Page 77 of The Velvet Hours
“How is your father taking it?” I could only imagine how upset Monsieur Armel must be.
“He’s of course blaming himself that he did nothing to prevent it.
“I think this is the first time in my life I ever wished a doctor would tell me I was in poor health, so I could fail my physical.” He attempted a forced grin.
My mind raced. Were there things one could take that could help fail a medical exam? If my father were here, I’m sure he would know of drugs that could cause complications.
“There has to be something we can do,” I said, my voice cracking. If Alex reported to duty, I knew I’d never see him again. It was one thing when Father had to report to a military hospital. I knew he wouldn’t be fighting. But if Alex was right, the French army would treat him as little more than disposable military fodder.
“We must find a solution to get you out of this.”
“I told my father he should maim me by dropping his heaviest books on my legs.” Alex reached for a way to make me smile.
“No. There must be another way,” I said.
He lifted his hands.
“When do they say you report for duty?” I asked him.
I pulled the paper from his hands and studied the date.March 25, 1940, was written in typed block letters.
“That gives us five days,” I said, counting on my fingers.
“There is nothing we can do, Solange. Half the boys in my class were drafted more than a year ago. I should consider myself lucky I’ve had this extra time with you.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “We’ll devise a means for your escape.” My voice now sounded defiant and full of energy, its strength surprising even myself.
“I would like to believe you could save me,” he said as he leaned over the table to kiss me again. This time his fingers ran through my hair, and I could sense that his fear of having just been conscripted made him even more desperate to live as fully as possible before he had to go.
“At least now, I know if anything were to happen to me, Solange, I’ve experienced love.” He paused and lifted his eyes toward mine. “I have you to thank for that.”
My own eyes were fighting back tears.
“We have five days, Alex.”
He placed his hand on my knee and cupped it through the cloth of my skirt.
“I have the rest of the day just to be with you, Solange. Let’s fill it with light.”
I placed my hand over his, sealing his invitation with my answer to join him for whatever time we had together.
We rose and headed straight to the Métro. Without either of us speaking, we both knew where we wanted to go.
***
In the Bois de Boulogne, where courtesans used to ride their carriages and where lovers for centuries found seclusion off the beaten paths, we found shelter under the budding almond trees.
I lay down with Alex in the damp grass. I let his hand travel beneath my skirt. His body pressed against mine. I inhaled his breath between kisses. I ran my fingers through his black, wavy hair, and let him touch every curve of my body without protest.
With my eyes closed, I surrendered under his caresses. I let the young naïve girl melt into the grass, and I allowed my own longing to awaken.
Mapmakers record every cliff, every plateau, with their drafting pen. But lovers use their hands to mark the topography of flesh and bone.
Under the canopy of fragrant trees, my hands memorized the strong contours of Alex’s chest through the cotton of his shirt. My thumbs traced the cleaving of his shoulder blades.
Afterward, we wandered toward the pond. Lilies floated softly, and a family of swans navigated the gentle green water.
It was dusk when we finally walked back toward the Métro, our hands laced together. I did not look at Alex in profile. My mind was already full, and I saw him more clearly than if I had used my eyes.
