"VILLE"            A Story

This is my first attempt at serious writing, be kind in your criticism and generous with your praise. 

                                                                      Ville.

                                                                         1

Slowly waking with the warm sun stream on my face and arms. The bed creaks as I shift, and soft fronds of Violette’s hair tickles my nose and catches my heart in a spasm of loving emotion.

I move my body in contact with hers and feel her warmth.  As I inhale her body smells, I am stirred to loin fire.  Erect I am ready to penetrate her moistness, for lust, for habit, for release, and for confirmation as I serve at the altar of our love.  So, we took communion together. 
Waking properly at last I rise and splash cold water on my face, shuddering as it trickles down my chest and drips onto the poor carpet below.
The thought of food is now urgent, so I hunt through the debris of past meals on the table, paper bags, jars, boxes, tins, anything will do. 
I finally settle for old dry bread on which I smear jam, and warm up coffee for satisfaction. Later, I find some sugared almonds wrapped up in a little lace hanky from a long forgotten wedding, wonderful, these I suck noisily with some contentment.
It is now nearly seven. And from the balcony of our room I lean on the iron railings and gaze about me as the street slowly comes alive. I hear women shouting to their men to rise and breakfast. I hear the crying of babes and the soft Coooes of doves and so the hum of life begins.

I can smell the bitter almond coffee from a hundred coffee pots as I drink in my life.
Rubbing my gritty eyes and sucking my almonds I watch, and feel that I too may be watched in turn.  Vespas and Lambrettas sprint by below, careening on the rough surface of the road, each driven by a man with his woman sidesaddle behind them. Making fast for their work, careening on the rough road and staring ahead eyes pop wide and their teeth bared against the wind of their speed.

A priest walks quickly by with tiny tiptoe steps, lengthening his short pilgrimage from a dying old ladies bedside. A sojourn he detested, to his house where his housekeeper would have his breakfast ready. An event he always enjoyed.
That priest had been giving succour to the dying in a smelly room with prayer book prayers spoken in rote by the soiled bedside.  At last, tradition satisfied and hope given by mumbling his way through a rosary or two. He applying extreme unction, which guaranteed their passport to heaven, and comforted the relatives.  Then escaping as quickly as possible from the sight of  his god whom he loved to fear, and feared to love.
My love reawakens from loves sleep behind me and gently calls my name.  “I am coming my love”, I say.  I turn towards her and face another day.

                                                                                  2
 I must change, change my mood or change my mind.  Mutter, muttering to myself, “Come on get up, and get out of here”.  Up I got and threw some water on my face and wandered out into the midsummer midmorning heat.  My day was well begun.

Tottering as my feet hit the rough road and every which way splayed like a drunk, a drunk with sleep in my eyes, which still dulls my head and my thoughts.
The heat, reflecting off the peeling whitewashed walls washes onto my face, and dozies me further still into my lovely lethargy.
With sandals flopping sadly making different click clacks as my legs slowly deliberated their lazy way along.  Flint fragments of thoughts pierced my clay mind, and silently I spoke to all those that I passed along the way.
Wandering on, bathing in the warmth of the gentle breathes of whispering air, which brushed my stubbly face sensuously with butterfly kisses.
Meandering the narrow streets towards the café, which was garnished by my lazy friends sweaty bodies and the lovely aroma of almond sharp thimbles of black coffee.  The table with a chair leaning forward was my reservation ticket into their company and their lives.  This place outside this Café in this square was our open-air church, and we were welcomed.

As the sun lazily rose overhead and the heat grew more intense, I drew nearer to my destination; my heart and my breath quickened, quickened in time with the pulse of their voices, which undulated like waves whispering gently on some sandy shore.
Unaware, my friends as they talked in their quietly murmured descants, forming the scene of their own security.  Speaking my name in warm welcome they greeted me as I settled down in a slouch. The old waiter came and I asked for a Pastis.    My pastis, which I secretly hated, was a penance for the intensity of pleasure given to me by these young people. 
They, like the whirling eddies of water in a country stream, were talking then listening, allowing each other to be priest and congregation in turn and turn about, spoke of little things that meant a lot in the shaping of friendships interplay.

Conversations wafted gently around and across the table. More like a sound dance than an intellectual exercise.  Being alike we relaxed, and enjoyed the sensations of our youth, testing the truth and the unknown, and ourselves.
We listened to truth spoken with wit, with guile, and by accident. And spoke our half lies with lowered lids and sly grins. And our foolish lies, which was each one an experiment in testing the liar and the listener and an entrée’ to our secret self.
So, like this we passed the day.  Wandering off from time to time to buy cigarettes or to offer a painting to a passing tourist.  Deals lost or made they would return to this place and this union of souls.

The evening came slowly upon us.  With our minds drifting in a gentle haze our thoughts turned to the days end.  Being lulled by the drone and inflexions of our seductions, the men with sly glances paired themselves off with the sweet smiling girls. The girls quietly, discreetly selecting their mate, perhaps to continue an unfinished dance of love with their man, with their legs apart and their wombs ablaze.

Within the lightness of their clothes, the girls waited to choose or be chosen.
All aware now, with the electricity of youth, loving words spoken and gestures discreetly made concluded their daylight intercourse. 
We, each in our own trick ways waited to play our part. We formed fluid little groups to prolong the closeness of what we had shared that day.  Then departing, walking slowly, at last tired, and ready for love.

This day was often repeated as we lived out our French summer scene. 
Strangers we, in this friendly land, which welcomed us as children of their own, feeding us when we were hungry, and every contact bathed in their lovely garlicky breath.
People, passing by, or serving us at table, helped us to preserve for all time, in our minds eye, by little knowing smiles or some courteous gesture, perhaps a little bow from their plump waists. They made us safe from growing old like them, by their grace and the peace in their faces, and the sparkle in their eyes.

                                                                                         3
The next day after a brief morning feast of beans on toast, I am feeling the need to get to work.  My painting has suffered these last few days, as I have taken time off to be with my friends.  Now the sweet smell of paint pulls me and I tramp up the stairs to the loft that is my studio, my chapel, my inspiration and often my despair.

Large windows are set in the roof and bathe the room in a cool morning light, and I mournfully examine the canvas before me.
Opening the windows disturbs the dust and lets the sounds of the street invade the privacy of my room.  I hear scooters scuttling and the sound of women’s voices rose as they shouted to one another from their balconies or into the street below.

I am pleased with my work, for it has developed beyond the embryonic stage of an idea.  Impatiently, I mix colours and daub them on to form shapes, looking for something to emerge from my temporary madness.  Nothing does, and I am disgusted with myself for the waste of materials and time and my present lack of talent.

Scraping off the worst of the mess, I find that the scraping creates an interesting residue of shapes and shadows, and I work with this for a while.  A picture is beginning to take a shape, Ah yes, this is better, now I am carried away, it is Violette! Ah.

I work all morning and late into the afternoon and my painting which now has a form and shape. I laugh with some small joy as I layer colours on, dib dabbing, scraping, using the palate knife, cutting into the work, it looks good.

The dappling shadows and thinness of the light makes me finally stop.  I feel quiet tired now.  I lay down the palate and finding a clean cloth and some turps try to wash away and lessen the permeating smell of oils on my skin and clothes.  Leaving the loft,  I clonk down the wooden stairs noisily with a contented smile..
Violette is not here, having left for her work as a chambermaid at a nearby hotel where she earns the shekels that keeps me in paint and pastis and our bellies full.  The guilt and the empty room depress me.  I cannot stay here, and I saunter out into the street.

Old moustachioed crones sit in their doorways guarding their property, either snoozing or gossiping with their neighbours.  My concierge sat on an old wooden chair with her legs apart.  With her dress hitched up under a worn old apron, she was busy shelling peas for her husband’s supper, shucking them into a large pot by her side.
Looking up and seeing me, Madame calls a rude greeting, I reply, which sends her off into a rapid stream of dialect that is hard to understand but is full of humour and wit.  Her laughter followed me down the street and I am giggling because her laughter is so infectious.

The main square of this little town has an ambitious fountain in the middle, which sparkles in the sun, cools the air, and is a favourite place for the children.
The North side of the square contains the large Catholic Church and its small presbytery; opposite this on the South, is the town museum and art gallery, which is huddled next to the Theatre cum Cinema.
On the East side of the square is the Municipal building and the Mayors house. The West side of the square houses the public urinals and admits the Avenue Roche.

It was up this Avenue into this Square and the urinals that I wandered this evening.
I left pretty patterns on the wall of the urinal as I buttoned up and walked back into the soft evening sun.  Crossing the square, I entered the Church.  I am not outwardly a religious person but I enjoy the cool of the church and its quietness.  The pews all facing one way are often help when I am trying to focus on something important.

The something important I refer to is how to supplement our meagre income.  Violette brings home the rent and the poor food, on which we survive, and I have become tired of this, and the need to feel better and to contribute is urgent.
Here with the empty tabernacle and echoes of a dead language and glorious  rites I spend time silently meditating, surrounded by the stations of the cross and statues of saints which reinforces the knowledge that nothing worthy comes without some hardship and suffering or sacrifice.

I leave the church feeling that I have left something behind me. 

Crossing the square, I enter the Municipal building and a voice mumbled at me from behind a glass screen.  “What do you want”?  “Work”, I replied.  The man behind the voice ‘Hacked’ and I heard him spit.  I wondered who he was and what he looked like.  Did he spit on the floor or was there a spittoon there to collect all his phlegm? 
`First door on the right’.  The man said as I set off.   I did not thank him because I was not sure if his spit was for me or because of some terrible disease. 

I knocked on the first door on the right.  A voice bade me enter. 
An attractive young lady said in a frosty voice, yes? What can I do for you?  .  She sat behind a very large tidy desk.  Yes? She repeated, a little more patiently.  I am looking for work I replied.  Ah yes! She said. Please sit down.

Holding the work docket I went to the refuse dump on the outskirts of the town.

to be continued: