Page 44 of The Seekers of Deer Creek

May 21, 1943

The bench—our ode to the sun, to my son—was complete by the start of the salt harvest. The Chaton had it installed behind the Château des Miroirs. We met there each evening, as she’d foretold. As nighttime tiptoed in, that bench became a sacred place of confessions, entangled limbs, souls splayed like the wings of a dove.

Sometimes I ask myself whether anyone else in the household suspected us. Of course, the servants could not escape the knowledge of our intimate friendship. But beyond that—who would conceive that their flawless mistress could have consented to align herself with a strange, withdrawn artist with no prospects and no outward charisma? I believed, wrongly perhaps, that our unlikeliness shrouded us.

Meanwhile, I continued with my secret painting, knowing on some level the betrayal I layered on with each wash of color. I understood my time in the Camargue was at a close, but it was important that the blue lovers be completed there, in the cottage where our love began. What would I do with the painting after? I would keep it. I allowed myself to keep so little in life.

The first week of September, Marcel Allard arrived in a flurry of suitcases and bonhomie. His work in Germany had gone very well, and it begot generosity aplenty. He showered my Chaton with gifts that did not reflect her tastes: an elaborate cuckoo clock, chocolates shaped like seashells, bejeweled steins of kingly proportions. She accepted each with a vague smile.

Only one offering did she regard with genuine interest—a chartreuse-tinted nude by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner. It was a fine painting; more undisciplined than I would have liked, but still, a striking piece for her growing collection. As she examined it, Marcel placed his meaty hand upon the small of her back, the spot I had pressed my lips against only a night before, and he beamed with the smugness of a man accustomed to getting exactly what he paid for.

How I hated him! And yet, was that not his right as her husband, to touch and be touched?

Toward me, he was outwardly friendly and full of bluster. As a habit, he was accustomed to charming women and, despite my appearance, he must have considered me worthy of his charm. In Arles, I did not feel the need to pretend. I’d stopped binding my breasts and grew out my hair. With raptorial awareness, his eyes raked my face, the collared shirt I wore, the oversized trousers that dragged on his polished floors. I had met men like him before. They think that my garments and my disinterest are a gesture of bravado, supposing that I might be retamed into femininity through the favor of male attention. Oddity intrigues them. Those men are the most dangerous, because they understand my identity as a refutation of their God-given privilege. A challenge.

When he took my hand, a chill wrapped around my fingers. He kissed, rather than shook, it. His lips were familiar and firm, leaving a wet film near my knuckles. I resisted the urge to wipe myself clean.

“Our resident artist,” he said, upon introduction. “How my wife does enjoy taking in strays. They’re not usually so appealing.”

“Marcel,” she said, flustered.

He grinned. “I mean no harm.Lýunderstands how I tease. I’m glad someone is making use of that old cottage. Drafty, isn’t it?”

He was not unhandsome, I admitted with a lover’s jealous eye. Broad shoulders, healthy dark hair, and a tidy jaw, though he would likely become jowly in a few short years. Even now, he attracted attention from the female servants. The Chaton told me that she was sure he’d taken lovers since their first days of marriage, perhaps even within their household. It had bothered her initially, but now, she saw in his distraction a kind of freedom. She could do as she wanted—within bounds, of course, since she was still a woman.

But I was angry at him all the same, even though I was the one who had committed a wrong against him. I wondered what kind of fool discards the Chaton for lesser beings.

To Marcel, I said stiffly, “I’m grateful for your generosity.”

He waved his hand. “Of course. Anything for Justine’s only brother. Now, when is our Emi arriving? And have we stocked enough wine for this visit?”

The Chaton laughed gaily. “In three days and not a moment too soon. How merry it’ll be to have all our favorite people in one place!”

Her eyes met mine, then she looked away. Something had come between us. Easy enough to blame our distance on Marcel, but perhaps it was merely the breaking of a summer-long spell. We could no longer convince ourselves that we were the only people in Arles. Reality encroached and with it came a diminishing of our love. That love was no less vibrant; only compressed and distorted, as a light in a pinhole.

I excused myself to my cottage and Justine did not stop me. In the days after, I rarely saw her alone.

Emil’s visit would coincide with the Allards’ harvest gala, which brought about a great celebration in Arles. Guests began streaming into the Maison de Notre Rêve, bringing with them their stylish Duesenbergs and bug-eyed Jaguars. There would be a cream crop of collectors for Emil to cast his wiles upon, I thought, as I made myself scarce in the cottage.

But when I watched the parade of guests from my window, the Chaton among them, I wanted to throw my paints against the wall, splattering the château with my discontent. The bench yawned with emptiness. Only my secret painting of the blue lovers pulled me from my bed, though my malaise seeped into its composition, glazing gloominess upon what was once a defiant celebration. When it was at last complete, I layered the painting with varnish and allowed it to dry.

Something was coming to an end.

That weekend, I met Emil at the train station, taking in his lively gait and exuberantly hued clothing. He brought an enormous suitcase—with four tins of my favorite sardines—and a cache of news about the artists in our circle. Despite myself, I cheered at the sight of him.

“At last!” he shouted, placing a palm on either side of my face and turning it back and forth, as if I were a prized steed. “Let me look at you,Tâm. Still as unstylish as ever. But not so skinny, hm? Not so gaunt? Look at those freckles across your nose, my sunflower.”

I tried to shrug him off, but he wrapped me in a tight, cologne-heavy embrace. “Thank God you are well again.”

“Forget about God. It’s you I should thank, Emi.”

His look was fond. “What is gratitude between soul mates? Now, tell me all. Why are your letters so sparse? What trouble have you been getting up to in the Camargue?”

Briefly, I’d thought I might hide my affair from him. What goodwould it be to share this burden? But I owed him the truth. And, perhaps selfishly, I wanted at least one other person to bear witness to that which would have to be hidden for the rest of my days.

“Emi, my friend,” I said, “I have something to confess.”

Here—I rest my pen. The next part, the final part, takes more fortitude than I can muster. I will come back to it when I am stronger. Oh, if only Emi and I had never set foot in Arles!