Forgetfulness by Ward Just Read Free Book Online Page A

returned to the tenth century where it belonged. The trees resembled overweight women in white aprons, and she thought again of dear Tante Christine. She called again in her weak voice, speaking French so that her aunt might understand and come to her aid. She had waited such a long time. She raised her voice and promised the men reward money if they delivered her safely home. Her house was not far, barely an hour's walk. Thomas would be grateful. Thomas would reward them if only they would pick up the stretcher and carry her down the trail. Please, she said, remembering her manners. Didn't everyone deserve courtesy? But there was no sound in the forest, not even a whisper of wind. She waited, holding her breath, feeling time whirl backward, listening for the man with the lisp, the conquistador who reminded her of her absent father. His voice was unmistakable. She would know it anywhere.
    Snow continued to fall, collecting on her legs and stomach, collecting on her fingers as she raised her arms to the unseen stars, time continuing to reel backward until she saw herself quite clearly as a young girl, seventeen years old and dressed in white, listening to church bells on a sunny Sunday morning, everyone gathered in the square, talking companionably as they waited for Mass. She was standing with friends, classmates, and a boy she was interested in. The boy thought she resembled Jeanne Moreau, star of that year's wonderful film
Jules et Jim.
The boy's idol was Jean-Paul Belmondo, the
Breathless
Belmondo, the Belmondo with the swagger, the leer, the truculence, and the mountainous nose. She could not take her eyes off the boy and thought of him as her personal Lord of Misrule. He wore his trousers short, his thumbs tucked behind his belt like an American cowboy, a black hat. He had plans. He intended to move to the Pigalle district of Paris and begin a career as a gangster so that he could afford fast cars and late nights in cabarets. Adieu, St. Michel du Valcabrère. He wanted to live according to his own desires. Tante Christine discouraged her interest in the boy, an unsuitable boy, louche and unstable and without prospects. What would
life be with such a boy? What would become of her? Such boys existed in every village in France, perhaps in every village in every country of the world, and no good came of them. Florette could do ever so much better, she was so attractive and well disposed, warm and likable to a fault. And abruptly the bells receded and fell silent and the people filed into the church until the square was empty except for Jean-Paul Belmondo insolently astride his motorcycle.
    It took Florette a few moments to realize she was alone, and a few moments more to understand what that meant. The men had abandoned her, gone back to wherever they had come from or wherever they were going. She began to shiver, turning painfully on her side, wrapping her arms around her chest. My God, it was cold. She had never been colder in her life. She waited and waited some more, she had no idea how long. She could not bear to think of dying alone, so she worked hard to keep her wits intact, banishing all thoughts of her injuries and dying in the mountain forest. She wanted to look at her wristwatch, for she had no idea of the time. She brought the dial close to her face, squinting, and saw the hands upright, forming the number 1. That would make the time six o'clock, and how surprised she was. It was only early evening and she had imagined the hour to be nine or perhaps ten, well past the dinner hour. She was suddenly filled with hope, the hour seemed to her a lifeline, time at last on her side. Thomas was certainly en route now with men from the village, so she needed to remain alert to the present moment, as elusive as that moment might be—and in that state of euphoria, as she found herself grinning like a circus clown, she began to pee. She did not understand this, why her body relaxed just then, like flopping into an