The day she came...

At the end of October the wind felt on the tongue like a crispy ice-cream waffle and the flower heads finally fell on the ground. The sky was still blue and the air carried the fragrance of baked summer ground although the sun didn’t warm up the square often. Yet, it was bright and looked like a big orange, its path closer to the ground now and the rays throwing longer shadows. The chairs of the cafe were almost never vacant. The villagers were spending the last sunny days having their drinks outside and exchanging news they would have to comment during the entire winter. It was a difficult task to entertain oneself in such a small village in the heart of the French wine country.

This particular day of October was bringing memories to the observers sitting in the cafe. Warm, sunny, smelling like croissants and herbs, it was an unusual day. They all heard the noise from the broken engine next to the municipality building. It was an ugly old car that peeked from behind the corner, struggling to reach the square. Right next to the bakery the car stopped and the engine noisily died, like it knew its final mission had been so important that deserved every exhausting effort. The driver stepped out of the car and looked around. She was a little woman in her middle 30’s, with a hair like ripe chestnut and uneasy eyes. She looked insecure. The wind grabbed her aroma and carried it up to the hill. Men at the cafe felt they should defend who they were.

Years later Claude said he would always remember her first steps in the town. Leaving the dead car, she strolled to Cafe Du Rhone and sat. Her peach-coloured dress reminded them of the summer when the nights were long and the air was heavy with promises. Her movements sent them to the river banks where the water was calm and deep.

Claude and the priest were having their drinks, occupying their favourite table next to the fountain, now silent and empty. Oguste, the owner, winked at them carrying the wine she ordered. He was still a bachelor. They waited impatiently for him to come back and share what he had been discussing with the woman.

-          She asked for accommodation, Claude. – Oguste whispered. His round brown eyes were hardly able to express his feelings of delight and curiosity. – I referred her to you. She is going to ask about the apartment you rent.

-          Is she staying here?! No one stays here except from the tourists spending a day or two in the summer! What would a woman with such restless eyes do here... Nothing really happens here... – Claude looked tired, his grey fringe covering the long delicate nose – a certain mark of a grape and wine expert. The priest didn’t say anything. He seemed to doubt this southern woman would stay. And she’d better not. There was nothing religious in her looks, although, God forgive, she reminded him of Maria Magdalena!