The Girl in the Blue Beret - Bobbie Ann Mason [130]
“I’m enjoying the view,” she said. “C’est magnifique!”
They drove for nearly an hour. His fingers were stiff, and his eyes were burning.
“It is only another kilometer,” she said, rustling the map.
A small settlement appeared ahead, complete with a church, and soon he was scooting into a parking area beside a faded hotel that seemed to be waiting patiently for them.
“I’m glad it wasn’t rush hour,” he said, setting the parking brake.
THE HOTEL HAD a white stucco façade and an unpronounceable Basque name that sported an x. The lobby was pleasant, inviting, with landscape paintings and a fireplace. The propriétaire, a rugged woman wearing large beads and a red sweater, was writing the evening menu on the dining room chalkboard as they entered.
“You are with the hiking group?” she asked. “I was expecting you! Your guides are already here.”
The guides had walked over from the Spanish side that afternoon, she said. She finished writing the menu and moved to the small desk in the minuscule lobby. Marshall made some small talk with her as she was checking them in.
“Okey-dokey!” she said. “I am very happy to welcome an American.”
Annette explained that they would be leaving their valises at the hotel in the morning and would return for them in two days.
“Okey-dokey. Not a problem,” said the propriétaire. “We get many hikers this summer!” She handed Marshall a large key with a metal tag shaped like a sheep. “I do not go over the mountains anymore. My husband and I used to keep cattle and sheep in the mountains, and twice a year it was necessary to search for them. But no more.”
The room, up a flight of stairs, had two narrow beds placed close together, a tall lamp, and a window seat. The toilet and shower were down the hall.
Annette began unpacking, sorting items for her hiking pack—cotton wool, Band-Aids, sunglasses, her canteen. Marshall found his eyedrops, and he began searching for the little foam blister preventers he would stick in his boots.
Annette wound her arms around him affectionately.
“The mountains are bothering you,” she said. “The drive—it reminded you.”
“I like mountains better from a cockpit—preferably at thirty thousand feet.”
“You were elegant behind the wheel,” she said.
They sat on one of the beds and laughed. The bed was lumpy and squeaked.
“We don’t have to stay here,” he said, teasing. “I’m sure there’s good straw bedding in the animal refuges up in the mountains.”
“Oh, good. We can sleep in a barn if it snows.”
“Don’t worry. It won’t snow.”
He scrutinized the room—the worn carpet, the weighty drapery, the freestanding coat rack next to an armoire bedecked with carved birds. There were thumps on the wood floor above, apparently someone jumping. The bells of the church across the road rang, although it was no special time of day. Marshall’s watch said 4:37.
“Happy bells,” she said. “Perhaps a marriage.”
Accordion music drifted in from the road.
“What luck,” he said, groaning. “Wild dancing and music all night long.”
“Well, we will not linger here long,” she said, shutting her bag. “Should we swim?”
“I don’t have a suit.”
“If they had a pool, we could swim.”
“Let’s don’t swim.”
“I didn’t want to swim anyway.”
“Okey-dokey.”
They laughed again.
IN THE EVENING THERE was a good dinner. They sat with the hiking group at a long table, and the conversation was convivial, although a Canadian couple who spoke no French seemed forlorn. The mountain air was chilly, even indoors, but Annette was wearing a blue dress of some flimsy material and no stockings. She looked healthy, lovely. Marshall liked to see her in a group of people, the best-looking woman in the room. His eyes had stopped burning.
The guides, Marie and Roland, moved with the fluidity of flirting youth. Their muscular bodies were tanned. Marie’s hair was short and curly, while Roland’s long locks trailed down his neck.
“One of us will take the lead and the