By Salomé Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer
featured image is Sappho and Erinna in a Garden at Mytilene by Simeon Solomon (1864)
The summer that I was seven, I accompanied my father and his young mistress- a girl of twenty-four- on a weekend trip to Paris. That night, we dined in a cafe on the Seine, the damp air thick with the scent of algae upon ancient stones, and cigarette smoke.
After our plates were cleared, there was still half a bottle of wine to finish, and the adults were in no hurry. When my fidgeting became too much of a distraction for their date, I was excused to explore the riverbank.
“Stay where I can see you,” my father said.
But I knew he would be too busy gazing into Pascal’s brown eyes to check.
As I walked to the river, an old man played his accordion for tourists, while a tired looking dog kept watch over the empty case and its smattering of Francs.
In the shadows of a bridge, I discovered a young man and woman, locked in a passionate embrace. The young woman wore very short shorts and a tattered, oversized long sleeve t-shirt. Her low, messy bun had been so thrashed by the rigors of passion that it was about to fall out. And yet, I thought that I had never seen someone so glamorous.
My breath seized in my tiny chest. I gasped and then froze, hot blood rushing to the apples of my cheeks in my embarrassment.
Of course, the couple did not notice me, or stop making out for even a single second. I leaned back into the shadow of the river wall, catching my breath. I then consciously decided to continue observing this couple. I knew that if I kept watching them on purpose, it became spying- which I found both exhilarating and terrifying.
The woman’s deeply tanned, shapely legs were wrapped around her lover’s waist, her mouth hungrily attached to his, her back to the Seine. Even in the low light, I could see that her cheeks were damp with sweat, and just as flushed as my own.
The blood in my body swirled furiously, sending chills down my spine and hot waves of sensation into my lower abdomen. I remembered what my friend Mabel had said at school, about her own nascent sexual awakening.
“It’s all tingly down there. You feel like you have to go to the bathroom, but then you don’t.”
Mabel had described this feeling, with absolute certainty, as a good thing. I wasn’t so sure.
My heart raced, sending blood pounding into my temples. Suddenly, it seemed very loud inside my head, too loud to hear my own breath over the thunderous storm that swelled in me.
And then a petite splash behind me interrupted my thoughts. I turned to see that a frog had announced their presence by landing in a puddle, and rescuing me from my panicked confusion.
Gratefully, I turned all of my attention to the frog. It hopped in the opposite direction of the young lovers, and I followed.
The frog led me a few meters, and when we arrived at the next cluster of shadows, a Romani girl stepped into the light and blocked my path. She was about 12 and nearly a head taller than me, so I stopped.
The frog continued on without me.
“Es-tu seul?” she demanded.
I said nothing, but nodded my head.
Firmly, she placed her hand just below my throat and drew me back into the darkness. She touched my earlobes, then placed her hands gently around my neck. She brushed them down my shoulders and arms, sending me into shivers. Half from fear, half from curiosity.
The girl’s fingertips were calloused, but her palms were soft and cool to the touch in the muggy summer air. When she arrived at my wrists, she took each of my hands in hers and found what she was looking for.
On my right ring finger, an Opal birthstone ring, size 3. A gift from my grandmother on my most recent birthday.
“You’re a young lady now,” she had said, “and young ladies need to wear fine jewelry.”
“Ça,” the Romani girl uttered.
“Donne moi.”
She wasn’t asking, and yet I didn’t feel coerced. I wanted to give it to her, and I wasn’t really sure why. So I took off my ring and gave it to her.
She tried to slide it onto the ring finger of her left hand, but it got stuck after the first knuckle. She shrugged and left it there.
She turned her attention to me one last time, pushing me hard against the old stones to look deeply into my eyes. Her pale green irises seemed especially bright against the wet, black lashes.
“Merci,” she said, her features softening. And then she released me.
I scurried off, back up the stairs to the street level, welcomed by the yellow gas lamps of the cafe. I arrived back at the table out of breath, where my father and Pascal were just finishing their petites cafes.
“Whoa, where’s the fire, Lo?” My dad laughed at my disheveled appearance.
“We’ve not even called for the check.”
“I saw a frog,” I said. “On the river.”
“Oh! But you should have invited him for dessert!” Pascal exclaimed.
“It’s best that she didn’t,” my father replied. “They’d cut off his legs and fry them!”
Pascal laughed, but I scowled at his joke.
My mind drifted from the frog to the older girl who now wore my ring. And then to the girl locked in a never-ending kiss. I shuddered a little, flashing back to the unfamiliar tides that had been stirred in me this evening.
Neither Pascal nor my father took notice.
If my father ever noticed that the ring his mother gave me had gone missing, he never said a word.
And I have never told anyone what happened to it until now.
LE FIN
About the Author:
Salomé Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer is an author, artist and scholar of human sexuality.
