The Virgin Blue (21 page)

He frowned at me. ‘Look again, Ella Tournier. Use the brain.’

I stared at the page. When I figured out what he meant I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it before, me of all people. I began to calculate rapidly, counting back on my fingers.

‘You understand now.’

I nodded, working out the final days, and announced, ‘She would've conceived around April 10th, more or less.’

Jean-Paul looked amused. ‘April 10th, eh? What is all this?’ He pretend-counted on his fingers.

‘Birth is calculated at roughly 266 days from conception. More or less. Gestation varies from woman to woman, of course, and it was probably a little different back then. Different diet, different physique. But in April, anyway. A good seven weeks before they married.’

‘And how do you know this 266 days, Ella Tournier? You have no children, no? Have you hidden them somewhere?’

‘I'm a midwife.’

He looked puzzled, so I said it in French. ‘
Une sage-femme. Je suis une sage-femme
.’

‘
Toi? Une sage-femme?
’

‘Yes. You never even asked what I did for a living.’

He looked crestfallen, an unusual expression for him, and I felt triumphant; for once I'd gained the upper hand.

‘You always surprise me, Ella,’ he said, shaking his head and smiling.

‘Come, come, no flirting or your colleague will tell the whole town.’

We both instinctively glanced at the doorway and sat up straighter. I leaned away from him.

‘So it was a shotgun wedding,’ I declared to get us back on track.

‘A gun wedding?’

‘
Shot
gun. It's like a rifle. Her parents forced him to marry her once they found out she was pregnant. In the States there's this stereotypical image of the father holding a shotgun to the man to get him to the altar.’

Jean-Paul thought for a moment. ‘Maybe that is what happened.’ He didn't sound convinced.

‘But?’

‘But that – a rifle wedding, you say – does not explain why they married so close to his birthday.’

‘Well, so it was a coincidence that they married the day before his birthday. So what?’

‘You and your coincidences, Ella Tournier. You choose which ones you want to believe are more than coincidences. So this is a coincidence and Nicolas Tournier is not.’

I tensed up. We hadn't discussed the painter since disagreeing so strongly about him.

‘I could say the same thing about you!’ I retorted. ‘We just choose different coincidences to be interested in, that's all.’

‘I was interested in Nicolas Tournier, until I found out he was not your relative. I gave him a chance. And I give this coincidence a chance too.’

‘OK, so why is this more than a coincidence?’

‘It's the date and the day of the wedding. Both are bad.’

‘What do you mean, bad?’

‘There was a belief in the Languedoc, never to marry in May or November.’

‘Why not?’

‘May is the month of rain, of tears, November the month of the dead.’

‘But that's just superstition. I thought Huguenots were trying not to be superstitious. That was supposed to be a Catholic vice.’

That stopped him for a moment. He wasn't the only one who'd been reading books.

‘Nevertheless it is true there were fewer weddings in those months. And then the 28th of May 1563 was a Monday, and most weddings were on Tuesday or Saturday. They were the favourite days.’

‘Wait a minute. How could you possibly know it was a Monday?’

‘I found a calendar on the Internet.’

The most unlikely nerd. I sighed. ‘So you obviously have a theory about what happened. I don't know why I bother to think I have any say in all this.’

He looked at me. ‘
Pardon
. I've stolen your search from you, yes?’

‘Yes. Look, I appreciate your help, but I feel like when you do it, it's all in the head, not the heart. Do you understand that?’

He pushed his lips out in a kind of pout and nodded.

‘Still, I'd like to hear your theory. But it's just a theory, right? I can still keep my idea that it was a shotgun wedding.’

‘Yes. So, maybe his parents were opposed to the marriage until they found out about the child. Then they hurried with the marriage so their neighbours would believe the parents had always consented.’

‘But wouldn't people have suspected that, given the dates?’ I could easily imagine a sixteenth-century version of Madame working that one out.

‘Maybe, but it would still be better to be seen to consent.’

‘For appearance's sake.’

‘Yes.’

‘So nothing's changed much over 400 years, really.’

‘Did you expect it to?’

The other librarian appeared in the doorway. We must have looked deep in consultation, for she just smiled at us and disappeared again.

‘There is one thing more,’ Jean-Paul said. ‘Just a little thing. The name Marie. That's a strange name for a Huguenot family to give to a child.’

‘Why?’

‘Calvin wanted people to stop worshipping the Virgin Mary. He believed in direct contact with God rather than through a figure like her. She was seen as a distraction from God. And she is a part of Catholicism. It is odd that they named her after the Virgin.’

‘Marie,’ I repeated.

Jean-Paul closed the Bible. I watched him touch the cover, trace the gold leaf.

‘Jean-Paul.’

He turned to me, his eyes bright.

‘Come home with me.’ I hadn't even realized I was going to say it.

Outwardly his face didn't change, but the shift between us was like the wind switching direction.

‘Ella. I'm working.’

‘After work.’

‘What about your husband?’

‘He's away.’ I was beginning to feel humiliated. ‘Forget it,’ I muttered. ‘Forget I even asked.’ I started to get up, but he put his hand on mine and stopped me. As I sank back into my seat, he glanced at the doorway and removed his hand.

‘Will you come somewhere tonight?’ he asked.

‘Where?’

Jean-Paul wrote something on a scrap of paper. ‘It is a good time to come around eleven.’

‘But what is it?’

He shook his head. ‘A surprise. Just come. You'll see.’

I took a shower and spent more time on my appearance than I had in a long while, even though I had no idea where I was going: Jean-Paul had simply scribbled down an address in Lavaur, a town about twelve miles away. It could be a restaurant or a friend's house or a bowling alley, for all I knew.

His comment the night before about my clothes had lingered in my mind. Though I wasn't sure he meant it as a criticism, I looked through my wardrobe for something with colour in it. In the end I wore the pale yellow sleeveless dress again, the closest I could get to a bright colour. At least I felt comfortable in it, and with brown slingbacks and a little lipstick I didn't look too bad. I couldn't begin to compete with French women, who looked stylish wearing just jeans and a T-shirt, but I would pass.

I had just shut the front door behind me when the phone rang. I had to scramble to get to it before the answering machine did.

‘Hey, Ella, did I get you out of bed?’

‘Rick. No, actually I was, just, uh, going for a walk. Out to the bridge.’

‘A walk at eleven at night?’

‘Yeah, it's hot and I was bored. Where are you?’

‘At the hotel.’

I tried to remember: was it Hamburg or Frankfurt? ‘Did the meeting go well?’

‘Great!’ He told me about his day, giving me time to compose myself. When he asked me what I'd been up to, though, I couldn't think of a thing to say that he would want to hear.

‘Not much,’ I answered hurriedly. ‘So when are you coming back?’

‘Sunday. I have to stop in Paris first on my way back. Hey, babe, what are you wearing?’ This was an old game we used to play on the phone: one of us described what we were wearing and the other described stripping it off. I looked down at my dress and shoes. I couldn't tell him what I was wearing, or why I didn't want to play.

Luckily I was saved by Rick himself, who said, ‘Hang on, I have a call waiting. I'd better take it.’

‘Sure. See you in a few days.’

‘Love you, Ella.’ He hung up.

I waited a few minutes, feeling sick, to make sure he didn't call back.

In the car I kept saying to myself every few minutes, You can turn back, Ella. You don't have to do this. You can drive all the way there, park, get to the door of wherever and turn back. You can even see him and spend time with him and it'll be perfectly innocent and you can come back pure and unadulterated. Literally.

Lavaur was a cathedral town about three times the size of Lisle-sur-Tarn, with an old quarter and some semblance of nightlife: a cinema, a choice of restaurants, a couple of bars. I checked a map, parked next to the cathedral, a lumbering brick building with an octagonal tower, and walked into the old town. Even with tantalizing night-time activities there was no one around; every shutter was shut, every light dark.

I found the address easily: it was hard to miss, marked by a startling neon sign announcing a tavern. The entrance was in a side alley, the shutters of the window next to the door painted with what looked like faceless soldiers guarding a woman in a long robe. I stopped and studied the shutters. The image unnerved me; I hurried inside.

The contrast between outside and inside couldn't have been greater. It was a small bar, dimly lit, loud and crowded and smoky. The few bars I'd been to in small French towns were generally grim affairs, male and unwelcoming. This was like a chink of light in the middle of darkness. It was so unexpected that I stood in the doorway and stared.

Directly in front of me a striking woman wearing jeans and a maroon silk blouse was singing ‘Every Time We Say Goodbye’ in a heavy French accent. And though his back was to me, I knew immediately that it was Jean-Paul hunched over the white upright, wearing his soft blue shirt. He kept his eyes on his hands, occasionally glancing at the singer, his expression concentrated but also serene.

People came in behind me and I was forced to slip into the crowd. I couldn't take my eyes off Jean-Paul. When they finished the song there were shouts and prolonged clapping. Jean-Paul looked around, noticed me and smiled. A man to my right patted my shoulder. ‘Better watch out – that's a wolf, that one!’ he shouted, laughing and nodding toward the piano. I turned red and moved away. When Jean-Paul and the woman began another song, I squeezed my way to the bar and miraculously found a stool free.

The singer's olive skin seemed to be lit from within, her dark eyebrows perfectly shaped. Her long brown hair was wavy and dishevelled, and she drew attention to it as she sang, pulling her fingers through it, tossing her head, holding her wrists to her temples when she hit a high note. Jean-Paul was less flamboyant, his calm presence balancing her theatrics, his playing underlining her sparkling voice. They were very good together – relaxed, confident enough to play around and tease each other. I felt a pang of jealousy.