AWAKENING, CHAPTER 33: Les Amateurs de Sport (The Sports Fans)

On the sidewalk outside the café, Julien listened half in amazement as Peter leaned in, telling him in confident tones about how to please a lady. Julien, at 24, was four years older than Peter, and he was surprised at his self-assurance. Apart from Josette, Julien really hadn't had much experience with women.

Oh, he had fumbled around a few times with girls after dances or during languid summer afternoons at the family's old cottage in the Pyrenees. He'd kissed and held hands and romped and had fun. At university, he'd hung out with a few girls, all of whom quickly heard about Josette, who was his best friend and always had been. That made him seem safe, somehow, and girls who were friends were most definitely a big part of his life.

But Josette was his one and only. Julien and Josette were completely at ease together and he cherished her company. She was the first girl he'd kissed, when he was seven and she was six, on a dare from his older brother while they were all playing house. At nine, he was regularly paired off with Josette in the dance classes attended by all the children from the best families in Troyes. At thirteen, he would run from his school to wait outside the girls' school she attended to walk her home. At fifteen, he first called her his girlfriend. At seventeen, when all their friends were lustily seeking intimacy, he asked if she wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Her eyes twinkled as she said she thought they might as well give it a try. They did, and they liked it, so occasional couplings became part of their friendship too.

Shortly after Julien finished his master's degree in Toulouse in June 1945, they became engaged, just as everyone had always expected. Three months later, they moved to Paris. Josette was embarking on an art restoration fellowship at the Louvre, and Julien was itching to build a culinary career away from home. They would be earning very little and wanted to share a flat for reasons they both considered eminently practical, but two sets of devoutly Catholic parents had nixed that idea. No one was naïve; they were well aware that young people of their age were often intimate, but they saw no reason to encourage, let alone broadcast, that fact. It wasn't done for a young man and woman to share a home before marriage.

So they settled into separate flats with help from their fathers—a rambling flat shared with three other girls for Josette, and a cozy one-bedroom for Julien. By winter Julien's flat had become their de facto home, and Josette only moved out whenever his parents came to visit. They chatted together, cooked together, curled up to read together, listened to music and danced together, and snuggled up at night together. Their flat became the hub for entertaining a small group of friends from home and from Julien's university days who had also landed in Paris, and together they all went to plays, concerts, and ballets.

And of course, they found time for intimacy, as they had for so long. They both had needs, after all, and practice for marriage was a good thing. She was careful, he was gentle, and their passions were well regulated. At university, Julien would often hear the other boys fantasizing about girls, lusting after girls, and he just had to laugh. It wasn't a big deal.

Apparently, however, it was a bigger deal than he realized. Julien had no idea women were capable of the response Peter was describing.

"The key with a girl is that you need to j-j-just slow down," Peter said. "Take your time and make sure she's pleased." He let out a puff of smoke and gestured at Julien's hands. "You can start by trimming your fingernails. Honestly, Julien, that's how I could tell…"

"You could tell what?" Julien said in mock alarm as he stifled a grin. Peter really was an interesting friend. He was so shy at first, and now here he was, shattering Julien's beliefs about English reserve.

"That you're not using your ffffingers to their best advantage in bed," Peter shrugged. "Sit near me at dinner tonight. I'll make sure we have a chance to pull Danielle aside. She'll help you find some nice lingerie. I'm sure if you t-take some time to romance Josette properly, she won't argue with postponing the trip to Troyes. And there's no reason the girls can't go to the tennis matches with us, and watch the Tour de France. Do you think she'll want to go? I think we can get both, both, both girls excited about sporting events if we chat them up over dinner…"

Julien was smiling broadly now as he listened to Peter scheming ways to keep him in Josette's good graces and share some good times together. He was talking and talking and talking, shifting effortlessly between French and English, and his eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm.

Suddenly Julien leaned in and kissed Peter on the lips, right there in the middle of the afternoon on the busy pavement in front of the Café Rossignol. He felt his head spin for a moment and looked around to see if the entire world was staring. No one had even noticed.

Peter sputtered to a stop. "What was that for?" he asked, eyes wide.

Julien wasn't sure, but he had to say something. "I couldn't figure out another way to make you shut up," he laughed, punching Peter on the upper arm. "God, you really talk a lot when you get started."

"I've been told that," Peter grinned back at him. "But blimey, give a bloke some warning next time. I'll be sure to have a Fox's Glacier Mint first." He made a show of wiping off his lips, but his insides were fluttering. Julien was obviously joking, of course, and after all, he was French, Peter reasoned, but the kiss had been a pleasant surprise.

"And how's that working for you and Suzanne?" Julien asked with an elbow to Peter's rib as they headed back inside.

"I'll say this much—that girl can kiss," Peter replied, swatting him back. They were shoving one another around the way rambunctious young men do.

As Peter and Julien returned to their table, busboys were beginning to clear the vast array of plates, cups, and ashtrays that had accumulated over the past two hours. They sat down anyway and waved a waiter over for a final cup of coffee. They lit cigarettes, stared across the table at each other, and burst into laughter.

"What the hell was that, anyway?" Peter asked. "Is this a habit with you?" His tone was friendly and amused.

"No, it's just you," Julien tossed back. "You take yourself too seriously, Peter. And you really do talk too much." He kicked him under the table with a dirty football boot, Peter kicked back, and once again they sat comfortably with their ankles tangled together. The table, after all, wasn't that big.

Peter looked down, grinning, as he collected his thoughts. He looked back at Julien with trust in his eyes. "For a lllllong time, I didn't speak very much at all. N-not if I didn't have to do," he said. "Because of my st-st-st…" He stopped and nodded at Julien. "You know."

"Because of your stammer," Julien filled in.

"Yes. I couldn't start a sentence around most people." He chuckled as he added, "LeBeau was the first person to tell me I was une vraie pipelette, a chatterbox."

"You found it easy to talk to him?" Julien asked. As Peter nodded, Julien continued: "Why do you think that was?"

"He tricked me, the blighter," Peter replied with a heartier laugh. Suddenly, he gulped hard and swiped at his eyes. Julien laid a hand down on his arm.

"The truth is, I was very ill, and he took care of me. He ruddy well saved my life more than once," Peter began. "The first time was when dysentery was killing blokes right and left in the Stalag. He poured water and broth down my throat when I couldn't even stand up to piss. Gradually I got stronger but I was always in trouble and I didn't want to drag him down.

"So I kept trying to push him off, but he was like a dog that wanted to play fetch," Peter continued. "I'd toss the ball as far away as I could to try to get rid of him, but every single time he nabbed it and came romping back up to me. I was angry and cursing all the time and he j-j-just took it in stride. Gradually he wore me down to where we was talking about our lives back home, and he would ask me to sp-speak more slowly so he could follow what I was saying. He was acting like his English was, was, was poor so it was his problem he was trying to fffix, not mine. Turns out his English was v-v-v-very advanced and he understood everything except for some slang. He was just helping me get the words out."

Peter swiped at his eyes again but forced out a grin. "Sorry. Here I go again, talking too much. The fact is, I didn't want nobody to be my friend back then, but he wouldn't stop trying. He saw more worth in me than I saw in myself."

"That is love," Julien said simply.

"It is," Peter replied. "He helped me use my voice and he never once acted like there was anything wrong with how I sp-sp-spoke. From then on, we looked after one another." He shrugged. "He's my brother. I trust him with my life."

Julien had wondered about Peter's relationship with LeBeau; he could see that they were as close as brothers. He hadn't been in the war or a prisoner so he couldn't really fathom the deep bond that those two had forged. His and Peter's friendship had only been developing for a month and it was the first time Julien had heard him speak so freely and from the heart.

Peter averted his eyes again, trying to gather himself, when he noticed Mavis, at the opposite end of the table, watching him curiously. She nodded and smiled in the encouraging way she'd always had with her little brother. Julien turned and saw her too, and grinned, earning a broad smile back from Mavis. Then she was on her feet and coming down to sit with them.

She sat beside Peter and took his arm. "You two look very serious," she said.

Peter leaned over and kissed Mavis's cheek. "Sorry. I started talking about the war and how I met LeBeau."

XXX

Saturday was the busiest night in the restaurant, but LeBeau was knocking off after the lunch shift to host the farewell dinner for Mavis and Nora. He'd put the finishing touches on the menu that morning. The centerpieces were goat cheese and tomato tarts and coq au vin, which LeBeau planned to dispatch still hot from the restaurant by taxi. He'd put Pierre in charge of a garden salad, and had made "no tomatoes" his only condition since they were featured prominently in the tarts.

And he had organized the table for twelve guests. This time the task was made easier by having even numbers of men and women for a change. Danielle's cousin François couldn't make it this time. He was emphatic that Cosette was not to blame, but LeBeau had his doubts. Instead, Suzanne's roommate Adele was coming.

He came home at 3 o'clock to find Peter hard at work in the kitchen while his sisters took a final stroll through the Marais with Danielle.

"Strawberries, almonds, and brie," LeBeau said with admiration as he watched Peter preparing his ingredients. "The yellow pepper strips are a nice touch, Pierre."

"They're for color contrast," Peter replied. He put down his knife, wiped his brow, and grinned at LeBeau. "Like a bright pair of socks with a dark suit."

LeBeau made a face. "Now I'm going to think of socks in the salad. Thank you so much," he grumbled before breaking into a teasing grin. "There really are parallels, aren't there? Between the sartorial and culinary worlds."

"There's quality and there's style in both," Peter nodded. "Wouldn't have guessed it from your ruddy fish stew."

"That's not fair," LeBeau said, rapping Peter on the shoulder with a kitchen towel. "I didn't exactly have the finest ingredients."

"I never understood where the fish came from at all, really," Peter mused. "We were quite far from the coast."

"Freshwaters. Lakes and rivers," LeBeau said in a voice tinged in regret. "It's not ideal. One really needs seafood—a firm fish, a flaky fish, and mussels or shrimp, and lots of Mediterranean sunshine. We had brochet, perche, ombre de rivière and gloomy German skies," he remembered. He noticed Peter's uncomprehending expression; his French had come a long way, but not that far. "Ah, I think you say pike, perch, and … um, grayling. Two firm fishes, one flaky, and it's just not the same. But we needed protein, even if none of you ever understood what I went through just to get that…"

LeBeau was off and running now on a rant about the challenges of cooking for ungrateful men in impossible conditions with meager ingredients. By now, LeBeau had taken up a knife to carve some radishes and carrots into garnishes, and Peter quickly joined in.

They stood side by side in the kitchen, working easily and talking about old times.

Finally there was a lull in the conversation. "You're going to miss your sisters," LeBeau said.

Peter sighed. "I will. But I'll see them soon enough." His thoughts turned to the plan he had concocted with Julien. "Where are we all sitting tonight? Can I be next to Danielle?"

"Already done," LeBeau said with a smile. He had carefully mapped the seating arrangements. "I'm at the head, and Henri is at the opposite end. Each of us will have a guest of honor to our right—Nora is with me, and Mavis is with Henri," he explained to Peter. "Suzanne is bringing Adele."

"No François? Mavis liked him."

"No François. Pierre, pay attention. This time we have even numbers of men and women for a change. Six and six."

Peter's head was spinning. "Alright. Where am I sitting? And who's with Nora and Mavis?"

LeBeau sighed. "Pierre, please, écoute-moi quand je te parle. To my right, it's Nora, Gaston, Adele, you and Danielle. To my left, Josette, Jean-Claude, Suzanne, Julien, and Mavis."

"Josette's at the other end," Peter said. "That's good."

"Why? Don't you like Josette?" LeBeau asked quizzically.

"No, I adore her! It's just … Julien and I need to talk to Danielle about something. Something Julien wants to do for Josette."

"Hmm. Sounds serious," LeBeau replied.

"We just need Danielle's help with some … some lingerie," Peter said. "She'll know how to buy it, won't she? What to choose, I mean?"

"Oh, I would say so," LeBeau said. He was smiling as he said it, thinking of a particularly fetching midnight blue silk peignoir set she had worn two nights earlier.

"Well, good. Because Julien needs help. He's a bit mystified as to what women really want, I think," Peter mused.

"And you're the expert, are you?" LeBeau teased, poking Peter's rib with his elbow. There was actually no denying Pierre's ability to charm ladies—and now men too, LeBeau thought.

"I'm certainly more romantic than he is, Louis," Peter said earnestly. "I know he's engaged, but I think they take each other for granted. He seems quite clueless about some things. I want them to be happy together, and I told him he's got to step up his game with that girl." Peter decided there was no need to mention the fact that he wanted Julien to stick around for a couple of sporting events in late July before his days in Paris were up.

LeBeau jutted out his lip and bobbed his head as he pondered everything Peter had said. "You do know quite a bit about romance, don't you?"

"I should hope so, mate. After all, I learned from the best," Peter replied with a grin.

Sorry I've been away for so long! I'm pleased to finally be back with an update. (Two scenes that are loosely connected...) I'm in the midst of a heavy workload in college but I hope to be able to update a little more frequently over the summer.

Thank you to Valashu for reading and critiquing this chapter-she is the best collaborator! And thank you to my beta Abracadebra for help polishing it up and for constantly challenging me to "color in the background."

I think the little bits of French are understandable. In the kitchen, LeBeau says, "Peter, listen to me when I'm talking to you." LeBeau calling Newkirk "une vraie pipelette" comes from Chapter 3 of my story "Done Talking."