Where I'm Going

Late-Onset Maturity
The conscious mind of a young man on his way to take possession of a fortune encompasses the gamut of emotions from lust to omnipotence. Ok that excludes a lot of common human feelings but Roger Farrant in his new sports car felt god-like; a Zeus or a Heracles ready to impregnate all Europe. As the morning sun rose behind he was borne through Normandy by the modern Valkyrie towards an unexpectedly inherited terrestrial paradise. He was not at all surprised by his erection.
France is a liberating country. Yes, the propensity to violent revolution discourages paternalism and yes everybody thinks they are free to act as they judge fit at least when there are no witnesses. In England by contrast, under the weight of enlisted public opinion and surveillance cameras as well as endless regulations, a young man feels like a whimpering dog expecting a beating from its master. All that is true but the reason men are free in France is simply that they have no conscience, none. Roger was, minute by minute, becoming French. Or as French as a nice Protestant boy can be. But that is not the moral concern of a narrator.
From up here I enjoy countryside of the Normandy and Brittany as I watch the progress of the sports car among the farm houses, old castles and woods, elements of a landscape which, like the mind of a man, holds clues to every event that ever took place. Below me now, I don’t understand how I know this, is the battle ground of the revolutionary war against the Bretons, 1793 and all that. Also that field shape there was formed when a farm was divided over a thousand years ago due to the infidelity of a farmwife. That grove there is where, well you get the idea – it is not possible to escape consequences. All your actions leave marks that remain as evident as the craters on the moon.
“Roger, could you pull in somewhere, I need a leak.”
The sweet voice he heard was that of Eve Pellerin. He had arranged over Skype to meet the Parisian art historian at the stud farm which was the centre of his inheritance. She was to value those paintings which his uncle’s will stated had never been only ever been seen by him. The sports car pulled up near a farm gate. Eve’s long dark hair and her tight red dress pulled up to the silver belt shimmered as she crouched by the roadside. Looking straight at Roger she said,
“Would you like to impregnate me? Do you have something to give to the world now you are rich? Is there anything inside you apart from piss?”
Roger ended the bitter/sweet reverie by stopping at a café. He pretended to himself that he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror behind the bar but really knew that he had done so deliberately. His open, friendly looks were those that suit a young man but which look unreal once the thirties are reached, he was 29. Those had been his uncle’s looks too and they had changed little with the decades. The artist had died in a motorbike accident at the age of 57 but the press still called him an ‘enfant terrible’. This mattered to Roger as he felt other people never took him seriously. There are boys of 14 with older features.
“Well they’ll have to take me more seriously now; nobody kicks sand in the face of Mr Big” he said to nobody, only managing to scare himself.
As he did so he spun round having an acute feeling that somebody was right behind him, close enough to lift his wallet. He saw nobody but when he caught his refection again in the bar mirror as he turned back he noticed some lines on his forehead below his ginger curls. Could these lines be evidence of late-onset maturity?
His mind was occupied with the question behind the questions posed by his fantasy Eve as he walked back to his car;
“Do I have something to offer, or am I really just a useless lightweight?”
When he stopped at the café I swooped down and entered behind him. He was made to feel a little guilty by the immaturity of his sexual feelings and so he almost caught sight of me at the bar. I notice the waitress had a pox marked face, the result of something she regretted doing in a shed out the back a year earlier. She felt my presence and blushed. Such a contrast with my aimless host, the perpetually indecisive Roger. A man, yes, but with no more sense of direction in life than a floating goldfish. I too was pleased to see the lines on Roger’s face. I now knew that he had not forgotten me, that the old religion still had at least a foothold. I wasn’t about to lower my guard though, not with that Eve woman also heading for the rendezvous. Listen, nobody understands temptation more than a conscience, after all that is our ‘raison d’etre. Seems odd to be speaking French again after all these years.
An hour later I watched from high up as the car stopped at the gate where the land agent with the keys, including of course the key to the room with the forbidden paintings, was waiting to admit him to the stud farm. No sign of the Belle Eve. I wondered though was he really man enough, perhaps I was worrying about nothing?
The Bentley (don’t trust narrators – it was not a Bentley) stopped at the gate where the agent was waiting expectantly with the keys. Mlle Eve Pellerin was at that time lying on the bed after showering in a hotel room in the nearby town. She would spend the rest of her day going over the notes for the book she was writing concerning Roger’s uncle. She had questions about their relationship and where his mother fitted in. In particular she wanted an insight…oh I think that is part of chapter two, sorry. Let me continue, where was I going with this?…Oh yes…
… With enormous pride he explored his new domaine. This took some time as there were the many old stables now containing boxed artworks as well as the chateau itself. On the second day he finally dared to confront the mysterious paintings in the attic. He had seen so much art that he had entered into a state of trance. But what was in this room jolted him and he reeled with astonishment. He stepped violently backwards and was about to fall down the stairs when something that I couldn’t see happened. Narrators cannot see everything you know, sometimes they resort to making things up.
Call me karma. I caught Roger as he fell backwards. I had just glimpsed inside the room and knew this would be the moment where I earned my keep. The young man had been unconsciously looking for exactly this. His uncle had provided not only the answer to the central question of his life but had painted his options in a uniquely telling way. This is where if we consciences fail all are made cowards.
The room was set up as a small gallery containing few paintings. Roger instantly registered that some were imaginary or future portraits of himself and that the others were stunning life-sized nudes all entitled simply; ‘Eve’. As I said I know all there is to know about temptation but it had been a long time since I encountered it at this level. One model was an attractive red haired woman whose babyish family features were much more attractive in the female form, and another model was so charged with sexuality that electric sparks short-circuited between her nipples. Short circuited between her breasts…Hey, this is really unusual, I’m picking up signals from the mind of the narrator. They usually keep out of the plot but maybe the guy’s new. And, well, this Eve is too beautiful to block from your mind. Let me have a quiet word with the narrator and see if I can improve things.
Ok, the narrator has agreed to see things from my perspective. He has now switched off and I have redacted some of his commentary. There was much more about Eve before but my job is eliminate such things if possible. Outside marriage anyway. Before Roger could consider the portraits in detail and embarrass himself Eve Pellerin arrived at the stud. Minutes later she climbed the stairs to the little gallery, her hips swaying at the level of Roger’s face. At that point I was completely dismissed from his mind. Therefore what happened next neither I nor the narrator can be sure about.
When I was tentatively re-admitted, how much later I don’t know, there was a quiet sense of happiness in the mansion. I found Eve making breakfast for Roger who was only vaguely conscious in bed. Well I put two and two together and, as I am a male conscience after all, decided not to trouble Roger’s mind, not then and not often after that. The narrator has been troubling me though. I feel he was really the guy with the problem here.
I have dealt with him as you know and Roger in his bliss will soon forget me so there are only his own words left now;
Dear Mother,
I shall briefly deal with the ‘secret’ portraits of my possible futures imagined by ‘Uncle’ Max. They are rather manly don’t you think? The one of me as a James Bond playboy just isn’t right, just as ridiculous as the one where I’m a financier of some sort. I had no idea he was so interested in me and so perceptive. Did he ever mention any of this to you?? I feel the ‘Roger as Hemingway’ resonates and have decided to take a Diploma in Publishing in Paris. If the stud farm has special memories for you it’s yours for as long as you want.
But there is more good news. The VOICES HAVE STOPPED and I have met a wonderful woman, Eve. Now, finally, I know who I am and therefore where I’m going!!
Regards,
Roger.