Summer

The sun wriggled itself through the closed shutters, drawing thin lines on the wooden floors, shimmering shapes on the wall. The bed was unfamiliar. Martha was alone, her body floating between the sheets, disoriented and out of time. Where was she again? Why was Paul not in the bed with her? She took a deep breath, eyes still closed. The warm smell of coffee drifted into the room. She smiled, and still lying on the bed, pictured Paul, in the kitchen downstairs, with the breakfast table laid, waiting for her. And then she remembered. Emma the new helper was downstairs, preparing breakfast for the guests. Paul was sleeping, on a narrow bed by her side, breathing gently, as if everything was normal. Soon the nurse would knock on the door, to help Paul get ready, like she had done every day since the accident.

Martha and Paul had visited the house for the first time four years ago. Paul had decided to change his life, leave the city, the early morning trains and the cold board rooms. It was early spring, the pale sun peeked through the old trees in the park, the lawn and flower beds were unkept, bursting with wild daffodils. The park alley was bordered with lemon trees, potted in Anduze vases. At the back of the park four acres of almond, olive and apricot trees were spread across the Luberon hills.

‘Martha, it is like an old postcard, can you not see us live here?’, Paul was beaming, dragging her from room to room, opening doors, windows, marveling at decrepit fireplaces and dilapidated wallpapers. Martha could only see the dust, the rust, the cracks in the walls and wood flooring. But she smiled at him and nodded, ‘it is lovely’. It was Paul’s project. His dream. A Nineteenth Century Provencal Mas tucked away in a small village in Luberon, surrounded by vineyards and lavender fields. ‘Unlimited potential’ said the Real Estate advertisement. Paul agreed. Paul saw the future, the new kitchen with walnut cabinets, the blue and orange granite countertop, the bright and airy dining room opening on the park. He closed his eyes and painted the old shutters blue, planted corn flowers on the side of the house, designed a deep pool and a lawn tennis court, and a vegetable and herb garden at the back of the house. Paul was writing and drawing in his sketchbook, ‘You see, Martha, do you see?’. She nodded. She did not need to see. She just trusted him. The guest rooms would all be different, he explained, with artefacts from their travels. The blue room would host their Hirado Japanese vases, on each side of the fireplace. The purple room would fit their Vietnamese mahogany chest of drawers. ‘We will find a matching bed with a canopy’, Paul said excitedly,  ‘we’ll explore the flea markets’, ‘we’ll find something special’. The green room on the side of the house would be their room; it was a little smaller, but they would fit Martha’s narrow desk and Paul’s club arm chair. And they would build en-suites with a large walk in showers and cast iron bathtubs. The living room was vast with high ceilings and could fit 4 guest tables and Paul’s grand piano. This was the house they had been looking for to create the ‘Bed & Breakfast d’exception’ of their dreams. It would be exclusive, comfortable and charming. People would come back, tell their friends.  Americans would love it. They would feature in magazines. With a full page photo of Martha and Paul, smiling, in front of the large bay windows opening on the park. They sold their flat in the city. All their savings went into the house. Buying it was half of the battle. Renovating, upgrading,  what a journey. Paul could see it all. And he was right. Not on the money, as always, but the house, their house, after months of work, was magical and the park magnificent. It was called ‘La Bastide d’Ete’, the name engraved on a pink granite pillar at the entrance of alley of sycamore trees. They kept the name. They were ready for their first early summer season and after just a few weeks were taking bookings 3 months ahead. 

The first couple of years were a dream. Paul’s dream come true. Martha entering Paul’s dream. Their five  guest rooms were filled in between early May and October. Guests were giving them five star reviews and they had a waiting list. People would call. Guests were lawyers, writers and journalists, mostly Americans. ‘Bastide d’Ete, B&B for discerning and sophisticated Provence lovers’, Paul had written on their website. Their guests would fall in love with the house and with the Luberon region, its bustling market and colorful villages. Some guests played on the grand piano. Some were asking if Paul & Martha would open for Christmas or for Easter.  Martha and Paul were barely breaking even so they went with their clients’ demands

‘Let’s open out of season’ beamed Paul, ‘let’s adapt to the demand, make our customers happy’. Martha objected that breaks without the house full of paying guests would be welcome, ‘maybe we can invite my family, or yours to stay’. He smiled. She insisted, ‘it would be nice to take a holiday, from time to time’. 

‘Martha darling, this is perfect, where else do you need to go?’, Paul would laugh, dismissing any thought of leaving their house. 'After so much work’, he said, ‘let’s enjoy it!’. They were stuck here for the rest of their lives, she knew, Paul was winning the argument, always. They added to their offer a ‘Table d’Hote’ with half pension for gourmet guests, Paul cooking with some fresh produce and curating a local selection of wine. They worked harder, doing the early market shopping, the menus, never stopping, especially not at week-ends. 

Martha kept the house dark and cool, shutters pulled in, the sun trapped outside. At first, guests would find that a little surprising. The darkness inside. ‘Is there a funeral wake?’, they would whisper to her back. As soon as Martha had seen them to their room, they would push the shutters of their room wide open, laughing. ‘Let’s get the light in!’. They would marvel at the luminous Provence sun, at the chemistry of summer releasing scents of lavender and wild flowers, admiring the beautiful garden and looking forward to their vacation in Luberon. Later, that first night, they would lie eyes wide open in their bed, the air thick and moist with the heat of the day, cicadas chanting. Some would complain about the absence of air conditioning, most would simply leave the shutters pulled in when leaving the room the next morning. 

And today - the messy green room, with the medicine table, the rocking chair, the single bed set up along their canopy bed, just for him. Music from Radio Classic on a cheap speaker ’keeping him company’ she thought, remembering how he loved music. The bags of lavender could not hide the smell of urine. The nurse twice a day, giving him a bath, changing his clothes, putting him to bed. His docile body, a sad puppet with no spectator but her, the rotating nurses, and the few friends who ventured up to the room, from time to time, less and less. Martha tried to take care of Paul at first, her husband, the love of her life, thinking it would be good for him. His hands were so soft, so agile, years of caressing her body, stroking the piano keys. His hands still warm but floppy, heavy on his knees, confused, the thousands of lost gestures. Paul could not hold a spoon anymore. ‘Believe me, dear’, one nurse had told her, ‘let us take care of him, you have enough on your plate’. She felt his absence as she was holding his arm to walk him around the garden. He was alive, a muted presence. Sometimes he would move his lips, looking at her she thought, she would press his hand, full of hopes and expectations. He would make small noises, like a strange animal, and fall silent again. 

Martha remembered the day when Paul’s brain disintegrated. It was at the heat of summer, the flower garden in full blossom and the trees in the orchard quivering with bees and birds feeding on the apricots and peaches. 

One morning he was awake, smiling, his body erect and sensual, walking naked in the room as he loved to before taking his shower. He was always the first up. They had made love as they woke up, briefly, shutters closed. She came, eyes open, with a little muffled cry, so that the guests would not hear. She remembered watching the dance of little particles in a sun beam caressing her pillow as she could feel him inside her. This was their time, before the the hustle and bustle of daily life running a B&B d’Exception, working hard to meet, day in day out,  the high expectations of those five star reviews; ‘ the wonderful hosts Martha and Paul, the perfect service, the breakfast out of this world with fresh croissants and fruits from the orchards’. It was one of those long summer days where the light lingers long after the diner and after kids are in bed. Paul was working in the orchard, pruning trees, and it just happened. A tsunami  in his brain, taking everything in its wave, forty eight years of memories, learned behaviors, the basic controls of his body. She found him at the end of the day, hours after it happened, much too late, lying on the grass, wide-eyes looking at the sky. She screamed, she first thought he was dead. The short-lived relief of discovering Paul’s heart was still beating ‘my love, my love’, she cried, ‘you are alive, you are alive’. She realized quickly, watching Paul on his hospital bed and later in the chair by the window, that she was waking a dead man called Paul whose funeral wake could last months or maybe years. The doctor warned that there could be other strokes, many smaller, invisible, the aftermath of the erupting volcano. Little tremors, cracks and bruises severing connections in Paul’s crumbling brain. There was little hope of him getting better, but keeping him engaged and well looked after, in a familiar entourage could improve the outlook, his doctor had said, as he was discharging him. Martha 

nodded, confused and unsure about the future, incapable of looking at the dead man with empty eyes next to her. 

The ‘Bastide d’Ete’s reassuring walls provided shelter and distraction. The guests kept coming. Martha stopped doing the Table d’Hote, but continued a B&B d’exception. She employed a local help, Emma, to take care of the B&B. She divided chores , taking care of the flower beds, the herb garden, the orchards, changing the beds, welcoming new guests, picking up fresh croissants from the bakery at 7 am, brewing artisan coffee. And then, the parade of nurses, physiotherapists, the ones who would be feeding Paul and bathing him. Martha would be taking Paul for walks in the park, playing music he liked and, when she felt like it, read him poetry he used to love, Silvia Plath, William Butler Yeats, T.S Eliot. It had been nearly a year since the accident, and Martha’s life had settled in resignation and routine, she moved Paul around like a sad puppet.

Some days she woke up in rage at the world, at him, at all of those alive humans around her whose brains had not deserted them. She would raise her voice at him ‘Can you see me?’, ‘Can you fucking see me, Paul?’ she wanted to shake him, wake him up from his apathy. She would run outside - leaving la ‘Bastide d’Ete’ in the care of Emma and climb the hill where they used to hike together. Paul would always walk ahead, faster than her, carrying the bag, boy scout and cheerleader. She was the follower. He would tease her, ‘Come on Martha, remember, you are 10 years younger than me’. It was always his idea, ‘let’s go for a hike’. Now she would climb alone until the ‘Bastide d‘Ete’ was a small pink rectangular shape, with the blue dot of the pool on its East flank, tall cypresses at the back of the park. Like a painting by Hockney, he used to say. She would imagine Paul, no longer by her side, seated in the green room, by the window, passively waiting for his next meal, his next walk, his bathroom break, his massage and daily exercise. She would ask herself, ‘is it still him?, ‘can I still love him?’. She would feel the guilt and the fear, ‘I would prefer him dead’ some part of her would say, thinking about his gruesome routine, about her getting old next to a wordless thoughtless human. And she would think about before - the tenuous beautiful past, all those memories, still breathing in the shell of his body, ‘you are the custodian of his soul’ a friend had told her. 

A new summer was coming, and at their last medical visit, the doctor told her that things were stationary, ‘he is well looked after Martha’, said the doctor, looking at her in the eyes, ‘I can see that you take good care of him, in fact he is a little more alert and toned that last month, this is a good sign’,  the doctor paused, and said, gently, ‘do not be afraid to touch him, hold him, show him you love him’. She answered back, in a low voice, as if she was worried Paul could hear, ‘this is hard’. The doctor smiled back, ‘I know’. That evening, back at the Bastide d’Ete, for the first time since the accident, she kissed Paul’s wordless mouth. It was a slow kiss, she left her lips against his a long time. She closed her eyes. She leaned back, looking at him. She felt his hand move slightly, warm under hers. As if she had woken them up, his lips moved, imperceptibly, a new spark in his eyes, ‘summer’ Paul whispered.