The Brooding Silence

The afternoon sun beats down. The surface of the pool is undisturbed, for the moment. There are two of us on the terrace, myself and Etienne. Etienne et moi.

We’re alone because Francine, Etienne’s wife of almost two years, has moved out to live with her family in Marseille. One argument too many, is how Etienne explained it. He doesn’t seem concerned that she may not return. Not now I’m here to keep him company, at least. His muse is back, and he seems relaxed.

Apart from the background hum of the cicadas, it's eerily quiet here. The silence is almost menacing. I know what Camus meant when he referred to the Luberon as “an enormous block of silence” The mountain seems to be waiting – for what I don’t know. But it sits there like a slumbering giant.

There is also a silence between Etienne and I, tension in the air. We are suddenly uncomfortable with each other. There are looks exchanged that say more than mere words. Behind his sunglasses I feel his eyes boring into me, observing my body as I prepare to dive into the still waters of the piscine. After my swim, I sense his eyes lingering on my wet swimsuit, on the nipples almost piercing the stretched lycra.

Inside the house, we pass each other in the narrow spaces, almost touching. We take meals together, we sit in the lounge together, we are civil. I read magazines whilst Etienne is absorbed in the cycling on TV. He rejoices as a French rider, Voeckler, wins the stage to Perpignan.
You sure he’s French, I ask, with a name like Voeckler?
From Alsace, apparently, Etienne informs me. May I also point out that your name is hardly French, Mademoiselle Krantz, he adds.
I have to admit, he’s got a point.
It’s Jewish, I reply. The Jews are from everywhere, we don’t have a country.
That must be confusing.
Liberating actually, I tell him.

Then I describe to him in vivid detail my dream, from last night.
I’m in a dress shop in Paris, on the Avenue de Liberation, I tell him. I don’t even know if there is such a street.
I wouldn’t know he says, you’re the Parisian.
Anyway, I’m with Sandrine, and she’s modelling clothes, asking for my opinion, the way she used to. She looks wonderful in a short scarlet summer dress.
Somebody is tapping on the window of the shop behind me. I turn round and its you, smiling at me. Did we ever meet, I ask, while mama was alive?
Etienne rubs his stubble. Maybe once. But it wouldn’t have been in Paris. Maybe in Bordeaux, he suggests.
So we leave the shop, and we’re crossing the street, the three of us. Suddenly this car comes hurtling round the corner, heading straight for Sandrine. And as it comes nearer, I glimpse the driver’s face. It’s definitely Krantz.
Etienne shrugs. And then what?
I don’t know. I woke up right there. His face frozen in my mind.
Did you tell Gerhard?
Of course, I send him all my dreams.
What did he think?
He hasn’t replied yet.
It was only last night, Sandrine. I’m sure he’s not seen the message yet.
He reaches out and takes my hand subtly. I withdraw it quickly.

The funny thing is, I’d started to rationalise it in my brain. I was getting over it.
I was thinking about this the other day. What if she hadn’t died?
Well, my life would’ve been completely different. Almost certainly I wouldn’t have gone to Montaigne – which is where I met Helene. I doubt if Etienne would’ve been such a big influence on my life. Probably I’d have gone to University in Paris, like Sandrine. I might now be a safe suburban bourgeois housewife in some dull provincial town.
I might never have met anyone in my subsequent life – and I started thinking, maybe there was a reason for her death. There is a silver lining. Helene alone was almost worth it.

Later that evening, after drinking a bottle of wine from Etienne’s own vineyard, we’re in the tiny kitchen together. He’s staring at me as he finishes his glass. Then he snakes an arm round my wait and pulls me toward him. I try to resist but he’s too strong. He holds me tight, so close I can feel his erection against my stomach. He whispers my secret name, my birth name. He hasn’t called me that for ages.

Don’t worry, he’s saying. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.
I look up at him. I know he means well, but he’s part of the problem.
I need to move on, Etienne, I say. This is part of the past, don’t you see?
He nods. Please, he says, just tonight, for old times?
He strokes my hair, then kisses the nape of my neck. I’m fighting it, but another part of me wants him. Once he has lowered the straps on my dress it’ll be too late, as his tongue rolls down my cleavage. I remember how it used to be, when Etienne and I were lovers, back in Bordeaux. Before Helene came along and made things complicated.

The next morning it’s still quiet. I’m watching the sunrise over the Luberon. It’s the same every day but I don’t get tired of it. Am I tired of Etienne? I’m not sure any more. In the end we'd slept together, but without going all the way. I just lay in his arms for hours, curled up. Now he lies asleep, less powerful, more innocent than I’d seen him for years. His breathing the only sound in the echoing void of the Luberon dawn.