"You sit so how do you say, dejected. I should not tell you such things. I see what they do on your face. Even though I make a little joke, it is not nice. I suppose I do not tell you what is really the truth. When sometimes on my day off. I walk. I go to the shops. Up the Park Lane down the Oxford Street. And. Yes. I have thought of you often. I would wish I was back with you and the little fellow at the Dell when you come to the park. I would be bored by myself. I would be hungry too. I would be too stingy to have lunch. All the time when I was saving for the swimming costume. I come to a bun shop. Look in the window. I stand next to an old lady. She is hungry too. I count the number of raisins in the bun. To find out which is most. I go in the shop. I ask for that bun. I say no. Not that bun. That bun. I laugh. He mixes up the buns. I say wait, you have lost my bun and I must count all the raisins again."
"I will make your salary higher, Alphonsine."
"O no. I could not accept. I did not tell the story for you to say that."
"Let us have some champagne.' "O I am so light already in the head.' "It clears the palate. Refreshes the spirit."
"You are funny."
"I am not Jacques."
"Now now. You hold what I say against me. You know I have already said now what I shouldn't say. That it is often I think of you. But what good is it to think. You are another woman's husband. I have no right to think like that. It is not good to tell you these things. I have already made such a mistake to be here in your private room like this. But I want to be. So I am. And it is very wrong."
Balthazar bowed to put his lips briefly touching her hair. And went down the dark cellar stair. Along the cool corridor to the wine vault door. In here among the bins. Find something quite unforgettable in the straw. The two of us left in this house. No reason why for one night it should not be a happy home. I suppose if I were strong enough to lift it, the only defence against Jacques would be a chair. But if I got it up above my head he might punch me in the belly. So hopeless. I'm not even awfully good with sabre or foil. By the sound of him he could also beat me at squash. Only my palate would win. Challenge him to deciphering champagnes.
Alphonsine taken the tray away. All the other little scraps of paper gone. The cushions fluffed up. Scent of wood smoke. And one day when I went a walk along Brompton Road and entered the Oratory. Where often I go for peace and solitude. It was middle afternoon on a coldish day. A couple came and knelt at the altar. All alone. Then a priest came out. He performed a wedding ceremony. These two people wrapped up with each other's love holding hands. No cheering, singing and hats and rice and champagne. Just a priest's soft voice gently joining them. I thought how sad but then how beautiful. Two people together against all others. And me their only witness who watches. In the empty church. Send them out of my heart some good little wish. When one never believes in miracles. I saw one small one happen. At the moment they were wed. A ray of sunshine came striking down from the church dome and shone upon their heads. To light up their world.
"I could not drink more."
"To celebrate."
"No no. I could not when your wife has gone. And the little fellow too. I would never celebrate such a thing."
"It's to celebrate my friend's wedding. Beefy."
"Ah. Le Comte. O la la. Who would marry him, he is such a one. What things he say. How is that funny one, that it is the rich what gets the prunes and it is the poor what gets the shits. I laugh."
"Your eyes sparkle."
"Ah you are. Are you not. Making it a bit risky here. But it is nice to feel so good. I like when the light goes on your hair. It is like the electric that one touches. But taboo. I am above Jacques' class. You are above mine. And you are very rich."
"I am poor."
"Ha ha, I see how you live, you could not be very poor. Do not think I do not know the champagne we are drinking. It is not for poor people. You do not fool me."
"I want to kiss you."
"No."
"Why."
"Because it is taboo. Who is he on the wall, clinging to the cliff."
"That is my Uncle Edouard."
"He looks nice."
"Yes he was.' "O something happen to him."
"Yes. He is in his grave."
"O I am sorry."
Balthazar rising from his chair. To step near Alphonsine. Her hair gleaming. She is alive. No grave. She is France. Like all the piers from Calais to Boulogne where men stand and fish. And starfish lie crushed and sun dried along the quays. The towns now lit bright with neon lights. But the fishing boats still come and go. Just as when I was a little boy. The car ferry was moving away. Trawlers coming in from distant seas. And white little sailboats like butterflies, their wind slanted wings out on the grey green water. Fresh blue sweeping across the skies. Each day lay out upon my dreams somewhere near the edges of land and water where the eye could see. Married I was as voices sang. Walked stiffly slowly up the aisle. Needing to take a pee. My afternoon already darkening. My hands are on you. Alphonsine. Takes so little flesh to make a curve. And there's a flat wall of red brick on the corner of Pall Mall and St. James against which one can lean. And with you Alphonsine tune our ears to vespers. Tea with crumpets and gentleman's relish. Jacques takes what he wants. And I must ask. To pardon my ancient expression. And the tremors of trouble bubbling behind the kneecaps. Hard pressed by evil. Snatch delight in these selfish times. Soft to kiss. Take up our memories in the Dell. Hear a Beefy beatitude. Blessed are they who out of a sea of human frailty climb aboard a piece of arse when it floats by.
"No, I think we must not. Please."
"Why."
"It is not that I do not wish to. But I must stay here no longer. Please. It is very sad but it is so."
"Alphonsine. Let us sleep in the same bed."
"What difficult things you ask."
"Please."
"You want me. I want you. But why should we be allowed. Everybody passing on the street. They look. They want. But why should they have.' "No one wants you as much as I do. And I may never drink enough again to have the courage to ask you. I know it."
"I am thinking you are as wicked as you are sweet. You have such a way with you.' "Do I leave Jacques standing in his tracks.' "Ola la. You are bold.' "Watched you through the keyhole."
"Of course I know you watch me. It was so funny. I move this way and I move that way. I was so naughty. And you are so English to look through the keyhole. I am so embarrassed but I laugh at the same time. As I hang the towel slowly over the hole. It is le Comte Beefy who put you up to it. Both of you outside the door looking. I give you the towel like a curtain at the end of the performance. But Jacques would be jealous. He sometimes say at the end of a letter we are finish, that I have the affair in London. He has his dog. His boat. He says when he wants to make me unhappy that he likes his dog better. And I am only second."
"You are first with me."
"I cry a little. I miss the little fellow. I love him so. He has eyes like you. Now it seems so sad. I do not say to you all your wife said to me. I cry too because I do not want to go back to Paris. I would like always to be friends with you. But maybe it is not possible to be friends between a man and a woman. You never see me cry before. But please. Tell me. I want you to tell the truth. When you look through the keyhole. Do you think when you see it, that my bottom is too big."
Alphonsine looks down into her glass, head bowed. My study bells chime. One waits. And in the silence comes the distant boom of Big Ben. Lit up looking down on the Thames. Where it ebbs flowing up against bridge ramparts. Carrying all the French letters away. Alphonsine come with me. Don't say no. Bolt the doors. The windows. Only thieves can get in. Monsieur I am so ashamed. Take your arm. Both of us stand. Offer up your face. Lids closed over your sad dark eyes. Taste your tears. Apple smell of your mouth. The last bell of twelve comes over the rooftops. Climb slowly each stair. Kiss and hold tight on the landings. Up to your room. Undress your big bottom in the darkness. Ripe and round. Put my arms around you. Stand flesh to flesh. Till the day grows light up the valley of the Thames. My little fellow will not see the sun come up the street and gurgle in his crib and smile. Down on your hands and knees to clean this house. When I was aloof and mortified. Safe in my comfortable habits, sailing through little miseries. Lay me on you. You say I am so hesitant and shy instead of sportif and musculaire. That I have everything I want. But one never wants what one has. Except more of you. All through this night. As I see a streak of light. At a door opening in dreams. To let in things it's sad to know. And it's morning in Knightsbridge. Back in my room. When I was in yours. The world swirls. Fades light and dark. I rise up from bed. You sit all dressed again.