The Girl in the Blue Beret - Bobbie Ann Mason [85]
He went for a walk along some narrow streets. On the main boulevard two girls on bicycles, baguettes in their baskets, whipped past him. He could almost feel the warm breath of the freshly baked bread as they went by. A fast car passed him from behind, the sound of its horn trailing in its wake.
36.
HE FOUND ANNETTE GROOMING THE CHESTNUT HORSE IN THE small field next to the compound. Bernard came running to him, barking joyfully. Marshall said “Bonjour” to him. Bernard was a briard, she had told him, a French breed of herd dog. She waved, and Marshall made his way through a wooden gate toward the shed, a shelter for the horses. Next to the field was a sizable garden, with bald cabbage heads, thin sticks supporting bean vines, and some sprawling vines of melons or perhaps pumpkins. He recognized tomatoes.
After greeting him warmly—the two-cheek kiss this time—she explained that she had ridden down to the river on some back trails. He decided she smelled like lavender—as if he knew his scents.
“Go on, Charleroi,” she said affectionately to the horse, who had a splotch on his forehead shaped like Great Britain.
Charleroi galloped off, and Annette and Marshall trotted to the house.
While she was changing her clothes, he wandered around the courtyard. The chickens were scratching in the dirt. Bernard, enthusiastic and attentive, accompanied him, like a guide pointing out the sights. Marshall exchanged bonjours with the workmen, who were repairing the stonework of some of the small buildings. He did not see the woman with the rake. He peeked into the small stone henhouse, observed the roosts, smelled the heavy aroma. He recalled his grandmother’s ramshackle chicken house, which he had not thought of in years. He remembered reaching under a hen to steal an egg, his other hand pushing her head aside. He remembered his grandmother giving chickens grit for their craws, a gravelly stuff with tiny seashells in it. Why did they need grit for their craws? He had no idea.
“I wish you had gone riding with me this morning—it was so lovely!” Annette said, finding him examining some old farm machinery. He guessed that the rusty implement he was studying was a harrow, to be hitched to horses. It was structured with intricate tines.
“As a boy I rode Shetland ponies at the fair. They were about the size of Bernard.” He gave the dog a vigorous pat. “You’re right. I wanted Pegasus.”
She laughed. “Of course. That was the way with you boys. Your airplanes were so romantic.”
“Until they crashed,” he said.
“The war was very hard for everyone, as you know. But if it weren’t for our ‘visitors,’ it would have been even more bleak.” She waved her hand in front of her face, as if to erase the thought. “I’m so happy you returned home safely!”
She was a stylish, confident woman—not girlish like Caroline, in those Indian getups and jeans. Annette was wearing dark slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt. He felt she was making no statements. She was just being herself.
SHE INSISTED ON SHOWING him some of the scenery of the region. She drove her car, so that he was free to look around. He had always thought the French were notoriously daring behind the wheel, but she drove sensibly. The windows were down, and the rush of wind reminded him of the early days flying in an open cockpit. It would not have occurred to him to sightsee this way, he explained to her. He had always seen the landscape from above, where fields and rivers became abstract—elements of a painting. Now it was as though he were in a labyrinth, circling and winding and backtracking—with no headers or gauges