The Beginning of All Things

Although Marco told me stories about his village, I tucked them away until I arrived in Noyers.  Then I tugged on a thread and the people came tumbling out.

*

“Are you from New York?” I asked the young girl cycling towards me.

I explained who I was and my train of thought.  I told her to have her mother bring everyone over for a swim.

They arrived that afternoon, along with a charming Dutch girl and the son of the local potters.  The pool bubbled over with children.

We sat in the shade, drank cidre, and told our tales.

And we planned to meet at the baignade the next afternoon, followed by dinner at my house.

*

Three beautiful women brought their children to the watering hole.

They immersed themselves in the cool, green water and disappeared around the bend in the river.  Their words lingered in the summer air.

I did not bring my bathing suit.  I sat on the bank with my book, content to read in my chair.

The children ran round, played pingpong and piggy-back, and took dramatic turns leaping into the river.

I took a turn, too, jumping in fully clothed.  My dress puffed up like a blowfish as I bobbed to and fro.  There was much applause and some surprise.  They told me a Frenchwoman would never have done that.

Sometimes it’s good not to be French.

*

We were welcomed at the gate of a residence that has been in the family for generations.

We walked down the sloping lawn, past fruitless trees, and across a magical foot bridge to the creek.  The water ran clear and shockingly cold here, bred directly from the springs below.

It started to rain.

We passed into a 19th century solarium and a house that was luminous in spite of the clouds.  There were painted panels and chinoiseries, still lifes and handmade floors, full of a sense of people and a place well-loved.

In La Grand Salle we took bread and chocolate, the taste of childhood.

The women invited me to Paris and Israel and to call, once again, on Madame in her cherished home.

*

She insisted we come in costume and so we did.

Miss Clavel and Madeline made their entrance at the art gallery party under a canopy of late-night stars and camera flashes.

One ate peaches and the other drank wine as they explored the mysterious building and its creative people and contents.  By the stroke of midnight they were transformed into she and I and safely tucked up into bed.

*

On market day we met two little girls and their Oma in the village square.

My girl received a birthday party invitation for Saturday at 4:00pm.

I received an invitation for drinks at six.

*

We began with champagne and moved on to Chablis.

I was beguiled by 1001 tales of nights and days in exotic places and of human nature exalted and gone awry.  They were told by a man with a beard full of life.  I spied in there more than meets the eye.

Our hostess wove together the pieces of the evening and produced dishes with an accomplished sleight of hand.  I learned, on the spot, to make courgette soup.  I will have to return for the secret of the ginger cake.

We lingered longer than expected, in no particular hurry to move on to what came next.

There was already more than enough to look forward to.

*

“Are you from New York?” I asked the young girl cycling towards me.

Five little words and the world opened wide.