The Bow
memoir, part 3
The Bow
It was almost dusk. We sat on the low stone wall above the harbor in San Tropez, our instruments beside us. I looked at the boats and the water below. Wogart lay at my feet. The harbor was quiet, the water still. “This is more like it,” said Jesse.
We had busked for hours that day, playing in a crowded alley outside a cafe, playing with all the vigor of youth, and, we hoped, Gypsies. It had gone well, mostly, but there was a place in one of the songs that kept falling apart. The more we played it, the more it seemed to come out wrong.
“We’d better practice that one part,” I said, “before we can only play it the wrong way.”
I got out my violin and started to play, but there was a problem with my bow—the hair had lost its tension and gone slack. I tried to tighten it, but couldn’t.
“My bow is jacked!” I said.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I don’t know.”
Jesse played softly on his guitar. The sun was going down. The lights began to go on in the houses, one by one. I looked out at the harbor. Only one small boat was lit up—I could see the silhouette of somebody on it, moving around.
The boat went dark. A man climbed out of it and onto the dock. He began to walk through the harbor, past the slips and buoys and piles of netting. He came up to us and stopped. He was around thirty, blonde, a thick blonde mustache. Good looking. He wore dirty jeans and fisherman sandals.
“Hello, good evening,” he said. He had a strong accent.
“How’s it going?” said Jesse. “Hope the music wasn’t bothering you.”
“No, not bother. I like very much. He patted Wogart. “This is nice dog, very friendly.”
The man pointed to my bow. “This, may I have? I see there is problem.”
I looked at Jesse, surprised. How could this guy know what to do? I noticed his dirty hands, but gave him the bow. I watched as he pulled a small can of oil and a greasy cloth out of his pocket. He poured some oil onto the cloth, unscrewed the bow, rubbed it with the oil, adjusted the tension, and screwed it back up.
“Try now,” he said, handing the bow back to me. It worked. How did he know, how could he have known, just what to do?
“I was watching you from the boat,” he said. “I have things there to do this work. I restore many things. I have restored this old boat, it is traditional Ukrainian sailboat, from long ago. I have just sailed from Ukraine. My name is Grigorovich, but you can call me George, it is easier for you to say, maybe?” He laughed.
Jesse and I looked at each other, happy to have met a new friend. He was like us, but different.
“Now I go to friend’s house for dinner,” said George, “but tomorrow you come see boat? Help work, yes? I will give some food to you, there.” His friendliness was undeniable. After a little hesitation, we agreed.
When we got back to the van I got undressed right away and climbed into bed. “I’ll join you in a minute,” said Jesse. “Gonna sit outside and have a quick beer first.” I heard the door shut after him.
I woke up the next morning to find Jesse asleep next to me. I hadn’t heard him come in. I climbed out of the van and looked around. We had camped at the furthermost point of the village in an empty parking lot next to the beach. I walked down to the water. Wogart ran ahead, scattering birds. Looking down the coast I could see the red rooftops of Cannes. Half asleep, I stood and watched the sun rise. The sky turned slowly, but still too quick, from pink to gold to blue. There was just the edge of a fog now, rolled back over the hills.
Jesse was standing outside the van when we got back.
“Good morning,” he said, smiling. “It sure is a beautiful day today. I was just about to put the coffee on, do you want some?”
He came over and put his arms around me. I looked out at the ocean. There were a few sailboats on the water.
“Sure,” I said.
George
The town was starting to wake up. We walked toward the harbor, Wogart running ahead. It was still early, but you could tell it was going to be hot. An old woman shook out a mat, then swept the dust away from her doorstep. In an alley behind the bakery, boys were loading up their carts with baguettes. Maybe later we'd have croissants at a cafe, sit at a table outside one of the restaurants where we'd busked the day before, and scatter flakes into our coffee as we tore apart the soft dough.
At the beach next to the harbor we saw George, swimming hard in the clear water. We stood and watched him until he came out, shaking his wet head. Little droplets of water glistened on his skin. “Hello,” he said, smiling. “I like for to swim, it makes me awake, cold water, yes!” He shook himself, briskly, enthusiastically, to demonstrate. We laughed.
“Okay. You come now? I go to find food, for our lunch.” We followed him down to the edge of the village where the road turned inland and began to climb. The trees grew thick and close together. The air was cool under their shade.
“We must now find, how do you say, parasol, for when it rains?” said George. He held up an imaginary parasol, to demonstrate.
“Umbrella?” I ventured.
“Yes! That is right word. We must find champignon, that looks like umbrella.”
At the base of the trees, if you looked carefully, you might see a glimmer of white—a mushroom, as big or bigger than my hand. George took off his cap and held it out in front of him.
“In Ukraine, we carry like this.” He put a mushroom in the cap. We picked as many as our hats could hold, and carried them, carefully, out of the forest and back down the road to the harbor, where fishermen, busy with nets, shouted to one another against the wind. George led us past the big yachts and fishing boats to his own small boat. We climbed in, a little unsteady at first on our legs. There wasn’t much in the boat—a bench to sit on, some cans of oil, a pile of lumber in the stern. George bent down and began to sort through the lumber. He held up a piece of wood.
“Today I put this, for decoration. How do you say in English?”
“Trim, I think,” I said.
“Yes. Trim. Today I must make smooth. Tomorrow, I put, here.” He outlined the rim of the boat with his hand.
“Maybe today you work with me?”
I looked at Jesse.
“Yeah we could do that—sounds good,” he said.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Maybe you not like so much to work, hey?” said George.
“Well,” I said, remembering how he had fixed my bow.
“It is okay! You work how much you like, then maybe, you play violin, for our music, while we work? Yeah, sounds good?” said George, mimicking Jesse. I laughed.
“Sounds good.”
We sat on the floor of the boat and sanded, first with a coarse paper, moving by degrees to a finer grain. Wogart sat down at the other end of the boat and looked on—relaxed but alert. George told us about his family, the village he lived in outside of Kiev, how much he liked to work like this, at home in the Ukraine, fixing old buildings that were destroyed in the war, churches mostly, trying to restore, to undo some of the damage. How he liked to go out to sea, still working, but unfettered by a regular job—and, I suspected, by his wife and children. “I like to be free,” he said. “I fish when I am hungry, I make many new friends, share bottles of wine. I fix things for people—they give to me food and money. It is rough life, but good. When I get tired of it I go back to home. You also are living, like I do. You want freedom, earn money how you like. It is not easy life, but good. It is good to travel, see world, learn of people. And you cannot play this Gypsy music, like this, without living, also, like this.” It was true, an uncomfortable fact sometimes, but no little praise, and we felt it. “Now, we have lunch. You know how to find parasol, and it is free! And very good to eat.”
George squatted down in the bottom of the boat. Among the tools and scraps of wood and tins of stain were some dishes and utensils, a small camp stove, a bag full of food.
“I’ll go get some beer,” said Jesse. “Be right back. Come on, Wogart.” They climbed carefully out of the boat, one after the other.
“Watch now,” said George, beckoning to me. I sat down next to him. The boat rocked in the water. I watched as he chopped up an onion and some garlic, then made a batter with flour and milk and an egg. It was cramped and we kept bumping into each other. I watched as he lit the stove, put a pan on it, opened a tin of olive oil and poured some into the hot pan. He looked absorbed, intent, crouched above the stove with his knees sticking out. Finally, with a wink, he reached across me and took a mushroom from my hat, which was sitting next to me. He put the mushroom in the batter, turning it until it was covered. “Now is ready to cook,” he said. He put the garlic and onions into the pan. They hissed in the hot oil. He added the mushroom and I watched as it began to brown. It smelled good—that comforting smell of something cooking, like when it’s dark and cold outside and you’re walking toward home and getting hungry. The lights begin to go on in the houses as you walk and as you open the door to your own house you can hear the sound of dishes clattering, of people talking, you’re home now and it’s warm and it’s time to take off your coat and eat. The mushrooms as they browned smelled hearty like that, but I wasn’t at home. I was in a foreign country with a strange and attractive guy cooking food outside in a boat and it was uncomfortable and exciting.
“It is good to find food, to find champignon,” said George. “I make money, not so much, when travel so I am, how do you say? Living without many things, not like at home?”
“You're roughing it.”
“Ah! Yes. And you also are roughing it, live in van, play music for money, yes?” he smiled.
“Yes!” I said, laughing.
“So! We rough it together, eat champignon. You have had like this?”
“No, never.”
We helped George after that on his boat pretty often. Sometimes he found other work, construction or fishing on one of the local boats, and then, flush, he would buy a bottle of wine and maybe some bread and cheese for us to share. Sometimes he’d take a break to come watch us busk. He’d listen for a while, smiling, nodding his head in rhythm. With a wink, he’d throw a few francs into my violin case. He worked hard and was generous. He was friendly and easy and made friends all over the village.
The Party
George had been sleeping with a woman who had a flat above the harbor. She was beautiful and rich. She had asked George to house sit for a few days while she was away. He decided that he should make the most of it and have a dinner party in the flat.
“We will cook a big meal, drink vodka,” he said. “I will make Yushka, it is traditional fish soup, you will like!” I knew that, being vegetarian, I wouldn’t like or even eat the soup but I was excited to have dinner inside at a real table with no bugs or dirt or weather.
George showed us how to make Ukrainian food—fish soup and jam dumplings, pickled vegetables and boiled eggs. We cooked all day. When the food was done Jesse went out to buy some vodka. I stayed at the flat with George and helped him set the table.
“Ah, that is good then,” he said. “We are ready for party. I go outside now to smoke.” He patted his shirt where he kept his cigarettes. “You come, keep company, okay?”
I sat on the wall of the harbor next to George while he smoked. Our legs dangled over the water. I looked at the boats. The water was grey and choppy in the breeze. The sun was at an angle, almost dark.
“You have been together, long time, with Jesse?” said George.
“Kind of.”
The sun was going down fast. I shivered. George took off his sweater. I looked at his arms as he stretched them above his head, and noticed how the hairs lay flat, fine and blonde, against his tan.
“Here, please, put this on.” He handed me the sweater. I pulled it over my head. My hair got stuck under the collar. He reached over and pulled it free, then smoothed it down, letting his hand rest on the back of my neck. I turned toward him.
“Thanks,” I said. He took his hand off my neck and shrugged, grinning. We were quiet for a few minutes.
“You and Jesse, are happy together?” said George.
“It's good,” I said.
I thought for a moment.
“Some days are better than others,” I added.
“Yes. And Jesse, he likes to drink, very much, and you, not so much. That will make difficult, yes?”
“Yes.”
It was true or part of the truth and it felt good to confide in someone about it. After a few minutes George finished his cigarette and we went inside. I took off his sweater and gave it back to him.
The dinner was good, and the vodka was good, or good enough. It was just George and me and Jesse and a couple of fishermen that George knew. One of them, Henrí, was young and handsome, and so French. I tried not to stare, as, head to one side, he ran his fingers through his dark wavy hair. Jesse got drunk very quickly and after that he was the life of the party. I watched him laughing in the corner with Henrí. I drank my vodka and looked away. I wanted to have a good time. The men were drunk. They laughed. It was hot. I got up and walked over to the window. I looked out at the harbor and the boats. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. Someone came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. Jesse, I thought. I turned around, smiling, but it was George. I could feel his hot alcohol breath on the back of my neck. He leaned in closer, then caught hold of my bra strap through my shirt. He pulled it back, snapped it and laughed. I froze.
“You are very pretty, I like you very much,” he whispered. “Maybe you come with me now to boat?” I could feel his hand on my back. I didn’t move.
“I’m with Jesse,” I said finally.
“Jesse does not see you. Jesse is too drunk, having good time, look.”
I didn’t need to look. George leaned in a little closer. I felt his mustache brush my ear.
“You are very sexy girl… here.” He outlined my body with his hands. I winced at the words, they were slimy and cliché and not like George. They sounded like something a creepy guy might say, and I remembered then about men. I remembered how people get when they’re drunk. I wasn’t drunk and I thought about how it must be with him right then. I moved closer to the window.
“I have no one,” said George.
“You have a wife,” I said.
“Oh, she is not so good. Not much of wife, always complain.” He lifted his arm and stroked my hair. I stood still. His hand moved slowly down the length of my back and rested at my waist. I thought about him wanting me and his boat and how that might be.
“I’m sorry,” I said finally.
In the morning the Gendarme came down to the van. “No caravan,” they said, “you must leave San Tropez, no camping.”
Traditional Romanian folk song, Anna and “Jesse”
When was this? I got creeped out when George tried to make “sexy time” (!) with you. Why do men get like that? We’ve all been through stuff like this. I know the Saint Tropez area quite well, and the book I’m writing is set around there. My father in law used to have a house in Gigaro. Lovely writing xx
I have to pace myself. This one almost gave me a heart attack.