do you know it was she?”
“I have seen her picture in the paper and in magazines. Ohhh, she is something!”
I wondered if he was referring to Mme. Gibert. “Do you know her name?”
“It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t recall it at the moment,” he grinned. “Is monsieur interested?”
“Who’s to say?” I smiled.
After shaving, a quick shower, and dressing, I walked the two flights down to the second floor for the petit déjeuner. I thought of Sullivan and wished I had his book in front of me. His chapter on “The Chthonic World” had genuinely impressed me. It was about the caves and caverns and puzzling labyrinths that archeologists kept encountering on Crete. It had been preceded by a tedious chapter on recent archeological and anthropological research on the Cretean, Minoan, and Mycenaean sites. He argued that “such minutia is critical to any discussion of Homer’s poetic worldview.” His footnotes were rich in details, wherein he cataloged the numerous artifacts, designs, excavation levels, soil compositions, ash depth, implements and potshards. Such entries constituted the indispensable data requisite for bolstering his Introduction. But what Sullivan seemed most after were those recondite and audacious inferences and cryptic nuances that a scholar might venture without overt censure from his peers; those reasonable conjectures as to why these ancient peoples might have engaged in their supposed rites, or used the paraphernalia listed and tagged by the archeologists. Indeed, neither his Preface nor Introduction ever quite clarified his real purpose, but only hinted at “those dark and lost motivations that enabled them to endure and that permit us to probe our own subconscious.” His goal was as psychological as it was noetic. Then followed a chapter on caves, grottoes, and labyrinths; the haunts of serpents and monstrous bulls; the symbolism of the womb, the vagina, the sepulcher; the place of birth and death, of fear and protection, of home and sanctuary, of hearth and nurture. I thought of all the times I had crept frightened to bed alone as a child, up the stairs in the loft of the farmhouse, though my mother and grandmother rocked in the parlor by the fireplace below. “We are never that far from our roots, from the eons of those primitive ancestors who preceded us,” Sullivan had concluded. I had to agree and found comfort in that chapter.
After breakfast, I took the metro to the Tuileries station. Julene was already present, waiting near the top of the steps. She appeared to be admiring a sidewalk vendor’s art work. She wore a pale yellow sleeveless dress of medium length. Her lithe arms and legs brought to mind the image of a gaunt mannequin, except her full breasts filled the bodice of the dress with erotic appeal. She smiled as I indulged my eyes.
“You are so transparent,” she laughed. “But I do like it, uuumm, but I do.”
“Forgive me,” I smiled, “but it’s been a long cold winter, and lonely at that.”
“I bet you’ve had opportunities,” she replied. “I noticed you right off the bat last night. Who wouldn’t?”
“I’ve had a few,” I said. “I’ve not been interested until now. I was once in love with a beautiful girl, a woman of thirty-two, but all she wanted was sex. And once satisfied, she dropped me like a rock.”
“The wounded lover! I’m glad I revive you. Carl treats me the same way.”
She stepped in closer to me and took my hand. “Come. Let’s take a walk. I’ll tell you my story, if you’ll tell me yours.”
“I’ve nothing really to tell.”
“I bet.”
I pressed her hand in mine before releasing it. We wandered along the sandy aisles in the direction of the Louvre. The fog had lifted, and the sunlight bathed the plain trees in a whimsical green glow. Scores of pigeons cluttered the lanes. They strutted and cooed in front of us as we walked along.
“I was raped as a girl, as a child, you know. Many black girls are. Luckily, I never got pregnant. A white man on Carl’s father’s place raped me. He did it repeatedly and threatened to kill me if I told. Then one day, Carl happened to come by in an old Ford and heard me crying. I was standing by the door of the barn. The man had just stepped out and was brushing the straw off his shirt and overalls. Carl must have put two-and-two together. He got out of his car and ran toward the man. Carl caught him by the collar and threw him to the ground. ‘You son-of-a-bitch!’ he hollered at him. ‘She’s just a child. You get your freakin’ ass off this land as fast as possible, or I’ll kill you dead.’ Carl was about twenty-two. He was big and strong and didn’t wear glasses. He had just come home from Boston. His red hair was long and shiny with sweat. He kicked the man in the butt. The man got up and slapped the dust off his sleeves. ‘You damned Sullivans ain’t nothing but a pile of shit, nohow,’ he said. He left. I never saw him again.”
Sunlight peeped through the leaves overhead and filled the aisle with a luminous yellow-green tint. “How does your being cousins fit in to all this?” I asked.
“Oh, Lord. I knew I’d blow it. We’re not cousins.” She threw her head back and smiled. “Carl’s my uncle. His brother was my father. The man’s dead now, but I fell in love with Carl that day in the barnyard. He was my knight in shining armor. He’d come to check on my mother and me. Carl’s own father was dying of alcoholism and emphysema, and Carl didn’t have many friends, anyway. His father was schizophrenic and mistrusted everyone. Even his own doctor, Dr. Silverton. I once heard him tell Carl. ‘Stay away from that nigger woman,’ meaning my Mamma. ‘She got your brother in trouble, and she’ll do the same to you. The Sullivans have always cared for their black people, but we’ve suffered enough. If you mess with her, or that girl, I’ll disown you down to your socks. Do you understand?’ ‘Yes sir,’ Carl answered. ‘By God, if I won’t!’ the old man threatened.”
“Is the old man dead now?”
“Yes. Died six years ago. But he put it in a will. ‘If my son ever marries a Negress woman, mulatto, or quadroon, he shall thereby forfeit all rights and privileges appertaining to this estate, its investments, lands, houses, buildings, and orchards, and the same shall be awarded to the State of Alabama.’”
She looked away, up through the tress and out across the lane and the big red geranium bushes that bordered the walkway. “I love him, and he loves me. But he knows what would happen if we marry. The law doesn’t seem to mind our cohabitating, and Carl knows his father’s will wouldn’t stand up in court. But I know I can’t marry him, because we couldn’t have children. And I want him to have children, and I want children, too. I think every black woman wants children. Just something deep down inside our natures, like slaves longing for their children to be free and legal and become something they couldn’t. It’s been all so confusing lately. Carl doesn’t even touch me any more, except to put his hands on my thighs, and he knows I’m crazy about him.”
“I’m sorry I’ve looked at you so hungrily. I didn’t mean to compromise your affection.”
“Oh, Professor, you haven’t and won’t. Don’t worry about that. I’m just a needy black girl, and I need you to be a friend, that’s all.” She clutched my hand in hers. “Maybe I’ll change my mind if we stay here long. But I love that man.”
I felt hopeful and sorrowful at the same time. Indeed, she was comely to look upon and obviously bright and wholesome. But I had done enough compromising in the past, especially with the woman I had told her about. I held firmly to her hand, as we approached the Louvre.
“Let’s go to the Impressionist Museum. I’m not up to visit the Louvre,”
