I
watch French scenery roll by as Bran drives, keeping my thoughts
neutral. I lean my head against the side of the window and look out.
The interior of Bran's car has a distinct smell. It reminds me of the
way my grandfather's car always smelled; a kind of musky, dusty,
sunny smell. For awhile I write in my journal because I want to
capture some of this. For me, it is better than pictures. So I
write-- my passing, random thoughts.... We have not spent a lot of
time in his car. When we have shopped for food in Paris for the flat
we walked. So again, as I look around at the inside of his car, I
think of how many conversations we have had over the phone with him
sitting in here. And as I think of this, I look at what he must look
at as we speak; the details of his dashboard or the shape of the
windshield edges, the maps stuffed in the visor, the car stereo that
has interesting buttons and dials. Those things that you stare at
mindlessly as you talk to someone's disembodied voice.
The
car stereo plays some kind of music—Bran's music-- that I can't
identify. He has diverse taste in music, which I like. I like how it
takes me out of my head, and that it is nothing like anything I have
ever listened to. And as I listen and watch the scenery go by, the
music starts to paint a picture in my thoughts. I start to see a
story that I want to write. The scenery, the music, the smell of his
car, it all adds to it and I get lost in this for awhile.
I
love the architecture I see as we go and the cities that we pass. The
street signs, the advertisements, the landscape; I am stimulated by
all this. It is new and different to me. I look at the faces of the
people we see; their expressions and the clothes they wear; the
things they carry; the bikes; the cars.... He was right, it was good
that we left Paris for awhile; it is good to get away with him. There
is a kind of excited feel as we drive further away.... It almost
feels as if we are running away together. It feels euphoric. And
also, almost, for me, too much so. It makes me feel.... sea
sick. Like going up too high on the Ferris wheel. Of course it is
because I am afraid of this. How I feel with him. What I feel. The
thrill and rush that is always there. And I don't know, it makes me
wonder if I could handle feeling this all the time.... if we were
together. And it makes me wonder too why now I don't run away. Like I
always do. And always have done. And why, with him, I can't....
disentangle myself from.... this seaweed hold on me.
He
remarks at scenery we pass and says,
“it
looks like that artist's work we saw.”
And
I see what he means when I look at what he points to. The slope of
the land, the shape of the house, the trees along the horizon.
We
had gone to see an exhibition one day. The same day we had gone to
the Louvre. Looking at art with him.... may be my favorite of all
things to do with him; observe and listen to his thoughts as we look.
We are drawn to the same kinds of works. But I guess that is no
surprise because this is what first drew us together. He saw my work
first before we met. That is like being handed the legend.
But
then I say,
“Bran,
I thought you told me-- when we first met, you said that you and
Clair had been together for ten years, like me and Dean. Remember?
But before-- when we were talking this morning, you said that you
were only together a short time before she got pregnant.”
I
look at him.
He
looks back at me,
“well....
yes and no.”
“....
but it can't be both.”
“Well,
yes it can,” he tells me. He does not continue right away. He
concentrates on navigation; checking Google map as he drives --and I
wonder if he does this to stall sometimes. He says, “I knew Clair
from the office of one of the places that I used to do a lot of
business with.... I was with Anna still--”
“Anna?
--the woman you told me about that you saw recently?”
He
nods,
“so,
initially, when Clair showed an interest in me, I had to turn her
down.... I was actually surprised when she approached me. I never
really noticed her that way. Maybe because I was always more
preoccupied with Anna.... anyway, so what happened.... Anna and I
broke up, but it only lasted for a few months....”
“And
during that time you hooked up with Clair.”
He
nods,
“someone
told her Anna moved out. So I got a call from her one day to console
me.... and we met up and went out a few times....”
“Hmm,”
is all I say.
He
says,
“I
didn't ever lie to her what my feelings were for Anna, Beth. She knew
I was still....”
I
am still trying to figure out the math, so I say,
“so,
ten years?”
“By
the time it was really over with Anna.... it was five years that
Clair and I had known each other....”
“It
carried on that long? And every time you and Anna split up there was
Clair waiting in the wings?”
He
does not answer this. He rubs his beard uncomfortably and
concentrates on the road.
“So
what finally ended things with Anna?” I ask.
“I
found her with my best friend.”
He
says this simply but the weight of it looms heavy. I watch scenery
for awhile and fill in the rest for myself. But then I have to ask,
“so
how soon after did Clair get pregnant?”
He
makes a frustrated sound,
“I
remember it was May when I …. showed up that morning, unexpectedly,
at my friend's house and I remember that only because it was the day
after her birthday.... When Clair got pregnant it was the end of
August....” It is awhile before he says anything more and when he
does, he looks at me, glancing away from the road for a second, “I
know what you're thinking and I suspect you're right, but.... I have
two amazing kids that I would never trade for anything.”
I
look out the window again and blindly stare at the moving sights and
don't say anything. The wind blows through the car windows that are
down as we drive, the air is warm. He reaches his left hand to me and
without words, slides his fingers through mine and holds my hand for
a long time in silence until he needs to use it again.
***
I
notice when we arrive in Rouen that the streets are somewhat narrow
and busy and I wonder where we will find a place to park and ask him.
He
says,
“I
arranged with the hotel. They have a garage. I've stayed here
before.”
“Oh,
did you have a credit here too?” I ask.
He
gives me an ironic smile.
We
go down a narrow street that twists around and then pull through a
narrow entrance way. We go inside to register. He says,
“let's
just put our things down in our room and head out to the Cathedral.
We can take a tram.”
“OK,”
I follow him.
It
is a small hotel, pretty and modest. The furnishings everywhere are
not new but rather antique and quaint. I like the sounds of our
footsteps as we walk towards our room and the way that our voices
carry down the narrow hallway. I watch him open the door.
The
room has pretty windows with lace curtains. I go to look out and see
the view is of the street below. It is a modern city I see, populated
with its own rich present day culture. But then, I think about the
medieval history of this city of Normandy.... and try to imagine what
I see without the modern details.... try to imagine people on
horseback going down these streets and the story of those lives long
ago lived here; the politics and the wars and the people like King
John and King Philip II ....how it obviously lingers here in affected
details of brown paint to suggest the medieval style of a past long
gone.... perhaps as a source of identity.
There
is a crystal chandelier that hangs from the ceiling near the bed. The
room is painted a pale blue-gray and the bedding matches, along with
the Louis XIV chairs that flank a small, round, gilded table. I
notice the bathroom has a nice bathtub.
And
then he says,
“ready?”
and he takes my hand and we go.
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