This bit of uber Xena fan fiction belongs to me. Any references to the characters of RCA/Universal's "Xena: Warrior Princess" are purely intentional, but are not designed to make me any money. I also owe a debt to Chekhov's "The Cherry Orchard." Again, no insult or infringement is intended.
This story (will someday when it grows up) contains scenes of love and sex between consenting adult women. If this is illegal where you live, or if you are under 18 years of age, do not read any further.
Any feedback, good, bad or indifferent, is greatly appreciated. E-mail: vandersonsc@yahoo.com
Chapter 9
We ate our lunch at the appointed time, and discussed our itinerary for visiting the town. Uncle Henri appeared to give no thought to our impending trip. We left him in the same sitting room I was received in, absorbed in a newspaper, smoking his Sunday pipe. Margaret and I took the same carriage to town that we had taken to church. The 30-minute ride was uneventful, aside from the fact that it gave me an opportunity to view the local countryside, and occasional surreptitious glances at Margaret. I could almost see her blossom as she smelled the crisp March air with the heady promise of spring it held on its breath. I think she truly had no idea how lovely she was, and still is.
As we approached the town, I interrupted our long silence, "What would you like to do first?"
"Hmmm, "she responded, lost in thought. "Oh. Monsieur Petrovka, I am terribly sorry. It was rude of me not to speak at all during this drive. This time of year always reminds me so much of home, that I'm afraid I get lost in my own thoughts. I do beg your pardon."
"Not at all, Mademoiselle Sutton. I find silence often refreshes me. Since our day together will no doubt be quite full, I am ready to do your bidding for the next several hours," I joked.
Margaret smiled wryly, and replied, "I had no idea that Russians had such splendid senses of humor. Do tell another, Monsieur Petrovka."
I laughed out loud at this rebuttal as the coach pulled up in front of our first stop, the Hotel Dieu. I told the driver to spend the afternoon as he wished, and return to pick us up at 5 o'clock. I helped Margaret down, and was immediately struck by the ornate colorful roof of the hotel. Thousands of brightly colored tiles made up a mosaic of patterns over our heads. I gawked openly, as any good tourist should, and Margaret had to take my arm to lead me inside. "The best is yet to come, Monsieur Petrovka," Margaret smiled.
We entered the lobby of one of the most beautiful structures I had ever seen. Plush red carpet stretched from wall to wall. The front desk was made of the finest marble, as were the structural columns scattered throughout the room. Couches and settees in blue, green and gold made up the bulk of the furniture in the room, and a vast mosaic of cherubs and angels covered the ceiling. I'm afraid I was openly gawking yet again, but Margaret pretended not to notice.
"How do you like our small country inn, Monsieur Petrovka?"
"Small country inn, indeed. This hotel is quite beautiful," I replied.
"Yes, it is one of my favorite places in Beaune. The coffee here is excellent as well. Would you care to sample some?"
I nodded, and we headed towards an open patio set off the main lobby. Sitting in the sun, I felt myself begin to doze sleepily, and was glad for the espresso we ordered. The town itself was bustling with activity. Street vendors dotted the square in which we sat. Men and woman in their Sunday finery strolled about talking and laughing, as if without a care in the world.
"The town seems to be doing quite well," I remarked.
"Yes, indeed it is." Margaret replied. "I see no reason why you cannot accomplish your goals this season. The almanac predicts a rainy year."
"I certainly hope so," I said, "I must be honest and tell you that my family estate in Kiev is not doing well. I must succeed here in order to help save it."
Margaret looked alarmed. "Oh, Alexander, I am so sorry. First to lose your father, then to almost lose your home . . . and here you've promised to help me, a virtual stranger . . . I have been terribly selfish, and hope you will forgive me."
I was quite surprised at this outburst, especially about the fact that she chose to call me Alexander. "Mademoiselle Sutton, there is nothing for which you need to be forgiven. I should not have burdened you with my load. Let's discuss something else . . . do you know much about the town?"
Margaret, however, would not drop the subject. "Ale . . . . Monsieur Petrovka, please know that I will do everything in my power to assist in your endeavor."
I nodded, too afraid that I may start to cry, touched as I was by her compassion. She must have seen something in my face, because she started to speak about everything and nothing at the same time. I listened with half an ear, still caught up in a sudden depression about my situation. This, however, soon departed as I began to bask in Margaret's glorious company, and our conversation grew quite animated.
"I do not know if you are aware of this, Monsieur Petrovka, but this hotel is the site of a charity auction every year. Our vineyard traditionally donates at least a barrel of each of our finest."
"I did not know that. When does this event take place?" I asked.
"Usually, in November, following the season," she replied. "The proceeds benefit Hospice de la Charité, the finest medical facility in Burgundy."
"An admirable pursuit, and one in which I will be glad to partake. With me at the helm, I hope this year's wine lives up to the vineyard's reputation."
Margaret laughed at this remark, "Monsieur Petrovka, the only way you could destroy the vineyard's production and reputation would be to burn the place down. While the business cannot run itself, the best grapes in the valley will grow whether we intercede or not. The vines do the hard work, we just reap the rewards."
"That is very good to know, Mademoiselle Sutton. The way Uncle Henri talked, I was going to need to peel each grape myself."
Margaret laughed again, a full-throated sound that I found terribly appealing. A thought fleetingly entered my head that I should like to spend my life making her laugh that way. Before I allowed myself to dwell on this, I asked, "If you are finished with your coffee, I was wondering whether we might find a bookseller's near by? I should like to send my brother a letter, letting him know I have arrived safely, and he would be delighted to receive a gift as well."
Margaret smiled, "Now, you must have read my mind. The only thing I enjoy more than Hotel Dieu's coffee is a bookshop not far from here. I must admit, however, the shop specializes in French and Latin poetry; will you be able to find anything to his liking there?"
"Nikolas could use some culture," I smiled, "Besides, he is chomping at the bit to attend University in Paris, he'll need an introduction to French sometime soon."
"Your brother wishes to get his education in Paris? Interesting."
"Not as unique an idea as you might think. My grandfather, Savva, attended school in Paris. And Nikolas spends all his time in Kiev at the artists' ghetto. I think he secretly wishes to be an artist himself, but has not the time to pursue it."
"And what do you secretly wish to do, Monsieur Petrovka? Surely you had not thought of wine making as a profession prior to coming here?"
I am sure that I blushed at that moment, because rather than think of my secret professional desires, my mind turned towards a secret personal desire to take Margaret in my arms and kiss her smiling face. Since she was staring directly at me as she asked this question, she no doubt noticed the red creeping into my cheeks, but said nothing. I finally answered, "Actually, Mademoiselle Sutton, I have no secret desire for more school or a different profession. I am my father's d . . . son when it comes to my fondness for both my home and the horses we raise there. Once I am finished here, I will return to Winterhaven and take up where I left off. I will support Nikolas in whatever he chooses to do, both financially and emotionally."
"Winterhaven? Is that the name of your estate?" she asked. I nodded. "What a lovely name. It conjures up visions of snow and warm fires. As far as your brother is concerned, the sacrifices you make are quite admirable, Monsieur."
"Not at all. My brother and I would do anything for each other," I replied.
"I envy you your sibling," Margaret sighed then smiled, "If he is as charming as yourself, then I hope that I shall get to meet him one day."
I cast a baleful eye on her and said, "Now who is joking, Mademoiselle?"
She laughed and said, "Well, whether you believe me or not, I do find your company quite to my liking, and Russian charms have been greatly underestimated."
I struggled with how to respond to this, and hid my delight behind a sip of coffee. "Thank you, Mademoiselle. Keep this up, and you'll turn my head. Shall we go to the bookstore?" We rose to walk to the bookshop, with Margaret leading the way as we walked from the town centre, and into a series of maze-like streets, twisting and turning until we found ourselves in front of a very nondescript structure.
"It doesn't look like much from the outside," she said gleefully, "but wait until you see the treasure within."
The bell above the door rang as we entered the shop, and we were approached by a short, stocky man with a monocle on his right eye. "Margaret! What a wonderful surprise! You've been a naughty girl not coming to see me for so long!"
The man was shouting at us, even though he was now a mere three feet away. He picked Margaret up in a great bear hug, and spun her once around. He put her down, and she laughingly replied, "I have certainly been away too long to get that kind of greeting, my old friend."
"Old? Whom are you referring to as old?" he said.
She smiled at him, and said, "Sal, this is Monsieur Alexander Petrovka, newly arrived from Kiev. Monsieur Petrovka, this is Monsieur Sal Monet, no relation to the painter, and the most crooked book dealer in all of Beaune."
Wanting to make a favorable impression upon someone who was so obviously Margaret's friend, I clicked my heels together, and made a slight bow. "Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Monet."
"Please call me Sal, everyone does. And ignore the sprite here, my prices are the best in town. So, what brings you from Kiev, my good man?"
"I am here at the bequest of my great uncle, Henri Meillieur," I replied.
Sal said, "You related to that old geezer? Has he slapped you in irons yet? I hear he drinks blood by the light of a full moon."
I was shocked into speechlessness, the audacity! But Margaret playfully slapped Sal's arm, "Sal! I will not have you disparaging Uncle Henri! Take it back and apologize to Monsieur Petrovka, or I shall not continue frequenting this filthy establishment and its tactless owner."
Sal help up his hands in submission, "You know I meant no harm, Margaret. I am sorry, Monsieur Petrovka. Henri and I go way back, were school chums together, in fact, and it's hard for me not to get a jab in whenever I get the chance."
I bowed again in his direction, still shocked by his levity, but appreciative of his apology. He clapped his hands together, and said, "Now, what can I help you find today?"
Knowing full well that Nikolas' French was abysmal, I first requested a Russian/French translation text. I followed Sal partly into the shop, as he walked completely into a dark corner in the back of the shop. He bustled around a bit, humming to himself as he looked through the stacks, and came up with a book covered in dust. Blowing on it, and brushing it off with a rag, he managed to clean the book off, while at the same time contaminating the air with thousands of dust motes. Because Margaret was standing near the window, she did not bear the brunt of the dust storm, but I was soon sneezing my head off.
"God bless you," Margaret said, and came towards me with a handkerchief.
"I b . . . [achoo!] beg your pardon?," I replied, taking the handkerchief from her hand, and sneezing again.
"I said, 'God bless you.'"
I tried to say thank you, but was prevented by another sneeze, so that I merely nodded my head in her direction. The handkerchief did a wonderful job shielding my nose, but it also brought Margaret's scent in the closest proximity I had yet enjoyed. The cloth held a heady combination of lavender, rose, and something I couldn't quite place. I paused to inhale more deeply, and was caught in the act when Margaret looked at me, her head cocked slightly to the side in an expression I now know she wears when she is confused. I muttered something about returning the kerchief when I had washed it, and stuffed it into my jacket pocket.
"Monsieur Monet . . . Sal, this will do quite well," I indicated the volume in my hand. "If you don't mind, I think I would like to browse."
"Browse away," he replied, "just don't touch anything!"
Margaret again slapped his arm reproachfully, and I smiled as I walked down one of the aisles, leaving Margaret and Sal to catch up with one another. Margaret was correct and there was indeed treasure here. While the shop looked small from the outside, inside it contained a dozen or so rows of books and manuscripts. I had not seen a store of its size since a family trip to Moscow years before. I found a section labeled "Greek and Latin Poetry" and started thumbing through the texts. I found a slim volume of extant Greek poetry from the time before the birth of Christ. I stood and read what I still believe today is one of the most beautiful odes to the beauty of a woman ever written:
Awed by her brightness
Stars near the beautiful moon
Cover their own shining faces
When she lights earth
With her silver brilliance
Of love ....
I looked back to the text's introduction, and noted that the poem was recently discovered in Egypt, and was written by a female poet, Sappho. This was a love poem from one woman to another. I had not thought it possible, and yet here was proof that my feelings for Margaret were not unique. Two thousand year old proof, but proof nonetheless. I almost wept with joy at this knowledge. So caught up was I in this train of thought that I did not hear Margaret come up behind me.
I swung around at the sound of her voice, snapping the volume shut. Unfortunately, she was quite close behind me, and I nearly knocked her over. I grabbed her arms to keep her from falling, and ended up pulling her to within a few inches of my face. We looked at each other for a few seconds, and again Margaret looked at me with her head cocked at a slight angle. I stepped away awkwardly, clearing my throat, "Please forgive my clumsiness, Mademoiselle Sutton, you caught me unawares."
"Quite alright," she replied, "lucky thing you were there to catch me. Did you find something for your brother?"
I looked at the volume in my hand, suddenly not wanting Margaret to see it. "Um, no. I mean, yes, I will be getting this and . . . " I spied a volume of French Fairy Tales and grabbed it off the shelf, " . . . and this."
Margaret raised one eyebrow, "The slim volume . . . may I see it?"
I held it up out of reach, "See?"
Margaret laughed, "No, really, I'd like to take a look at it if you don't mind."
I handed it over, hoping she would not notice the Sappho poem, but she smiled knowingly at its cover, and flipped directly to another page in the text. "While I can read but a little Greek, Monsieur, I do know one of the poets' work in here almost by heart, in Greek and in English." She turned the book around, and pointed to the appropriate place on the page. I read:
Laughing, we ran the length of the field,
Until I could run no more,
But she continued on,
Like the wind.
She, the seething ocean surface,
Me, the moving current beneath.
This is why we fit
Like hand and glove.
I will always be at her side
No matter the course, no matter the outcome
She is the dark to my light
The earth to my air.
My always.
c. 400 BC
The Red Scrolls
I looked up, and said, "That is beautiful, but how did you know that poem would be in this book?"
Margaret replied, "This is the poet from the other book I gave you. Few of her poems exist in publication. This is one of about three texts that contain her work. I have a copy at home myself."
"And this is the woman from whom you are decended?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied, "my father told me stories that had been passed down from generation to generation about the bard who wrote these poems. Who knows if we're actually related, but I loved the stories when I was a child. The few remaining pieces of her work are mostly short poems and story fragments, but I am given to understand that she was quite prolific. Her name roughly translates in English as Gabrielle."
I smiled at her, "I should very much like to hear these stories. That is, if they can be told to someone outside the family."
She joked back, "Well, since I have no children of my own, I image telling you would be like telling a child."
"Ohhhhh, touché. I am cut to the quick, Mademoiselle."
"Well that's what you get for mocking my ancestors," she said, with a tad bit of hurt in her voice.
In all seriousness, I replied, "Is that what you think? Margaret, I would do no such thing. I would honestly love to hear the story of Gabrielle."
She smiled up at me, winked, and said, "If you're lucky. . . . Alexander."