Their door opens. He rushes to the door periscope, through which he watches them leave. Each one is carrying a piece of luggage. He won’t know until later, perhaps until morning, which of the two will foolishly return to Venice in search of “Gianni.” Jules already detests Gianni and imagines that he’s a pickpocket and a gigolo. The most beautiful voice he has ever heard will stay, and he wonders if it belongs to the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. If he had to choose, he would choose the voice.
JULES IS AWAKENED by sunlight flooding the western half of his terrace. As he pulls on a pair of khaki shorts he hears beyond the wavy glass the civilized clink of silver on china, or, given the level of accommodation, the slightly more relaxed but still civilized clink of stainless steel on ceramic. One of the two women is gone, and the other is at breakfast on her terrace. Without even putting on a shirt, he goes to the railing and looks around the partition.
The most beautiful woman he has ever seen is in fact in possession of the beautiful voice. This makes him so happy that he begins to laugh. Startled, she turns toward him. After a moment’s inspection, with a neutral expression and not a ruffle of surprise, she says, “When I saw you in Sparta I didn’t know you were a lunatic.”
This makes him laugh even more, until he recovers and says, “I’m sorry. It’s just so … nice to see you.”
“Why?”
“Because when you smiled at me it wasn’t flirtatious, it wasn’t coquettish, dismissive, misleading, or false in any way. It was you, and it was kind, intelligent, innocent, and good. I had hoped to see you again, and now, by accident, there you are.”
“An accident?”
“Of course it is.”
“Okay. Now what?”
“Nothing, unless you have no plans and would like to go with a lunatic to the Parthenon before the crowds spoil it, because in ancient Greece people probably didn’t walk around in T-shirts that said ‘Heineken’ or ‘University of Missouri’.
She looks at him. As he knows her, she knows him. From his voice, his face, his expressions and bearing. She knows that he is a good and serious man. There is perhaps more than that, as she feels the giddiness of falling in love, and although after she saw him at Sparta she thought of him a lot – even at Epidavros, even at Corinth, even in Athens – she finds it hard to believe that this should come so early and so hard.
ALREADY FAR GONE in the walk from Omonia to the Acropolis, they sit together on a block of ancient white marble and look out at the sea beyond Piraeus. He is in love with even the clothing that clings to her, her hands, her eyebrows, every detail, movement, gesture, and word, her perfume, the subtle embroidery at the neck of her blouse. She feels enveloped, loved, and excited by this young man who seems older than his age, wounded, strong, and even somewhat dangerous. But no matter, she knows she is protected and safe.
They speak all afternoon, and as the sun crosses the sky and the heat begins to subside he notices how her dark red hair throbs with color, and next to her glowing skin and Breton freckles her green eyes are preternaturally striking. She seems not to know how beautiful she is, or that speaking with her is electrifying. She is unmatched in the fluidity, richness, and brilliance of her conversation (Jules wonders how someone so young knows so much and judges its pertinence so well) except perhaps by Fran?ois. But unlike Fran?ois she doesn’t press with the weight of all that has occurred to her as Jules speaks, eager to release it in a spectacular allegro. Instead, with the perfect and natural charm of the Frenchwoman, she presses at times and she draws back just as often, she has deeply held beliefs and is sometimes grave, but she also smiles, laughs, and makes him laugh with her. This extraordinary young woman does not photograph like a model (so many of whom seem un-alive, unpleasant, and stupid), because her beauty is not fixed but the result of what she is as she moves and speaks. The life within her is what makes him love her, and he thinks how lucky he is to have met her when both of them are so young.
They are astounded to discover that they live close on the same street in Paris. “It will be easy to visit you,” he says, “when we get home.”
“We’ll see,” she says, plunging him down a hundred-storey elevator shaft, instinctually barbing the hook so that it will never come out, and enjoying it immensely as soon as she realizes from his expression that she has done it. “But, you know, we’ve been speaking for hours, evidently – I didn’t realize that – and we seem to have left something out.”
“What?”
“Our names.”
He pauses, realizing that he has neglected the most obvious formality. “Jules Lacour,” he says.
“Jules Lacour,” she repeats. She likes it. “Jacqueline Blanchet.”
“Blanchet is so often a Jewish name. Are you Jewish?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“I am. Not that it would matter?” he adds.
“No,” she says, very seriously, for the first time indicating commitment. “It’s convenient, isn’t it, amazing actually, but you could be the Pope, and it wouldn’t matter.”
“You could be the Pope’s daughter and I would still ….”
“You would still what?” she asks, interrupting. She knows what she is doing, she knows what is happening. So does he.
THEY HAVE KNOWN one another for fourteen hours and not parted for a minute. That evening they return to the hotel and descend again to the tiny plaza below it. In the center is a news kiosk with three chairs inside, a microscopic kitchen, and a smoking brazier. “I’ve never seen a smaller restaurant,” Jacqueline says. “It will be just us, assuming the other chair is for him.”
The owner beckons them in. “Sit you,” he says, in English. “I make best dinner in Athens.” He holds up two fingers, “For price of two Paris Match magazine. Okay?”
“Okay,” they say together.
He begins to cut up cucumbers, tomatoes, and feta. He puts four skewers on the grill. It isn’t donkey meat. Fragrant smoke blows back into the interior. At evening, people have come home, lights have come on, it’s cooler. “Retsina extra,” he says. “Two big glass for price of Time Magazine, international edition. Okay?”
“Okay,” Jacqueline says.
“How old are you?” Jules asks her.
“I’ll be twenty in August.”
“You were born in August of forty-four?”
She nods. “In London. I’m a British subject as well as a French citizen. My father was with Leclerc at the time. After Paris was liberated, it took a while but we returned. And you?”
“Twenty-four. My parents were killed the year you were born.”
“Both of them?”
“Both of them, yes.”
“I’m sorry. You must remember.”
“I do. Your parents are alive?”
“Yes,” she says, smiling. She has deep, happy affection for them. This means a lot to him. “My father,” she says, “was a banker before the war. He’s spent the last twenty years trying to get back what they took from him. It’s useless, so he works for a salary at Crédit Lyonnais. Small banks aren’t able to compete anymore anyway, and many of his clients were exterminated. I use that term because it was the term that was used, and even if others may, I shall never forget it, and never cease to understand what it means about who I am – now, in the present tense – and who I’ll remain in the future.”