Agnes And Yves (Ma Vie en Bleu)
Chapter Twenty-Nine & Thirty
These were among my favorite chapters to write. They are reflective of classic romantic comedies. Agnes & Yves was originally written as a movie script. Chapter Twenty-Nine is a free read.
The same Senegalese driver that took Agnes to the airport earlier stared at Yves through his rearview mirror.
“I have been busy all day and stuck in traffic. I suppose now it is a good thing that this strike has ended, but look at this traffic.”
Yves stared out the window at a snarled cars pushing their way into lanes. He listened to the cacophony of horns and wondered about that madness.
“Everyone is trying to get somewhere.”
The driver furled is brow in confusion.
“You are also on your way to the airport, no?”
Yves ran his hands through his wavy hair.
“Oui, but it is not what you think.”
The driver placed a Senegalese CD of kora music in the player.
“You are tense.”
“I need to get to the airport, but not for myself. I need to stop my muse from leaving for Barcelona. You see, I will not see her again and an art patron desires paintings of her.”
The driver sighed. “Is this a love story? I enjoy stories about love.”
“Maybe it is, but it is also about my inspiration returning. I went through a long dry spell where I could not paint at all. My last muse, Anne-Marie stopped modeling for me and found me a job in a shoe store.”
“But you are not a shoe store person because you are a painter.”
“She did not think so. She had no faith in me so then I lost faith in myself.”
“So, then this other woman came along and now she is leaving.”
“I finally had the courage to break up with Anne-Marie but she is not easy to lose. Then when the tourists were stranded at the airport, I invited an American, Agnes to stay at my flat. She does not like French people so that was a problem.”
The driver shuddered. “Your life was already complicated so why did you invite a person who does not like France to stay with you?”
“It was not so bad. She behaved badly at times but I expected an American to do that.”
The driver laughed. “Americans are not so bad. I especially enjoy listening to American jazz and I even saw a few great jazz musicians when they visited Paris. They loved the French people.”
“I do not know Agnes’ taste in music. Maybe she listens to American jazz, but she was mostly hung up on Pablo Picasso and was in a rush to Spain to see a dead man.”
The traffic pushed its way towards the airport. The driver sped up. Yves tapped his fingers on the doorframe mostly out of nervous tension, hoping to arrive at the airport in time to stop the American from boarding her plane.
If she did board it, would he have the courage to board the plane too? A trip to Barcelona would not be so bad, but he had urgent matters on his mind such as getting Agnes to pose for another odalisque. Monsieur Rochelle was waiting patiently for him to cough up that painting.
The driver pulled up to the front of the terminal. Yves paid him and leaped out of the taxi. Waving at the driver, he dashed into the building.
His eyes scanned the crowds that were moving in lines; shuttling back and forth between gates and checkout points.
People with glazed over eyes wheeled their luggage across the floor, children sat in chairs munching on pastries and baguettes while their anxious parents paced talking on cell phones. Yves’ eyes roamed searching for one woman--like searching for a guppy in an ocean full of much bigger fish.
He muttered a prayer under his breath to Saint François and to Picasso. After all, he still thought Agnes was on her way to Spain because of the great painter.
An announcement for the Barcelona flight came over the intercom. Yves wrote down the number of the gate and headed in that direction. Perhaps, I will catch her in time and she will learn to love the City of Lights.
Chapter Thirty
On the Left Bank, in a cramped kitchen, Connie chopped carrots and onions for her husband’s dinner. A pot of boiling water steamed up the walls and peekaboo window that peered into a courtyard full of cherry trees.
Connie gazed out at the trees and her thoughts kept wandering back to encountering her daughter on a Paris street. She knew that Agnes would have returned some day, but to actually run into her daughter and hear about the girl’s complicated love life, disturbed the mother.
How could that crazy daughter not see love when it was staring her in the face? Sure, this painter’s life seemed complicated, but he mentioned that he broke it off with his previous lover. That French painter would be good for Agnes. If only the daughter was not bent on going to Spain and ruining her life.
Connie did her share of experimenting and true she had too many lovers revolving through their lives, but that was so long ago. She settled down with Pierre, an architect soon after her daughter had flown the coop. Agnes would have enjoyed Pierre’s company and the disappointment over her daughter’s departure dampened her romance with the architect.
Then a thought occurred to her. She could still rescue her dream of a family life. She put down her knife, checked the fish in the tiny oven, then she called her husband into the kitchen.
“Pierre, I need your help.”
Pierre dressed in a casual T-shirt and designer slacks hurried into the kitchen expecting an accident. He glanced at his tense wife.
“Ah, oui?”
Connie kissed her husband on the cheek.
“I need you to finish up with this dinner. I must go to the airport.”
She handed her husband the knife. Frowning, he stared at the onion on the cutting board.
“I do not understand. Why do you need to make this sudden trip to the airport?”
“It is a long story, but it’s not what you think.”
Connie rubbed out creases on her husband’s face.
“Don’t worry. I will tell you the whole story later, but I ran into my daughter today on the street. She was in a taxi heading towards the airport. I must stop her from leaving the city because love awaits her here and not in Barcelona.”
Pierre chopped the remaining onions in a chef fashion and tossed them into simmering pot. He tossed in herbs and spices.
“I did not know your daughter was in Paris.”
“Neither did I and she didn’t bother to look me up. She had been staying with a French painter with a complicated love life. But I think he’s now in love with Agnes, but she of course, is fleeing to Barcelona to chase after a Don Juan musician.”
The onions and the story caused tears to slip from Pierre’s eyes.
“I hope it is not the musician that has been grabbing the Spanish paper headlines. He even made it into international press.”
“I don’t know if he’s the one, only that Agnes is bent on destruction. So, I hope that I can make it to the airport in time to knock some sense into her stubborn head.”
Connie kissed Pierre and then she grabbed her purse from the counter and dashed out the door. She climbed into her vintage black Citron and made her way into the traffic jammed streets.
Meanwhile, Agnes sat in a waiting area poring through a news magazine. Catharine Jones, a middle age English woman grabbed a seat next to the American. She looked at the news magazine and yawned.
Agnes glanced at her empty wrist and realized she her watch had fallen off. She turned to Catharine.
“I lost my watch. Could you tell me what time it is?”
Catharine chuckled and then in her heavy South London accent responded,
“It’s time to leave Paris.”
Agnes tossed her magazine on an adjacent seat.
“How long have you been stranded?”
“The strike started moments after my flight from London landed. I thought the strike would last for a day or two. I had no idea I would be stuck in a youth hostel for two weeks! Mind you, my back is killing me.”
“I know what you mean. I ended up sleeping on a couch belonging to a French painter. He forgot to mention his previous lover.”
Catharine’s eyes lit up and she leaned towards the American.
“Oh, now that sounds intriguing. We have some time to kill before our flight and I would love to hear a ménage à trois story.”
“You have that wrong. Okay, so there was some sex involved when Yves painted an odalisque of me.”
“Wait a minute, you allowed a man you barely knew to paint you in the nude?”
“It’s not the sort of thing that I would normally do, but I owed him something after the frog legs episode at his favorite restaurant.”
“Oh, how delightful—your story grows more intriguing by the minute. Tell me about the frog legs episode. How did that lead you to pose nude for the painter? Is he attractive at least?”
“Well, we went to this fancy restaurant where everything on the menu was in French. I didn’t wish to appear as the dumb American so I accidentally ordered frog legs. Then when that awful entrée showed up at the table, I vomited. Then guilt ate away at me. You know how it is.”
“So, you agreed to pose nude for his painting. Where did the sex come in?”
“The first time posing for Yves was awful and I wish I had wine to calm my nerves. The second time, I posed, we made love. It was actually nicer than I thought it should be. He was gentle and gorgeous.”
Catharine shook her head.
“I don’t understand. You get stranded in Paris as if fate brought you here, you make love to a gentle Frenchman and now you are ditching him for Spain?”
“I’m sticking to my original plan, only it has been derailed. You see I was going to Barcelona to stop a musician named Pablo from marrying the wrong woman.”
“And you must be Miss Right for this Spanish musician?”
“I thought so at the time. We had an affair two years ago and I encountered him again when he was in San Francisco.”
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