Les souvenirs d'une autre verit?

.
I met her while she was spending a year at Glasgow University. We
became very close, quite quickly, indeed she moved in with me two weeks
after we met. For the next ten months or so, we had a fantastic time
together. I remember how she told me about her home village back in
France, about how quiet and peaceful it was, about how she lived near
this beautiful old church with a tall thin spire. But too soon her time
in Scotland was over and she had to go back to France to continue her
studies. Still, we made arrangements to visit each other, arrangements
that for one reason or another never came to anything.
In the meantime, however, we wrote. At first we sent letters to each
other almost daily. Letters filled with badly written love poems and
silly little drawings. But as time passed, the letters had become more
sober, less emotional. They had become letters describing the weather,
and what we had bought at the supermarket that morning. As of late the
letters had become few and far between.
Now as I stood in the village she had described to me so many times, I
wondered if it was a wise idea to visit her at all. Nevertheless, as
things stood at that moment I knew no one else in this damn country and
the thought of a possible croissant was enough incentive to try
anything.
Anyway, what would be the worst that could happen? That she'd open the
door with a look of horror on her face and tell me to get to fuck? She
wouldn't would she? A cold shiver went up my spine. For even with
practically nothing to lose I didn't know if I could handle that. Not
in my present state of famine and admittedly, my current state of
loneliness. Maybe I should just turn around and take my chances
elsewhere. Starve to death in some country lane. Then I noticed a tall
thin church spire rising in the near distance. I imagined it was made
of chocolate and I started walking towards it.
Bathed by the early morning sunlight, I weaved my way through the
couple of streets which led towards the church until there on the right
was Rue d'eglise, and along a bit further, number 24. It was a small
house with yellowing cracked walls and old shuttered windows. The small
front door appeared to be out of use, too small for anyone born after
the late nineteenth century I imagined and I rightly guessed the main
door must be round the back. I walked the path to the back of the
house, half-expecting, hoping, to find Helene standing there,
waiting.
On the contrary, everything seemed quiet, unoccupied. The shutters of
the house, with their chipped blue paint, remained closed. Only now did
it occur to me Helene might not be in. That she might even have moved
elsewhere in the three months since her last letter.
Without much hope I rang the doorbell, it's shrill buzz surprising in
the early morning quiet. No answer. I rang again. Nothing. I sat down
on the back step wondering what I was going to do.
Then from deep inside the house I thought I detected a noise. A faint
creak. I stood up. I heard footsteps getting louder. I took a deep
breath. I listened to the sound of a heavy iron bolt being pulled back,
the metal scraping against the wood, a key being turned in a lock. And
there she was.
She opened the door in a white cotton dressing gown, shielding her eyes
from the bright morning sun, brushing her long dark hair from her face.
God, she looked good enough to eat.
'Hello' how could I have ever forgotten that I loved her.
She looked back at me with a quizzical expression, as if she was
expecting the postman.
'David'? C'est toi? Mais qu'est-ce tu faites ici' ?
She seemed to forget my French wasn't too good but I could figure out
quite easily she was asking what the hell I was doing there.
'I know' I stuttered 'I was going to phone but I was just passing and I
remembered you lived near here so I thought well, why not pay a
surprise visit!'
'David, mais......'she smiled and for whatever reason we both just
started laughing. Probably just nerves but it felt so good to see her
again. How could I have even doubted coming here. She seemed as happy
to see me as I was to see her. A man appeared at her shoulder.
The man, bare-chested, with a cigarette hanging from his mouth looked
like he had just stepped out of a French wanted dead or alive poster.
Unshaven with close cropped hair, I watched him, as he (thankfully) put
on a pair of trousers and pulled a couple of braces over his shoulders.
He cast a suspicious eye in my direction.
'C'est qui'? He asked. I looked at Helene. Helene just looked at the
ground and without turning round she said something in reply to
Papillon behind her. Reluctantly he slowly walked into another room
without saying anything.
'David, you should have called me first' she said quietly.
Not knowing what to say I started talking gibberish again. I hadn't
time to phone I said. I explained some story about how a friend had
landed a job on the south coast and invited me down. It was just
construction work but if anything, it was an opportunity to improve my
French. I tried to be all casual and oh by the way about it but she
seemed even more unconvinced by my story than I was.
'But you already speak French very well'
'Thanks' I said. I knew I didn't.
'You look terrible' Thanks, I said. I knew I did. I added 'You look
wonderful'
'Listen' her tone softened ' Come inside, don't worry about Jean-Luc,
he's all right, you'll like him'
'No really, I was just passing and I thought I'd say hi, I've actually
got a train to catch at....' I looked at my watch.
'T'es fou, toi!' she muttered, shaking her head, and ignoring what I
had just said picked up my bag and took it into the house leaving me
with no choice but to follow.
Inside, I sat down wearily at the kitchen table that was covered with a
red and white checked tablecloth. There was antique cooking utensils
placed along the walls and the whole kitchen had a wonderful
old-fashioned calmness about it. I noticed there was a delicious aroma
of coffee in the place and I observed with interest steam rising from a
saucepan on the stove. Everything in the house seemed just great. Like
a lovely advert for niceness. Then Jean-Luc walked back in and suddenly
I just wished things weren't as they were.
Ignoring me, Jean-Luc turned to Helene.
'C'est un Anglais'? he asked. 'Ecossais' Helene replied. She looked
across at me and smiled.
'Tu parles anglais, toi'? Again she nodded. Jean-Luc nodded back in
apparent approval, pleased on finding out his girl was
bi-lingual.
Helene explained I was an old friend she once knew. Relaxing a little,
perhaps realising I wasn't from Interpol, he smiled and offered me a
cigarette. I accepted the short unfiltered stub gratefully and taking a
long unadvised draw, I let the nicotine swirl around my brain and the
tobacco burn my throat. Almost immediately the room started to spin. It
felt great.
'You are English'? Papillon was trying to make conversation.
'Oui' I replied without enthusiasm. Helene smiling, then turned and
told Jean-Luc to go and get the paper. He seemed to understand
something was going on, and laughing, made a remark to Helene. Then
picking up a denim jacket from the back of one of the pine chairs, he
leaned down and kissed her, a lot longer than I thought was necessary.
I was delighted to see him finally go out the back door.
Helene placed a large bowl in front of me, pouring the thick black
coffee into it from the saucepan
'Have you known him long'?
'Two months' She rested her chin in the palm of her hand as she
scrutinised me.
The coffee tasted good.
'I was going to tell you, but I didn't know how. You were so far
away...'
'Don't worry...It's just good to see you again'. Besides I had already
guessed there was a reason she hadn't answered my letters for the last
few months. Nevertheless the conversation was awkward.
'How come he didn't know you spoke English. Does he not know you spent
a year in Scotland'?
'Well, no, I mean, we just...don't really talk much' I wondered what
sort of relationship she had gotten herself into. She seemed uneasy
about it and quickly changed the subject.
'It's good to see you...were you telling me the truth, about the
job'?
'Sure'
'You didn't just come here to see me, I hope'?
'Come here to see you, don't be silly'! She looked disappointed
'You do have money'?
'Listen do you seriously think I'd travel all this way without
money'?
'Oui'
'Well, I have money, not a lot, but enough to get to Avignon' I said.
'I'm travelling down by train. She nodded although I knew she still
wasn't convinced. We sat for the most part in silence, just looking at
each other across the table. There seemed little to say. She asked me
about what I had being doing recently, and I asked about her life in St
Clermont while I finished off the last of the coffee. But there was no
denying things were different between us and we both knew it. We talked
like a couple of strangers with nothing in common.

'Well, I guess it's time I was going' I stood up.
'But you've only just arrived! You could stay here for a few days. You
look tired. You could sleep on the couch. I'd like you to stay.'
Something told me though, that it was a mistake to have even gone there
in the first place. I just had to go. 'Really' I said 'I'd like to
stay, but I've got to get to Avignon by tonight, I shouldn't have got
off the train here at all, I just wanted to say hi, that's all, listen,
I'll write to you as soon as I have my new address'
I walked towards the back door. 'Thanks for the coffee'
'You're stupide' she said 'Why won't you stay'?
I wanted to explain, but couldn't.
I picked up my bag and stood outside on the top step. She followed and
leant on the doorframe.
You will write to me, with your new address'?
'As soon as I arrive, I promise' I whispered. Suddenly she walked
forward and threw her arms around me, surprising me by the strength of
her grip. We held each other for a long moment, and once more, we were
no longer strangers. I kissed her gently on the cheek and turned to
walk down the couple of steps around the house, which led to the
street.
'Attends'! She shouted 'I'll walk with you to the train station. Just
give me five minutes to get dressed'
'No it's not necessary' I said
'But I want to'! She insisted with the determined logic of a
child.
'No, listen, I'd really prefer you didn't' I repeated. I just didn't
want her standing there on the platform as I waited for an imaginary
train. I swung my bag over my shoulder and looked back at her one last
time. In the sunlight, she looked as beautiful as I had ever seen
her.
Then suddenly I felt very sad. So incredibly sad, and I wanted to tell
her everything. The truth. About how bad things had been of late. About
how I had left Glasgow with just enough money to get me to Calais.
About how for the last week, I had lived for the most part by eating
rotting berries and sour tasting grapes. About how I had walked and
walked and walked, just for the hell of it. About how I had slept rough
in the open air getting eaten alive by mosquitoes and god knows what
else. I wanted to tell her how fucking hungry I was. About how tired I
was. About how I had never felt so low. So alone. I wanted to tell her
the only thing that kept me going were her letters in my bag, which I
would read over and over, letters which would remind me of earlier,
better times, and about how now they would be not just souvenirs of a
different life, that now I had visited her house, they would be
souvenirs of a different truth. Above all, I just wanted to tell her I
still loved her as much as always. Instead, knowing she was watching me
I continued walking down the steps, and without looking back, I walked
slowly at first then faster, not stopping until I had turned the corner
at the end of her street.
Now as I stood by the side of an anonymous road which led out of her
town with no money and nowhere to go, I still felt the sharp hunger in
my stomach and an ache in my heart greater than I had ever known. I
stuck out my thumb to the passing traffic. Then I thought why don't I
just go back to her? There was still time. She would understand.
Explain why I felt I just had to get out of that house. Tell her how
much I still loved her. About how much it hurt, even after all this
time, to see her living with someone else. Tell her I couldn't bear it.
She would understand. Surely she would understand. A small white car
slowed down as it passed me and stopped a little further up the road. I
picked up my bag and ran towards it, and getting inside, I asked the
driver where he was going. I told him, yes, I was going there too.