Page 4 of Vianne

It was half past eight when I went downstairs.

A group of men – half a dozen of them, in sailcloth trousers, linen shirts and the flat caps of the region – were already sitting at the bar and at the two little tables that were set up outside on the street, drinking coffee and eating boiled eggs from a basket topped with a napkin.

Flies were buzzing around the room: I saw that several were already caught on the long, yellow rolls of flypaper that hung from a rail above the bar.

The radio was playing a pop song, something bright and American.

Suddenly I missed New York, with its chrome, its diners, its talk, its greasy, enormous breakfasts; its pretzels by the roadside.

Everyone looked at me as I came down. It was silent. Uncomfortable. I greeted the men with a smile and a nod. Some nodded back; others stared.

‘Breakfast’s here, if you want it,’ said Louis.

‘Thank you.’ I was hungry. There were eggs, and fresh baguette, and butter, and coffee, and apricot jam. I ate a lot of everything. We never take meals for granted, we who follow the wind. We welcome every meal as a gift; every night in a bed with blankets as a blessing.

‘What’s today?’ said Louis. ‘The beach? Sightseeing? Shopping? The Chateau d’If? The Canebière?’

I shrugged. ‘I thought I’d walk a bit. Maybe get lost a little. I’ve always found that the best way to know a city is to get lost in it.’

A man with a narrow face and sharp eyes made a little, contemptuous sound. ‘Only a tourist would say that.’

‘Don’t be a wet blanket, Emile.’ Louis looked at me. ‘You staying tonight?’

‘If I can?’

‘Of course. Lunch today is pissaladière , and a crème caramel . I make my own, so you know it’s good.’

I finished my breakfast and picked up my bag.

The regulars – all older men, with broad sunburnt faces and bright dark eyes – watched me with that mixture of curiosity and hostility I’ve seen so many times before.

I smiled and drew a finger-sign across the palm of my left hand.

A pretty , Maman would have called it. A pretty opens up the air.

I flicked up a ripple of brightness, and saw the answering gleam in their eyes, as if I’d used a tiny prism to dance light onto their faces.

‘Nice to meet you all, messieurs . I’m Vianne.’

‘Haven’t heard that name before,’ said a man in a black beret. That’s Rodolphe, a retired ex-primary teacher from Cassis. Married. Widowed. Three children. The dancing prism relays it to me in a series of rainbow images.

‘You’re not from here.’ That was Emile: whip-thin, suspicious, angry.

A painter and decorator by trade, anger shines out like a gas flame from the top of his bald head – anger, not at me, but the world, and at strangers in general.

There’s a secret sadness there, which the prism cannot relay.

Something about a woman, maybe. Maybe something about a child.

Once more I smiled. ‘No, not from here. I’ve lived in a lot of places.’

That close, suspicious look was for all the places that were not this place.

I could feel him checking my clothes, my skin, my accent.

Was my hair too curly, too dark? Was my skin the brown of the sun, or the brown of foreign shores?

Once more I looked around the circle of sunburnt.

I saw no active hostility there – except perhaps in the angry Emile – but for some people, anything new or different can be an attack.

And I am very different and new, in ways that are not always visible.

I felt it in New York, but here I feel it still more keenly.

This circle of men is bound by time, and custom, and proximity.

A very small circle, within which have played a number of dramas and comedies.

I can feel their resistance to me, to the stranger from elsewhere, to the young woman in their space, with all her unknown quantities.

And I can feel the need in them – the hope that someday, a stranger will come to change their lives forever.

You owe them nothing. My mother’s voice. No explanations, no concerns. No miracles. Not even a smile. Besides, these things are dangerous. Change summons the Man in Black. The more changes we make, the closer he gets.

I banished the prism. My mother was right. These people were no business of mine. Other people’s problems – their needs – were a distraction I could not afford.

I smiled. ‘I’ll see you at lunch,’ I said. ‘Have a pleasant day, messieurs .’