Ruelle de Mémoire
I recommend reading Counting Marys, but only because I think it's fantastic. This one stands on its own two feet just fine.
I want to thank everyone who reviewed Counting Marys—you were all overwhelmingly supportive. I usually don't do sequels, so this one's for Secretsinbooks and dudeurfugly, who asked about a second installment and got this idea rolling. I hope it's what you were looking for. I would also like to give a big round of applause for imnotacommittee, who not only noted Marie Pierre, but wrote an epic length review that both inspired me to get to work on this and almost halted all progress in its tracks for fear of not living up to the praise. I hope this compares.
Lastly, I hope everyone else enjoys this piece and, if you haven't already, checks out its counterpart. And I really hope that all of you review :)
French Translation:
Ruelle de Mémoire: Memory Lane
1. Bienvenue: Welcome
2. Mais oui: But of course
3. Bonne chance, mon enfant: Good luck, my child
4. Bonjour, mon petit chat. Tu es très charmant, n'est pas?: Hello, my little kitten. You are charming, aren't you?
5. Ma chère: my dear (fem.)
6. Il est un idiot, certainement. Mais il est un bon homme, aussi: He is an idiot, certainly. But he is a good man, as well.
In the dim moonlight from the starboard porthole, Indiana Jones watched Marion Ravenwood sleep for the first time in longer than he cared to remember. She was beautiful. She was older, plumper, and more wrinkled—especially around the corners of her mouth and eyes, where laugh lines from her lovely, heartwarming grin gave testimony to her continued good humor in face of all the curve balls life had sent her way. She had always looked like someone you would want to get to know better, but now she had a more lived-in quality about her—like she had some stories to tell—like this one time, there were these Nazis… He'd remembered her as Abner's little girl, with the glinting eyes and the kiss-my-ass brand of attitude toward life. She still had those gleaming eyes, but she was a woman, now, one who'd seen more of the world than she'd originally thought was out there and had mellowed out because of it.
He pulled her closer to him, remembering that night years ago on the ship from Africa when he'd woken up in the middle of the night to hold her close and make love to her for the first time. It was slow and sweet—heart wrenchingly sweet—and, just at the end, completely earth shattering. They'd been young then—well, younger—and in the glory and intoxication of love and desire he'd sworn to himself to never let her go—a promise he'd broken in cowardice and downright terror less than half a year later.
He buried his face in the hair at the base of her neck and breathed in the proof of her existence in his arms at this moment. I don't deserve this. He let himself relax against her, enjoying her soft, yielding warmth and her faint musky scent. God, but I've missed her.
"I love you," he whispered, almost involuntarily.
Her eyes cracked open a sliver and she moved onto her back in his arms. "Love you, mm-mm, too," she mumbled groggily. Then she seemed to wake up and opened her eyes a bit wider. "Oh," she said, a little nonplused to find him watching her. "Hello."
"Hi," he said softly, smiling down at her.
She squinted up at him. "Have you just been staring at me all night?"
He rolled on to his back and looked up at the ceiling. "Roughly speaking—yes."
"Huh." She rolled over to face him and stretched her arm across his chest, kissing his shoulder.
"It's been a long time since I shared a bed with anyone, you know, never mind the love of my life, honey."
She chuckled against his skin. "Mm—I bet you say that to all the girls."
"No. Really."
Her eyes met his for one long moment. "Oh."
"Well—there was the War, see, and then the Commies and I was getting older, and yeah." He looked away, embarrassed.
"Oh, Jones," she said softly, stroking his chest. "Indy, I know—it's ok. It's been a long time for me, too. I'm sure we'll pick it up again. Like riding a bicycle."
He looked back and grinned at her. "That's an interesting nick name for it."
"Oh—honestly," she admonished, trying to hide her smile. It was no use, though, and they were both giggling a moment later. Finally she regained her composure enough to say, "You haven't changed a bit."
"I'm older, sweetheart. I've got more mileage and I feel the bumps in the road more than I used to."
She smiled and traced her finger over his chest. "Me, too. But what a road."
"You've still got some padding," he said, patting her bottom appreciatively.
She laughed, "So nice for you to say so."
"Believe me," he whispered, nipping that spot under her ear and ginning, "it's my pleasure."
An hour later, as Indy was drifting off into a well earned sleep, Marion's voice sent vibrations through his chest where her cheek and hand rested.
"I went to see Soeur Marie Pierre, you know."
"What?" He couldn't remember telling her that particular story—how much did she know—oh, God…
"The French nun, remember? The one you proposed to." He could hear the grin her voice and wished he could go back and smack his younger self.
"When?"
"After Mutt was born. Colin took us to Paris for our honeymoon, and I took Mutt to see her."
His hands tightened on her instinctively at the mention of Colin's name.
She smiled again. "Relax, Indiana. He was a good man and a kind father. He was good to us when you couldn't be—you should be thankful."
He snorted. "And yet surprisingly—"
She waved his protest away. "That's just good, old fashioned jealousy. You're allowed that. I'm talking gratitude—you don't have to like the man, but you should respect him for what he did for your family."
She sounded defensive and he didn't particularly like her defending another man—particularly one she'd been married to—but she'd called them a family, and that made his heart swell enough to rub out the sting of Colin.
"You're right," he said, sighing. "But I still don't like him."
"As is your right."
"All right. So tell me about Marie Pierre."
"She's amazing, Indy. Just like you described…"
Marion exited the Louvre with the baby on her hip. Exploring halls full of great art was fine and dandy for a man like Colin, but baby Henry had found the expedition trying to say the least. He'd put up with two hours traipsing about in the stuffy halls before he threw a hissy fit worthy of any son of Indiana Jones. The scandalized glances of fellow patrons and the evil eye from the little, French man in charge had been enough to send her out the nearest exit and into this narrow back street. In the distance she could hear the bells of the Cathedral that was currently hidden from view by a bend in the alley. She could see the tower, though, and made for it through the deserted street.
Well, well—wouldn't you just know? The son-of-a-bitch might have been telling the truth after all.
It wasn't so much that she doubted the basis of his story, more the content. Indy had never had any qualms about changing details for dramatic effect. Especially when he'd been drinking—which he had been the night he proposed to her and subsequently told her the story of his other, less successful proposal. Probably the only thing that made him do it—old Dutch courage…bastard.
Not that he's an alcoholic, she qualified. Give the devil his due. She'd always figured alcohol was to Indiana Jones what a prop was to a good actor—it was part of the costume, something he indulged in for appearance sake and not with the sole object of getting pissed. Not that that stopped him when he was in a particular mood—like the one he'd been in when he proposed—the bastard.
She reached the Cathedral steps and forgot about Jones in moment of awe. It was old and worn—nothing like the fancier versions in other parts of town. This baby had been through the wars, and not just the last one. This one had seen the days of Napoleon and, before him, the revolution—and the revolution before that one, too. Hell, she wouldn't be surprised if Charlemagne had passed by it a thousand plus years ago.
It was a Jones sort of place.
She crept up the stairs and opened the old, faded green doors. She felt like an intruder on sacred ground, but as soon as she cracked the door it flew open, drawing her into the cool interior.
As her eyes adjusted to the inner gloom, she found herself before a small, balding priest.
He smiled at her with kindly eyes and stepped back to welcome her into the inner sanctum. "Bienvenue, Madame. What a lovely child."
She smiled and stroked the down covered head of the baby on her hip. "This is Henry. I like him."
"Henri—a good name." He bent to be on eye level with her son and tweaked his nose. "Bienvenue, Henri."
He stood up again and met Marion's smiling eyes with a smile of his own. "Perhaps I can help you, Madame. What is it that you seek?"
Her smile froze. What is it that you seek? Humdinger that one. She had a million answers, ranging from 'the hell I know' to 'you tell me,' but none of them seemed suitable in a place of worship, so she stuck to the concrete.
"I was looking for a nun—Soeur Marie Pierre. I believe she was part of the order here sometime ago."
"Mais oui, Marie Pierre is one of our most devout members. Her ideas—" he waved his hand to indicate that the sister left something to be desired in this respect, "—but her heart is pure and her faith—ah—unwavering."
"Do you know where I can find her?"
"Oui, oui. She is working in the orphanage this afternoon—Rue d'Hôpital—you know the one?"
Marion assured him that she could find the place and took her leave with many thanks. He watched her from the steps and called after her. "Bonne chance, mon enfant. I hope you find what it is you seek."
She waved back and tightened her hold on little Henry. Me, too.
The orphanage on Rue d'Hôpital was a dingy, old building. Where age had made the cathedral a citadel of strength and peace, here it had left marks of pain and suffering. This building had seen the sorrows of man in its time—woman, too—by the looks of it—and children.
She approached the doors with trepidation and gathered all her courage to give them a solid knock.
The door opened sometime later to reveal a wizened old sister with a sour expression. The woman eyed Henry with an appraising look.
"We have no room today—return tomorrow."
She made to shut the door, but Marion got her shoulder in the way before the woman had the chance.
"No, I don't want to leave him. I'm here to see Soeur Marie Pierre."
The woman narrowed her eyes at Marion.
"Marie Pierre? Is she here?"
"Oui, enfant. I am here." The voice was soft and sweet in her ear, like some lullaby she'd long forgotten.
Marion turned to meet the calm, clear eyes of Soeur Marie Pierre. The woman was lovely—there was no other word. Peace radiated from every pore in her sanguine face. All at once, Marion could understand Indiana's enrapture. The face before her was plain, but the peace and the tranquility there made her glow with some fire that awed mere mortals like herself and Jones.
"What a beautiful baby boy, Madame."
"His name's Henry," blurted out Marion, determined to get this point out before she became too enchanted by the nun speak at all, "Henry Jones."
There was a moment when she thought that the name had not registered—that she would sound like a mad woman to this truly awe-inspiring woman. But then that face before her—that lovely face—broke into a grin wider than the Seine and Marion found herself in the warmest embrace she'd felt since the night Indiana had left.
"So," exclaimed Marie Pierre, releasing Marion from her hold, "Henri has had a son. And look at him. He will be strong, this one, and handsome—just like his Papa. May I?" She reached for him tentatively.
"Of course, of course," said Marion, close to tears as she transferred her son from her arms to the nun's. To think—she'd been jealous off this woman when Indy'd first mentioned her. Now, standing before her, Marion felt half in love with her herself. I'm sorry Jones; I did not realize.
Marie Pierre cuddled the babe close to her side. "Bonjour, mon petit chat. Tu es très charmant, n'est pas?" She kissed his forehead and looked up to Marion, who had tears in her eyes and was trembling.
"Ma chère! What it the matter—you've gone all pale."
"It's nothing," insisted Marion, shrugging off concerned hands. "I'm just tired—it's nothing at all."
"On the contrary, chère, you look a fright." Marie Pierre took hold of her hand in a grip that brooked no argument. "You will come with me—yes, now, chère. You will have tea in my office—I know how you Americans swear by it—that is the British in you."
What Marion really wanted was a shot of whiskey, but because Marie Pierre was Marie Pierre, she accepted both the cup and chair offered to her with total gratitude. She sipped the tea as Marie Pierre rooted around in the desk, balancing Henry on her hip like one of nature's true mothers. Finally, she found what she was looking for and held up a small green bottle in triumph.
"And here, ma chére, is a little something for the French in you," she said with a grin, pouring a healthy amount of golden liquid into the tea cup.
Marion sipped hesitantly and tasted the lovely liquid fire of good whiskey. "Oh, bless you," she mumbled fervently.
Marie Pierre chuckled. "That is my job, chére." She moved around to sit behind her desk and bounced Henry on one knee. Henry, already a little flirt, giggled up at her with a huge, toothless grin and sparkling eyes. She settled him back on her lap and turned her gaze to Marion.
"Mon enfant—you have been through the wars, yes? You have seen evil—I feel it—not in you, but it lingers—yes? It lurks. You are exhausted—not in here—" she pressed a hand to her temple, "—but in here." Her hand moved to her heart. Marion felt the tears swell—they would break soon, and there would be nothing she could do to stop them. Marie Pierre smiled at her softly, and whispered, "Tell me, enfant."
And so she did. She started with Abner and her childhood—detailed their many adventures and the life of a little girl constantly on the move, always one step behind a man who couldn't see her for the prize ahead of him. Enter Indiana Jones, the love of her life and bane of her existence. Exit Jones. Then ten years full of loss—Abner and her home at the college and all hopes of the white-picket fenced American Dream. She would never have the family she longed for—the love of a man—well, one man—who would never leave her behind in pursuit of his next find. She'd ended up in Nepal, in the Godforsaken mountains. Enter Indiana Jones. And since she'd already shared everything else with this woman who she barely knew, she told her about the Ark as well. Eventually, there was nothing left to tell but the great escape of Indiana Jones and the birth of little Henry.
"I married Colin as soon as possible. There didn't seem to be anything else to do." She had sobbed her way through the majority of the saga, and now her face was blotchy but composed. At some point, Marie Pierre had handed her a stack of handkerchiefs, and now they lay across her lap in crumpled heaps. She clutched the last one in her hand and sighed.
"It is a sad story, chére."
"But not terrible."
Marie Pierre smiled, her eyes crinkling in true pleasure. "No, enfant—not terrible. But very sad."
Marion sighed again and met the nun's eyes for the first time since she'd begun the tale. "And the worst part—" her voice threatened to break, but she reeled her emotions back in. "The worst part is that I still love him in every nook and goddamn cranny of my soul. Sorry, Sister." She blushed and hung her head with shame.
Soeur Marie Pierre smiled indulgently. "It is hard, chére, because Henri is a good man—ah—" She held up a hand to forestall Marion's protests. "He is a moron, yes. Il est un idiot, certainement. Mais il est un bon homme, aussi." She sighed and patted little Henry's head. "Alas, the one does not preclude the other."
"But what do I do?"
"You wait, enfant. You care for your child, and you love your husband as best as you can, and you wait. You will have your life with Henri yet, chére, and it will be as glorious as you once imagined. And when it comes, you will both be ready. You will have your chance, enfant, and you will not look back."
"…She was right. When I saw you in that God-awful camp—I didn't look back."
Indy stroked her back and kissed the top of her head. "I thought you made it too easy for me, sweetheart."
She snorted. "It just seemed like we'd wasted enough time already. I wasn't about to let you slip through my fingers a third time, damn it."
His lips curved against her hair as he whispered, "And I, for one, am very grateful."
They lay in peaceful silence for a time. Indy relaxed to the sound of her soft breathing in the darkness, feeling her beating heart against his chest.
Just when he thought she'd fallen asleep, she broke the silence once more.
"I kept writing to her, you know. It helped, what with everything. She was an amazing woman."
He felt is heart stop—just for a moment. "Was?"
Marion sighed. "The Nazis took Poland on September first. As soon as I heard they were headed to Belgium, I wired her and told her to get on the next flight to England—I told her I would pay for the ticket—that she could stay with me until she found a suitable order in England, but she wouldn't come. She said her place was with her husband—and her husband would stay with the people of France. She would not come."
Her voice broke, and he could feel the tears damp on his bare chest. His own eyes filled with tears, and he let them fall as the silence descended.
Finally, they were composed once again, and Indy held her tightly to remind himself of her presence and her warmth.
"I hate Nazis."
Marion sighed. "It is sad."
"It's terrible."
"No, it is not terrible. She lived a full life—she loved well and helped many. She is with the love of her life, now—that is not tragedy."
Indy snorted despite himself. "It sure isn't a comedy, sweetheart."
She sat up and shook her head at him. "No, Indy. That's life."
Indiana Jones kept vigil that night long after Marion had fallen asleep. He remembered Soeur Marie Pierre before the altar, haloed in candle light. She was a saint, even though he knew she would never be canonized—knew that she would have refuted any attempts to make her one.
He sighed as the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon and let the woman he'd carried next to his heart go in peace with the night. She was home, now.
He pulled the woman at his side closer and smiled as she grumbled in her sleep and let out a snore. Here too was a saint, but of a different sort—the sort that loved and lost and continued right on all the same. She's one hell of a woman, he thought with a grin. And she's mine.
I think I need a moment. I may be a sap, but I actually cried writing parts of that. I hope you've enjoyed the stroll down Memory Lane, and I hope you review regardless. Thank you!