A narrow path littered with leaves and overgrown weeds led from the outcrop to the hill, and then down into the village. Michel followed it, watching each foot as he took a step, leaning his weight to where he could bear the bag better, so his ribs did not scream with pain.
It took him some time to reach the foot of the hill, where he found himself in a field of sunflowers that had yet to open. Their thick stems jutted from the ground in neat rows, and Michel, suddenly tired from the descent, lay amongst them to catch his breath and ease the pain a little.
He lay back, putting his bag under his head, and closed his eyes. The pain was not worse, but it was not better, and his side burned. He tried to imagine something else to shift his focus from the soreness, and found himself thinking of her face once more – the emerald eyes, heavily kohled, which in his mind’s eye had looked at him with a questioning amusement, as if he were a new animal to play with – perhaps he would dance for her or sing, making her plump rouged lips turn upwards into a smile.
Michel opened his own eyes and watched the streak of clouds overhead, remembering how just a day or so before, he had stood on the bridge over the Seine, looking at the sky, wishing it would rain and dampen the heat of Paris. The clouds here danced and changed from moment to moment, first showing him a horse, then, as he watched it, transforming itself into a balloon, then into a cup, then disappearing altogether. He moved to sit; his shirt was stuck to his back and he could smell himself, a rich musk that would surely make the flowers wilt.
He could hear the hum of the grasshoppers that cooled themselves all around him, yet he never saw one. The caw of a lonely crow pierced the quiet countryside, and eventually Michel stood, heaving his bag onto the other shoulder, following the field towards the river.
He soon came to an uneven road of sorts and followed it to a low stone bridge, which led him into dense woodland of oaks and elms. He welcomed the shady embrace of the thick trees and, as their branches danced in the late afternoon breeze, he stopped and tried to catch their secret whisperings.
He is here. He has come. But soon he will be gone…
In a cluster of wild poppies that bobbed their delicate heads, Michel spotted two pairs of blue eyes watching him. He made to move towards them, but a hiss, then a meow, sent him a message that he was not welcome. Then he saw their tails gently waving in unison, like two snakes awaiting their prey, begging him to come closer. He sat on the bank of the river and observed them. When they curled up, wrapping their tails around themselves, he moved gently left, then right, watching their keen eyes follow him.
Suddenly, Michel removed his jacket, and leapt from the bank into the water, his nostrils filling with the heavy algae water that brought back a sudden memory of his youth. He sank down, his feet soon touching the slush of the riverbed, and he counted – one, two, three – and watched the air bubbles rise above him, popping on the shimmering surface. His lungs burned and his head ached, so he pushed himself upwards, towards the rippled distorted reality above, kicking hard and reaching until his fingertips broke through, then his arms, and finally his head and shoulders. He breathed in deeply, then, treading water, wiped his face and eyes with an arm. He blinked – once, twice – then started to swim to the bank. His eyes searched for the twin cats, and not seeing them he felt strangely bereft; he was alone again.
With some effort, Michel pulled his waterlogged body onto the bank. Now free of the claustrophobic embrace of the river, he lay back, his arms stretched out from his sides, and closed his eyes. For a while, he watched the shapes on the underside of his eyelids merge and shift, like oil on water – there a dot, then a bright spark, then a face, eyes… a mouth he had imprinted on his mind. Michel’s eyes snapped open again and for a moment he hoped she might be leaning over him, yet all he saw were the same shape-shifting clouds; all he heard was the murmuring river in his ears.
He rolled over and took a cigarette from his jacket pocket. He tried to light it with a match, but a drip from his arm extinguished it. He tried once more and, finding a spark, dragged deeply, lighting the end into a comforting orange glow.
From behind him he heard a rustle of grass, and he wondered whether the twin cats had come back to play. He made a clucking sound, one he had used to quieten nervous horses, encouraging them to come closer – Trust me, it sang, I’ll take care of you.
Nothing appeared, and Michel was left with the sound of the leaves as they whispered to each other, remarking on their new visitor and wondering when he would leave. He wondered the same, and said aloud, ‘Soon. Soon I will go, the moment I know where I am going.’ The leaves repeated his message, allowing the wind to take it far and wide: Michel has nowhere to go – someone must find him quickly.
Michel waited until his clothes had dried enough, then left the charm of the riverbank and the chatter of the wood to meander into the small village nestled between the river and the hillside, covered with neat rows of vines that revealed the settlement’s history of wine-making.
The village had no sign to welcome a weary visitor, no inn, no pension. Just a handful of thatched houses, a small café and the church, and in the small square a statue of the Virgin Mother. Michel looked at the statue. He had never seen such a tribute; she was not green and mottled like the outdoor statues in Paris; instead she shone in bronze, buffed and polished daily by a devoted hand.
He turned from the statue and settled upon the café, where a pair of old men sat and played backgammon, a black-and-white dog lying between them. Michel took the other table and waited.
Minutes ticked by on the church clock tower – five minutes, then ten, and finally fifteen before a middle-aged woman appeared, her apron stained by food and wine, her hair streaked with grey and curling at her shoulders.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘A visitor.’
‘We do not get visitors.’
The two men stopped playing their game and looked at Michel. Even the resting dog raised her head for a moment.
‘I am just passing through.’ Michel smiled at her.
The woman shook her head. ‘What do you want?’
‘Water, please.’
‘Just water?’ She laughed. ‘This is not a charity.’
‘And a small glass of Burgundy.’
‘Mmmhmmm,’ she murmured and walked away.
‘No visitors here,’ one of the old men repeated to Michel, only four teeth showing in his gummy mouth. ‘It is a quiet village. Quieter now. Some people left; you know who.’ He tapped the side of his nose and winked. ‘Better they are gone.’
‘Better for who?’ the other man chimed in, his busy eyebrows raised in question. ‘For you? You just do not like anyone.’
‘Not true!’ the gummy man snapped. ‘I like French people. Good, proper, French Catholic people. Not them with their ways and their little hats and beards. Not to be trusted.’
The proprietor returned with Michel’s glass of red, which she slammed down onto the table, sloshing wine over the rim, and then demanded payment straight away. ‘No tabs. Not for strangers.’
‘There’ll be more strangers soon,’ the eyebrow man laughed. ‘And here you all are thinking how lucky you are that they left. Now you will have the Germans instead. They will take your wine, your food – hell, they will even take your wives and daughters!’