Last night Jacques Vial, my patron in Perpignan and cousin to Olivier Brial (Cousins could be anyone from the same town or village in Catalunya), had invited some forty people to a forest dinner. At a long white-clothed table his beau-frere, his wife, Jean-Louis, his employer, Francois, a compatriot, a sad carpenter, a skilled woodsman, doctors, painters, the Brials and waves bronzed by the Med sun.
No tan lines on the shoulders.
I was the only American there, but I was a cousin too.
Family covered a lot of ground in the South of France.
We dined on Sanglala, a Spanish fish dish, almost like a paella, however the fish was better.
Wine loosened tongues. Old stories transported to laughter. Everyone laughed at how Oliver’s father, Doctor Dudu, had thought I was the 17th ranked tennis player in the USA five years earlier. Everyone was a target. Everyone got their good-hearted revenge. No one spoke politics. The party lines were old fights for for a dinner or at least until several someones had drunk too much.
It was great to be Rousillion and even better to be away from the Reagan USA.
Despite my reputation of a nightclub thug, I had been invited everywhere; Prades in the Pyrenees, Toulouse, the casinos of Cardeques, and the bars of Barcelona and Coillierre harbor. Jacques had sold me as good people. He was a good salesman.
The bright southern sun blindingly lit the walls of the 3rd floor bedroom on Blvd. Wilson.
Carnet-Plage was only twenty minutes away, I called Serge to accompany me, however his girlfriend said, “He’s sleeping.”
“Another long night at the Playa de Argeles.” I hadn’t returned to the nightclub, since the weekend.
“Et toi?”
“The same.”
I hung up and phoned Alan Vaughan in Paris. Sleep drenched his voice. No one was waking early today and he said softly, “I can’t talk now.”
I suspected Mdme. Chenu was in bed next to him.
Friends stop talking to you once they fall in love.
Next call.
Pauline in Barcelona only two away from Perpignan.
“Come down. We can drink wine on the beach tonight.”
I packed up bag for a weeklong trip. Pauline was modeling during the day and I was writing a collection of short stories. I arrived at the train station with a single bag packed with my Aiwa tapeplayer and a Canon typewriter carrying case. The bag’s strap had broken in Luxembourg Aeroport. I lugged it in my hand. I wished I had left behind both and only had a bathing suit in my bag. Pauline liked the beach.
Three hours later I’m on a topless beach with my friend. Her cigar-thick nipples certainly change a man’s view on life. She touched my shoulder. I’ve been alone to long to be alone tonight. I love 1988.
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