The Black Wind from the South

Catherine Legeay Jeulin

Description

Anne believes herself to be just an ordinary French housewife and mother living in the South of France, in an attractive French city not far from the Mediterranean coast. But it is precisely this ‘ordinariness' and her discreet, undramatic character that prove seductive in the eyes of Paul. He is quiet for a different reason, being doomed by an illness that deprives him of his voice en route to certain death. Paul is an older man, mature and sophisticated, who has made a success of his career. Anne is seduced by Paul in turn during the course of their rare, emotionally charged moments together, when verbal communication is difficult. An ethereal love is born. The lovers are destined to go their separate ways. Paul is reconciled to death; for Anne, life will have to start again.

Sujets

• Romance
• Toute la romance
• Chagrin
• Fiction
• Mort
• Maladie
• Amour

Informations

• Publié par: Société des écrivains
• Date de parution: 27 septembre 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782342012361
• Langue: Français

Extrait

The Black Wind from the South
Catherine Legeay Jeulin
Société des écrivains

Le Code de la propriété intellectuelle interdit les copies ou reproductions destinées à une utilisation collective. Toute représentation ou reproduction intégrale ou partielle faite par quelque procédé que ce soit, sans le consentement de l’auteur ou de ses ayants cause, est illicite et constitue une contrefaçon sanctionnée par les articles L 335-2 et suivants du Code de la propriété intellectuelle.


Société des écrivains
14, rue des Volontaires
75015 PARIS – France
Tél. : [phone]
The Black Wind from the South
 
 
 
The heart of fools is in their mouth,
But the mouth of wise men is their heart.
The speech of the fool weighs as a burden on a journey
But on the lips of the wise man there one finds grace.
Ecclesiasticus 21
 
 
 
Chapter 1
 
 
 
Anne wasn’t sure the man she was looking at, a few feet away, as indifferent to his glass of champagne as he was to the Regional Chairman holding forth on the platform, could be the Paul Chatelier she once knew. What was once a fine head of wavy chestnut hair with just a few silvery strands at the temples was now a head of white hair. The man she remembered was tall and well built; this one was slightly stooping. His slender half-moon spectacles hid his eyes from her gaze. For a second she wandered off into the memory of a dinner they had once had; those eyes had been insistent then and had unsettled her.
 
She wondered whether she should approach him, and thought about the disappointment she’d feel if she’d made a mistake.
There were quite a few other journalists present, colleagues well-known to her from other publications, and she was going to have to engage in the usual chitchat and pleasantries with them. And then there were the ever present big names of these annual meeting occasions and she would have to greet a certain number of them.
She was overcome by a feeling of boredom. She thought about the colour of the sky outside: before coming down into this basement hall she had noticed that it was tinged with purple and wondered now whether it was going to turn into the grim slate grey colour that announced a storm, or perhaps it would just merge softly with the darkness of nightfall. It was already seven o’clock… She thought without any misgivings about her two children whom she’d left with neighbours for the night. She nevertheless felt uneasy, in a kind of void at having an evening on her own without them and without Stéphane. Perhaps there would be time to get to an eight o’clock film, but what was on?
 
A television journalist she knew gave her a little wave and came over. Anne couldn’t help feeling how flashy the woman seemed: heavy make-up giving a yellowish emphasis to the lines of her face with her striking black eyes. Flashy too, on her high heels, with a skirt that was too short showing her strong thighs. But, as she wobbled across to Anne, there was no denying her appeal to the male gaze.
Anne reflected on her own ‘classic’ appearance with no details drawing attention to herself, too discreet perhaps with her calf-length skirt and high-necked blouse. Stéphane liked to tease her for looking like a ‘ bourgeoise from Versailles’ but would have been the first to complain about any sartorial whims.
 
The journalist, Laurence – but Lola to her friends – was intent on getting nearer to the front. She squeezed through with a repertory of apologetic gestures, smiles and wiggles of her hips, and didn’t seem too worried about disturbing the concentration of the assembled throng. All of a sudden Anne could get a better view of the man who might be Paul. He was just ten feet away. How old would he be now? Fifty-five, sixty? She dug deep into her memory to recall the curve of his mouth when he laughed, the amazing colour of his eyes, which were neither green nor reddish brown. They reminded her of the tinge of autumn leaves, and sometimes, when they were lit up by joy, they took on the colour of topaz. And finally, astonished at realizing how many memories she had of someone who had merely crossed her path professionally a long time ago, she remembered his voice: a voice with a deep tone and fine timbre – and capable of the subtlest expression, which he demonstrated with effortless pleasure.
The Chairman’s speech was coming to an end and there was suddenly the buzz of voices and laughter and the scraping of chairs. People got up to receive various awards, while smartly dressed waiters prepared to serve the buffet. She saw the man move off to talk to someone. She could see him properly now and was no longer in doubt: it was Paul Chatelier.
He was a fine figure of a man for a sixty-year old, and all of a sudden she was aware of his appeal again. The effect was in fact too great, and her nerve failed. She moved over to a group of her fellow journalists, then seized her chance to pay her compliments to the chairman when he was free. But all the while she kept Paul Chatelier in her field of vision.
She hoped that he would see her and felt sure he would be relaxed enough to make the move for which she lacked the nerve. All around her she could hear a chorus of “Daarling, how are you?” and “Hello old chap, how are things?” but felt totally indifferent to it all. She had seen and heard everything she needed for her article. She decided to go; there was just enough time to get to a cinema for an eight o’clock film.
She glanced one last time in Paul’s direction and suddenly caught his eye. She thought she recognized a smile. But a friendly man like that smiled at everyone. The smile could be for the whole of the gathering, for people in front of her or behind. She turned round and prepared to leave, vaguely disappointed. She was held up for a few seconds by a hostess giving out a souvenir engraving as a memento of the occasion to people as they left. She took hers out of its folder and studied it as she climbed the stairs to the exit. She looked for her car with the cinema in mind, and just when she was going to cross the street she was startled as a hand gripped her shoulder. Paul Chatelier was beside her, with the same smile on his face. There was no need to say a word. He had indeed recognized her. It was like a magic moment that lasted just a fraction of a second when she thought she detected in his gaze the same arousal that must have been reflected in her eyes. An instant later she was aware of his lips, moving gently, like one piece of dry membrane against the other, and yet with not a sound emerging from his mouth.
She was completely confused. He took her hand in his in a gest­ure devoid of sensuality and with his other hand he pointed to his throat, miming hopelessness.

Anne didn’t know whether she was still affected by Paul’s old charm or stunned by this attempted conversation, a voiceless conversation bearing the most powerful of words. Breathing only with the greatest of difficulty and with his intonation surging and then faltering like a succession of little waves on a sea of oil, he helped her to understand the words she was trying to read on his lips. It was a distressing and intense experience. They were together like this for almost half an hour on the pavement.
He invited her to have lunch with him one day soon at the Château d’Esparciac, where they had been once before with a team of journalists. She left feeling exhilarated, yet worried at the prospect of spending hours with him. And she was not enchanted by the prospect of the lonely evening that lay ahead. Finally she was moved by Paul’s dignity: the only hint of his illness and its consequences was the discreet dark scarf that concealed his tracheotomy.
 
 
 
Chapter 2
 
 
 
During the two weeks that followed Anne began to have doubts about going to meet him. Memories of their common experiences came flooding back: the first interviews he had granted her when she was a young journalist, always in pleasant surroundings, châteaux, country inns, and on one occasion in the premises where he had set up his textile factory. Of the opening ceremony, populated by beaming architects and pompous local worthies, she retained one indelible touching memory, Paul Chatelier bringing her a glass of champagne and a tray of canapés. She recalled the words he had whispered in her ear on his way to speak into the regional TV mike: “I’m not trying to get a good write-up in your paper. I’d just like to see you smile.” It was true, and he wasn’t the first to make her realize it: she didn’t smile often. With her cool detached style she stood out from her female colleagues, who were always scurrying about, full of their own importance, attending to a thousand and one important matters all at the same time, matters that required judgment and possibly flair and bolstered their illusion of making a mark in the world of the press.
 
Lola, whose amorous comings and goings always had a high profile in the Montpellier part of this little world, had not at the time been able to keep a touch of pique out of her voice as she commented to Anne, “well, well, I see you’ve clicked with the old guy”, a typical woman to woman put-down disguised as flattery. The ‘old guy’ in question was scarcely a day over fifty and could easily have been targeted by Lola herself. In truth, with the mediocrity of her whole being and a wit to match she would have been happy with just about anybody. Anne had registered her amusement at the time, but inwardly she was smiling at rather than with Lola.
 
It wasn’t their first meeting. A few months earlier he had requested that his daughter, his only child, who was just finishing her studies, be allowed to sit in on an editorial meeting. A newspaper did not say No to a man in his position, a fairly big local employer, known for his political influence, and with a finger in many pies. Above all his advertising account brought in a lot of revenue for the paper.