The shutters on the windows were closed; the wooden door leading inside was locked. I stood by the fountain in the shade of a stucco statue of Diana the Huntress, clutching the bottle of medicine. There was not a living soul in sight. I could hear the breeze rustle through the vine.
After having waited for a while, I decided to knock on the door. My knocking echoed through the house; it was clear there was no one home, but I refused to accept that fact.
I went back and sat on the edge of the fountain, listening for the rasp of footsteps on the gravel, eager to see her appear. Just as I was about to give up, I was startled to hear her cry, ‘Bonjour!’
She was standing behind me wearing a white dress, her broad-brimmed hat with the red ribbon pushed back over the delicate nape of her neck.
‘I was down in the orange grove. I like to walk there; it’s so quiet, so peaceful . . . Have you been waiting long?’
‘No,’ I lied. ‘I just got here.’
‘I didn’t see you as I was coming up the drive.’
‘I’ve brought your medication, madame,’ I said, handing her the package.
She hesitated before taking it, as though she had forgotten her visit to the pharmacy, then, gracefully, she slipped the bottle out of its wrapping paper, unscrewed the lid and delicately inhaled what appeared to be some cosmetic preparation.
‘It smells wonderful, the salve. I just hope it eases my stiff joints. The house was in such a state when I got here that I’ve been spending all day every day trying to get it back to how it used to be.’
‘If there’s anything you need carried or repaired, I’d be happy to do it for you.’
‘You’re very sweet, Monsieur Jonas.’
She nodded to the wicker chair by the table on the veranda, waited for me to sit down, then took the seat facing me.
‘I expect you’re thirsty, with all this heat,’ she said, proffering a jug of lemonade. She poured a large glass and pushed it across the table towards me. The movement clearly hurt her, and she winced and bit her lower lip with exquisite grace.
‘Are you in pain, madame?’
‘I must have pulled a muscle lifting something.’
She took off her sunglasses, and I felt my insides turn to jelly.
‘How old are you, Monsieur Jonas?’ she asked, gazing deep into my very soul.
‘I’m seventeen, madame.’
‘I expect you’re already engaged.’
‘No, madame.’
‘What do you mean, “No, madame”? With a pretty face like yours, and those eyes, I refuse to believe you don’t have a whole harem of girls pining after you.’
Her perfume intoxicated me.
Once again she bit her lip, bringing a hand up to her neck.
‘Is it very painful, madame?’
‘It is painful.’
She took my hand in hers.
‘You have beautiful hands.’
I was embarrassed that she might see the effect she was having on me.
‘What do you plan to be when you grow up, Monsieur Jonas?’
‘A chemist.’
She considered this for a moment, then nodded.
‘It is a noble profession.’
A third twinge in her neck almost bent her double with pain.
‘I think I need to try the balm right away.’ With great dignity, she got to her feet.
‘If you like madame, I can . . . I can massage your shoulder for you . . .’
‘I’m counting on it, Monsieur Jonas.’
I don’t know why, but for an instant, something broke the solemnity of this place. It lasted only a fraction of a second, for when she looked at me again, everything returned to how it had been.
My heart was beating so hard that I wondered whether she could hear it. She took off her hat and her hair tumbled on to her shoulders, and I was all but rooted to the spot.
‘Follow me, young man.’
She pushed open the door and gestured for me to follow her inside. The hall was lit by a faint glow, and I had a sudden sense of déjà vu. I felt certain I had seen the corridor ahead somewhere before, or was I imagining things? Madame Cazenave walked on ahead of me. For one searing instant, I mistook her for my destiny.
We climbed the stairs, my feet stumbling on each step. I held on to the banister, seeing only her body swaying before me, magnificent, bewitching, almost dreamlike in its gracefulness. As we came to the landing, she stopped in the dazzling radiance of a skylight, and it was as though her dress disintegrated and I could see every detail of her perfect figure.
She turned suddenly and found me in a state of shock. She quickly realised that I was incapable of following her much farther, that my legs were about to give out under me, that I was like goldfinch in a trap. Her smile was the coup de grâce. She came back towards me, her step light, floating, and said something I did not hear. Blood was pulsing in my temples, making it impossible for me to think. What’s the matter, Monsieur Jonas? She placed her hand on my chin and lifted my head. Are you all right? The whisper of her voice was lost in the throbbing uproar of my temples. Is it me that has you in this state? Perhaps she was not saying these things, perhaps it was me, though it did not sound like my voice. Her fingers moved over my face, I felt the wall at my back like a barricade obstructing any attempt at retreat. Monsieur Jonas? Her gaze swept over me, conjuring me away as if by magic. I was dissolving in her eyes, her breath fluttered about my breathless panting. When her lips brushed against mine, I thought I would shatter into a thousand pieces; it was as though she had obliterated me, only to refashion me with her fingers. It was not a kiss, but a glancing, hesitant touch – was she testing the waters? She took a step back, and it felt like a wave rolling away, revealing my nakedness, my confusion. Her lips returned, more confident now, more assertive; a mountain stream could not have slaked my thirst as she did. My lips surrendered to hers, melted into hers to become a flowing stream, and Madame Cazenave drank me down to the last drop in a single, endless draught. My head was in the clouds, my feet on a magic carpet. Frightened by the intensity of this pleasure, I must have tried to draw away, because I felt her hand hold me hard. I let her pull me to her, offering no resistance, feverish, willing, astounded by my own surrender, my body joined to hers by her invading tongue. With infinite tenderness, she unbuttoned my shirt and let it fall to the floor. My every breath now was her breath, my heartbeat was her pulse. I had the vague sensation of being undressed, being led into a bedroom, of being laid on a bed deep as a river. A thousand fingers exploded against my skin like fireworks; I was light and joy, I was pleasure at its most intoxicated; I felt myself dying even as I was reborn.
‘Could you come back down to earth a bit?’ Germaine scolded me. ‘You’ve broken half the crockery in the house in the past two days.’
I realised that the plate I had been rinsing had slipped from my hands and shattered at my feet.
‘Your mind is elsewhere . . .’
‘I’m sorry . . .’
Germaine looked at me curiously, wiped her hands on her apron and put them on my shoulders.
‘What’s the matter, Jonas?’
‘Nothing, the plate just slipped.’
‘I know . . . the problem is, it’s not the first one.’
‘Germaine!’ My uncle called her from his room at the far end of the corridor.
I hardly recognised myself. Since my encounter with Madame Cazenave, my mind was elsewhere; it was sounding the depths of a euphoria that seemed endless and eternal. This was my first experience of being a man, my first taste of sexual discovery, and I was intoxicated by it. My body was tight as a bow; I could still feel Madame Cazenave’s fingers moving over my skin, her caresses like a thousand tiny cuts gnawing at the fibre of my being, trilling through my body, becoming the blood pulsing in my temples. When I closed my eyes, I could still feel her breathless gasps, and my whole being was flooded with her intoxicating breath. At night, I did not sleep a wink; the memory of our lovemaking kept me restless until dawn.
Simon found my change of mood infuriating, but though Jean-Christophe and Fabrice fell about laughing at his jokes, his jibes could not touch me. I was like marble. I watched them laugh, unable to understand what was funny. How many times did Simon wave a hand in front of my face to see if I was awake? At moments like this I would come alive for a moment, only to sink back into a sort of trance, the sounds of the world outside suddenly dying away.