Promises To Ghosts

By Marie Gentou

I didn't believe being a barista, or social worker, or freelance writer, or office goffer prepared me for a career as a photographer. I didn't believe it right up to the moment the French tax official told me that's what I was. OK, so it was just another label, but enough to light my passion for this place. This place being the eastern Pyrenees. Bits of it are French the rest is Spanish, though it's often more African than either. There are other places with higher mountains, bigger lakes, deeper gorges and better ski resorts, but they are not a backdrop to my life. And then there's that sea, the cradle of so many things we cherish. Chic Mediterranean it isn't, happily what it lacks in Gucci it makes up for in good wines and restaurants that don't cost a fortune.With my slight photographic skills I have tried to capture its spirit but its beauty goes too deep, through levels that even a genius like Picasso couldn't penetrate. I'm starting to believe it hides half its beauty in the heart's of the people who were born here and perhaps even a little in those it has seduced.
Not everyone came here looking for love, too many came to rape and destroy. Armies have marched through here for as long as recorded history, Hannibal, the Romans, the Vandals, the Visigoths, the Arab Armies of the Caliphate, the Franks, Pirates sweeping in from the sea,French and Spanish armies crossing and re-crossing it and most recently Franco and Hitler. For the armies it was a stop along the way, for the people who lived here it was a crucifixion. They were butchered, plundered and enslaved but they survived, driven by their passion for their land. It is a place full of stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marie Gentou
• Release date: Apr 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310920547

Book preview

Promises to Ghosts

by Marie Gentou

Copyright 2016 Marie Gentou

Smashwords Edition

PROLOGUE

There was the envelope from the gallery, waiting in the mail. Another exhibition, but never like the first one. Someone else could worry about the catering, the parking, the signs to the toilets, the critic’s invitations, not her problems any more.

Of course the press would still be there and thirty years on there’d still be the same stupid questions. "Were you and Ms Benson lovers? Who else came to the orgies? Are you still taking drugs? Now though there was a gallery press officer to deal with them and they’d ignore his answers just as they’d ignored hers.

She turned the brochure over in her hands ‘Belita Flowers - A Retrospective Exhibition. That picture was going to be on show, even though she’d pleaded for it not to be used. She should have burned it years ago. It was among a collection of other paintings from the same collector who’d said all or nothing. It had always been controversial and for her it was an open wound that still bled.

CHAPTER ONE

It’s no good Jo, I can’t wear it; it makes me look like one of the working girls down in La Jonquera.

So, don’t stand on the side of the road. And do I look like a cheap trick when I wear it? Nooooh. When I play the hooker, I look good. I look fantastic. Most of all I look really, really expensive. Stop worrying for goodness sake. It looks great. You look great. He’ll grovel the moment he sees you. And, talking about groveling men, while you were out sweetening the morning dew with your angelically sweaty tootsies Ralph Tyne rang, he is still furious. He doesn’t understand you, and to be honest nor do I - you could earn millions. He’ll pay you a thousand times more than you’re getting now. I mean why do you – no - why do we sweat for hours to earn an honest crust when with just a teenie weenie bit of perversion you could be keeping three or four accountants and a chauffeur in full-time employment. It’s indecent. There hasn’t been self indulgence like that since nine out of ten Roman lions said they preferred Christians.

When you’ve finished Ms. Benson, in the first place, the last thing I need is a groveling dealer. As for Ralph Tyne, he’s wants a lot, lot more than photographs for his money. I’m not a split crotch panty girl. My paintings might not earn much, but at least I’ve got my self respect. C’mon Jo, you know how long a modeling career lasts - five years, seven if you’re lucky.

Bel, twenty years, thirty years even forty years from now you will still have a perfect bone structure. Your legs will be as long and as elegant, your hair as blond, your eyes as green. You will still be a generous size eight and seductive enough to keep a dozen men happy in your bed. With or without split crotch panties

Rubbish. And even if it were true it would be exhausting.

So, it doesn’t have to be Ralph. It could be any one of a dozen agencies. The trouble is you still don’t believe in yourself. Every boy in college worshipped you. If I’d ridden naked on horse back through that bloody dining room not one of them would have noticed me.

You always exaggerate Jo. And anyway they were only boys.

"Only boys! Only boys! I sacrificed pride, virginity and a huge stack of cash to get just one of them into bed with me. You know what? I got dumped. He dumped me to sharpen charcoal for you. I could have skinned you alive, slowly, over a barbecue, in the National Gallery.

OK Jo, you win. You can stop now. I’ll wear it. But if it gets me into trouble I’ll pour sand in your printer.

You get any of those sorts of troubles - you bring them straight home to your Aunty Jo.

Checking one final time that her folio of pictures was secure in the car boot the young artist slid in behind the steering wheel. Immediately the hem of the borrowed mini-skirt rode high on her thighs. With a sigh of misgiving she tugged it downward. Stubbornly it refused to budge, revealing more leg than would have been safe in England let alone rural France.

Ok, that wasn’t really fair, once they’d adjusted to the French male’s compulsion to stare at anything in a skirt, the only man problems they’d encountered in three months was a tidal wave of workmen’s bills. So far they’d spent about twice as much on rebuilding as they’d originally budgeted for. The place had been advertised as ‘An authentically restored Provencal Farmhouse.’ Most of that restoration work seemed to have involved tracking down the millions of descendants of the original 15th century termites and re-introducing them to the family lunch

But they had to finish the job, and refill the bank. The one saving grace was the barn, which made a perfect studio. With a ground level view across the garden it captured some magical light and perspectives. Now they needed something, or someone, equally magical to bring in the money.

In response to the starter the car’s engine turned slowly and uselessly, refusing to go in spite of being serviced less than a week ago. Why this morning? she asked it fervently.

Do you need a push Bel.

Bloody thing. I’m beginning to think the whole trip’s a mistake. It is thirty miles to Collioure and back. If it breaks down on the road how on earth will I get home?

Despite the early morning chill, lurching and stumbling on the gravel drive got both women hot and sticky long before the engine stuttered into morose and fitful life.

It needs looking at again, said Jo.

I know that, but it’ll have to wait until we’ve got some money. Now I must get moving. If things turn out right we’ll talk about it this evening.

"Alain Seriex, please be my magician’, thought Bel with no real conviction. In her short, cynical experience, art dealers were frequently strange but never magical. Richard tried hard, but being a veteran of British Intelligence, even one with a Military Cross, couldn’t make him a good art dealer.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to leave England. At least there she’d got some recognition. Now she had to start all over again. Still, he was someone to talk to. And he did look distinguished in his uniform, in a faded, British, sort of way. It wasn’t the sort of presentation to influence modern European art buyers and dealers.

Driving down toward the plain the sea fog thickened quickly. Anticipating more than vapour the reluctant car promised imminent collapse. The lower it went, the slower it went. Even when it got through Sorede it was preparing to die just when it got close to the Mediterranean, where the fog was thickest. Call him, put it off. Then Bel thought of her grandfather’s diaries describing the Retirada at the end of the Spanish Civil War. Hundreds of thousands of refugee families, exhausted by years of war, had struggled through these mountains to find freedom. In the end all they found were prison camps with their men carted off to god knows where.

Perhaps a stupid car wasn’t that much of a problem. Naturally, that was when the engine died, a shudder, a final cough of will power and the car squatted on its ugly haunches, then rolled slowly backwards into a roadside thorn bush.

Stupid country, stupid dealers and most of all, stupid French cars. Releasing the bonnet catch Bel went in bad tempered frustration to look at the engine equipped with only a defiant ignorance that would soon turn anger to fury. Searching under the bonnet for any clue to the problem the seconds ticked by, her hands clenching and opening in rage.

Est-ce que votre metier? The voice came from where she’d remembered seeing an especially large roadside boulder. Had he been waiting behind it? Without turning Bel knew the man was leering at her legs. Exposed and vulnerable in the mini-dress, she straightened quickly, knocking her head on the car’s bonnet. It struck with such force the pain made her mind flounder drunkenly. Through a blur of tears a tall, casually dressed man stood posing, one hand casually buried in a trouser pocket. She wanted to scream, what she needed right now was a sexy, balding, 40 something, in dungarees and carrying a spanner. What she had was a smarmy French poser.

Pardon mademoiselle Je peut vous aidez? A trace of smug French male superiority in his voice smothered the concern he affected. As the reason for her discomfort he ought to have been more considerate.

In ideal circumstances Bel still wasn’t completely confident in French and right now needed more time to gather her scattered senses. She stood holding her aching head, waiting for the pain to lessen and her vision to clear.

Je suis bon, she lied. The injury perfectly summed up their experiences since they’d arrived in France. This wreck of a car having breathed its last on a minor back road, some arrogant Gallic clown just had to turn up and nearly brain her. Merci monsieur. Je suis tres bon, she whispered.

She blinked to clear the veil of tears obscuring her vision. Dressed in a white T-shirt, faded jeans and trainers, his clothes accentuated a tawny skin which glowed a vibrant gold despite the poverty of the morning light. Instead of summoning some excuse to dismiss him, her bruised mind contrarily struggled for a palette to reproduce it. It ought to be yellow ochre darkened with burnt sienna and may be a touch of green, yet that wouldn’t do it. Nearly perfect black, his hair glowed with a sparkling sheen imparted by the brighter, southern sun. Loose, dark, curls sculpted backwards from his forehead, except for one solitary truant carelessly dangling over an arched eyebrow.

Below them hypnotic eyes shone from dark, impenetrable depths. Retreating from them she defensively noted the facial bone structure was good and the skin texture outstanding. The slight cleft in his chin was perhaps a little passé, rather like the symmetrical whiteness of his teeth.

With what had begun as artistic discipline she continued her inventory of colour, line and texture, and found perfection everywhere. The moulding and spacing of the man’s features were so coherent it was impossible to see them as independent curved or flat planes. One could talk technically of the vee of the upper trunk bisecting the waist, but when it was contained in a living, breathing body that rose and fell with a powerful life force, abstract studies no longer had the same relevance.

That such a swaggering fool should own something so beautiful, so ephemeral, was absurd enough to be funny. Before she could smile a sickening, warm trickle crossed her forehead, catching his attention and furrowing his forehead. The trickle halted momentarily in her eyebrows, then flowed on, turning the world a bloody shade of red. Anticipating only a bruising impact against the road as she fell, it was strange to experience her legs buckling whilst her body took flight in scarlet darkness.

Waking, Bel was aware of softness, warmth and an intense sense of being alive. The enjoyment of these agreeable physical sensations evaporated immediately she realised they came from being cradled in the man’s arms. Feeling vulnerable and anxious at her slow return to full consciousness she stirred against him. Sensed, rather than smelt the odour of the man, which opened up an indefinably charged shaft of tension and excitement. Clumsily she pushed away the towel he’d held against her head and tried to sit upright. A sickening pain filled her head and she fell back giddily. After a few more seconds of enforced stillness Bel realised he wasn’t threatening and yielded again to the sensations of warmth and softness. Their very unfamiliarity was intoxicating. Apart from some brief and unsavoury adolescent groping Bel couldn’t remember ever having been held by anyone, not even by mother.

Theirs hadn’t been that sort of relationship. Although close to her mother in every other way, there’d never been physical contact for as long as Bel could remember. There must have been some when she was very small, she just couldn’t recall it. And when she’d grown older it seemed unnatural to want that sort of display. Mother was deeply passionate and made commitments to art, to politics, the environment and every other cause. Powerful feelings, that never seemed to include intimacy with anyone. Bel recalled countless heated debates around their crowded kitchen table, the banners and the placards, but retained no memories of the debaters. They came and went without ever earning names or personalities.

She struggled to recreate some of the human faces from her childhood, friends, neighbours, shopkeepers, anyone. None came. Only one picture returned - that of herself playing alone, painting or drawing on the bare floor of their tiny flat. There were other memories. Brightly lit shops full of things they could never afford, drab trees in their street, stunted shrubs in gardens where even weeds despaired of flowering. Railings, street lights, the numbers on the buses, those all came back easily, but no people, not even from school.

Later, during the hard years of study, there’d been no time for friendships. Work dominated everything. Mother had made too many sacrifices for time to be wasted. But then there was college and Jo. Most students seemed to spend hours, sometimes their whole time on things which were nothing to do with their work. Jo had hardly worked at all, she’d spent more time falling in and out of love than studying. What time she had left over she spent dragging Bel around the college giggling constantly.

In spite of that she’s ended up with a degree as good as mine, thought Bel. And why did Jo call her Mother, Mum? And Jo had a Dad as well, Bel had met him several times. How peculiar it must have been, growing up with an old man like that in your home.

Returning to the present, to the mists of a Pyreneean mountainside, incomprehensible and overpowering tears welled up in the woman for the child she had once been. Oblivious of the man’s consoling hold and with no power to stop them, they broke free, irresistible as the surging snow-melt off the nearby mountains.

The man waited patiently until the flow eased, Hello, that was a nasty thump. My first aid isn’t up to much and I panicked when you fell in a heap.

Ambiguity in his smile contradicted any sympathy in the words.

Thank you but it’s not funny. My head is very tender.

Just like the rest of you, he replied, the man’s smile widening at his own stupid, witless humour.

Although just able to tolerate his laughing at her accident, he’d now begun intruding into personal space. How long had she been unconscious? The question triggered others her mind couldn’t and, confusingly, didn’t want to focus on. How do you know I’m English? she asked, deflecting him toward a safer subject.

I know all about you, he answered, as if he did actually know her, But what really gives you away is the tights. No French girl would wear them so late in the Spring. She’d need a very special reason to be wearing stockings. From the stupid grin he might almost have been French. It flawed the beautiful face, yet Bel tolerated it in return for the comfort of his body.

With a start of embarrassment she suddenly realised the dampness on his T-shirt came from her tears. Taking the towel he still held to her head she dabbed uselessly at the wet stains. Embarrassment turned to nausea when she saw blood stains on his tee shirt, the towel and his obviously expensive leather car seats.

Is that me? I’m terribly sorry. You must let me get it cleaned.

Don’t worry. It’s not a problem. Look, I think you’re concussed, you ought to see a doctor. There’s one I know in Ceret who’ll...

Bel interrupted him. There isn’t time. I’ve got an appointment in Collioure at eleven thirty and my car’s broken down.

"I’m sure it won’t matter if you’re a bit late. There are more important things in life than cars and appointments. Now please, let me drive you to Ceret. While you see the doctor I’ll get your car repair organised.

It was tempting, but Bel didn’t want to risk annoying Alain Seriex by turning up late. In any case they simply didn’t have the money to pay for a tow-lorry, a car repair and a doctor’s bill. You’re very kind but I really must keep the appointment.

He hesitated, I think you’re being silly, but if you’re that worried I’ll see what I can do for your car. Although his intentions may have been impeccable Bel chafed inwardly at yet more delay. He was a wonderful poser but really didn’t look the sort of man to know what happens under car bonnets.

As she followed him to the car she noticed the taut fabric of his T-shirt revealed almost as much of the man’s muscular back as if he’d been naked. Fitted close around a narrow waist and hips, his jeans widened just low enough to show the power of his thighs. Everything about the man struck a chord in her artist’s craving for proportion, while inciting other more turbulent instincts. Dismissing the rigorous objectivity of years of study she watched him lean across the engine, waiting to see if any more perfections of his body revealed themselves. Despite his juvenile stupidity she wanted to know him better, wanted to be close to him again, maybe just as they had lain together in the car. If she’d had the money and the courage she would have asked him to model for her. Perhaps he might take a painting.

What a state to get in.

P,p,pardon? she stammered guilty, wondering if he could possibly be reading her thoughts.

Your engine’s a right mess. You’re not doing it yourself are you? His cultured veneer slipped supplanted by a voice Bel had heard a million times in dirty London streets. Disappointing, re-assuring, above all baffling. He was an enigma. Rich enough to ignore abuse to his clothes and car, yet totally confident of his ability to deal with her wreck on wheels. Intimate with French girls’ dress habits, yet capable of more tenderness than her own mother ever showed.

His hands moved expertly over the engine, tugging this, pushing that. Did you have any trouble before it stopped, misfiring, sluggishness, that sort of thing?

It wouldn’t start, and it hasn’t run well all morning. In fact it’s hardly run properly since we bought it. As soon as I ran into this mist it stopped altogether.

He moved some clips and lifted up a piece of domed plastic with wires hanging off it. Ruining a perfectly good handkerchief he wiped the plastic clean and replaced it.

Is that it? Will it go now?

Anxious to get away? he asked, wiping his hands clean on the handkerchief.

No, it’s not that. I’ve told you. I have an appointment in Collioure.

We’ve got plenty of time. He moved closer, so close Bel felt his scent, aura, or whatever this physical force was. He seemed able to switch it on and off, and it was switched on now.

Please, I mustn’t be late. In answer to the almost whispered plea the force went. He stepped around her to get into the driving seat. With all tensions gone, the sight of his physical bulk crammed into her tiny vehicle made her giggle. It would always look different in future.

I can see why you need a big car. He smiled back as the little motor cranked into a smooth even hum. Thank you. Thank you so much. I’ve ruined your seats, and your towel, and I must have made you late. I don’t know what to say. For the first time he looked serious. Bel, cars are easy to fix. It’s only people who get really damaged. I still think you ought to see a doctor. Let me look at that cut again. Standing close the aura closed around her once more.

This time she obeyed her instincts and relaxed, it stirred her senses, excited her, made her want to ease herself closer, press her fingers against the flesh warm beneath the shirt. Afraid to trust instinct that far, she watched his movement, the rise and fall that made him a perfect living creation. And then shock, how did he know her name? She’d never given it.

The cut’s not too bad but it could easily be infected. Get some stitches put into it, then go home to bed. I know you’re a willful woman, even so, you should cancel your appointment. It won’t do any harm, believe me.

Bel had never heard herself described as willful. It was patronising and she wanted toneutralise it somehow. While she fumbled for the right phrase he’d turned away. He was walking to his car.

Her mind hurriedly struggled for a reason to keep