She raised her arms and locked her hands behind her head. She said, “Untie me.”

I set her breasts free, touched them, tasted them, and stood back again. She said, “More.” I put my arms around her, kissed her mouth, her neck, her breasts, her belly, then slipped the zipper of her skirt and removed it.

She had remembered. More French cut panties, like the first time I had seen her, but these had been transparent even before they were wet. I slipped them off.

She said, “My turn.”

When I was also naked, we got towels from bureau and wiped each other dry. It became a game, and when we could stand the game no longer, we fell upon the bed, clinched, grasping, straining, and trembling toward climax.

Then again. And yet again. Raven was infinite in her variety and inexhaustible. She was frenzied, hungry, insatiable. It was as if she were trying to wrap up a lifetime of lovemaking in one night.

She was.

#          #          #

The morning sun was pale and watery, but it found its way through a crack in the blinds and straight into my eyes. The bedside clock said nine o’clock; late by my standards. I stretched, and found the bed beside me empty. I lay back, listening for sounds of her movement in the bathroom, but the silence came back to mock me.

My clothes were in a damp pile on the floor, but hers were gone. I pulled back the blinds. The sun was weak and rain was threatening. People were crossing the square, but she was not among them. I shook my head, not ready to admit to myself what I had begun to fear.

I found her note propped on the sink.

Ten minutes later I was still sitting on the bed with the unread note crumpled in my hands. I could not open it and admit that what I had feared for weeks had come to be. As long as it remained unread, I could think that it was harmless. She had gone out to cancel our tickets to Rouen, or to buy some little lover’s present.

Finally, I had to open it. She had written:

#          #          #

Ian,

I am not like most people. You surely know that by now. Every day with you has been an adventure, and I thank you for all of them. But love can be bondage, for a person like me. Lately, I have been afraid that I was falling in love with you, and last night I proved to myself that I was. For someone else, that would be cause for happiness. Not for me. It would spell the end of all I have tried to become. Maybe we will meet again some day, and we will no longer be enthralled to one another. Then I can explain. I can’t explain now. The explanation would also tie me to you. I’m sorry. More sorry than you can ever know. 

Raven

#          #          #

“More sorry . . . I doubt that,” I said it to the empty room.

I would be talking to a lot of empty rooms from now on. more tomorrow

Chapter Fifteen

The old clichés are the best ones; that’s how they got to be clichés.

It was dusk when we emerged from the gare. In the shelter of the overhanging roof in front of the open courtyard, a street musician with a saxophone was leaning against the wall, playing sweet and sad. A lonely saxophone playing in the night is a magical thing, and this kid was good. Honey sweet melody poured out of him, filling up the space around him, driving back the street noises and transforming the garish lights and the tawdry shops into something exotic and exciting. We were arrested by the music, hesitating between the bright lights and the dimness of the coming evening beyond.

Then thunder came down and walked about on the rooftops until it seemed as if the pavement shook. The rain came quickly, and there was an audible, collective gasp from the hundreds of pedestrians on the streets and in the square. Like runners at the opening gun, they sprinted for shelter in the gare, and under the overhanging eaves of surrounding shops. The light was lambent and flawless; every tiny detail was clear in those first moments before the rain haze dulled the details. A hundred thousand droplets danced on the street, as water moved in sheets ahead of the sudden wind.

The thunder sounded again, more distant now, and the hiss of rain played a background harmony for the sax. There were twenty of us waiting in the doorway of the gare. Some had been drawn from within by the excitement. Some had taken shelter; they were shaking the rain from their clothing and wiping sudden moisture from their faces. Raven moved closer still, until we touched from ankle to cheek. Her breath was warm against my breath as we spoke softly. She was trembling with excitement, and something more; so was I.

She put her hand on my cheek and turned my face to hers. She leaned up to kiss me, sliding her fingers around behind my head. Her lips squirmed, her tongue came in, and I felt an electric shock from head to heels. When we broke, she whispered, “I can’t wait.”

Sweet Jesus!

Primeval rains were still falling. Across the square, people were sheltered beneath the arches of the Hotel Concorde-St. Lazare. Raven grabbed my hand and we ran. We were wet through in an instant. Her laughter rang out. She kicked the puddled water up in drenching sheets, caught me around the waist and dragged me to a stop in the middle of the square. With the rain driving against our heads we locked together.

In the lobby of the hotel, Raven held center stage. She marched up to the desk and demanded a room. Her cloud of hair had come down around her shoulders in one wet mass. The thin, light material of her tied off blouse had turned to cellophane. The old clerk smiled in appreciation. Two young men in jeans made no pretense of savoire faire. Their heads swiveled right around as Raven passed, and their girlfriends’ faces turned dark with envy.

In the room, she stood back from me, to see me and be seen by me. The rain was beaded on her face, and made twisted runnels on her long, lean legs and her bare arms. Her blouse was wet to absolute transparency – stirring memory. She said, “I was this wet when you first rescued me?”

I nodded.

“But not so much clothed.” She raised her arms and locked her hands behind her head. She said, “Untie me.” more tomorrow

In the cold, damp air of morning, the sleeping bags’ warmth was too comfortable to leave. We dozed and woke and dozed again until the morning was half gone, then dashed through the rain to the shower block. An hour later, we were on the bus back into Paris, wearing plastic ponchos and sharing a fruit and bread brunch out of a paper sack.

Raven called American Express from a public phone. She had called her father twice since we got to Paris, but there had been no answer. Finally, she had called her sister to have money sent. The Amex people said it was in, so we took the metro to Place de la Concorde and walked up to the 9th arrondissement. Twenty minutes later, Raven came out holding up a new credit card and wearing a grin a mile wide. “Now!” she said. “First clothes, then food, then a room that doesn’t leak.”

“You don’t like my lifestyle?”

“I like you. Your lifestyle is for bag ladies.”

Raven would never make a bag lady. That soon became clear. I followed her around Paris for three hours while clouds played tag with the sun. The streets were wet and shining, the rain came in brief showers, then retreated before brilliant sunlight. The clouds above the buildings were piled high and menacing. The leaves of the sycamores sagged with dampness, and sent quick showers out of a clear sky every time a breeze disturbed them. It was a Paris for lovers, and a day I would never forget. 

Despite her threats, Raven bought sparingly. When I pointed out that she could only carry one back pack, she said, “I know, silly, but don’t spoil my fun.” Her fun consisted of trying on two dozen blouses in order to buy one. My fun came from watching her model them. She bought ugly, chic, mannish suits and frilly dresses, and had them shipped to America. She bought a pleated miniskirt that let her navel peek over and barely covered her rump, along with a blouse that she left unbuttoned, rolled up from the hem, and knotted beneath her breasts. That outfit took the place of her jeans early on, and made my day infinitely more stimulating.

We dodged rain showers, moving from store to store. She vowed that she was going to treat us to a dry room tonight. Late in the afternoon, Raven bought us a meal in a sidewalk cafe. We made a ceremony of it, laughing and flirting for two hours while we people-watched. At the end, she said, “Now, isn’t this better than a burger at MacDonalds?”

“Sure.”

She cocked her head to one side and said, “Do I detect a bit of hedging.”

“It was delicious.”

“Then why the hesitation?”

I didn’t quite know how to explain. I was afraid that talking about it would make it more important that it really was. “The food was wonderful, the company was delightful, the conversation was sparkling. It’s just that being in Paris with you was equally wonderful this morning when we were eating bread and fruit out of a paper sack.”

“Equally . . .?  Oh, come on, Ian!”

“Look,” I said, “I heard a woman talking to her friend today while you were trying on dresses. She had just been to the Louvre, and all she could talk about was what she had eaten in that little cafe that overlooks the bookstore. When I remember the Louvre, I will think of the paintings, not what I had for lunch. When I remember today, I will think of you and the way the rain felt, and the sunshine, not the food we ate.”

“Ian, you’re deeply deranged.”

We went out to walk around in the fading sunlight, holding hands.

We talked about the weeks to come. I told her about Rouen with its cathedrals, half-timbered buildings, and monuments to the passing of Joan of Arc. Raven agreed to a day trip, so we walked up to Gare St-Lazare to get tickets for tomorrow. She walked so close beside me that the swinging of her hips was sweet music against my thigh.

The train station was a huge, crowded, echoing barn filled with overpriced fast food booths and sleazy magazine stores. We bought tickets, and headed back toward the street. Over the crowd noises, I could hear the sound of distant thunder. Raven was squeezed close to my side and I was as happy as I had ever been. I could see no end to that happiness.

*****

I spoke of foreshadowing in 230. Blackie Ryan. The end of this post is a subtler form of foreshadowing. I didn’t say, “If I had only known!” or something equally cliche, but the reader can still sense that all is not going to work out well for our lovers. more tomorrow

We retired to a small cafe on the square behind Sacre Coeur for wine. Eric was a jovial companion. I enjoyed him almost as much as Raven did, although I would have felt more comfortable if he had had a girlfriend with him. Blue-eyed, blond, tanned, and ruggedly handsome, with Raven hanging on his every word – I was feeling an irritation that had become all too familiar.

Raven and I were living frugally, camping outside Paris and taking a bus into the city. What a typical American tourist would spend in a day, would keep us alive for two weeks. On the ladder of affluence, we were near the bottom.

Eric was one critical step lower. We knew that we could not eat in a restaurant; Eric did not know where his next meal was coming from. We knew that if we were not careful, our money would soon run out. Eric was broke any day he did not make enough tips to cover that day’s expenses. He was staying in the youth hostel on Blvd. Jules-Ferry, but would have to move on soon. They had a four day limit in midsummer. “It doesn’t matter, anyway,” he laughed. “I’m not making enough to eat and sleep. Paris is a tough gig.”

Eric was originally from Bodö, just north of the Arctic Circle, and had gone to school in Oslo. Now he was a refugee from the winter-long northern nights, but there was a homesick longing in his voice as he described the beauties of a northern summer. Raven hugged my arm and said, “We have to go there!”

“Suits me.”

“If you go to Bodö,” Eric said, “you must see the maelstrom. It’s not far from town.”

“Maelstrom?”

“A gigantic whirlpool. It inspired your writer Poe to write his Descent into the Maelstrom.”

Raven had bought a cheap camera in Nice. Now she talked a waiter into taking a picture of the three of us, promising to give a print to Eric.

It was after midnight when we got back to the campground. We had to take the metro to the end of the line and then take a bus out to the edge of the countryside. I had forgotten to pay last night, so I stopped in at the office to correct matters. We were on the list of delinquents, and the manager made nasty remarks under his breath until I paid for the rest of the week. Then he dropped the matter, satisfied, and went on to his next customer.

The French have a worldwide reputation for being actively unfriendly. It isn’t true. They just don’t give a damn if you live or die. If you want people to like you, you probably won’t be happy in France. On the other hand, if you can go about your business independently, not expecting courtesy from strangers, you will do fine. I never have any trouble in France because I don’t expect much, and that is exactly what I get.

The campground was a sea of tents, jammed edge to edge with their guy lines overlapping. Walking among them was like stepping over limbs in a blown down forest. Ours was a small blue two-man dome. I stayed outside until Raven had undressed and crawled into her sleeping bag, taking off my shoes and shirt while I waited. Then she squeezed over against one side of the tent while I struggled out of my pants. Once we were both horizontal, the tent was big enough, but dressing and undressing on a rainy day was a major undertaking. Fortunately, it had not rained much so far.

An hour later, I woke to the sound of rain. more tomorrow

Chapter Fourteen

We met Eric on our third day in Paris. It was evening. We had spent the day doing the classic tourist rounds, with morning at the Versailles, a late afternoon stop at the Eiffel Tower, and then the long walk up from the Champs Elyse to Monmarte, where the architecture was lovely and the vaunted street artists would have been kicked out of Disneyland for incompetence.

Eric was set up at the base of the steps that lead up to Sacre Couer, with his violin case at this feet, playing gypsy tunes on a Hardanger fiddle. That was a feat of cultural integration about the equivalent of Sioux in full headdress playing accordion, but Eric made it work.

We sat down on the steps to listen. Raven said, “What is he playing? That isn’t a regular violin.”

“Hardanger fiddle, from the Hardanger region of Norway. An old Norwegian fellow in the town where I grew up used to play one.” It had four sympathetic strings that ran beneath the fingerboard, an extended pegbox, and instead of a scroll it had the carved head of a stylized lion. It was heavily decorated with intricate ink drawings.

“Where is Hardanger?” Raven wanted to know. I explained that it was near Bergen, and she said, “Will you take me there?”

Her eyes were glowing. She had been frenetically gay since we reached Paris. I enjoyed her happiness and her energy, but there was an underlying note of falseness to it. I said, “Sure. Tomorrow?”

“No, silly. Someday.”

“Someday it is.”

Monmarte is a hilltop community where the steps of Sacre Coeur form a sort of informal amphitheater for street musicians. As Eric played on, Paris made a hazy backdrop behind him. He was quite good, and it had been a long day. We were both content to watch the sun go down and listen. When he finally finished his set, Raven whispered,”Can we afford something for him?”

“Sure. Street musicians have a hard life.” I passed her a twenty franc note and followed her over as she dropped it into the case. 

He looked up, then looked harder. Raven is spectacular. He said, “Grazie, Signorina.”

“Not Italian,” I informed him. “American Hispanic.”

“Ah. Then gracias and thank you.” He looked at me and added, “You are both American?”

“Yes.”

“Of you, I would have said Scottish.”

“Scottish ancestry, American nationality. I’m Ian Gunn and this is Raven Cabral.”

He said he was charmed, but I’m sure he meant by Raven. His name was Eric Sangøy. He spoke English with a clipped British accent, for which he apologized. In Norwegian high schools, he explained, one took either British English or American English as a second language, and he had chosen British.

“Raven and I were admiring your fiddle, as well as your playing,” I said.

Eric passed it to Raven for inspection. It was well worn but the ink drawings were supple and intricate. He explained where it came from and how it differed from a violin. Raven listened intently, as if I had not just explained. more tomorrow