I'm Mostly Here to Enjoy Myself, page 21
After a while, Ellie goes and stands near the ferry railing to get a better look at—and perhaps a shot of herself against—the open sea. We are sailing through shafts of light that fall easily on us. A gust of wind catches the short skirt of her dress, lifting it briefly and flashing her red lacy underwear. There are sounds of approval from the handful of local men who are up here, but they are good-natured. Instead, it is us who catcall aggressively, laughing wildly. Ellie remains where she is, tilting her head over her shoulder. Pretending embarrassment, though clearly thrilled. I tease her when she returns that her bra must also be red lace; she had told me she likes to match. “I like to always leave the house prepared for things to take a turn toward enjoyment.”
The ferry ride is an hour. When we lose sight of the land behind us and begin to see the shadow of the island ahead, a pod of dolphins emerges. Tiny darts leaping out of the water in formation. Their black glistening bodies. The explosion of joy over and over. The sight of them must not be normal, or else there are so few of us on the ferry that concern over schedules has evaporated, because the ferry is turning. The engines revving up, the waves slapping the side of the boat, and we are circling them to get a better look. The old locals shout, “Dauphin!” and even their phones emerge. Up these gorgeous creatures leap as one, and back down, and up again. A tap-tapping reminder of how much life there is living around us. Eventually the ferry straightens out. The island reappears again in front of us. The only person not pleased by our unscheduled assignation is Aarti, who worries the boat’s noise and movements are causing the dolphins harm. That what we see as joy is terror and the desire to escape.
And finally, the island. At the dock the line to board snakes down a long gangplank, along the quay and all the way back to the main street of shops. We disembark against all these French eyes, offering ourselves up for inspection.
“I hope my skirt doesn’t flap up!” says Ellie, unconvincingly, as we descend.
* * *
• • •
We have all agreed not to location tag where we are. The island is popular with the French but not exactly well-known, so the tourists have not found it yet. There are no tourists this year to worry about, of course, but here, away from the city, in the open air, it is easier to slide away from the restrictions that have pinned us all down to a certain time and place and imagine the hordes that might appear once the clocks properly start again.
There are no cars allowed on the island. That is, no visiting cars, just the ones belonging to locals. Everyone bikes. We have all made individual reservations for a weeklong bike rental from the same place. It’s only a five-minute walk from the ferry, and we trudge up, taking in all the storefronts, deciding which we think we might revisit this week.
The two young, lithe, dark-haired men at the bike rental speak very little English. Once we all pile in and Ellie explains who we are, they begin to roll out bike options. Some have baskets in front and only three speeds. Some have baskets in the back and ten speeds. Sandra has brought Marcel, so she has reserved a little covered cart for him that can be attached to the back of her bike. Ellie and I are the experienced cyclists; the others have varying degrees of confidence. They are going back and forth, weighing their options. There is some confusion over which bike offers what, and one by one we turn to Ellie for clarification, to articulate our needs, to declare our choices, this not that! To ask which she thinks is best. At each turn, Ellie keeps saying everyone can do what they want, even though in this instance it’s clear that everyone needs help making a decision. Or help speaking French. Ellie and Nina have planned this entire holiday, down to the train and bike reservations. At some point, it must be their holiday too, and I can tell from Ellie’s tone we are fast approaching that point. How easy it is to get lazy when there is someone else better at the work. Surely all of us could bungle our way through French bicycle rentals were we on our own.
Finally, we make our choices.
Nina’s friend Nicolas is also on the island. He works a jewelry stand here in the summer and has borrowed a little car. He’s come to pick up Marcel and our luggage and drive them to the house. We’re responsible for pedaling ourselves there. After he pulls away, we set off, Nina in front since she is the only one who knows where the house we rented is located—the signal out here on the island is sketchy—and the rest of us staggered behind her. I’m reminded of the scene in E.T. when the group, E.T. bundled in a basket, races up and down the streets of California eighties suburbia to escape the authorities, finally lifting off into the air. The perfect encapsulation of the freedom afforded to children on two wheels. We all stagger along the rough roads. Our own encapsulation.
* * *
• • •
The sun rises at 7:26 here. Even though the night has been punctuated with sounds of doors being slammed shut by the night breezes that come through our open windows, I sleep in the cool island air better than I’ve slept in months. When I wake it’s still dark. I’m unable to find coffee cups and end up using a paper cup for my Nespresso. Coffee by any means necessary.
I go to the garden, where there is a long wooden table and some chairs. Behind me birds flap their enormous wings in the trees. To the right a dove still coos.
Then the bells begin.
It’s 8:00 a.m. Monday.
I count along with them. I like the poetry of this shared time. The church with the belfry is down the road in the nearest village, a ten-minute walk away. I sit with the birds and the flowers, imagining everyone following the same count. Measuring their days, however different they may look, by the same ring.
After eight rings, there is silence. I return to the birds and the shifting light in the garden as the sun rises high enough to set the fuchsia flowers on fire.
And then the bells begin again. An army of bells. A cacophony. A stampede. On and on they go. I unconsciously begin to count along with them again. And still they go on. Is it a holiday? Is there an emergency? Are people being called to the town square? Is this second round some sort of snooze button situation? Am I imagining all these bells? No one has yet emerged from our house with whom I can exchange a glance and an Are you hearing this too?
And still they ring.
Eventually, they peter out. Fainter and fainter. As if whoever is ringing them has just let them finish on their own, which is entirely possible, I suppose.
My count is 134.
I try to parse out the significance of 134. Is it the number of days of the year so far? The number of days left? Is today a local holiday on which 134 people died?
As I’m pondering this, one of the doors inside once again slams shut. Aarti’s shutters, which face directly out onto this back garden, fly open.
“It sounds like cannonballs going off!”
“It’s the price we pay for an airy house,” I say.
* * *
• • •
In the kitchen, Aarti and Nina try to locate the coffee cups. It turns out they are in the large cupboards by the door I’d assumed was a closet, but in fact holds all the dishes. At around eleven, or when Ellie gets back from her run, we have second breakfast. So named by me after the hobbits who, in The Lord of the Rings, were devoted to their second breakfast. “Eleventy-one,” my mother used to say to me when I was young. It was eleventy-one in the morning, or that was my age, or that was our departure time.
Here is our daily routine. To each, a duty. Nina scrambles the rich eggs with butter and cream. Ellie or Aarti slices the fruit, the avocado. Sandra or I sets the table. Each day we bring out everything that is currently open in the fridge. The hummus. The cheese. All the butter—we have three pounds and two different kinds, one with salt crystals and one with larger salt crystals that crunch in your teeth. To this is added the baguette aux céréales I purchase at the boulangerie each morning.
The boulangerie is in the village. After the bells I wander through the quiet lanes, amidst the thick shrubs, and past the low windows of houses painted various shades of pastel, until I pop out beside the grocery market and across from the boulangerie, which we learn the hard way on our first day closes at 2:00 p.m. In addition to the baguette aux céréales, I sometimes also buy chausson aux pommes, still warm from the oven. Or stop by the grocery market and replenish our eggs, as we go through a carton of eggs a day. And toilet paper, or coffee, and while I’m there, maybe a container of burrata.
Also on the second breakfast table is the large container of homemade kimchi Sandra brought from Ace Market on Sainte-Anne, which we add as a side to the eggs. More coffee. Bottles of bubbly water. Some chocolate.
Afterward, those of us who set up then clear the table, and everything but the frying pan goes into the dishwasher. The frying pan is placed in the sink to soak.
Then we scatter. To bikes, to beaches, to books, to midmorning naps. It takes resolve to scatter. But we practice.
* * *
• • •
In town one night we eat mountains of mussels, deep bowls of creamy sauce. We come early to secure a seat. The restaurant is on a side street in the harbor, back one from the main street. Even though there are few tourists on the island we still need to arrive when they open at 5:00 p.m. to be first, or else a line forms and we won’t get a seat. The tables resemble card tables, and as we stand a little way away, waiting for the hour to strike, we watch the young women set them up in the street and then bring out the plastic folding chairs. We are second in line.
Ellie has moules au Roquefort, Nina has garlic, and Aarti and I both have the grand-mère, which comes with chunks of ham. Huge bowls stacked high with glistening shells. And baskets of bread and butter. Around us people come and go. Nicolas has joined us. He says Parisians from the 16th and 7th and 14th come here. From Versailles, they come.
“I see them and know immediately what part of Paris they live,” says Nicolas. Some come from Belgium too. Because the king of Belgium has a house here.
“He is good,” says Nicolas, “keeps to himself, doesn’t make a fuss.”
Afterward, I order the Nutella crepe I’ve been craving since spotting one in the train station the morning we left. It arrives enormous and thick with the chocolate-hazelnut spread. Just as we pay, the rain starts and becomes an island downpour. We slide under the narrow awning waiting for it to dissipate. It is heavy and then light, the way island rains are. Like waves from the sky emerging. Once it grows to a mist we dash for our bikes, which are locked up in rows by the harbor. To one direction, the sky is fiery red, with great shafts of gold shooting through. But to our left, and coming our way, it is black. We pedal quickly as though being chased, not out of fear of getting wet, but because the roads are not lit and our bike lights seem feeble against the wet darkness.
But the cloud stays behind us. I call to Ellie, as we slip off the main road, that I love when the sky looks like the sea. What is it about riding through the country at night. Riding anywhere at night. The satisfaction. The knowledge of a life well lived.
* * *
• • •
I’m prepared for the bells this morning. I count 186. Is this how many people were lost in the Second World War perhaps? A daily remembrance of casualties? The island was occupied during the war. This house has been with the same family for a long time. Perhaps since it was built. In one of the rooms is a deep closet filled with books dating back to the first decades of the twentieth century. The past seems very recent here. The bells stop. A rooster crows and the birds flap overhead, and the sky turns blue and gold.
* * *
• • •
We each settle on our favorite beach; like astrological signs, they represent some part of our personality. None are more than a twenty-minute bike ride from the house; some face the open water while others face the channel. The tides are dramatic on the channel side. At high tide there is a thin strip of beach, and at low it goes on and on, sometimes beaching the small craft anchored offshore. When the sea comes in, it can rise from your knees to over your head in a matter of minutes.
My beach of choice happens to be closest to the house, a downhill ride of three turns, and long stretches of road. It’s called Plage des Sapins, the beach of pines, because between the beach and the road stands a thick strip of pine trees. Their tall, straight trunks remind me of the Black Hills of South Dakota. But here, the smell of pine mixes with the smell of sea. When I first come upon it after swooping around a curve, I feel as though I’ve slipped into something not quite real, as though this small forest may disappear in the night and not reappear for one hundred years.
I’ve brought with me Wind, Sand and Stars, Antoine Saint-Exupéry’s memoir of being a pilot. Has anyone ever faulted a man for writing a memoir, I wonder. I’m in the second chapter where he writes about the wealth of comradeship. “Happiness! It is useless to seek it elsewhere than in this warmth of human relations.”
I am always wary of advice given by men who’ve spent most of their lives doing what they please, and then, when it suits them, discover the joys of family or comradery. What else is there, they say, age fifty, wealth and success behind them. This marriage and fatherhood business is great! What else, indeed. We hear it as affirmation that the lives women have been living are in fact the correct ones, and not as an argument that perhaps they only feel like the ultimate choice once every other avenue of experience has been exhausted. A type of exhaustion women rarely know.
And yet. This island sojourn together is happiness. When our group shifts together it sings. In the evenings we lie on the couches, sit on the striped red chairs, sprawl across the floor, and read. So silent together that when I return from outside I wonder if the house is empty.
* * *
• • •
The bells begin. I count 181 this time, but perhaps I lost track. The others complain about “the fucking bells” but I love them. I love the communal rhythm they bring to the day. I love that we’re all hearing the same thing at the same time.
* * *
• • •
The pools in New York closed during the pandemic. It was the longest I’d been out of the pool since my mother registered me for swim lessons as an infant. I spent those first summer months of lockdown dreaming of water. Coveting cool immersion. Remembering the sensation of cutting through liquid, weightless. It is the only place, other than my bike, where I feel completely at one with my body. Last summer, during an especially hot July week, I walked over to the fountains outside the Met and sat there, dragging my hand back and forth through the shallow icy water, weaving through it as though my hand were a fish tail, before sinking my arm in as far as it could go.
Even though, in the grand scheme of things, my time away from the water was short-lived, I still can’t get enough of it. I bike over to Plage des Sapins every day even if we make plans to go to another beach later on. One afternoon, I go in the water as the tide starts to rise. There are only a handful of others out here with me, including an older couple who swims together. He is square and rotund; she graceful and slender. The round transparent jellies, which we keep trying and failing to identify via Google, float by. They are not the stinging jellyfish is all we can sort out.
The tide comes in and the bottom sinks away. The rocky beach has disappeared into the water and now is just ridges below, rising and falling like the back of a serpent, out of reach of my treading toes. I swim out to the little boat with the skull and crossbones flag. The boat call sign is Ye and a number. Apparently, all the island boats are Ye. I start saying we are luckye every time we encounter something beautiful.
Much later, Nina and Aarti arrive and find me reading in the trees. There is thunder rolling in, though no clouds to match it. In the interim the tide has gone back out. It feels like a dramatic costume change. I go with them for a swim, back down the now enormous beach, the ridges of stones hurting my feet. In the water we plunge, like the dolphins, over and over. When we emerge, we see lightning bolts far off in the sky. Nina counts the seconds. Can you get struck by lightning in water at this distance? Can you get electrified in the ocean? It seems unlikely. The water is too vast. And yet?
“If we do, maybe we will become superheroes,” I say. “This will be our origin story. Holiday swimming off an empty island.”
What will our superpowers be?
Nina says she wants the ability to teleport. She is tired of flying economy. Between her trips to Los Angeles to cover awards season, and the fact her boyfriend is moving back to the States at the end of the summer, the ability to teleport would be ideal.
“But if teleportation is not possible, then I’d like my superpower to be business class.”
I say my superpower will be a high floor, north facing, pre-war apartment, with a low maintenance fee.
The lightning comes closer and we get out. Back across that long stretch to Aarti who is already in the trees. There, we wait for the lightning to pass before biking home along the wet roads.
* * *
• • •
The bells begin. I count 186 again. Well that’s consistent, at least.
A light rain starts. I look up. The half rainbow that briefly emerged with the sun has become a vibrant full one. I adjust the umbrella on the long wooden table in the garden so I can remain sitting here, in the gentle sea rain, in the green and pink backyard, behind the white and green house, on a small French island in the Atlantic.
