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I stepped into the little finger of woodland towards
the bench that I called mine. Few tourists came to this
corner of the papal gardens where the trees blunted the
white-hot sun and incessant Mistral wind. Beyond the trees
and over a stone guard wall lay the wandering streets and
slumping church towers of Avignon. I turned to my bench,
but I was not alone.
A man sprawled across its length on an unzipped
sleeping bag. One hand beneath his head, one hand over the
bench edge, he lay with his eyes closed, his shirt open, and
his sneakers unlaced. In his knapsack were a thermos and
provisions in foil, enough for several afternoons.
I backstepped, out of the man’s sight should he stir,
and kicked at a tuft of grass. Avignon was a beautiful city
of stone and light and wind, but nothing had gone well since
I stepped off the train three weeks before. My classes went
poorly, my host mother boarded me only for money, and I had
no close friends among my fellow students. Surely one bench
was not too large a thing to ask of the city.
The sun beat down, as it tends to do on the unhappy. I
skirted the finger of trees and took a place on a lower
bench. There the stone wall blocked any view of the city
and shade was sparser. Twice I moved to elude the sun
before the stranger rose and sat on the bench nearest me.
His shoes still untied, he lit a cigarette, drew deeply, and
squinted around him.
"What are you reading?" he asked.
The French dictionary gave me away as an English
speaker. I put it face down and considered the man who had
stolen my bench. Niceness is a flaw of mine.
"Huis Clos by Sartre."
He nodded and drew on the cigarette. Undoubtedly both
play and author were alien to him. But his voice intrigued
me. It wasn’t British or South African, not Australian.
"Does my smoking bother you?"
"Oh, no." The Mistral blew in the opposite direction.
But he was polite to ask.
He turned towards me. "Are you here to study?"
I nodded and, because it was the nice thing to do,
explained that I was enrolled in a summer French institute.
I lived in a French home, took French classes, and went on
French cultural excursions on the weekends. In Paris I had
visited the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Cluny Museum, and
the Opera House. I had seen a play in the Comedie Française
and eaten in a real French bistro. In Provence I visited
chateaux and experienced a degustation de vin. The mayor of
Avignon had thrown a tea in honor of us students, complete
with wine and hors d’oeuvres. I had toured Roman ruins,
climbed a Roman aqueduct, and visited the fairy-tale town of
Ruission, where the houses are built of rose-colored soil.
The south of France was open to me, but I did not tell this
stranger — because I could not admit it to myself — that all I
wanted was to speak to another person in English and leave
this strange land of incessant sunlight.
The stranger lounged on his bench, listening and
smiling so that the skin at the corners of his blue eyes
crinkled. When it came time for him to share, he revealed
he was from Scotland — a land apparently of pubs and
captivating voices. He had begun a backpacking trip through
Europe when the Provençal sun took him unprepared.
"This sun is wicked," I sympathized. "I’ve burned the
top of my head more times than I want to admit." I tipped
my head down to show him the part running along the top. We
laughed, the commiserate pain of two light-skinned blondes.
"How long are you staying in Avignon?"
He shrugged and looked over the guard wall. "Long
enough to recover and see the sights."
"The exposition on beauty in the Palais des Papes isn’t
worth it. But there’s a display of photographs of
Michelangelo’s Pieta that’s extraordinary. And of course
you have to see the Pont d’Avignon — the Avignon Bridge."
His eyes crinkled, and a tingle ran up my spine. Here
was I talking to a Scotsman about the tourist points of
Avignon.
"Do you have plans for this evening?" he asked.
I should have thought on his question. Instead I spoke
the truth: "The annual theater festival starts soon. Some
other students and I have preview tickets to a show."
"Ah," he said. "I guess I’ll spend the evening finding
myself a place to stay."
I flushed at the thought of him bedding down. I had no
words to put to the unexpected longing I had not to go to
the play, but rather to stay in that garden talking to a
stranger from Scotland. Sunburned, wrinkle-clothed,
unshaven, this man stirred me as the ruins of ancient Rome
or the quaint streets of Avignon had not.
But the church bells were ringing, and the sun had
dipped in the sky. I reached for Huis Clos, forgotten on my
bench.
"My host mother will be expecting me."
He stood as I did. "Good luck with your studies."
Niceness may be a flaw, but shyness is a curse. It
seized my tongue and cast words down my throat. Three weeks
of study still stretched before me, and I could have told
him I came to the garden every afternoon. I could have
remembered our extra tickets and asked him to join me.
Had I been bold, I would have asked his name.
Instead I offered what niceties I could. "Good luck
with your trip."
We parted without shaking hands, and the wind blew my
hair in my eyes. Three weeks remained for me in Avignon,
and every day my bench would be empty when I stepped off the
pathway into the finger of woods. This I should have known
when I began my descent from the garden.
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