La Vie en Rosé: PART FIVE

In the distance a dog barked once, twice, paused for ten seconds, barked again twice then repeated the whole pattern until Susan stopped counting. Crickets sang their crickety tunes, lavender, thyme and oranges dispensed their perfume generously and time-worn cobblestones massaged her tired feet. Everything about this evening felt heightened, momentous, as if she had stepped outside her usual life and seen it from another angle.

"It's not just the booze," she said aloud.

The party was still on at the Morrison's house. Susan could hear familiar English voices making loud party noises in the back garden. Apparently her absence had not been noticed or if it was, had not caused much concern. Susan couldn't remember how long she'd been gone. It seemed a very long time. Her car was still parked in front. No doubt George's conversation with Mrs. teetotally bitch had progressed to a quickie upstairs. The thought of re-entering all that stress made her feel sick. Susan decided to walk home. Let George take the car. She wanted to hold on to the new calm mood as long as possible.

* * *

Père Lafitte finished his evening prayers and reached up to a shelf high above his bed. He pulled down the book he read every night, a book he had stolen, aged thirteen, from the public library. He was not sorry for the theft because the book was meant for him: of this he was certain. It was his companion, his entertainment, his inspiration: Exploits Etranges et Extraordinaires. In these accounts - truth or fiction, no matter - of amazing, outlandish exploits by ordinary/extraordinary people, he found a kind of faith which religion didn't entirely supply. He turned to his favourite story. No matter how many times he read it, each time it was new and thrilling.

As he settled back in his narrow bed, the heavy book propped up against his knees, Père Lafitte heard a dog barking once, twice, pausing for ten seconds, barking again twice then repeating the whole pattern. The priest smiled contentedly. Every night the dog performed this ritual. Every night Marcel Lafitte read the same book. Every morning he would say mass. Things were as they should be.

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La Vie en Rosé: PART FOUR

Marcel Lafitte was used to silence, he craved it as others craved communication. But the insistent, demanding silence which now inhabited the room oppressed him. C'est toujours la même chose avec ces gens, he thought, le sexe, l'argent, le mécontentement.

"Alors c'est quoi?" he could not hide his irritation, "The problem? Sex? Money? Discontent with yourself?"

Susan stared at him. "The money's fine, the rest is a mess." The priest's lack of social graces was surprisingly encouraging. "I was looking out the window. My husband and yet another other woman. All these voice were chattering around me and suddenly I couldn't understand anything. Nothing real. C'etait pas vrai, you know? So I drank all the booze and walked out."

"You went looking for a nunnery."

Susan shrugged. "I was drunk. I am a drunk. A reformed one, at least until tonight. Three whole years! Trois ans j'ai pas touché la bouteille! Not even a sniff. "

"Alors, what is your next step?"

"I have no fucking idea!" She laughed. "What kind of a priest are you? You're supposed to be telling me what to do next."

"Madame, this collar does not give me wisdom. A gendarme's uniform does not make him obey the law. I have little experience of the life you speak of. And I must retire now, I have an early mass tomorrow. Do you wish me to accompany you back to your friends' house?"

Susan stood up reluctantly, disappointed, like a child being sent to bed. "No, I can manage on my own, Padre. Thank you for your hospitality." She extended a limp hand which the priest shook politely, gravely.

"If I can be of any assistance, you can always find me here or in my church. Bonne nuit, Madame."

Swaying a little, Susan walked out into the warm night, carrying her shoes. The village street was deserted, lit only by the moon.

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La Vie en Rosé: PART THREE

The walls of the priest’s kitchen were stained brown and black - tobacco brown, soot black, with a patchy patina of grease like badly applied varnish.

“Like those old brown paintings by forgotten artists lining the walls of remote museums,” Susan said aloud, talking to herself.

Alcohol had always given her words and thoughts which she would never have expressed when sober, even if they ocurred to her. The priest did not respond, absorbed in ritual coffee preparation: the struggle to open the rusty lid of the tin, the search for the measuring spoon, never where it should be, the rinsing of the pan still ringed with the morning’s grounds, the boiling of the water and finally, triumphantly, the hot strong black grainy liquid poured into chipped, thick-rimmed cups.

“Voilà. You take milk?” He sat down at the rough wooden table. Susan’s eyes were searching the crowded shelves above the stove.

“Vous avez brandy? Le cognac?”

“Non,” the priest lied. His one bottle of Courvoisier was safely stored away to be eked out slowly on winter nights. He was not about to let it disappear down this woman’s greedy gullet. Susan smiled, reading his mind.

“I am a vampire. But I crave alcohol, not blood.” She leaned forward, inspired. “I am a vampoholic!” Susan laughed, suddenly unreasonably happy. “Vous comprenez? Vampoholique!”

Père Lafitte was not at ease. Such uninhibited behaviour, such joking, came from a world that was not his world. He smiled guardedly. “Oui, je comprend. But the couvent, the nunnerie, you were serious?”

Susan’s face darkened. She did not want to be reminded of George or of anything at all outside this reassuring room. She looked up at the halo of summer insects circling the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

“No. I was not serious. Well, yes, I was. But not now.” She wrapped her hands around the hot coffee cup. “Were you born in this village, Father?”

The priest sighed wearily. Here we go, he thought, la biographie obligatoire.

“Non. I was born in Toulouse. My mother became ill. I looked after her many years. Many years. Then she died. She left me un terrain, a piece of land, near here. I became a priest. I became the village priest. I am sixty-three years old. Voilà. C’est tout.”

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Vie en Rosé Continues

Due to popular demand (well, seven or eight demands) I am going to continue and, hopefully, finish the story I started in the game of Consequences I participated in recently (see Part One on June 15). I'll try to keep each installment short and just see what happens. There may be some illustrations too but I'm just playing by ear.

Beth has very generously offered to host a cross-posting of six installments at her Cassandra pages when she can fit them in to her own time table.

La Vie en Rosé (tentative title) PART TWO

Marcel Lafitte’s immediate impulse was to pull away from Susan’s urgent grip but he had just been mulling over something he overheard earlier in the day, a couple of old parishioners talking about him.

“He’s so farouche, Père Lafitte. I always have the feeling he has to make a big effort just to say bonjour.”

“Beh! He should have joined the Trappists instead of coming here.”

Père Lafitte hesitated then took Susan’s hand and holding it in both of his, looked steadily into her tear-smudged face.

“Une nunnery!” she repeated, “Une couvent. Tout suite! S’il vous plaît.”

Père Lafitte’s English is slightly better than the French of les Anglais who gradually moved into La Rosière in search of a paradise which does not exist anywhere on earth. Although none of them are church-goers, he knows them all sufficiently to engage in minimal small talk whenever he sees them, thankfully not too often. Of course there is the gossip, dished out by the ladies who clean the church, but he pays no attention to it.

There is something about this Englishwoman’s tipsily desperate determination which moves him. She is middle-aged but seems childlike, bewildered.

“Would you like a cup of coffee pour le moment? We can talk about the nunnerie.”

“ Yes! Oh oui! Please. Thank you.”

“Come along, then. I will make coffee.”

Père Lafitte moved away at his usual brisk pace, Susan stumbling on her high heels several paces behind stopped to remove her shoes. Barefoot on the warm cobblestones she caught up with him.

“Padre,“ she whispered, “I am a bit drunk and I should not be.”

“Bon Dieu!” he thought, “I will have to listen to drunken confessing without the shelter of the confessional!” But when Marcel Lafitte decides to do something he does it, and in the past half hour he decided to be more responsive to people. Père Lafitte does not like people. He likes God who is silent and demands nothing. And he loves his land, the ten wooded acres which his mother left him outside the village of La Rosière.

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COMING SOON: Pin-ups continued

The reason I've been procrastinating about blogging lately is because of major procrastinatitis about finishing a project I began a while back. All my projects seem to have begun 'a while back' - some time in the Neanderthal period.

Anyway this particular one is to make a video thingy to further explore those faces, my pin-ups, first posted on 23 March . I'm in the middle of working (euphemism for playing around) on it and it should be up soon.

It's a fascinating subject. What subject? Hard to describe exactly. Something to do with a specific arrangement of facial features (male, in this case) which certain individuals have in common, along with astonishingly similar psychological characteristics. It's as if they are from the same tribe, even though in reality they are not related. The other puzzle is what makes this type - or, as I prefer to think of it: this particular assemblage of features - so damned attractive?

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OOPS! ACCIDENTAL WIPE-OUT!

Ay ay ay! I have accidentally deleted almost all my images from older Blogger posts. Not my fault. It's because Google stores them all on Picasia and I was browsing my albums over there and noticed some I hadn't uploaded so I just deleted them. Only later did I see the warning that this would mean they'd disappear from my Blogger posts too. Why do they do this sneaky thing? Anyway, now I either have to re-insert everything or, if you happen to be browsing my older posts and see blanks where images should be, then please do this: go to my REAL Blaugustine blog (of which this Blogger one is merely a partial mirror) and see the corresponding dates where all images will be in their rightful places. Thank you.

CONSEQUENCES 6

This is the sixth post in an online game of Consequences. Each successive entry begins with the closing lines of its predecessor. Entries are 250 words long and are linked thematically. The series started with Hydragenic and was followed by Patteran Pages , Porous Borders, The Middle Westerner , Feathers of Hope and herewith, moi, Blaugustine. The series will continue in a day or two at Small Change.

Expats, or: La Vie En Rosé

“We gulp what is here and ours and nobody’s and nothing’s” George said, handing her his glass of rosé. That’s how he talked. She couldn’t understand him half the time but he was a poet so she had learned not to ask for explanations. “Guard it with your life,” he added, “I’ll be right back.” Nothing he says ever means what it sounds like, Susan thought. 'Right back' could mean ten minutes, three hours or even three months. She surveyed the drinks table: two bottles of the local wine, two Perriers, two Evians and fourteen cans of sugary fizzy kid stuff. Their hosts were strictly teetotal and stingy to boot but the isolated expat community never turned down an opportunity to socialise so the room was buzzing with familiar talking heads. Through the window to the garden Susan could see the teetotal host’s teetotally blonde wife in intimate tête a tête with George. Susan leaned back and tipped the wine down her throat. Three years on the wagon and five years of compliance suddenly vanished as she poured the remains of the first bottle into her husband's glass, drank it, then dispensing with formalities, expertly guided the rosy stream into her mouth straight from the neck of the second bottle . Oblivious to the guests' shocked stares, Susan stumbled out of the house and down the village street just as Père Lafitte was passing by. She grabbed his arm, shouting: “ Portez-moi à une nunnery! “

A FUTURIST-ISH DAY AT

Yesterday I walked from London Bridge Station and joined the hungry crowds milling around the market in Green Dragon Court overflowing with delectable Jamaican, Turkish, French, Spanish, Italian, Greek, German, English delicacies then along Bankside in the warm sunshine, past the Globe Theatre and down to Taste Modern where surprisingly no one at all was queuing for tickets to the Futurism exhibition. Ended up making my own humble Futurist-ish speedy little movie which you can see below. The soundtrack is mine, made up from loops in Garage Band. The Futurists themselves did not impress me, apart from their typography, Balla and a few others who were more Cubist than Futurist. So much more attractive when reproduced in coffee-table-size art books, the actual Futurist paintings are mostly dull and formulaic, never achieving the grandiose aims of the infamous Futurist Manifesto of 1909. Leaving aside the manifesto's glorification of war and militarism, its vilification of all art, literature, women and pasta, the paintings completely fail to convey the Futurists' declared exhilaration about modern life. What's the big deal about breaking shapes up into kaleidoscopic jigsaws? Hardly breathtaking or revolutionary. Even Severini's huge Dance of the 'Pan-Pan' at the Monico left me indifferent. Yes, it's clever and pretty and looks like an advert. I'm hard to please, sorry. MORE

A Futurist Day

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A walk through Borough Market and along the Thames to Tate Modern to see the Futurism exhibition on June 13, 2009. Assembling my snippets of video, speeding them up, adding special effects and a soundtrack I composed in Garage Band, here's my own Futurist-ish creation.

Formats available: MPEG4 Video (.mp4)

Tags: futurism, tate modern, london, market, thames, speed, art, painting, millenium bridge