The Virgin Blue by Tracy Chevalier Read Free Book Online Page A

expression didn't change; he looked as if his thoughts were far away.
‘ Bonjour ,’ I said, feeling foolish.
‘ Bonjour .’ He shifted slightly in his seat and gestured to the chair next to him. ‘ Café ?’
I hesitated. ‘ Oui, s'il vous plaît ,’ I said at last. I sat down and he nodded at the waiter. For a moment I felt acutely embarrassed and cast my eyes out over the Tarn so I wouldn't have to look at him. It was a big river, about 100 yards wide, green and placid and seemingly still. But as I watched I noticed there was a slow roll to the water; I kept my eyes on it and saw occasional flashes of a dark, rust-red substance boiling to the surface and then disappearing again. Fascinated, I followed the red patches with my eyes.
The waiter arrived with the coffee on a silver tray, blocking my view of the river. I turned to the librarian. ‘That red there in the Tarn, what is it?’ I asked in French.
He answered in English. ‘Clay deposits from the hills. There was a landslide recently that exposed the clay under the soil. It washes down into the river.’
My eyes were drawn back to the water. Still watching the clay I switched to English. ‘What's your name?’
‘Jean-Paul.’
‘Thank you for the library card, Jean-Paul. That was very nice of you.’
He shrugged and I was glad I hadn't made a bigger deal of it.
We sat without speaking for a long time, drinking our coffee and looking at the river. It was warm in the late May sun and I would have taken off my jacket but I didn't want him to see the psoriasis on my arms.
‘Why aren't you at the library?’ I asked abruptly.
He looked up. ‘It's Wednesday. Library's closed.’
‘Ah. How long have you worked there?’
‘Three years. Before that I was at a library in Nîmes.’
‘So that's your career? You're a librarian?’
He gave me a sideways look as he lit a cigarette. ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘It's just – you don't seem like a librarian.’
‘What do I seem like?’
I looked him over. He was wearing black jeans and a soft salmon-coloured cotton shirt; a black blazer was draped over the back of his chair. His arms were tanned, the forearms densely covered with black hair.
‘A gangster,’ I replied. ‘Except you need sunglasses.’
Jean-Paul smiled slightly and let smoke trickle from his mouth so that it formed a blue curtain around his face. ‘What is it you Americans say? “Don't judge a book by its cover”.’
I smiled back. ‘ Touché .’
‘So why are you here in France, Ella Tournier?’
‘My husband is working as an architect in Toulouse.’
‘And why are you here?’
‘We wanted to try living in a small town rather than in Toulouse. We were in San Francisco before, and I grew up in Boston, so I thought a small town would be an interesting change.’
‘I asked why are you here?’
‘Oh.’ I paused. ‘Because my husband is here.’
He raised his eyebrows and stubbed out his cigarette.
‘I mean, I wanted to come. I was glad for the change.’
‘You were glad or you are glad?’
I snorted. ‘Your English is very good. Where did you learn it?’
‘I lived in New York for two years. I was studying for a library science degree at Columbia University.’
‘You lived in New York and then came back here ?’
‘To Nîmes and then here, yes.’ He gave me a little smile. ‘Why is that so surprising, Ella Tournier? This is my home.’
I wished he would stop using Tournier. He was looking at me with the smirk I'd first seen on his face at the library, impenetrable and condescending. I would've liked to see his face as he wrote out my library card: had he made that into a superior act as well?
I stood up abruptly and fumbled in my purse for some coins. ‘It's been nice talking, but I have to go.’ I laid the money on the table. Jean-Paul looked at it and frowned, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. I turned red, scraped the coins up and turned to go.
‘ Au revoir, Ella Tournier . Enjoy the Henry James.’
I spun round. ‘ Why