[ It takes a short week before any reply comes back to Adèle, mostly because Germaine is occupied in Paris by chats with publishers and other men of the literary elite. Making a name for herself, so to speak. Furthermore, she has had her papers retrieved from the châetau and is slowly compiling the material she wishes to see in print.
But on the sixth day, at night-time, bedtime, she sits down and writes the following: ]
My dear Adèle,
You are only tempting me with images of us as Lesbian poets, eating grapes and braiding flowers into one another's hair, because you are so very close to Greece - a country from which I am still very far. Research took me three days, one of the friends of my new publisher having a grand collection on flora at hand, but I found your little hyacinth in time. It must have looked charming alive on some Turkish mountainside, while pressed - some shape and colour has been drained from it. That is how it goes, for those of us under pressure from all sides at once. I sympathize with your little flower.
With everything that isn't missing you, I sympathize.
After having known your hands, I have begun imagining, too. Before, I couldn't allow myself such liberties, because my brother - however blind he is to most things of importance - can spot an improper thought on my face in the very moment it appears. To avoid endless, degrading discussions about reputation and indecencies, I would do best to quench every thirst I felt, ignore every hunger. I became very good at it, too. Until I completely forgot this beating heart of me existed.
Yet, you have awoken it and it flourishes now, even when you're gone. When I think of you, my skin flushes as if memorizing the tracks you walked with your fingers, the paths you followed to my innermost. I lie awake till early morning, simply relishing the freedom of even being able to imagine you.
Freedom is what you inspire in me, should you still wonder. Freedom is what you give and what I take from you. This book from which I will read you passages after lovemaking, it is a tapestry of experiences and opinions on freedom or the lack of it; a manifest to finally sever my ties to my brother, to everything that has held me down.
The way you taught me to jump off the cliff, the same way you will be my guide as I kick myself back towards the surface.
Stay with me on this journey, Adèle, stronger than the Pyrenees.
With the most sincere affection and love, Germaine
[The next reply takes four days to come, and the paper is smudged here and there - and slightly singed on one corner.]
Darling Germaine,
It takes a while to set pen to paper - why must so many hidden gems be guarded by fire? Oh, yes, one can admire the handiwork of the ancients, but some variety, some variation would be nice. Suffice to say, things have taken what one might call 'a turn.'
I'm off further eastwards, into the Dodecanese - and their beauty is familiar and yet lessened, now. My preference is to share, now, for reasons I am sure you can guess at, so I won't bother with being coy.
Also, following this letter will be some truly excellent olive oil and several bottles of ouzo. When I return, you'll see what I can make of Greek cooking.
[This, at least, Germaine would do well to take with a grain of salt - Adele is an appalling cook. It's a sweet offer, but one best left to professionals.]
Your words, though. Oh, your words. They bring me closer to saying things that I refuse to put to paper. They must, will, be spoken in person. Preferably in hot, exhausted kisses as we emerge from the haze of passion. Remind me, one night, to take you up to the roof after our intimacies. Wear only the sheets from the bed - letting the night air of Paris caress your body back into coolness.
I suspect this, too, will be better shared with you.
Also, your brother's head is going to feel like exploding in close proximity to me. If he can sense improper thoughts, well. I wear them proudly on a wide variety of subjects. Perhaps I will drive him away with mere cries of 'votes for women!' or the tale of one of the several occasions upon which I have impersonated a priest.
(The worst part is the moustache.)
A digression I hope made you smile. I adore your smile, among many other things.
With profound affection (and from a depressingly lonely camp-bed), Adele
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But on the sixth day, at night-time, bedtime, she sits down and writes the following: ]
My dear Adèle,
You are only tempting me with images of us as Lesbian poets, eating grapes and braiding flowers into one another's hair, because you are so very close to Greece - a country from which I am still very far. Research took me three days, one of the friends of my new publisher having a grand collection on flora at hand, but I found your little hyacinth in time. It must have looked charming alive on some Turkish mountainside, while pressed - some shape and colour has been drained from it. That is how it goes, for those of us under pressure from all sides at once. I sympathize with your little flower.
With everything that isn't missing you, I sympathize.
After having known your hands, I have begun imagining, too. Before, I couldn't allow myself such liberties, because my brother - however blind he is to most things of importance - can spot an improper thought on my face in the very moment it appears. To avoid endless, degrading discussions about reputation and indecencies, I would do best to quench every thirst I felt, ignore every hunger. I became very good at it, too. Until I completely forgot this beating heart of me existed.
Yet, you have awoken it and it flourishes now, even when you're gone. When I think of you, my skin flushes as if memorizing the tracks you walked with your fingers, the paths you followed to my innermost. I lie awake till early morning, simply relishing the freedom of even being able to imagine you.
Freedom is what you inspire in me, should you still wonder. Freedom is what you give and what I take from you. This book from which I will read you passages after lovemaking, it is a tapestry of experiences and opinions on freedom or the lack of it; a manifest to finally sever my ties to my brother, to everything that has held me down.
The way you taught me to jump off the cliff, the same way you will be my guide as I kick myself back towards the surface.
Stay with me on this journey, Adèle, stronger than the Pyrenees.
With the most sincere affection and love,
Germaine
no subject
Darling Germaine,
It takes a while to set pen to paper - why must so many hidden gems be guarded by fire? Oh, yes, one can admire the handiwork of the ancients, but some variety, some variation would be nice. Suffice to say, things have taken what one might call 'a turn.'
I'm off further eastwards, into the Dodecanese - and their beauty is familiar and yet lessened, now. My preference is to share, now, for reasons I am sure you can guess at, so I won't bother with being coy.
Also, following this letter will be some truly excellent olive oil and several bottles of ouzo. When I return, you'll see what I can make of Greek cooking.
[This, at least, Germaine would do well to take with a grain of salt - Adele is an appalling cook. It's a sweet offer, but one best left to professionals.]
Your words, though. Oh, your words. They bring me closer to saying things that I refuse to put to paper. They must, will, be spoken in person. Preferably in hot, exhausted kisses as we emerge from the haze of passion. Remind me, one night, to take you up to the roof after our intimacies. Wear only the sheets from the bed - letting the night air of Paris caress your body back into coolness.
I suspect this, too, will be better shared with you.
Also, your brother's head is going to feel like exploding in close proximity to me. If he can sense improper thoughts, well. I wear them proudly on a wide variety of subjects. Perhaps I will drive him away with mere cries of 'votes for women!' or the tale of one of the several occasions upon which I have impersonated a priest.
(The worst part is the moustache.)
A digression I hope made you smile. I adore your smile, among many other things.
With profound affection (and from a depressingly lonely camp-bed),
Adele