Read Online Luncheon of the Boating Party by Susan Vreeland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Vreeland
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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Paris, after the Commune, after she had sold the shop.
She’d had enough of looking across the dinner table at an empty chair.
On the bank in front of the Maison Fournaise, she had put her hands in the river, hands that had sewn flesh, washing them.
And the day before yesterday, she had washed Auguste’s raw fl esh.
A woman couldn’t do that for a man without feeling an intimacy. His was the same inside, oozing red, and when she daubed it, for a second that fish-white raw skin was clean, and then the pinpricks of red came again, and spread until they joined. Auguste had a touch of that same helplessness too, the same endearing surrender. She had felt the possibility of being close to him then, close and needed, just as she had felt during the Siege before she knew him. She would do all she could to feel that again.
Now, alongside the périssoire, she spotted a spread of peppermint with pale lilac flowers just out of reach. She took off her canvas boating shoes and tied up her skirt. As she stepped onto the cool mud, a tug pulling a coal barge tooted. The sound vibrated through her chest, startling her. She slipped on the gooey mud and righted herself with a splash that dirtied her skirt. “Idiot! Now look what you’ve done!” she yelled. She could see the pilot laughing. He’d done it on purpose, just to let her know he was watching her.
She picked her way to the peppermint clumps and yanked. Two
small green frogs jumped away. Several plants came out, roots and all.
Plenty for a wreath.
• 46 •
L u n c h e o n o f t h e B o a t i n g P a r t y
On the far bank beyond a sawmill, asparagus fields alternated with chalk quarries cut into the hillside in yellow squares like a patchwork quilt. And there, just what she was hoping for, the orchardist’s little boy was playing by the landing. She paddled diagonally across the river and got out.
“ Bonjour, Benoît. What are you doing this morning?”
He knelt alongside a gurgling rill, his small hands and pant legs muddy. He stood back and pointed. “I’m making a dam and a lock.”
“Aha. You are an engineer! And when you finish, what will you
make?”
He pointed to a cleared patch near the rill. “The locksman’s house.”
“Then you are an architect. What will it be made of?”
He gave her a look as though he couldn’t imagine that anyone could be so dumb. “Mud.” He packed some into a square to show her.
Here was a child who could surely look at a leaf and see the foot of a frog. “And then what will you make?”
“A factory.”
“Ah, you are a man of the modern age.”
He scratched the side of his face in perplexity, leaving a muddy smear.
She showed him three twenty-centime pieces. “May I pick some
pears? Will you give these to your papa? Here, let me put them in your pocket.”
He thrust out his little chest. She picked according to beauty as well as ripeness, filling her basket.
“Don’t forget to give your papa the money.”
“I have to finish the dam fi rst.”
“Don’t go too close to the river. It goes faster than it looks.”
“Only on the top, my papa said.”
She paddled on past the laundry barge at Bezons toward Argenteuil, where the sailing regattas were held. A dark blue sailboat with a red horizontal stripe cut through the water at a tremendous speed. Le Capitaine, she read on the stern. She didn’t recognize it, but the marina at Argenteuil had two hundred boats. This one would be a tough rival for
• 47 •
S u s a n V r e e l a n d
Gustave. She kept a sharp lookout for his boats, the Iris and the Inès. It would be a stroke of luck if she saw him.
The clanking and screeching of the tall steam dredge disturbed her.
It was an ugly machine, looking like an enormous, relentless praying mantis. The chain crawled up the framework, hauling up rectangular buckets of sand and depositing them onto heaps on the bank in order to deepen the channel. She looked away from what that mechanical monster might be
She’d had enough of looking across the dinner table at an empty chair.
On the bank in front of the Maison Fournaise, she had put her hands in the river, hands that had sewn flesh, washing them.
And the day before yesterday, she had washed Auguste’s raw fl esh.
A woman couldn’t do that for a man without feeling an intimacy. His was the same inside, oozing red, and when she daubed it, for a second that fish-white raw skin was clean, and then the pinpricks of red came again, and spread until they joined. Auguste had a touch of that same helplessness too, the same endearing surrender. She had felt the possibility of being close to him then, close and needed, just as she had felt during the Siege before she knew him. She would do all she could to feel that again.
Now, alongside the périssoire, she spotted a spread of peppermint with pale lilac flowers just out of reach. She took off her canvas boating shoes and tied up her skirt. As she stepped onto the cool mud, a tug pulling a coal barge tooted. The sound vibrated through her chest, startling her. She slipped on the gooey mud and righted herself with a splash that dirtied her skirt. “Idiot! Now look what you’ve done!” she yelled. She could see the pilot laughing. He’d done it on purpose, just to let her know he was watching her.
She picked her way to the peppermint clumps and yanked. Two
small green frogs jumped away. Several plants came out, roots and all.
Plenty for a wreath.
• 46 •
L u n c h e o n o f t h e B o a t i n g P a r t y
On the far bank beyond a sawmill, asparagus fields alternated with chalk quarries cut into the hillside in yellow squares like a patchwork quilt. And there, just what she was hoping for, the orchardist’s little boy was playing by the landing. She paddled diagonally across the river and got out.
“ Bonjour, Benoît. What are you doing this morning?”
He knelt alongside a gurgling rill, his small hands and pant legs muddy. He stood back and pointed. “I’m making a dam and a lock.”
“Aha. You are an engineer! And when you finish, what will you
make?”
He pointed to a cleared patch near the rill. “The locksman’s house.”
“Then you are an architect. What will it be made of?”
He gave her a look as though he couldn’t imagine that anyone could be so dumb. “Mud.” He packed some into a square to show her.
Here was a child who could surely look at a leaf and see the foot of a frog. “And then what will you make?”
“A factory.”
“Ah, you are a man of the modern age.”
He scratched the side of his face in perplexity, leaving a muddy smear.
She showed him three twenty-centime pieces. “May I pick some
pears? Will you give these to your papa? Here, let me put them in your pocket.”
He thrust out his little chest. She picked according to beauty as well as ripeness, filling her basket.
“Don’t forget to give your papa the money.”
“I have to finish the dam fi rst.”
“Don’t go too close to the river. It goes faster than it looks.”
“Only on the top, my papa said.”
She paddled on past the laundry barge at Bezons toward Argenteuil, where the sailing regattas were held. A dark blue sailboat with a red horizontal stripe cut through the water at a tremendous speed. Le Capitaine, she read on the stern. She didn’t recognize it, but the marina at Argenteuil had two hundred boats. This one would be a tough rival for
• 47 •
S u s a n V r e e l a n d
Gustave. She kept a sharp lookout for his boats, the Iris and the Inès. It would be a stroke of luck if she saw him.
The clanking and screeching of the tall steam dredge disturbed her.
It was an ugly machine, looking like an enormous, relentless praying mantis. The chain crawled up the framework, hauling up rectangular buckets of sand and depositing them onto heaps on the bank in order to deepen the channel. She looked away from what that mechanical monster might be
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