Heartsong (42 page)

Marie did not look at the pale man's face, but she could smell his cologne, which seemed very complex, like perfume. It made her light-headed; at the same time, it was almost suffocating. She stared
at the man's smooth but strong fingers, which were twined over one knee. The nails glistened in the light from the chandelier, as though they were lacquered.

The man sat for a moment, taking in the noise and activity of the room. Marie herself tore her eyes away from his fingers and looked off toward the group surrounding the piano player. He was playing a Provençal troubador song about the fighting bulls of the Camargue. It was an old song, one her father had sung to her and her brothers and sisters many times; and now, the three or four men around the piano were singing the familiar lyrics with the same bravado.

It was eleven o'clock on a Thursday night and not particularly busy. Marie had been upstairs with only two men so far, and until the pale man sat down beside her, she had begun to think that she could have an early evening. She didn't know if she should feel relieved or worried. She glanced down to the other end of the bar and she saw Olivier standing in his usual spot. He was looking at her, his face blank. Just the fact that he was looking at her surprised her. That his face was stripped of its normal ingratiating smile surprised her even more. And worried her. Had he noticed that she had had only two customers the whole evening?

In a sudden attack of desperation, she turned toward the pale gentleman and said,
“Bonsoir, monsieur.”

He took a pull on a long, thin cigar he had just lit and puffed the smoke up into the smoggy air. He seemed to be enjoying a leisure moment, and Marie instantly regretted her intrusion. But out of the corner of her eye she saw Olivier still watching her. What was she to do?

Just then, he turned and fixed her with a smile that made her skin suddenly turn cold. The pale blue eyes were set wide apart, almost too wide apart for the round spectacles. It was as though the eyes and the spectacles didn't quite match. He had long, blond
lashes and perfectly arched eyebrows. His nose was thin but the nostrils flared dramatically. On any other face, this nose would have been an imperfection; even the eyes would have seemed curious. But on this man, these features were sensual. And the smile, the slightly opened lips, the small square teeth, made Marie s heart jump a little more than she would have liked. She had never looked into such a face.

“Hello, Marie.”

Marie heard her name escape those lips but it didn't register just then.

“I've been watching you the past couple of weeks. You interest me.”

“Me?”

“You are from country. I can tell. From the Vaucluse?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised not only by this knowledge but by the fact that he knew her name, which had just dawned on her. “Cavaillon.”

“Ah. And does your father raise the famous melons?”

“Everything—melons, asparagus, cherries, some apples—but very small.”

“Vineyards?”

“No, monsieur. It is just a patch of land.”

“And how long have you been here—In Marseille?”

Marie still couldn't believe that this man was interested in her. He liked the boys. She suddenly became even more shy than normal. And just a little frightened. What did he want?

“Did you not hear my question?” He held his head higher and his spectacles glinted beneath the chandelier and she couldn't see the eyes.

“Three years, monsieur.”

“And have you always been a whore?”

Marie had been transfixed by the flaring nostrils, the long upper
lip that arched delicately over the small teeth. But his question, the cruelty of it, made her look down quickly at her lap. She saw how square her hands were, how blunt the fingers were, and she felt heavy and awkward in his presence. A small flame kindled inside her—no, she hadn't always been a whore. She had been to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, she had seen the mysterious water bubble up from the cave, she had been to school for three years, she had played with her sisters, picked melons and cherries, flirted with a boy from the next farm, crushed poppy seeds between her teeth, and dreamed of love, of a husband and children when she grew up, of a simple, happy life. More than anything, even now, she tried to dream of that simple, happy life, but all she got was the familiar dark, deserted streets and nowhere to go.

“Well?”

“oui monsieur
. But not always.”

The man laughed—a beautiful high, mirthless laugh, like the chimes that sometimes rang in the wind outside her room at night, the source of which she could never identify.

She glanced up at the pale face but the eyes were looking at something beyond her. She instinctively turned her gaze and she saw Olivier standing apart from the bar now, his hands crossed tightly over his belly, a strange, stormy look in his eyes.

“Well, Marie, shall we go up now—to your room?”

She suddenly wanted to run away—yes, to her room—to lock the door, to crawl under the covers by herself, to sleep without dreams. She had no idea what this man could want with her, but she had seen, beneath the beauty, the eyes grow cold and the mouth hard. It was as though his sensuality had been frozen into a mask. And yet, the perfume which had now surrounded her and entered her whole body seemed to cause her to lose her senses and she felt a wave of dizziness when she stood.

“Oui, monsieur,”
she said. But the voice seemed very far away, as
though it were an echo of another voice in another room.
“Oui, monsieur
, if it would please you.”

M
arie sat on the edge of her bed, still in her plain white shift, her black stockings, her high shoes. She stared at the small glassine envelope between her fingers. The man was gone, had been gone for twenty minutes, had in fact only stayed for fifteen minutes. When she started to remove her shift, he had said, “Don't bother. I don't want to see your body. I have come only to talk to you.”

Marie had been horrified at the man's proposition. She had shaken her head and said, “No, no, monsieur, I cannot do this. You ask too much.” Even when he dropped a ten-francs note on the bed she had refused just as vociferously. And when he dropped another ten, she had swept them off the bed onto the floor. “Take your money. I will not do it.” And she had looked up at him with a rare defiance.

That's when he stepped forward quickly and slapped her on the cheek. It was not a hard blow. It barely stung. She had been hit harder by men in the throes of frustrated lust, when they were angry at that part of them that remained limp and took it out on her. She lowered her head and shook it again, almost violently, her dark hair swirling like the skirt of a dervish.

He called her a bitch, a slut, a cunt, and still she shook her head wordlessly. He told her she was not worth fucking, that she was a fat cow not fit to be mounted by the meanest, most disease-ridden bull of her pathetic Vaucluse.

Then he cajoled her. He was sorry, he had been angry at other things in his life. She was very attractive and he knew why men desired her so. What a nice room. And look—what a pretty little lamp.

But Marie responded to neither insult nor compliment. The insults
did hurt her—they confirmed how she felt about herself in her worst moments, when she thought no decent man would ever want her. But now a decent man had come into her life and this pale villain wanted her to help him harm François. To what end, she didn't know, but the thought that she could be an agent of such harm horrified her.

She lay across her bed and listened to the almost cheerful voice go on about her Rubenesque figure, her lush hair, and she wanted to cry but couldn't. She just felt drained, as though the man had performed the one act on her she loathed but had to accept.

Then there was a moment of silence. She knew he was looking down at her, thinking of his next move, but she turned her head to the wall and kept her eyes closed. She heard him sigh and thought, with some joyless hope, that he had given up.

“Very well then. I can see that you do not want to do this. I accept that.” She heard his footsteps as he walked toward the door. Then he paused. “I'm afraid I'll have to tell Olivier that you didn't please me. He will be very offended.” Another pause, as though to give her a chance to respond. Then the voice said, “You see, he is in love with me, but I find him as attractive as a fat toad. I'm sure you do too. Nevertheless, you will have to answer to him. Perhaps you will go back to your family in the Vaucluse.”

Marie heard the doorknob turn, and she sat up quickly. “Wait a moment, monsieur,” she said. “I beg you—wait a moment.”

Now, Marie knelt before the bureau and opened the bottom drawer. She stared at the few things in it. She opened the velvet box and ran her finger over the cool stone of the cameo, tracing the bust of a beautiful lady. Who was she? Had there really been such a lady? Marie closed the box and hooked the tiny brass latch. Then she opened her Bible to a place marked by a ribbon. Her eyes fell on a familiar passage underlined in ink. Although she couldn't read, she could hear the priest's voice reciting it a long time ago: “Why
then hast thou not kept the oath of the Lord, and the commandment that I have charged thee with?” The commandment that I have charged thee with. The Lord would not condone this commandment. She placed the glassine envelope in the crease, along with the two ten-franc notes, and closed the Bible.

Perhaps she would go to Abbaye St-Victor tomorrow and pray to the Black Virgin for forgiveness for this thing she was obligated to do. Marie had stopped going to church, except for the holy days, since she had become a whore. Part of it was that it was too difficult to get up on Sunday morning after a long, busy Saturday night. The other part was that she felt unworthy to enter a church, ashamed to confess her sins, and afraid that she might incur the wrath of God. She had grown up with stories about an unforgiving, vengeful God, who would inflict punishment on those who didn't glorify him. It was too horrific to think about. She only went on holy days because some of the other whores went. Perhaps they all thought there was safety in numbers. MLarie didn't question them. Religion was a private matter in a whorehouse.

Marie closed the drawer and stood and looked at her face in the mirror. She rouged her cheeks and painted her lips. She didn't look into the eyes. She dreaded going back downstairs. But it was only for a couple more hours. And she still had a job and a place. As for Saturday night, she would do it and François would be out of her life forever. She was sure of that. But he hadn't really been a part of a life that she wanted, only the dream of it.

C
harging Elk was puzzled by the coolness between him and Marie. Even as they sat on the divan, virtually thigh to thigh, she seemed very far away. When he told her about his new job, and the extra three francs a week it brought him, she had barely acknowledged his good fortune. When he told her he was thinking of moving
into a nicer flat, a larger one, one that might be big enough for two (although he didn't know how such a move was accomplished), she had looked away and said, “That will be nice for you, François.”

It was then he realized she had not really looked at him since he had crossed the floor to sit beside her. Now she sat quite still, looking off toward the piano player. Something else was occupying her thoughts. Or perhaps she had no thoughts at all.

“Is your family fine?” he said. They had never discussed her family, but he could think of nothing else to say just then. He had decided earlier to tell her his real name tonight when they were alone. He would tell her all about Buffalo Bill and his people and his country. He had told her one night that he was American—but nothing else. He would explain, if he could, how he came to be in Marseille. But would she understand? Or would she think he was only a savage who had been deceiving her with his gifts and good manners?

“I don't think of them much.” Her voice was dull, almost a mumble, unlike the shy but clear language she had come to use around him.