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‘Does he look like his father? Those piercing grey eyes are not from you,’ queries Yasmine, squinting at my hazel eyes, which are now a little hot with the strain of my memories. Her eyes flick back to another photo of JP as a toddler.
‘Yes, he looks a lot like his father,’ I say, inexplicably choking up, not because of JP, but because I remember how he made me feel. JP’s father. In the resurfacing of old hatred, old blame, I’m horrified that my body still betrays me. After all that he did, after all that I have endured, he remains in control of my feelings. I recall that pooling hot sensation in my belly when Matt looked at me with his smoky eyes. He made me believe I was the only woman in his life.
I glance at Yasmine, worried she has a window to my thoughts. I swallow the tears that threaten.
I’m ashamed of my vulnerability.
* * *
Seven years ago
On the last Friday evening of the season, with the pub full of workers spending their weekly wage, the barman turned up the volume on the stereo and played a series of Latin American numbers. A few people began to move to the music.
It was then I discovered that along with his other seductive traits, Matt was a talented dancer. He gathered me into his arms, moulding me to his body with one strong hand splayed over the base of my back, applying enough pressure to claim complete control without force. With my hand on his shoulder, he pressed my other hand close to his chest, gently sweeping the backs of his fingers across my breast. His warm dry breath raised the fine hairs on my neck, and he turned his hips slightly, his leg pushing between my thighs.
Not a flutter of air passed between our bodies as we danced a grinding merengue in the crowded darkness of the bar. Our movement together was hypnotic, arousing a fervour of unreleased passion as I involuntary pressed myself to him and felt his desire against my thigh. My cheeks burned as he swung me around to the desperate fiery strumming of ‘Bomboléo’ and I could hardly breathe with the anticipation of what might follow.
We drew apart when the song had finished. He took my hand to lead me out of the door of the bar. The night air chilled my cheeks, but my body was on fire. At the side of the woodshed, he leaned in to me, the pungent smell of creosote eclipsed by the sweet, beery scent of his breath. He kissed me deeply with his hot mouth, pulling my shirt and bra up to expose my breasts to the night. The tightening of my nipples in the sudden cold craved his touch and his lips.
Clothes crumpled, zips sawed, underwear pushed to the side and I welcomed the exquisite, almost violent force of him thrusting into me. Throwing my head back, my hair caught in the splinters on the woodshed wall. We wedged our feet into a drift of packed snow under the roof overhang, jeans pooled at our feet in a tangle. I gasped from the long-awaited satisfaction and release, oblivious to the discomfort of shoving against the rough wall.
Afterwards, the sounds of the night filtered back in. The bar door screeched open; a waft of voices strained over the music. As the closing door clapped the raucous voices suddenly mute, I became aware of our stark surroundings. A weak moonlight reflected off patches of snow on the slope between a few chalets clustered in this area of the upper village. I was grateful for a copse of pines shielding a clear vision of the woodshed from the nearest house.
Two thoughts briefly crossed my mind: the sordidness of this quick bang outside the pub, and the fact that neither of us had used protection. Those thoughts were soon replaced by a blindly misguided feeling of smug possessiveness. Seduction complete, my bruised lips stretched into a satisfied smile. As the passion subsided, distinctly quicker than it had risen, the seeping cold and the worry that someone might have seen us made me hastily pull my clothes back into place. Matt gently stroked the hair off my face, drawing my worried gaze back to him.
‘You surprise me, my beautiful beach-seeker. Such passion. You have been wanting me since we met, no? I love how you give yourself, this spontaneity. I think I need to explore you more.’
He kissed me again, holding my chin. His comments, initially making me feel slightly sluttish, warmed me with the thought that he wanted me again.
This was the one.
A handful of flings through the few months I’d spent at art school, and a disappointing initiation into physical love had never aroused such savage passion as this in me. I’d given myself to him so readily, and couldn’t control myself. Thinking I had succeeded in making him mine, in reality it was Matt who had made me his. What would he be thinking? I was so easy, a conquest complete.
I hoped we would leave the bar together. Perhaps I would wake in his arms at his apartment, follow through with a sweet aftermath of that initial passion. But he led the way back inside. Music rang in my ears. Beer and sweat soured the air. Matt looked distractedly at his watch, a frown on his face, his focus no longer on me. And then suddenly: ‘I have to go.’
Abandoned, pleasure still stinging between my legs. Just like that, with a fleeting brush of his lips on mine, he was gone.
* * *
I was the first girl back to the dorm room that night, and glad for a moment alone. Anne was on a date with François. It was possible she wouldn’t even come back. She often stayed at his studio in the attic of his father’s hotel.
I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, forcing myself to stay awake and remember every rushed sensation of the lovemaking. I focused only on our time together, ignoring the abruptness of our parting, and hoped desperately it had not been a one-night stand.
The door opened and my other room-mate, Terri, one of the cleaning staff, came in. She threw her jacket on her bed.
‘Hit it lucky with Mathieu, did we?’ she said jovially.
My blush gave me away, and I was embarrassed to think anybody knew what we’d done. Terri couldn’t taint my brief moment of euphoria, and if she hadn’t seen me, I was strangely elated that Matt might have been boasting about his conquest.
‘It was pretty obvious when you came back into the bar what you’d been up to. You were like the cat who got the cream. No hiding that look.’
I narrowed my eyes. Wary of Terri’s perpetual chatter, I wondered whether she saw right through me.
‘Look, I know Matt is a catch,’ she continued. ‘He’s a good-looking, charismatic guy. But the truth is, he’s getting his rocks off with you, Lucie. He just wants sex.’
Despite the crudeness, I detected a grain of sympathy. And a small part of me ignored the possibility that she was telling the truth. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to quell the uneasy feeling in my gut. I was still riding high. Let me have this moment.
Since taking the place of the girl who returned to Australia, I felt comfortable in the company of my room-mates, despite the restrictions of sharing the small sleeping space. We all worked for the hostel in various capacities, and the others had reached the end of a busy season. Although I had taken a cherished colleague’s place, I was never made to feel the imposter. I refused to let my feelings be hurt, despite the fact that I was currently back in the dorm and not going home with Matt.
The door opened and Anne came in.
‘Not staying at lover boy’s place tonight then?’ Terri asked Anne.
I wondered if Terri was like this with everyone.
‘No, not tonight. It’s going to be a busy week. I have to help with closing the accounts and I cannot be late to work tomorrow. Was it a good night at the bar, les filles?’
‘Ha!’ said Terri, and looked at me, grinning. Anne raised her eyebrows, and I blushed furiously.
‘Mathieu?’ Anne asked. I nodded with a sheepish smile, which dropped as soon as Terri continued.
‘What happened to that girlfriend of his? You know, that Somali girl he used to hang out with at the bar. Leila, wasn’t it?’ Terri asked.
I was sure she hadn’t meant to wreck my mood, but her words were like a blow to the gut.
‘She disappeared halfway through the season,’ she continued. ‘I heard things might have been a bit rough for her. Matt has a wild streak. I know he punched some guy’s lights out in the Grand. Don’t know what happened to Leila though. Do you?’ Terri turned to Anne.
Anne cleared her throat. She knew how I felt about Matt. I needed to know more about this Leila she mentioned. My stomach churned.
‘What do you mean? He hasn’t said anything about a girlfriend,’ I said, feeling witless that I hadn’t actually asked him.
This was information I naively assumed would be shared long before things went too far. And tonight, things had definitely gone too far.
‘I did know Leila. We were friends for a while.’ Anne looked awkward, put on the spot. I knew she wouldn’t want to hurt me, but she also wouldn’t want to lie. Even in the short time I’d known her, I already felt we had too much in common to ruin a good friendship.
‘She was a student at the international college for a few semesters, studying liberal arts.’
Now I really was beginning to feel like a slut. Or at least an intruder. I recalled the barman warning me that Matt was a Casanova. Jealousy instantly rose like the bow of a sinking ship, but Anne felt compelled to continue.
‘She and Matt were together for a while. It was a highly forbidden relationship, not only because of the faculty-student rule, but also in the eyes of her family. When her younger brother Kafia enrolled at the college the following year and saw what was going on, he reported Leila to their parents, and they took her away immediately. She had to return to Mogadishu and plans are underway to get her married off as soon as possible to avoid scandal. She wasn’t even allowed to write to me when she left. Kafia is still at the college, though I think he will graduate this spring, and he sometimes tells me about his sister.
‘I think he feels guilty having ratted on her, but the family doesn’t care, and to make things even worse, he has a beautiful blonde American girlfriend. The inequality of that makes me sick. Lucie, I don’t think there is anything … but Matt, he’s …’
‘Did Matt and Leila have, you know, an intimate relationship?’ I asked, knowing that prejudices around prearranged marriages meant people wouldn’t look favourably on one of their princesses minus her virtue.
‘Of course they were, Lucie; what century are you living in?’ Terri said as she changed into her pyjamas. ‘I heard she was hoping to find a way to stay, or at least to come back later, but I don’t know what’s going on now that she’s gone. I guess the link to her family was too strong. Too bad for her. Good for you, though, eh Lucie? He’s quite a catch, despite his reputation. Guys like that usually get what they want and hightail it outta there. Know what I mean?’
Terri howled with laughter as she made her way to the bathroom across the hallway, and I smiled uneasily. I wanted to ask about Matt’s rough streak, but I couldn’t believe that someone who had laid his fingers on my cheek so gently could be violent. Her flippant comments validated the barman’s assessment of Matt, but I was sure her judgement was false. People surely couldn’t believe that Matt would remain faithful to a girl he might never see again.
I turned back to Anne, and saw the apology written on her face.
‘Anne, thanks for telling me. You know, I’ve really fallen for him.’ I leaned back on my pillow and closed my eyes.
‘It’s not too late to shut it down, Lucie,’ said Anne quietly. ‘That way no one gets hurt. And I mean you. You could be getting yourself into more hot water than you imagine. There’s some weird stuff going on with his family. Anyway, it’s not for me to judge. I knew Leila, but I don’t know Mathieu very well, only rumours from François. I’m sorry to have ruined your magical night.’
‘Oh, let the girl enjoy the thrill of the chase,’ said Terri as she came back into the room. ‘As long as she knows the consequences. They all think with their dicks around here.’
I pretended to laugh it off, but felt a fragment of sorrow as I turned on my side and tried in vain to sleep, thinking how naive I might have been to believe in a fairy tale.
* * *
‘Dis-donc, Lucie, are you okay?’ Yasmine asks.
I realise my eyes are hot with unshed tears. I rarely show my emotions. To protect myself in this place, and to protect my own sanity, I try to remain aloof. My supposed crime alone elicits a bizarre respect from the others, a morbid fascination. If the authorities thought I posed a danger to the other inmates or the guards, I would have been placed in the high-security block. But they know I am not an evil person. I didn’t commit first-degree murder. I am even housed in the same block as the mothers.
‘I’m getting a cold. I have a headache,’ I say pathetically, blowing my nose loudly.
I screw up the paper and throw it into the toilet, flush it angrily to try to banish the memories. I’m still cross with myself for revealing vulnerability. I sit back on my stool and sigh, steadying the ragged breath in my throat.
‘Do you have a partner, Yasmine? Someone in France? In Algeria? I’ve never asked you.’
Good to change the subject, but I regret sounding so chummy.
‘Not really,’ she says. ‘There was a man I was seeing in Lyon. Jean-Claude. He was a sous-chef in a high-class restaurant. But it is not easy, dating a chef. His hours were so irregular. We could never see each other on the weekends.’
Yasmine’s eyes glaze for a moment, then she laughs and shakes her head.
‘I can’t go back to Algiers. There is nothing there for me. My parents are … they no longer exist. They are dead,’ she says with a hesitation that makes me think they haven’t actually gone from this world.
She’s a pretty girl, unusual yellow-green eyes and long dark hair. I think about her chef boyfriend. If he knew about Yasmine’s activities, he might have thought it wasn’t easy dating a bike thief. Irregular hours, erratic wages. In truth I think her timetable would have suited Jean-Claude, her work typically carried out during the hours of darkness, when the odd cyclist might be enjoying a meal at a Michelin-starred restaurant.
The irony is that Yasmine works in the bakery now. I don’t think I could stand the job, too much of a challenge to resist all that warm, yeasty bread. I’d balloon up within days, constantly cramming in irresistible comfort food. I’ve seen others let their bodies go all too easily. But Yasmine has resisted. She’s proud of her achievements in the kitchen. I wonder if she thinks of Jean-Claude from time to time when she’s working.
I haven’t asked her before about a partner. I often see her in the cafeteria holding another inmate’s arm, Dolores. Yasmine hangs off her like a lover. I wonder whether she is merely a tactile Mediterranean type, someone who thrives equally on non-verbal communication, or if it’s something more.
I keep my distance, especially in the confines of my cell. Perched on my stool, I watch her sitting on my bed. I’m itching to take my photos away from her.
I’ve become scrupulously neat, colour-coding my clothes, grey and grey and grey. We don’t wear a prison uniform, and it’s ironic that with the freedom of the dress code I have chosen to wear monochrome. As if my need for colour has been wiped from my palette. I keep my T-shirts and trousers neatly on my shelves like the new season’s fashion in a department store, each folded to centimetre precision. I resist the urge to put the photos back in order. I’ll wait until she’s left the cell.
‘You should hang more of your pictures on the wall,’ says Yasmine. ‘I hate all this white everywhere, so impersonal. If we cannot paint, then wallpaper is necessary, and yours will be … picturesque.’
‘It’s a prison, Yasmine; what do you expect, Ritz drapes and shag-pile carpets?’ I laugh. At least I have a few plants to bring a little green into the room.
‘Oh, you know what I am meaning, all that stuff,’ she says pointing to the sketchbook on my shelf. She gets up from my bed, the pile of photos slipping back onto my blanket.
‘Lock-up time soon, I’ll see you later,’ she says, raising a hand as she leaves the cell, the door still ajar.
‘Yeah, let’s do dinner sometime,’ I shout sarcastically after her.
She laughs as she sashays down the corridor back to her cell. Could it be that she actually enjoys being in this place? Her air of purpose is unsettling.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_0d18c6ec-d9ed-5c94-a40a-0c83228c5e7e)
‘What the …?’ I raise my voice, but as I see Müller jump guiltily back from my desk, I clamp my mouth closed. She’s a guard after all. But I still wonder what the hell she’s doing in my cell.
I’m clean. I have nothing to hide, have been the model prisoner. There’s always a worry someone might plant something to get another inmate in trouble, usually to remove suspicion from themselves. We all have single cells, and they’re locked when we’re not there, so Müller has let herself in with her key. But this is one of those tiny borderline infringements, unless she’s been instructed to search for something specific.
I’ve come back early from work because of the bad weather. I take my rain cape off and fling it over the radiator. Running water into the sink, I pick up the nailbrush to clean the loamy soil of the garden from under my fingernails, and wait for her to tell me why she’s here.
‘Be careful, it might melt,’ she says, pointing at the cape, and I shrug.
I don’t care. The head gardener can give me another one. The smell of the steadily warming synthetic material evokes an unidentifiable comfort memory from childhood.
I dry my hands on my towel, walk towards the desk, and see she’s been studying a coloured pencil sketch of an alpine scene I drew from memory.
‘They told me you are an artist. You have talent.’ She nods towards the picture.
Müller is one of the more amenable guards, one of the few who speaks passable English. She even takes part in a Wednesday conversation group, the only time I openly speak to the others. She’s a tough-looking middle-aged woman with broad shoulders, but she has a gentle demeanour. She wears her greying hair in a messy bun, a schoolmarm-gone-wrong look.
‘You like working there?’ she asks, looking through the window.
The rain against the pane has eased. I take a step towards her, still drying my hands, but keep my distance as much as one can in this confined space. We both look down at the garden. It has been flattened by the chill dampness. Half the beds contain overgrown vegetable tops, extended seed-heads and the random mess of items ignored during harvest. They have faded from green to dark grey under this heavy humidity, collapsed with the putridness of gradually rotting foliage.
The other flowerbeds have now been cleared and freshly turned. The evidence of our hard work is strewn across the field on the far side of the courtyard like a freshly knitted quilt. Straight dark rows of rich earth shaped into corduroy furrows are ready for planting. A corrugated canvas prepared for some colour, after the slumbering weight of the winter has passed.
‘Your days of labour outdoors are not so many now. When the clearing is finished, we find you new work,’ she says.
I don’t need to be reminded I will soon be without the distraction of cultivation. Most of us who work in the garden will be assigned alternative jobs for the winter months. Only a few will be kept on to work in the greenhouses. It saddens me to think I will have to work indoors.
‘Do you know yet what your job will be? Or do you let them put you in the laundry?’ she asks as I shrug again. ‘You can choose, you know. You do not need to keep silent. You cannot close yourself off, cannot forever be so angry with everyone. It is not our fault that you are here. You can make your life easier.’
‘You sound like the shrink,’ I say not unkindly, and she’s surprised to hear me speak, always expects silence, unless I have a teacher’s book in front of me. ‘Are you looking for something?’
‘I want to find out whether you will think about working in one of the more creative work stations.’
‘Jobs? I’m not bothered. We all get the same wage. I guess I’ll let you lot decide.’
Müller turns back to my drawings. ‘But you could use your skills, perhaps even enjoy what you do,’ she says, and I snort.
‘May I?’ she asks, and waits for a tilt of my head before sifting through my sketches, devoting time to a few that interest her, while I think about what she has said about the job assignment.
Most of the women here used to fight for work that paid the best rates. Now everyone gets paid the same. It’s not much, but at least there’s less of a dispute.
Fatima and Dolores work in the pottery studio in the west wing. They have turned some beautiful pots. It’s hard to believe that these angry, volatile women create pieces decorated with such delicately fashioned and carefully glazed porcelain petals and leaves. When I first came here, I visited the studio, admiring the rows of pots waiting to be fired in the kiln. But I snapped up the job I was offered in the garden to be outside in the fresh air. The regimental attention to detail of planting seeds, row upon row, helped to settle my mind. Nurturing a new generation of plant life, watching things grow. I forgot that by autumn everything would be dead.
We grow things for the community. Our goods are either used in the prison kitchen, or taken to local markets. And there’s a shop inside the prison gates where locals come from the surrounding villages to buy our organically grown produce.
By Müller’s reckoning I may automatically be assigned a job in the laundry for the winter, but I can see something ticking away in her mind, and I begin to think this is not the first time she has looked at my art. The more creative jobs of weaving and mandala design nevertheless incite a feeling of monotony in my mind. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great that everyone has a job, but I’ll let them decide where to put me.
