As they drove toward Montélimar, she told him a Polish story in which a farmer outwits the devil. Then they sat listening in silence to Mozart’s flute quartets on the radio. When Georg noticed that Françoise had fallen asleep he turned the music down, delighting in the motion of the car, the wind in his face, Françoise at his side, her breathing and contented sighs when her head tilted to one side and she sat up again, then rested her head on his shoulder.
In Lyon the hotels were all fully booked, and they had to drive six miles into the mountains and even there had to take a double room. Françoise’s neck was sore, and Georg massaged it. They changed, drove into town, had a bite to eat, and then went to the mayor’s reception, where they chatted with various people, their eyes often seeking each other out in the town hall. There was thick fog as they drove back to the hotel and Georg drove very slowly, keeping to the center line. “I like your sitting next to me,” he said.
Then they lay next to each other in bed. Françoise told him about a lovesick friend of hers who had left for America only to fall unhappily in love there with a Lebanese man. As she reached over to the nightstand to turn out the light, Georg put his arm around her waist. She nestled against him in the dark. He caressed her, they kissed, and they could not get enough.
After they had made love, she cried quietly.
“What is it, Brown Eyes?”
She shook her head, and he kissed away the tears from her face.
6
THEY DIDN’T RETURN TO CADENET UNTIL Monday, though the conference was over on Friday. They went to St. Lattier, had dinner at the Lièvre Amoureux, and slept late on Saturday. They looked in their Michelin Guide for the restaurant Les Hospitaliers in Le Poët-Laval-it had a star-and they found a place to stay in the town. They spent their last night near Gordes, in the open. They didn’t want their picnic to end: there was a mild evening breeze; the sky was full of stars, and in the coolness before dawn they slept cuddling beneath the blankets that Françoise kept in her car. It was a two-hour drive to Cadenet. The sun was shining, the air was clear, and the road was free. In the little towns through which they drove, stores were raising their shutters, cafés and bakeries were already open, and people were carrying home loaves of bread. Georg was at the wheel, Françoise’s hand resting on his thigh. For a long time he was silent, and then he asked her, “Will you move in with me?”
He had been eagerly looking forward to his question and her response. He was certain she would say yes, that everything was perfect between the two of them. In fact-life was perfect.
The conference had been a success. He had come across as relaxed and informed. Clever questions had been asked, and he had given witty answers. He had handed out not only Bulnakov’s card but his own too, and a lawyer from Montélimar who specialized in computer leasing and software liability wanted to work with him on future French-German cases. The Xerox representative had been surprised when Georg told him about the TEXECT translation he had just done. “But that’s been available in French for more than a year!” But what did Georg care, it wasn’t his problem. In his jacket pocket he could feel Bulnakov’s envelope with six thousand francs.
And Françoise was sitting beside him. The second night, Thursday, he had thrown all caution to the winds. He was going to enjoy it; he wasn’t going to fall in love, wouldn’t lose himself, but was still slightly afraid that this affair might last only one night, or a few days. He had woken up in the night and sat in the bathroom, his elbows propped on his knees, his head resting in his hands. He was moody and sad. Then Françoise came in, stood next to him, and he leaned his head against her bare hip while she ran her fingers through his hair. She said Georg, not Georges as she usually did. It sounded clumsy, but it made him feel good. He had told her that his parents and sister had called him Georg, his friends in high school and college too, but that when he went to France after his internship at the law firm it had become Georges or Shorsh. He had told her a lot about his childhood, his years at school and university, his marriage to Steffi, and the years with Hanne. She kept asking questions.
She didn’t reveal much about herself-the silent type, he thought. It wasn’t that she didn’t talk. She described in great detail how she had moved from Paris to Cadenet, how she had found an apartment and fixed it up, how she settled in, what she did evenings and on weekends, and how she started making friends. She also answered his questions about Bulnakov’s office in Paris, told him about the heart attack Bulnakov had had a year earlier, and his decision to work less and away from Paris. Bulnakov had wanted her to come with him, and had made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. “You don’t leave Paris for Cadenet just like that,” she said. Her talk was mostly fast, lively, and amusing, and made Georg laugh a lot. “You’re making fun of me,” she’d say with a pout, and, hugging him, would give him a kiss.
They had arrived at Poët-Laval early, and after they carried their bags up to the room they couldn’t get into bed fast enough. With one sweep he pulled his sweater, shirt, and T-shirt up over his head, with another his pants, underwear, and socks. They made love, fell asleep, and then, kissing and touching, were aroused again. She knelt on him, moving rhythmically, and stopped whenever his excitement grew too strong. Outside it was dusk, and her face and body shimmered in the twilight. He couldn’t gaze at her enough, but had to close his eyes because he was brimming over with love and pleasure. She was next to him, and yet he still longed for her. “If you give me a child-you will be present when I give birth, won’t you?” She looked at him intently. He nodded. Tears were running down his cheeks, and he couldn’t speak.
They were approaching Bonnieux when he asked if she would move in with him. She stared straight ahead, and didn’t say anything. She took her hand from his thigh and buried her face in her hands. He stopped the car at the top of the hill. Behind them lay the little town, and before them, in the shadow of the early morning, the ravine that cuts through the Luberon. He waited, not daring to ask any questions or to pull her hands from her face and see some terrible truth. Then she spoke, through her hands. He barely recognized her voice. It was colorless, timid, fending off, the voice of a little girl.
“I can’t move in with you, Georg. Don’t ask me why, don’t press me-I can’t. I would love to, it’s so wonderful being with you, but I can’t, not yet. I can come to you, I can come to you often, and you can come to me. But please drop me off at my apartment now. I need to get ready quickly and go to the office. I’ll call you.”
“Why not come to the office with me right now? What about your car?” Georg asked, though he wanted to ask something quite different.
“I can’t,” she said, taking her hands from her face and wiping away her tears. “Drop me off at my place and then park the car somewhere near the office. I don’t mind walking a little. You drive on.”
“But Françoise, I don’t understand. After the days we’ve just spent together.”
She flung her arms around him. “They were wonderful, and I want more days like that. I want you to be happy.” She kissed him. “Please, drive on now.”
He drove on and dropped her off at her place. She had rented a former caretaker’s lodge in a villa on the outskirts of the village. He wanted to take her bags in for her but she stopped him, insisting that he drive on. In his rearview mirror he saw her standing in front of the iron gate, between the stone posts crowned with stone globes and flanked on both sides by an old, thick box-tree hedge. She raised her hand and waved with a coquettish flutter of her fingers.