Sandalwood mala at 4:00 am
soft voices splash on the street
rain lingers in the air.

The beads pass
but sleep has flown;
gulls are laughing.

slightly expanded >140-character version:

Sandalwood mala at 4:00 am;
soft voices splash on the street,
rain lingers in the air.

The beads slide
but sleep has flown;
above the trees
hoarse gulls are laughing.

by Natalie d'Arbeloff

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 occured 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.”

(to be continued)

La Vie en Rosé was the title that my dear friend Natalie d'Arbeloff of Blaugustine gave to her installment of the Consequences game just recently concluded. She's decided to expand her vignette into a serialized story, and I suggested that we post them here as well, since my readership is somewhat different and because the story, with its French/English implications, seemed perfect for this space too. Plus, I'm a fan of anything this abundantly creative woman does - and, during the next three weeks of our final move from Vermont to Montreal, I'm going to be busy and unable to post as much. So, watch this space, and follow along with Natalie, her heroine Susan, and La Vie en Rosé. Part Three will appear later this week.

PART ONE

“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!"

I'm sitting in my Vermont living room, where boxes begin to accumulate below the bookshelves, listening over the internet to my choir in Montreal singing Evensong. The Dean is presiding, and he reads the lessons and prayers, some in English, some in French, and I'm surprised to notice how much more of the French I understand than I used to - somehow it's easier to tell that, listening on the radio rather than from the choir loft, where my attention is understandably distracted by upcoming duties. I listen to the chanted psalms and responses, the motets, a complicated modern rendition of the Magnificat and Nunc; it all sounds good. Finally the organist begins the last hymn. It's the Welsh lullaby most all of us know as "Sleep my child and peace attend thee/ all through the night," but those aren't the words the congregation and choir are singing. I don't know what the words are in the Canadian hymnal. What I hear are not individual words, anyway, but a strong male voice I don't recognize, from one of the front pews; he's a fraction of a beat behind the organ but singing the familiar tune with genuine feeling and pleasure. The whole congregation is a little behind, actually, but by the end of the first verse they've caught up, and the church sounds more full than usual, ordinary voices blending with the choir. "It's so beautiful," I think, as last bars of the simple, unaffected tune make me stop what I'm doing. My hands fall to my lap, and I realize my eyes are suddenly full of tears.