Calvin clutched his hand to his stomach as he watched the boat whose bow he stood so uneasily at being tied to the dock. Four white men, tall and marked from life close to the ocean, moved back and forth along the rope from the dock to the deck of the boat with the ease of birds on a clear day. Leonide came up behind Calvin and clamped a tight hand over his shoulder.
"Here we are," he said brightly, gesturing to the vast coastal landscape. "France."
Calvin shrugged Leonide's hand off to march towards the bridge to the dock.
"That Victorian is for you," Leonide called after Calvin, his outstretched hand moving from the landscape to the black carriage just beyond the dock.
A simple nod was the only response Leonide was met with. While Calvin dragged himself across the bridge to the dock and then finally onto dry, stable land, Leonide oversaw the handling of all of Calvin's precious cargo. His steamer trunks and hat boxes and luggages were carried off under his close supervision and loaded into a separate, longer Victorian that was stopped behind the one Calvin had just climbed into.
"I advise you to be careful with those trunks," Leonide told one of the dockhands.
"Yes, yes," the man responded, bowing.
Calvin turned in his seat. The dockhand's accent fascinated him. It shocked and aroused him. He pulled his telescope hat low over his forehead and closed his eyes as he sat properly in his seat. The tumultuous trip mixed with the sticky sea air left his stomach in dense knots. He clenched his jaw and swallowed hard, the acid rolling up and down the back of his throat leaving a sour taste in his mouth. He stuck two fingers between the buttons of his waistcoat and waited silently while his and Leonide's things were loaded. An hour under the sweltering French sun elapsed before the Victorians began their trip to the villa Calvin would be staying in.