'm divorced."

"Indeed. Most of the men in this room are from France, and most are divorced. Are all Americans so self-deprecating?"

"Yes, Ma'am. It's our defining characteristic."

"I see," she said. And there it was, the beginnings of a smile. Just a hint, really, the faintest echo of a smile touched the corners of her lips. "So. Perhaps I could join Luc and Claire for a part of your journey? Would that be good for you?"

Frankly, I didn't know if it would be good or not, but something in those eyes had me by the short hairs. I mean, they were looking right into the depths of my soul and my heart was pounding. I could see that her practiced eye was taking all that in, and that she was not unamused.

"I would be honored to have you, Doctor." So said I, the humble world traveler expert sailor, in my most urbane middle school French.

"Ah. I hope you sail better than you speak our language, Mister Thomas Deaton." And with that she walked away. I think then I remembered to breath again. Jean Paul, bless his heart, didn't laugh at me.

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JP and I made the quick drive to Paris and picked up Mom on the anointed day, and had our ritual lunch at the Vefour; there's something inherently intoxicating about eating in a three hundred year old restaurant that used to be one of Napoleon's hangouts. Anyway, the grub was good and Mom wasn't too jet-lagged, so we ate and reminisced and commiserated on the prevalence of divorce in the post-Tammy Faye Baker era. We drove back to Deauville and put Mom to bed by mid-afternoon; jet lag finally hit her and she slept for almost twenty hours. Jean Paul cobbled together a somewhat massive family get-together for the coming weekend - even Marie Suzanne was coming - and Mom wanted to be rested for the affair.

I - for my part - wanted to get to the bottom of this nonsense with Lisa back in Charleston. It had begun to weigh heavily on my mind. The idea of becoming a parent with Lisa was disconcerting, to say the least, but the somewhat odd twist Liz had tossed out about a possible third party being involved only served to make me terribly ill at ease. I was hoping the matter could be settled over the phone, but unsure how to proceed after my last attempt to talk to Lisa had ended so ambiguously. Something really smelled about the whole situation.

So, while I was sitting on the patio behind JP's house, looking out over the garden at the English Channel, I decided to call Liz.

She was at the restaurant, working in the back office when I called that afternoon. I got right to the point. I asked her what she knew about Lisa and this alleged third party - this Drew - whoever he might be.

"Tom, I don't like all this third-party stuff any more than you do. I'm just hearing things, you know?"

"Well, when I called her after I talked with you the other night she sounded fragile, but when I asked "who's Drew?" she hung up the phone. I think, well, I'm a bit flummoxed, you know what I mean? Bad enough she's claiming to be pregnant, but to me the situation appears anything but clear. Something's not right."

"Yes, I think so too, Tom. He's supposed to be a guy she's been seeing off and on for a couple of years. Drew Nicholson's his name, by the way. They almost got engaged a while back, too; at least that's the rumor going 'round now. Maybe high school sweethearts, or something like that, but now I'm hearing that he's the one who ran off as soon as he heard about the baby. That would've made her nervous, you know, but I can't believe an attorney would try to pull something like this, make a false allegation like this. It's just too bizarre."

"You got that right, kiddo."

"You know, Tom, I never liked it when you called me 'kiddo'; you think we could do without that from now on."

"I'll try, Liz. Old habits die hardest, you know? What do you think I should do, by the way?"

"I don't know, Tom, really I don't. Hire a P.I. maybe, or just confront her . . . well, that probably wouldn't accomplish much over the telephone. But it's suspicious she hung up on you, that's for sure. Anything else going on over there?"

"Mom flew over; we're having a family get together at JPs house this weekend."

"Oh, that ought to be lovely this time of year. I wish I could make it. How are Jean Paul and Marie doing?"

"Uh, getting a divorce, or at least thinking about it."

"Oh, no, Tom! That's so, that's such bad news. What's wrong with this world? Nothing is permanent anymore."

I actually thought that was an odd comment coming from her. Really ironic, as a matter of fact. I politely kept my mouth shut. The silence stretched out for a moment longer . . .

"Well, I wish I could be there anyway. I love those people," she said.

"Oh, remember Luc and Claire from Moorea?" I shot back, wanting to lighten the mood a bit. "I ran into them at JPs a couple nights ago. Small world, huh?"

"Oh, my, yes. I remember Luc. What a great ass that guy had!"

"LIZ!" Just when you think you understand women they hit you with something like this.

"Oh, Tom, just kidding. How are they doing, anyway?"

I filled her in on the rest, leaving out talk of Luc and Claire joining me on the river this summer, and I didn't mention Madeleine Lebeq, either. When it's over, it's over. No reason to rub salt in that wound any longer. I thanked her for the info and that was that. Cordial. No bullshit, no hysterics. Just like old friends. So goddamn weird!

I sat looking out on the garden as the sun fell closer to the western horizon, and resolved to be nicer to Liz in the future. Then I called Lisa.

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"Mullins and Associates," the voice on the other end sang out. Associates? I thought. Who was she trying to fool?

"Lisa?"

"Tom, is that you?"

"It is indeed."

"I'm sorry about the other night."

"Listen, Lisa, I want to get to the point here; I just want to know what Drew Nicholson has to do with this. Is that asking too much?"

"No, Tom, it's not. And you have every right to be angry with me."

"I do? So, this pregnancy is not related to anything you and I - to what we did? The baby isn't mine?"

"Correct on both counts, Mr Deaton."

"So, well, excuse me, but why? Why all the calls and letters. I've heard he ran off. Is that the score?"

"Yes."

"I'll be damned."

"I doubt that, Tom. I might be. But not you. I treated you poorly, and I'm sorry." The line went dead again.

This was about the weirdest string of conversations I'd ever had in my life. I wanted to get well and truly drunk. I wondered if JP had any rum in the house. He was French, after all. I doubted he even knew what rum was.

Boy, was I wrong about that.

_______________________________

We drove Mom back to the airport a week later. She was looking frail, and was terribly lonely without Dad. She mentioned selling the ranch back in Colorado, asked me if I wanted the place when she passed on, and I told her that no, my ways were pretty well set now. I'd live aboard until it was my turn to check out. Then she tossed out a bombshell.

"I'm thinking about moving back here, Tom. To be with family." I could see Jean Paul looking nervously out of the corner of his eye at Mom. He nearly lost control of his little Citroen.

"Oh?" I said, ever a master of understatement.

"There's no one, no family in the States for me, Thomas." Uh-oh. Whenever she uses Thomas I know she's like a tick all dug in. She's ready for a fight.

"You know, Mom, if it's what you want to do, I'm all for it." That took the wind out of her sails! She actually looked disappointed. Women!

"What about you? Where are you going to settle, Thomas?"

"Wherever the anchor drops longest, Mom." She shook her head at that.

"No children. Such a waste." Now that I didn't expect.

"Well, Mom, you never can tell about these things."

"Oh, that's a wonderful thought. My grandchildren being born on a sailboat, being raised like gypsies."

"Ce la guerre, Momma." Jean Paul looked as if he was going to explode when he heard that one. He was laughing so hard he almost missed his exit for the airport. We'd all been drinking rum the past few nights. I've heard that hangovers from rum are the worst ones. Maybe that was behind all this nonsense about children, and moving.

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Two days later I slipped my lines from the municipal quay in Caudebec-en-Caux and motored upriver against the current toward Paris. As much as I wanted to stop in Rouen and visit the cathedral there, I resisted the impulse; the docks there were a mess, and I really wanted to move on towards the big city. Rolling hills rich with trees and fertile farmland gave way to a broad expanse of generic industrial landscape over the next three days, and too soon aquaTarkus and I were enfolded in the rich fabric of Paris. I was early for my reservation at the "marina", but the manager found me a temporary spot to tie up near Le Petit Palais, right under the Pont Alexandre. I could see the Eiffel Tower right off the stern, and I think about two million gawking tourists walked by the boat that first hour alone. I don't think many of them could believe their eyes.

Right there on the banks of the Seine - smack-dab in the middle of Paris - was a sailboat flying an American flag, hailing from Newport Beach, California. My bare feet were propped up on the cockpit coaming, and I was munching on Reese's peanut butter cups while I finished rereading Conroy's Beach Music. All in all, I'm sure I made a most unusual sight.

Ce la guerre, indeed!

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I met Luc the next morning and we walked a block or two from the hospital he and Claire were working at to have lunch. We talked about the proposed journey down the Seine toward the first canal, and the rigorous trip to Lyon that would follow. The more I talked about the journey, the more poor Luc got worked-up about making some of the trip. By the time lunch was over he wanted to make the entire trip! Clearly I'd have to lay on more rum if that turned out to be the case . . .

He gave me directions to go pick up a cell phone that would work particularly well in rural France, and that would be cheap as hell, to boot. And toward the end of lunch, he asked me what I thought of Madeleine Lebeq, and would I mind them coming down to the boat some time to see it. Madeleine was, or so Luc said, very interested in seeing it, and in learning to sail.

I told Luc I liked Madeleine just fine, at least in the few minutes I'd spent with her, and that tonight would be fine. I would have drinks ready about seven. I remembered Luc could throw down rum with the best of 'em. I hoped Claire would warn Madeleine.

Drunk sailors on the Seine! Who woulda thunk it!

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Fashionably late, Luc and Claire arrived about seven fifteen; Madeleine would be along shortly, they said. I had laid on some cheese and crackers and had mixed up a couple of Suffering Bastards for my poor, unsuspecting friends. They sat down in the cockpit and shook there heads; the last time we had all been together - almost three years ago to the day - we had been sitting in Cook's Inlet, surely one of the most beautiful lagoons in the world, deep in French Polynesia. The incongruity of the scene was startling to each of us, as memory was juxtaposed against the reality of our surroundings, bound together as one in the modest confines of my boat's cockpit. I know it's hard to describe, let alone relate to the immediacy of the moment, but boats have a way of transporting much more than the physical; our souls' had been rejoined by the memory of place.

Luc tossed down his drink in the spirit of the moment and asked for another one. Against my better judgement, I demurred and fixed him another. By the by, if you've never had a Suffering Bastard, head to the nearest Trader Vics and be prepared for the unexpected. You've been warned. Luc finished his second while Claire and I cautiously sipped away on our first, and I looked on utterly amazed while Luc started in on hers.

Madeleine arrived and I helped her negotiate the little wooden steps up onto deck. The girl had run out to buy a pair of boat shoes after work, she said, and I complemented her on her choice as I helped her duck into the cockpit. The little teak table attached to the wheel was set up, and she marveled at the varnish on it. I had to bite my tongue; Liz had probably spent a week layering twenty coats of varnish onto that table little more than a year ago. She had taken such pride in her varnish work. So many memories crammed into such an impossibly small space!

I fixed a Bastard for Madeleine and she flinched when she sniffed the drink, and took a tentative sip at the thing. Her eyes went wide and a little shiver ran up her body. Luc commented that 'this was a real sailor's drink' and the poor thing gamely took a long pull on her drink. One thing about Bastards: they hit hard but get real smooth after about three or four good pulls. After that - look out! Luc was already three sheets to the wind and going for broke, Claire looked on with a wry eye at her husband, and Madeleine - on hearing that what was in her hand was in fact an honest to God real sailor's concoction - gamely tossed her drink down in one fell swoop.

I thought the girl was going to have a seizure right then and there!

But mon Dieu, she was up for another one!

"Listen, I know we've just met and all, but could I get you an Evian, or perhaps some Perrier?"

"Oh no, please, I'd like another one of those!"

It's fair to say that I knew where this was going to end. I mixed the next round with a lot more juice - which led to choruses of derision - and while I remixed the drinks to a nice healthy octane rating equal to perhaps something akin to jet fuel, I asked them if they'd like to go out to dinner.

"Let's whip something up here!" Madeleine said. "I can't believe you can cook on a boat!"

That, ladies and gentlemen, was the wrong thing to say to both Claire and your modest author. Quicker than you could say 'butter my muffin' we were down below whipping up all kinds of nonsense, and by midnight we had dispelled any deluded notions of inferiority that poor, demented Madeleine might have harbored about galley facilities on yachts.

I'm not saying that having had six Suffering Bastards clouded the woman's judgement. No, not at all. On the contrary, I'm sure she was quite sober after diving into the Seine - buck naked, mind you - while a tour boat motored by, it's spotlight trained on her bare ass while she sputtered and screamed like a drowning child. Hadn't she mentioned she didn't know how to swim?

Thus are our memories made.

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In due course, Luc and Claire helped me fish Madeleine from the river, and we dried her body and tears and we consoled her while she ranted about being (almost) forty and not having learned how to swim. It was official, she declared to us all in front of God and three hundred laughing tourists, 'I am going to take swimming lessons! starting tomorrow! so help me God!' or words to that effect. I think the fact that she was stark naked on the deck of a sailboat in the middle of Paris had something to do with the solemnity of her oath. But maybe that's just me.