A Canal, a Frenchman, and a Woman Past her Prime
A Short Story by Carolyn MacArthur
It was the last three days of a two week stay at her daughter's apartment in Ottawa and Carol was finding it a challenge filling the lonely hours while Heather was at work.
"You know, Mom, the Summer Exhibition is opening today. I think you might like it. It is just like the CNE in Toronto. You could take a nice walk on the path that leads from my building to the Exhibition gates. There are lots of spots along the canal for you to stop and rest if need be."
Carol appreciated Heather's concern. And while it was true that even on a good day on a short stroll, she required a park bench to rest, she winced at the reminder. There was a time when she could have easily jogged the distance. How times had changed!
"That sounds nice. I'll head out just after you get off to work, and I'll be back by the time you get home."
Heather smiled and nodded. She liked having her mother visit and she enjoyed coming home from work and finding a home cooked meal. Maybe tonight's meal would include something special from the Exhibition.
After Heather left, Carol dressed in clothing suitable for a walk on a hot August day, put on her sensible shoes, and made her way to the canal path. A short distance into her walk, she was distracted by the site of a boat passing through two stone towers. As Carol walked over to read the historical plaque, a young couple approached her and asked for directions.
Just as Carol was about to explain that she, too, was from out of town and knew little about the lay of the land, she caught sight of a man walking towards them. With a satchel flung over one shoulder and a purposeful gait, he gave the impression of someone who could help.
Photo credited to: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Glebe#/media/File:CanalatGlebe.jpg
"Excuse me,” Carol said politely, attracting the man’s attention. “This young couple would like to know if this path leads to the Parliament Buildings?"
"Mais oui. Dans cette direction,” he said pointing left. The couple seemed puzzled, so he repeated in English, “Indeed. In that direction, the path leads to the Hill*"
With the couple happily on their way, Carol and the gentleman stood facing each other in awkward silence. “He is close to my age, nice looking…not handsome, but definitely suave,” Carol assessed. Dawning on her that he may be sizing her up, too, Carol quickly intercepted his thoughts. "Your French accent seems different than what I am used to hearing here. It reminds me of the French I learned in high school."
"I was born in France and have been living in Canada for only two years."
"How interesting!" Carol was sincere in her enthusiastic response. She was fascinated by other cultures and found it very exciting that he was from a country she had longed dreamed of visiting. Her smile said she wanted to hear more.
"I obtained a position as a violinist in the Alberta Symphony Orchestra, but I bought a house here in Ottawa. I enjoy the culture in the east; and, also, I teach music at the local college during the off-season. I travel out west only for practices and scheduled concerts."
"How interesting!" Carol felt a little embarrassed repeating herself. She knew she didn't do well with chit-chat, especially when talking to men whom she found attractive. Recovering her composure, Carol went on, "I taught art at middle school before retiring two years ago."
A little voice in Carol's head reminded her it was not necessary to spew out the details of her personal life. Since a car accident that radically changed her life by ending her career and leaving her with chronic health conditions, Carol always felt compelled to explain why she retired at such an early age. “No! Not today.” She didn't want the Frenchman to look at her with pity in his eyes.
As Carol struggled with her thoughts, an unexpected cloudburst mercifully brought welcomed relief to her anxious mind.
The Frenchman knew how unpredictable the weather could be in the Capital city, so he was prepared. He popped open his umbrella and sheltered Carol from the downpour.
"There is a riverside café just a little way down the path. Would you like to join me for a drink until the rain ceases?"
"That would be lovely," Carol replied, sounding much more like the intelligent woman in her fifties who she truly was, and not like the defeated incompetent that played mind games with her confidence.
It was an amazing hour of conversation. Carol and the Frenchman had so much in common. They talked about their careers—both taught in the arts; they shared stories about their families—both had grandsons; they expressed their concern about caring for their aging mothers—Carol's mother had moved in with her, and the Frenchman's mother, at age 90, still lived on her own in France; and they discussed, at length, their hobbies: both liked cooking, and both liked to paint.
Carol didn't want the rain to end. She feared when it did, the elation she was feeling would end too. She felt so very much alive at this moment—like her old self, confident and very capable. She hadn't had this kind of attention from a man in years. The Frenchman obviously was able to look past her aging body and tired face. Carol felt he could see the fire of youth that still burned within her.
When the clouds broke and the sun began to shine, a nuance in Carol’s expression told her companion she was sad to see the afternoon come to an end. The Frenchman, who also wanted their time together to continue, made a grand gesture. "If you are not really set on going to the Exhibition, how would you like to come to my house to see some of my paintings? Since you taught art, I would like your honest opinion."
Against the warnings that she had instilled in her daughters over the years about the dangers of going anywhere with a stranger, Carol agreed to go to his house.
They made a quick stop for a bottle of wine—not for their consumption, but for the Frenchman to take to his friends' dinner party that night. Watching him as he selected and paid for his purchase, Carol thought, "He has such exquisite taste. Generous, worldly and cultured.” And she mused, “None of the men in my hometown would be caught dead in a purple silk shirt, wearing dress pants with sandals, and carrying a satchel with a shoulder strap."
“You look very happy,” the Frenchman commented as they left the wine store. “I am,” Carol replied.
There were only a couple of more blocks to go before they arrived at the Frenchman's front door. Carol was relieved. She wouldn't want to admit it, but physically, she was starting to tire.
Photo Credit: MasterClass
As Carol stepped into the living room, she was astonished to see a hoard of paintings leaning against every available wall space. The Frenchman was definitely serious about his passion. As expected of a good host, the Frenchman asked Carol if she would like a glass of wine before viewing his work. They made their way into the kitchen where the obvious remains of an earlier meal were still present on the table and counter. Carol was neither surprised, nor disappointed at the sight of the dried cheese, hardened loaf of bread or curled pieces of salami on the cutting board. She understood the creative mind and how when an idea inspires, nothing else matters. But she did wonder at the already uncorked bottle of wine and two used wine glasses.
The Frenchman led Carol to a backroom where he had an easel set up. He shared with her his vision for the painting he was working on. Carol's comments were well received, and she felt invigorated conversing with a fellow artist. The Frenchman was aware of the risk in showing his finished paintings that many considered avant garde, but he was sure Carol would offer an honest critique of his most innovative work.
They made one quick stop in the kitchen for a second glass of wine, then proceeded to the living room.
For two hours they pondered over each of his paintings. He had painted a wonderful series of musicians with flames instead of hair—paintings that he hoped would be made into postcards for sale at his concerts. He shared intimate details of paintings of houses, plants, and scenery from his beloved homeland and why they meant so much to him. The afternoon was going splendidly until they came across a picture of a young naked female. Carol wasn't a prude; she had painted nude models, both male and female, years ago when she attended university. What bothered her were the obvious differences between the firm, flawless, well-endowed female in the painting and her out-of-shape, more than middle aged self that she was hiding under her oversized clothing. As if he could read Carol's mind, the Frenchman explained that the young woman in the painting was the woman who rented his upstairs apartment. He needed a model, and she volunteered. Nothing more.
Carol felt a bit foolish, and sensed now would be a good time to leave. Making the excuse that it was getting late and she had dinner to prepare, Carol headed towards the door. The Frenchman gently took her hand and said, "I have one more painting that I would like you to see. It is much too large for this room, so I have it hanging on the wall in the next room."
Carol let him lead her to the next room, which turned out to be his bedroom. She might have bolted if it was not for the awesome sight of the enormous painting hanging above his bed. It was a monochromatic painting in blue tones. On a large bed that filled the entire canvas, a nude woman sat facing outwards. Behind her on the other side of the bed stood a nude male in the process of putting on or taking off his shirt. Carol felt that she had just walked in on a very intimate moment in the couple's life. They did not look startled, though, but rather, disturbingly emotionless. It reminded her of the final stage of her doomed marriage.
It was difficult to read what they were thinking. It was difficult, also, at first, to discern whether they were just getting into bed or getting up. But the couple's dishevelled appearance and the crumpled sheets spoke of a sexual encounter. It was a painting that begged interpretation, and Carol's mind was racing. Before she could speak, the Frenchman announced, "I call it Creation of Love." Carol was confused. The painting did not convey a message of love at all. The coldness of the blues was matched by the coldness of the couple. Carol was so lost in thought trying to process the underlying meaning of the painting that for a brief moment she was unaware of the Frenchman's hand on her back. It was such a gentle touch that Carol allowed his hand to linger. She didn't feel the least bit threatened, but she knew enough about male and female relationships to know where this one was heading. What frightened and surprised her the most, however, was the fact that she was tempted. The second glass of wine she had earlier went straight to her head and made her feel liberated, but at the same time, vulnerable. If she turned and faced him, she would weaken, so Carol knew that was her cue to leave.
As the Frenchman followed her to the door, he asked if they could meet for lunch the next day. He gave her his business card, and as Carol placed her hand on the doorknob, he kissed her. Carol blushed.
Carol didn't remember much about the walk home. Her thoughts were muddled. She kept going over the day in her head. Yes, it was the stuff of romance novels: a canal, a Frenchman, and a woman past her prime. But this was real life. I f she had stayed, she may have ended up like the woman in the Creation of Love—many shades of blue. And the image of the two wine glasses and the painting of the young woman still bothered her. Carol knew she did the right thing by walking away. It was better to have a glorious memory that would warm her heart many times over than risk losing it all in a moment of passion. The scene between Rick and Ilsa in “Casablanca” kept playing in her head, "We'll always have Paris." Carol knew it would make no sense to anyone else, but she would always have Ottawa.
Carol kept his card, but she would not call. She would not be meeting him for lunch. The card would eventually be pasted in her scrapbook where she would, in private reflection, relive the day that brought her such joie de vie.
Back in the safety of her daughter’s apartment, Carol threw something together for dinner from the cans in the cupboard and whatever was left in the fridge. There would be no special Exhibition fare tonight. When Heather arrived home that evening and saw what her mother had prepared, she asked suspiciously, "How was the Exhibition?" Carol said nothing. She just smiled.
The End