Ville

Ville.
Chapter One

I must change, change my mood or change my mind.
Mutter, muttering to myself, "Come on get up, and get out of here. Up I got and threw some water on my face and wandered out into the midmorning heat. My day was well begun.
Tottering, as my feet hit the rough road and every which way splayed like a drunk, a drunk with sleep in my eyes, which still dulls my head and my thoughts.
The heat, reflecting off the peeling whitewashed walls washes onto my face, and dozies me further still into my lovely lethargy.
With sandals flopping sadly making different click clacks as my legs slowly deliberated their lazy way along. Flint fragments of thoughts pierced my clay mind, and silently I spoke to all those that I passed along the way.
Wandering on, bathing in the warmth of the gentle breathes of whispering air, which brushed my stubbly face sensuously like butterflies kisses.
Meandering the narrow streets towards the café, which was garnished by my lazy friends sweaty bodies and the lovely aroma of almond sharp thimbles of black coffee. Towards the table with the chair leaning forward, which was my reservation ticket into their company and their lives. This place outside this Café in the square was our open-air church, and we were welcomed.
As the sun lazily rose overhead and the heat grew more intense, I drew nearer to my destination; my heart and my breath quickened, quickened in time with the pulse of their voices, which undulated like waves whispering gently on a sandy shore.
Unaware, my friends as they talked in their quiet murmured descants, forming the scene of their own security. Speaking my name in warm welcome they greeted me as I settled down in a comfortable slouch.
The old waiter came, and I asked for a Pastis. My pastis, which I secretly hated, was a penance for the intensity of pleasure given to me by these young people.
They, like the whirling eddies of water in a country stream, were talking then listening, allowing each other to be priest and congregation in turn and turn about, spoke of little things with intense intent in the shaping of our friendships interplay.
Conversations and laughter wafted gently around and across the table. More like a sound dance than an intellectual exercise. Being alike we relaxed, and enjoyed the sensations of our youth, testing the truth of the unknown, and ourselves.
We listened to truth spoken with wit, with guile, and by accident. And spoke our half lies with lowered lids and sly grins. And our foolish lies, which was each one an experiment in testing the liar and the listener and an entrée' each to our secret self.
So, like this, we passed the day. Wandering off from time to time to buy cigarettes or to offer a painting to a passing tourist or try to borrow from a friend. Deals lost or made we would return to this place and this union of souls.
The evening came slowly upon us. With our minds drifting in a gentle haze our thoughts turned to the days end. Being lulled by the drone and inflexions of our seductions, we men with sly glances paired themselves off with the sweet smiling girls. The girls quietly, discreetly selecting their mate, perhaps to continue an unfinished dance of love with their man, with their legs apart and their wombs ablaze.
Within the lightness of their clothes, the girls waited to choose or be chosen.
All aware now, with the electricity of youth, loving words spoken and gestures discreetly made concluded this daylight intercourse.
Each in our own trick ways waited to play our part. We formed fluid little groups to prolong the closeness of what we had shared that day. Then departing, walking slowly, pairing off, at last tired and ready for loneliness or love.
This day was often repeated as we lived out our French summer scene.
Strangers we, in this friendly land, which welcomed us as children of their own, feeding us when we were hungry, and every contact bathed in their lovely garlicky breath reinforced the simple pleasures of life.
People, passing by, or serving us at table, helped us to preserve for all time, in our minds eye, by little knowing smiles or some courteous gesture, perhaps a little bow from their plump waists or a smile. They made us safe from growing old like them, by their grace and the peace in their faces, and the sparkle in their eyes.

Chapter two
Slowly waking with the warm sun stream on my face and arms. The bed creaks as I shift, and soft fronds of Violet's hair tickles my nose and catches my heart in a spasm of loving emotion.
I move my body in contact with hers and feel her warmth. As I inhale her body smells, I am stirred to loin fire. Erect I am ready to penetrate her moistness, for lust, for habit, for release, and for confirmation as I serve at the altar of our love. And so we took communion together until slated we slowly fell apart, happy.
Waking properly at last I rise and splash cold water on my face, shuddering as it trickles down my chest and drips onto the poor carpet below.
The desire for food is now urgent, so I hunt through the debris of past meals which litter the table, paper bags, jars, boxes, tins, anything will do.
I finally settle for old dry bread on which I smear jam and warm up coffee for satisfaction. Later, I find some sugared almonds wrapped up in a little lace hanky from a long forgotten wedding, wonderful, these I suck noisily with contentment.
It is now nearly seven. And from the balcony of our room I lean on the iron railings and gaze about me as the street slowly comes alive. I hear women shouting to their men to rise and breakfast. I hear the crying of babes. And so the humdrum of this day begins.
I can smell the bitter almond coffee from a hundred coffee pots as I drink in the sounds and smells created by a hundred others all influencing my life.
Rubbing my gritty eyes and sucking my almonds I watch, and feel that I too may be watched in turn. Vespas and Lambrettas sprint by below, careening on the rough surface of the road, each driven by a man with his woman sidesaddle behind them. Making fast for their work, careening on the rough road and staring ahead eyes pop wide and their teeth bared against the wind of their speed.
A priest walks quickly by with tiny tiptoe steps, lengthening his short pilgrimage from a dying old ladies bedside. A sojourn he detested, to his house where his housekeeper would have his breakfast ready. An event he always enjoyed.
That priest had been giving succour to the dying in their smelly rooms with prayer book prayers spoken soft by their soiled bedsides. At last, tradition satisfied and hope given by mumbling his way through a rosary or two. Applying extreme unction, which guaranteed their passport to heaven, and comforting the relatives, then escaping as quickly as possible from the sight of this god whom he feared, and feared to love.
My love reawakens from loves sleep behind me and gently calls my name. "I am coming my love, I say. I turn towards her and face another day.