Carré Setting
by W.F. Lantry
Gold buttons on a military coat. Anna Wintour approved. Boots: good ones, hammered leather, almost to the knee, laced in the front, black. Stockings with no runs, barely visible below a red skirt. Saks was three blocks away. Laura Ashley was out of business. Our style betrays us.
I was on a marble bench and she was walking towards me across the stone paved plaza into the sun. I knew the mosque spires were behind her just out of sight, and the temple wasn't far off. They made a triangle of devotion: the earth was her set design, like a script written for an actress in the golden days, written for her to move through. It was still warm, but the air was clear as autumn, and the declining sun lit those buttons like polished gems, sparkling with every step.
I was early: most of the shops were already shuttered, the restaurants not yet open. I wanted to be worthy of her set and reclined on the bench, a peripheral character in an Alma-Tadema scene. Even the cedars were clipped behind the bench in anticipation of her walking, at just that moment, through the late sunlight. She never needed a second take.
People were changing all around us: the last shoppers leaving, transforming into early revelers anxious for their evening to begin. There would be dancing and music, stolen laughter underneath the lanterns, a thousand betrayals and scenes of forgiveness before midnight. But not yet. What would be crafted beauty in darkness seemed out of place while light still reflected from the cut granite walls and mirrored windows. The musicians still weren't set up, the balcony stairs empty.
We drifted away. Down the street a woman kept her consignment store open to tempt us. We browsed the relics of high-stakes divorce: Parisian coats, Tahitian scarves. In a corner of the shop, she pointed out some tiny crystal fishes, meant to swim across handcrafted tables in a delicate arrangement on Friday evenings. I bought her a cloisonné pin depicting two men walking up a Chinese mountain, one carrying a lute towards a tea house wrapped in clouds. It didn't go with her coat.
The sun had disappeared when we settled on La Miche. We sat in the large window that gave onto the plaza. I loved the contrast: within, it was old auberge, woven baskets and rough hewn beams, paintings of Eze and Grasse. Lavender was her first love, and mine the kingdom by the sea, where the orange blossoms, white in Menton, looked south over an azure sea free from storms. She turned out to be fond of Kir.
Outside, the only things missing were masks and torchlight. I could almost hear the music through the window, could follow the beat through their steps. One of the women danced with the kind of abandon I hadn't seen here: her shawl whirling above her head, her arms outstretched, her waist a promise of warm thunderstorms, wind, lightning falling all around. She was the water in the central fountain behind her, flowing forever in that one moment, liquid, a waving form.
The first course arrived as we spoke of Vermont and Montparnasse. Or rather, she spoke. I could barely mention Cuyamaca. My life seemed full of signs warning of wolftraps in the neighboring fields, walls topped with broken glass, deer hooves caught in chainlink fences. So I grew still and for once only listened. I became her narrative. It was a great relief. For once I didn't feel I had to create the earth and all of its events. And, in listening, I heard something new.
What I heard was the music stopping outside. A wind had come up, pushing the drumset off the platform. Its remnants rolled across the stone. All the dancers were looking up at a sky I couldn't see. White marble took on a hint of green reflected from those mirroring windows. Espaliered trees began to move like dancers in rhythm, their limbs suddenly set free. Then small papers were flying, handled bags turning in circles above the fountain. A first lightning bolt lit the plaza and the startled dancers ran. Thunder followed hard on the flashes.
I was surprised by the hail, by the way it bounced so randomly across the carefully laid stone. I was surprised there was weather here. One expects it on the east Texas plains or in the mountains of my coast. But here, in the built world? It didn't matter: small twigs were breaking off and flying at the window, large limbs were falling, the wind even ripped up a cherry by the roots and dropped it near the fountain. That was the last thing we saw before the lights went out.
Women are beautiful in sudden candlelight. The small globe between us became more than decoration. Even with the swirling chaos outside, only inches away from us, she was still centered. I want to say tranquil, but it wasn't like that. All my senses were aroused and composed at once. Part of me wanted to dive under a table, to cast frantically about for a basement. But she was so calm. I was attracted to her peace. So I looked outside, into the green darkness, trying to see.
The scene was lit fitfully. I gauged the distance of the lightning by how well I could see the momentary fountain;it seemed real, then disappeared, only to return in the same place. The lightning grew slowly more occasional. Then it was gone. Hail receded. The wind fell and everything, inside and out, was quiet.
There would be no second course. All the machines were down. No profiterole, no coffee, no slowly sipped eau-de-vie. Only candles and her words, light reflecting off her polished coat buttons. The earth had almost disappeared. I knew even then the world would need rebuilding, but I'm good at building things.
by W.F. Lantry
Gold buttons on a military coat. Anna Wintour approved. Boots: good ones, hammered leather, almost to the knee, laced in the front, black. Stockings with no runs, barely visible below a red skirt. Saks was three blocks away. Laura Ashley was out of business. Our style betrays us.
I was on a marble bench and she was walking towards me across the stone paved plaza into the sun. I knew the mosque spires were behind her just out of sight, and the temple wasn't far off. They made a triangle of devotion: the earth was her set design, like a script written for an actress in the golden days, written for her to move through. It was still warm, but the air was clear as autumn, and the declining sun lit those buttons like polished gems, sparkling with every step.
I was early: most of the shops were already shuttered, the restaurants not yet open. I wanted to be worthy of her set and reclined on the bench, a peripheral character in an Alma-Tadema scene. Even the cedars were clipped behind the bench in anticipation of her walking, at just that moment, through the late sunlight. She never needed a second take.
People were changing all around us: the last shoppers leaving, transforming into early revelers anxious for their evening to begin. There would be dancing and music, stolen laughter underneath the lanterns, a thousand betrayals and scenes of forgiveness before midnight. But not yet. What would be crafted beauty in darkness seemed out of place while light still reflected from the cut granite walls and mirrored windows. The musicians still weren't set up, the balcony stairs empty.
We drifted away. Down the street a woman kept her consignment store open to tempt us. We browsed the relics of high-stakes divorce: Parisian coats, Tahitian scarves. In a corner of the shop, she pointed out some tiny crystal fishes, meant to swim across handcrafted tables in a delicate arrangement on Friday evenings. I bought her a cloisonné pin depicting two men walking up a Chinese mountain, one carrying a lute towards a tea house wrapped in clouds. It didn't go with her coat.
The sun had disappeared when we settled on La Miche. We sat in the large window that gave onto the plaza. I loved the contrast: within, it was old auberge, woven baskets and rough hewn beams, paintings of Eze and Grasse. Lavender was her first love, and mine the kingdom by the sea, where the orange blossoms, white in Menton, looked south over an azure sea free from storms. She turned out to be fond of Kir.
Outside, the only things missing were masks and torchlight. I could almost hear the music through the window, could follow the beat through their steps. One of the women danced with the kind of abandon I hadn't seen here: her shawl whirling above her head, her arms outstretched, her waist a promise of warm thunderstorms, wind, lightning falling all around. She was the water in the central fountain behind her, flowing forever in that one moment, liquid, a waving form.
The first course arrived as we spoke of Vermont and Montparnasse. Or rather, she spoke. I could barely mention Cuyamaca. My life seemed full of signs warning of wolftraps in the neighboring fields, walls topped with broken glass, deer hooves caught in chainlink fences. So I grew still and for once only listened. I became her narrative. It was a great relief. For once I didn't feel I had to create the earth and all of its events. And, in listening, I heard something new.
What I heard was the music stopping outside. A wind had come up, pushing the drumset off the platform. Its remnants rolled across the stone. All the dancers were looking up at a sky I couldn't see. White marble took on a hint of green reflected from those mirroring windows. Espaliered trees began to move like dancers in rhythm, their limbs suddenly set free. Then small papers were flying, handled bags turning in circles above the fountain. A first lightning bolt lit the plaza and the startled dancers ran. Thunder followed hard on the flashes.
I was surprised by the hail, by the way it bounced so randomly across the carefully laid stone. I was surprised there was weather here. One expects it on the east Texas plains or in the mountains of my coast. But here, in the built world? It didn't matter: small twigs were breaking off and flying at the window, large limbs were falling, the wind even ripped up a cherry by the roots and dropped it near the fountain. That was the last thing we saw before the lights went out.
Women are beautiful in sudden candlelight. The small globe between us became more than decoration. Even with the swirling chaos outside, only inches away from us, she was still centered. I want to say tranquil, but it wasn't like that. All my senses were aroused and composed at once. Part of me wanted to dive under a table, to cast frantically about for a basement. But she was so calm. I was attracted to her peace. So I looked outside, into the green darkness, trying to see.
The scene was lit fitfully. I gauged the distance of the lightning by how well I could see the momentary fountain;it seemed real, then disappeared, only to return in the same place. The lightning grew slowly more occasional. Then it was gone. Hail receded. The wind fell and everything, inside and out, was quiet.
There would be no second course. All the machines were down. No profiterole, no coffee, no slowly sipped eau-de-vie. Only candles and her words, light reflecting off her polished coat buttons. The earth had almost disappeared. I knew even then the world would need rebuilding, but I'm good at building things.
