Page 4 of French Escapade

Élodie

Ihit the bag over and over. My fists give it a good pounding. Despite the AC going full blast, I’m beginning to sweat. When I finally stop to catch my breath, Franck is by my side.

“Wow, you still have a lot of energy left at the end of your workday!”

I don’t answer my Muay Thai coach. Instead I signal that I’m ready to work on my kicks. He gets it, and for a few minutes, holds the bag and corrects me.

All my energy and thoughts are centered on my kicks. This is the reason I come here. I need to clear my head, find an outlet for all the energy I can’t use up on the job.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Franck decides.

I nod and move to the corner of the room where I left my water bottle and my towel. While I drink, I notice some guys staring at me. Fifteen years ago, when I was an angry teenager, I would have asked one of them what his problem was. I’m an adult now, and I don’t give a shit.

Some of those guys work in the same police station as me. Franck’s gym is right across the street from it. This explains why half his clients are cops. The other half also hangs out at the station on a regular basis, but they wear their handcuffs on their wrists, not their belts.

Franck lingers next to me a little longer than usual. I know why.

“Élodie, I’m done with my classes for tonight, and Vince is closing. I was thinking that you and me, maybe we could …”

“Not tonight, Franck.”

His smiles fades, and he nods as if it's okay for me to say “no.” A few months ago, he and I left the gym together a few times for a more private sort of wrestling.

Franck is a sweet guy. Well, I’m not sure sweet is the appropriate word for a guy who’s won a whole lot of fighting belts by knocking out or breaking the bones of his competition. But like all men, his first loyalty is to himself. He looks at every situation asking first what’s in it for him.

I soften the blow with an explanation.

“I promised my dad I would have dinner with him.”

I’m very well aware that I’m leaving the door open, despite the fact that, in my mind, it’s closed for good. But I like Franck. Anytime I need to, I can come here, even after hours. And on the few occasions I’ve needed to forget my life, to find some comfort and warmth, he’s been there for me.

I rush to the locker room and under the shower. I would love to spend longer under the hot water, but I don’t. It’s late already, and no one keeps Lieutenant-Colonel Cossa waiting, not even his daughter. Punctuality is one of the ten rules my father will not let me ignore. I’m the same way. Like they say, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

* * *

A few minutes later, I park my car in the garden-side drive of a house a few kilometers away from Cannes. The pinkish tones of the construction are striking in the evening light. I didn’t grow up here. I only briefly lived in this house.

My childhood setting changed with my father’s posts. The only constant element was the rhythm of the changes. Every two years, almost on the dot, a move, a new school, a new life to rebuild. No time to make friends or to grow roots.

We reached the Riviera the year I was finishing high school. Twelve years ago, already. My father surprised me by telling me we would have our own house from then on. Up 'til then, we had always lived in the barracks. He never said so, but I think it was easier for him to manage me that way. I would go to school with the other kids. I can’t count how often my nights started in one of the neighbor’s homes.

I walk around the house and through the back yard, almost sure that, given the time, he’ll be out there. I’m right. I can see his silhouette in front of the olive tree. Even out of uniform, with a garden hose in his hand, Lieutenant-Colonel Cossa holds with the pride of a man who worships discipline.

“Hey, Dad!”

He turns his head as I near him and stand on my toes to kiss his cheek.

“Good evening, Élodie,” he answers.

No endearing nickname or hug. That’s not who we are.

I walk into the house and to the kitchen, where I frown at the bag of frozen green beans thawing on the side of the sink. One might think my father is not an accomplished cook.

My workout has made me hungry. I decide to prepare the meal so we can have something edible. Dad joins me a few minutes later and sits at the table. It’s a routine we have down pat, he and I.

My mother packed her bags a long time ago. She left me behind. I was a burden too heavy to take on. The only memories of her that remain are the smell of jasmine, and the noise her wrist bangles made when she moved. I’m told she’s the reason I have dark hair and green eyes.

Once upon a time, I looked at her picture before falling asleep at night. I dreamed that maybe one day, I would find her at my bedside when I opened my eyes. I put an end to that a long time ago. I finally figured out that if she hadn’t thought it necessary to keep me in her life, there was no reason for me to keep her place warm in mine.

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