The story continues from Tranche Eight
Marcus returns from skinny-dipping with Marthe and Lizzy to a busy evening at Chez Antoine. At the end of the day he closes up the café and goes to his room but cannot sleep. Armand’s suggestion he keep a journal comes to his rescue as a means of talking to himself on the page…
Wednesday, 24th August
Wednesday, 24th August. It’s 02:15 and I can’t sleep. I went nude swimming with Marthe and Lizzy yesterday and I can’t stop asking myself why they invited me. The same stupid question keeps circling round my mind. I know they wouldn’t have invited me unless they liked me BUT. Fuck!!! Always that BUT. We were busy last night but I couldn’t stop hoping they’d turn up and then fearing they would. They didn’t. Let’s be rational. They like me. They said they often swim naked there when her people are away. It was lovely and innocent. Yes, it was just like nudists say - it is fun to be naked, fun to see them naked. Did I feel excited? Aroused? No. Not then. Now I do as I think about them. But then I didn’t. Maybe I did a bit when they jumped on me in the pool – well, it was a lot actually – but they were climbing all over me trying to duck me. Were they horny? I thought they were just teasing me. Now I don’t know. How does one know?
Hang on! Reading that again makes me think I’m treating this like some sort of exam – an O-Level in sexual relations? Recognise difference – can do that. Identify and name parts – can do that too. Describe habitats – in a general way but not in specific detail. Identify behaviours – if ‘identify’ means simply differentiate one behaviour from another, yes, of course – but identifying the purpose underlying the behaviour – No! Not at all.
Okay --- I don’t think I’d pass the O-Level. That makes me ask what would an A-Level syllabus look like? And what about university level? And life??
It is now 3am. I have read and reread the drivel above. Why do I even think of this like an academic subject? What if it were something practical, like carpentry? No! not carpentry – dancing? No, not even that. Not a thing or a skill. Just something basic. Like friendship. You can’t know someone if you don’t talk to them.
Right. I’m tired. Do I want to know if Lizzy or Marthe like me? Yes, obviously I do. Then what? I must ask them? Yes. Simple, isn’t it?
No, it isn’t simple. If it was I wouldn’t be writing this crap. It’s the same as always. TALK TO THEM!!!! I didn’t talk to Pippa, or Sandy or Linda or Sarah and I certainly didn’t talk to Julie, or Sophie or Pip or - anyone. Ahh – that is quite a list! Dwell on that Marcus. Next time you see Lizzy ask her if she fancies a shag and see what happens.
The church bells woke him not quite three hours later. He rolled out of bed and went down to put up the shutters and open the doors. Valerio had left a list, not as neat or detailed as Mathilde’s but he knew the traders and they knew him. There was something different about this day. It was an unavoidable feeling. He was enjoying sweeping the floor, cleaning the shiny, hissy Gaggia coffee machine, polishing mirrors advertising Nicolas and Pernod, ensuring tables, chairs, ashtrays were neatly aligned. He emptied overflowing ashtrays, swept up the litter of dog-ends and wiped down the iron tables, aligning them neatly with their slatted seat folding chairs. He stood back to look at the café’s frontage. The sharp early morning light revealed the fading lettering of the sign, the chipped paint, smeared glass of the doors (he reprimanded himself for having failed to notice that). He owed Mathilde more than he could ever repay. This quiet square with its uneven paving, old plane tree girded by a bench, the impassive solemnity of the open-doored church and the warmth of yellow-ochre stone four and five story buildings with grey-blue painted shutters fading, peeling, enclosing the life within.
Clareto crossed the piazza from the church. ‘joli sourire, Marcus’. His smile broadened as he remembered ‘smile’ and ‘mouse’ sound similar in French. Another day was beginning. He was happy.
Madaleno in the boulangerie gave him a searching smile along with the baguettes and pastries. Of course she could not know about the swimming, but he could not help blushing. The market was busy. The traders smiled and asked after Antoine. ‘Ils ira mieux,’ Marcus repeated hopefully.
The old town was coming alive with all sorts and sizes and nationalities of people. Americans beslung with cameras, trousers two inches above shoes or skirts two inches below knees. Frenchmen in blue overalls, ill-assorted work clothes or smart slacks and crisp shirts. There was the odd overdressed Englishman, one German (or perhaps Austrian) in Lederhosen, gaggles of raucous boys and giggling girls hurrying to school and a baton swinging Gendarme who was avoided by most of the populace and photographed by the Americans.
As Marcus returned with bags of fish and seafood from a second trip to the market he was overtaken by Paul who asked “Wanna hand?”
“Thanks.” Gratefully, Marcus shared his load of bags. “How’s your research going?”
“Our French partners found the wreck of a B26 and Navy divers have confirmed there are bodies and ordnance still on board. We can’t go into the area until the bodies are recovered and the area’s declared safe.”
Marcus offered him a pression to thank him for his assistance, but Paul declined, saying he and Max were writing up their results and would probably go over to the PX at Villefranche later but invited him to come out on their dive boat, perhaps in a couple of days, when the area was clear. Americans, Marcus thought, behaved as if the world loved them. Maybe some English had been like that once, when All Saints was built, but not now. He would have liked to get an American perspective, but Paul and Max probably thought him just a naïve boy.
He carried the bags into the kitchen. People who didn’t really know him were kind and helpful - but his parents weren’t. The psychologist probably had a fancy name for whatever was wrong with him but that wouldn’t change anything. Nevertheless, Lizzy had been nice enough to get her uncle to talk to him and he had arranged the appointment with Armand so it would appear ungrateful not to go to find out what the psychologist might have to say. But the café was filling and there was only him and Clareto.
4pm Fort du Mont Alban. Saw Lizzy and Marthe go up to Patrice’s studio while I was cleaning up after lunch. Didn’t see them leave. Am I jealous? Yes. But I don’t know why. I went swimming with them yesterday. So I must accept they like me enough for that. Patrice may be middle-aged but even I have to accept he is attractive, vibrant, the centre of everything. That’s what I’m jealous of! I’m just a fail FUCK THIS! I may be many things but I’m not ‘a failure’. I just don’t know what the fuck is going on – with me – with mum and dad – with anyone.
5:30pm. I’ve been walking around up here for more than an hour. This fort was built when this was part of Savoy, not France. Down in Villefranche there is an American aircraft carrier, a cruiser or big destroyer, some sort of depot ship – signs of the new era of post-war cooperation against the Russians. But I wonder whether the ordinary people around here really care who builds the forts or stations warships in their impossibly beautiful harbours. Do I? I say I do but that’s just because of mum and dad and grandads and wars and politicians. Every place I’ve lived I have found something to love about it, to yearn to want to belong there. Even bombed out Yarmouth. Even South Arabia and its awful proxy war. Even – maybe especially – Africa. And London, and now here.
SO – is this all about belonging? Or NOT belonging? Where DO I BELONG?
SO – I need to find out. I will go to see Armand.
Thursday, 25th August
Marcus felt safe in Armand Caldieri’s consulting room. He sat down, letting his gaze wander around the room until it fell on a painting. He felt drawn into it, wondering what the sharp lines, determined curves and blocks of loud colours represented to the artist: to him it felt like someone exploring pain.
The psychologist settled into his seat. “You seem thoughtful.”
“I was looking at the paintings – they look like Picasso… are they?”
“Close, Françoise Gilot. Do you like painting?”
“I did.”
“Do you paint now?”
“Not since school.”
“Why did you stop?”
“I’m colour blind. Anyway, my best friend and my brother were much better.”
There was a long pause during which Armand seemed to be reading whatever was on his clipboard. When he looked up it was to ask, almost as if it was a response to Marcus’ last statement, “how has it been since I last saw you?”
“Good. And I have been thinking about what you suggested.” He paused, casting his mind back to the previous session. “I’ve started a journal. But I’m sorry, I haven’t thought much about the future… except… well… I didn’t have to ask Lizzy out. She asked me.”
“Does that feel like progress?”
“Depends on how you define progress. I was reading the journal before I came here. I was surprised how negative I am. I probably already knew that, but it was a bit of a shock to see it on the page…”
“And?”
“Oh… there’s a part of me just wanting to kick this stupid boy. I’m really angry with him. But I think that is because I don’t know where I’m going. Yesterday, in the journal, I wrote that I want to feel that I belong…”
“Belong?”
“Yes. Feel part of something. To be accepted.”
“Are you not part of your family?”
“I’m a part of it, yes. But I don’t feel that I belong…”
“What would it feel like to belong – to your family, for example?”
Tempted to say ‘I don’t know’ Marcus stopped himself. While it was true that he didn’t know what that would feel like he could imagine ‘belonging’ as a form of acceptance that tolerated dissent… which seemed paradoxical. How might he explain?
“In terms of belonging to something – like my schools or the cadets – it’s about shared values. I didn’t necessarily agree with everything but it’s about balance; I accepted the important things.”
“Isn’t that true of family too?”
“Yes, but…” Marcus was not surprised by the question but had no immediate answer. He had to speak honestly without being negative. “I can only speak from experience. My experience. I have tried to do everything and be everything expected of me. Is it unreasonable to expect something like that in return?”
Armand stroked his moustache. Marcus wondered if he would start twisting the ends like Hercule Poirot during a tense investigation. “Are you saying that you feel rejected by your family?”
That question put Marcus in a difficult position. Had he been rejected by his family? Only, in the sense that defective products or societal deviants are rejected. Nevertheless, he had to say what he felt.
“Yes…”
The psychologist made a note on his clipboard. When he finished writing, the pen-top clicked into place as he replaced it. Armand looked at Marcus over the top of the half-moon spectacles. “By your whole family?”
“Not my brothers.”
“Then by whom?”
“My mother…” Marcus felt himself stiffen. He felt disloyal. He could feel her eyes on him. Her jaw set. Her mouth straight, lips slightly pursed. He felt her disapprobation. He straightened in the chair.
Armand let the answer hang in the air. He looked down at his notes and then back at Marcus. “Tell me about her…” he invited.
Friday, 26th August
When he had collected Mathilde’s orders on that Friday morning Marcus had been happy to tell Madaleno, Vittorio, Valerio, Anastasia and all the others who enquired that Antoine retrouve peu à peu ses forces. The strain on Mathilde’s face was easing but Clareto continued to fuss over her. Marcus had helped Antoine down the stairs that morning and the old man determinedly only used the young man’s shoulder to steady himself – amazing recovery, a testament to Mathilde’s bourride! With the café quiet again after the lunchtime rush, Antoine was holding court under the plane tree, although the procession of local women was thinning as more men came to sit and joke with him.
Mathilde and Valerio were sitting at one of the outside tables while Marcus, having finished cleaning, took his journal to a table near the bar. A week ago he had spent the night sleeping under a bush on la Plage de la Batterie near Golfe-Juan. He had accepted that running away to the Riviera had left all his old problems unsolved - meaning he was facing having to return home to beg forgiveness and sanctuary. A chance encounter in a cemetery had deferred that return and offered him the opportunity to take a different route. He began writing in his notebook.
Friday, 26th August. Yesterday I went to see Armand again. I didn’t know what to expect. I was wary. It was a strange experience, being questioned about painful things. I thought I’d clam up, but I didn’t because, I think, I realised he wasn’t judging me. He was giving me an opportunity to say what I had never been asked to say before. I talked a lot about Mum. I thought he just wanted to hear about what happened a year ago but he kept probing and seemed surprised that I was so accepting. I got quite angry. Looking back on it, though, I think he was trying to get me to be more objective, less defensive. It was a bit painful, like scratching a scab. Nothing solved though.
At the end he asked me what I intended to do next. I realise my problem is back home. All my talk about failure is just me trying to pin blame anywhere but on me. I don’t know if it was his intention, but I admitted I have to pass those exams – to show, in a way, that if I can choose to fail then I can also choose to pass.
Armand doesn’t understand why I can’t go home. I had to explain that they won’t want me staying there on my own, plus it’s a little town in the sticks and any college and jobs will be in Norwich. I don’t want to go back home.
Since Dad is still at home on leave Armand suggested I phone him to talk through my options. Then he offered to let me phone from his office. It was such a beautifully simple test of my willingness to be honest. I had to agree. I hoped it would be too difficult to make an international call. When it wasn’t I hoped no-one would answer. When my mother answered I hoped my father would be at the golf club. He was in the garden. She didn’t ask why I wanted to speak to him.
I had no choice but to tell him I was in Nice, that I wanted to come back to England, that I wanted to stay in London to resit the exams. He asked where I was going to live, where I was going to study, how I was intending to support myself. I said I had enough money to buy a ticket home and enough to tide me over for a month while I got a job and somewhere to live. What I needed help with was to pay for the help Armand had already given and to continue it with a colleague in London. He asked to speak to Armand.
Armand told me Dad would arrange my train ticket home for Sunday. It would be ready for collection from the station tomorrow after midday. Dad had agreed to put two hundred pounds into my bank account to be used to get me on my feet and pay whatever fees would be incurred when I got to London.
I just knew Armand had not asked for his own fees. He had already implied he was doing it as a favour to Father Gerard and Lizzy – I insisted and made him accept two hundred Francs since the phone call was bound to have cost nearly that – more than that, he has taken me on as a client no matter the route I took to get to him.
What do I learn from this? It has made me rethink Dad’s role in my expulsion a year ago, I should trust him. Things with Mum are more complicated! I’ve agreed that I shall contact Armand’s colleague when I get to London. Striving to be self-reliant hasn’t worked out too well!!
He closed the notebook, Max and Paul had come into the bar and it was time to get back to work. As seven approached the café filled and he and Clareto and Mathilde were kept busy. Marthe and Lizzy came in, waved to him and joined the Americans; Patrice joined them shortly afterwards, leaving with them all after a couple of drinks. Patrice seems besotted with the girls – but he is an artist, so maybe they’re his muses or/and models.
Antoine sat at a table at the back playing backgammon with the priest and the verger. Mathilde had him set up four more tables outside the café in the piazza. Customers even sat on the bench under the plane tree. It was a busy night and Marcus was happy clearing tables; he was happy washing glasses, plates and pans; he was happy helping Clareto: he was so happy it felt natural.
Armand has helped him accept that he must now take charge of his own life. Going back to London and re-taking the exams he failed is something he must do in order to move on with his life. The help offered by his father will enable it but it will be for him to do the work. The time has come to stop running away from himself…
The story continues with Tranche Ten