The tall dark haired waitress with the slim waist sways between the tables, pad in hand, pencil ready. Her smile is warm and friendly, and seems almost genuine. I order an aperitif and flick through my magazines.
I’m in the centre of Avignon, in a café on the Place d’Horloge, a stone’s throw from the famous Palais des Papes. On my left is the imposing 19th century theatre, in front of me the Banque de France. The noonday sun is beating down remorselessly on the square, but I’m completely in the shade. It really is hot enough to fry an egg on the pavement.
On the table to my right are a bunch of Americans who insist in ordering everything entirely in English. Fortunately for them the waitress is used to such morons. Ahead of me are a young couple with suitcases – a fair haired girl in a yellow blouse, and a dark haired guy in a red che guevara t shirt. They’re laughing and joking, but I don’t understand what they’re saying. It might be Russian, I don’t know.
On the table to my left another young couple are engaged in a more animated discussion [ok argument]. The guy is wearing wrap around shades, a mottled headscarf, a vest, and
shorts that remind me of nadal, the tennis player. He looks just like a pirate.
The girl with him is dark skinned, with grey hair tied back behind her head. From their accent and the way they look I’m guessing they’re both beurs. The girl doesn’t smile, she looks sulky. She has a curvy figure, accentuated by her tight jeans and the shirt stretched across her bosom. Below it her navel is exposed. Occasionally she catches me glancing at her, and I turn my attention to the Americans.
On the table in front of me sits a stack of brochures from various immobiliers. I’m flicking through these slowly, marking with a pen any of interesting properties. House hunting is difficult enough, but in this climate it’s even more demanding.
The conversation to my left is becoming more animated. Eventually the guy with the headscarf gets to his feet, shrugs, and walks off down the alley opposite. The girl rests her elbows on the table, finds a packet of cigarettes. She asks if I can light one for her and I hand her my lighter. She inhales and blows the smoke out.
Men, she says, sometimes they’re just not worth it, huh?
I nod in agreement. They don’t understand us, I say.
You can say that again, she laughs derisively. She gestures toward the empty seat. Take Khaled. Good looking guy, but such a baby. And so possessive.
You sound fed up, I venture.
It’s not just him. They’re all the same. Especially the beurs.
Are you from Avignon, I ask.
She shakes her head. Originally Marseille.
I went out with a guy from Marseille, I say. A beur. He practically raped me on the first date.
They can be a bit rough, she agrees. They’re very dominant. The woman is definitely second best.
Personally, I prefer women, I say.
She looks at me carefully, blows out some more smoke.
That’s ………interesting, she says. You don’t look the type.
I laugh. She stubs out her cigarette on the pavement.
Are you looking for a flat in Avignon?
Yes, but it’s not easy. Quite expensive.
These immobiliers are only in it for their cut. Why not let me give you a personal tour?
I don’t know. I look at my watch.
Listen, you can come over to our place. Khaled has some very good dope we could try.
Come on, she says, I won’t take no for an answer.
The girl’s name is Nadja. She works as a belly dancer in some exotic club in the city. I’m guessing that’s not the only kind of dancing that goes on. Her belly is indeed nice, I tell her. Her hair is fabulous, her face is not beautiful but beguiling. She’s really quite charming. But she still doesn’t smile.
Her flat is an oasis of calm. The rooms are full of some of the most crazy weird junk I ever saw. She collects strange things, she tells me, mainly from second hand shops and junk stores. Khaled hates it, but he lets her get her way, in exchange for sex on demand.
Nadja leads me to an open courtyard in the back of the flat. It’s beautiful, with flowers all around and a small fountain bubbling away in the centre. She lays down a rug on the grass and we sit together. She hands me a reefer and I take a drag slowly. It’s strong shit. Moroccan dope, she tells me. Khaled knows a guy in Marseille who supplies him. It’s probably ripped off, but so what?
Nadja says she’s curious. She’s never done it with another girl. Never even thought about it. What’s it like?
It depends on the girl, I say. When I said I prefer women, it means I’m bisexual. I’m not gay.
She nods, takes another drag.
D’you find me attractive, she says.
Sure, I say. You’ve got a great body, and you look different.
She smiles. I get the feeling you’ve been around.
I’ve lived a strange life, I guess. Been on my own since I was thirteen. Lived in a commune in Paris. I’ve dabbled in all sorts of things – group sex, hard drugs, the occult.
No way, she snorted. Fantastic.
Khaled stands on the edge of the garden staring at us. He’s wearing a pair of boxer shorts, and looks moody. Nadja flashes him a glance.
Ever screwed a brother and sister at the same time, she says.
I stare at both of them.
There’s always a first time, I say.
