The Virgin Blue. Tracy Chevalier

that I couldn’t speak French, that I looked so American.

      ‘I would like to apply for a card,’ I replied carefully in French, trying to pronounce the words without any trace of an American accent.

      He handed me a form. ‘Fill out this,’ he commanded in English.

      I was so annoyed that when I filled in the application I wrote down my last name as Tournier rather than Turner. I pushed the sheet defiantly toward him along with driver’s licence, credit card and a letter from the bank with our French address on it. He glanced at the pieces of identification, then frowned at the sheet.

      ‘What is this “Tournier”?’ he asked, tapping his finger on my name. ‘It is Turner, yes? Like Tina Turner?’

      I continued to answer in French. ‘Yes, but my family name was originally Tournier. They changed it when they moved to the United States. In the nineteenth century. They took out the “o” and the “i” so that the name would be more American.’ This was the one bit of family lore I knew and I was proud of it, but it was clear he wasn’t impressed. ‘Lots of families changed their names when they emigrated—’ I trailed off and looked away from his mocking eyes.

      ‘Your name is Turner, so there must be Turner on the card, yes?’

      I lapsed into English. ‘I – since I’m living here now I thought I’d start using Tournier.’

      ‘But you have no card or letter with Tournier on it, no?’

      I shook my head and scowled at the stack of books, elbows clenched to my sides. To my mortification my eyes began to fill with tears. ‘Never mind, it’s nothing,’ I muttered. Careful not to look at him, I scooped up the cards and letter, turned around and pushed my way out.

      That night I opened the front door of our house to shoo away two cats fighting in the street and stumbled over the stack of books on the front step. The library card was sitting on top and was made out to Ella Tournier.

      I stayed away from the library, stifling my urge to make a special trip to thank the librarian. I hadn’t yet learned how to thank French people. When I was buying something they seemed to thank me too many times during the exchange, yet I always doubted their sincerity. It was hard to analyse the tone of their words. But the librarian’s sarcasm had been undeniable; I couldn’t imagine him accepting thanks with grace.

      A few days after the card appeared I was walking along the road by the river and saw him sitting in a patch of sunlight in front of the café by the bridge, where I’d begun going for coffee. He seemed mesmerized by the water far below and I stopped, trying to decide whether or not to say something to him, wondering if I could pass by quietly so he wouldn’t notice. He glanced up then and caught me watching him. His expression didn’t change; he looked as if his thoughts were far away.

      ‘Bonjour,’ I said, feeling foolish.

      ‘Bonjour.’ He shifted slightly in his seat and gestured to the chair next to him. ‘Café?’

      I hesitated. ‘Oui, s’il vous plaît,’ I said at last. I sat down and he nodded at the waiter. For a moment I felt acutely embarrassed and cast my eyes out over the Tarn so I wouldn’t have to look at him. It was a big river, about 100 yards wide, green and placid and seemingly still. But as I watched I noticed there was a slow roll to the water; I kept my eyes on it and saw occasional flashes of a dark, rust-red substance boiling to the surface and then disappearing again. Fascinated, I followed the red patches with my eyes.

      The waiter arrived with the coffee on a silver tray, blocking my view of the river. I turned to the librarian. ‘That red there in the Tarn, what is it?’ I asked in French.

      He answered in English. ‘Clay deposits from the hills. There was a landslide recently that exposed the clay under the soil. It washes down into the river.’

      My eyes were drawn back to the water. Still watching the clay I switched to English. ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘Jean-Paul.’

      ‘Thank you for the library card, Jean-Paul. That was very nice of you.’

      He shrugged and I was glad I hadn’t made a bigger deal of it.

      We sat without speaking for a long time, drinking our coffee and looking at the river. It was warm in the late May sun and I would have taken off my jacket but I didn’t want him to see the psoriasis on my arms.

      ‘Why aren’t you at the library?’ I asked abruptly.

      He looked up. ‘It’s Wednesday. Library’s closed.’

      ‘Ah. How long have you worked there?’

      ‘Three years. Before that I was at a library in Nîmes.’

      ‘So that’s your career? You’re a librarian?’

      He gave me a sideways look as he lit a cigarette. ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

      ‘It’s just – you don’t seem like a librarian.’

      ‘What do I seem like?’

      I looked him over. He was wearing black jeans and a soft salmon-coloured cotton shirt; a black blazer was draped over the back of his chair. His arms were tanned, the forearms densely covered with black hair.

      ‘A gangster,’ I replied. ‘Except you need sunglasses.’

      Jean-Paul smiled slightly and let smoke trickle from his mouth so that it formed a blue curtain around his face. ‘What is it you Americans say? “Don’t judge a book by its cover”.’

      I smiled back. ‘Touché.’

      ‘So why are you here in France, Ella Tournier?’

      ‘My husband is working as an architect in Toulouse.’

      ‘And why are you here?’

      ‘We wanted to try living in a small town rather than in Toulouse. We were in San Francisco before, and I grew up in Boston, so I thought a small town would be an interesting change.’

      ‘I asked why are you here?’

      ‘Oh.’ I paused. ‘Because my husband is here.’

      He raised his eyebrows and stubbed out his cigarette.

      ‘I mean, I wanted to come. I was glad for the change.’

      ‘You were glad or you are glad?’

      I snorted. ‘Your English is very good. Where did you learn it?’

      ‘I lived in New York for two years. I was studying for a library science degree at Columbia University.’

      ‘You lived in New York and then came back here?’

      ‘To Nîmes and then here, yes.’ He gave me a little smile. ‘Why is that so surprising, Ella Tournier? This is my home.’

      I wished he would stop using Tournier. He was looking at me with the smirk I’d first seen on his face at the library, impenetrable and condescending. I would’ve liked to see his face as he wrote out my library card: had he made that into a superior act as well?

      I stood up abruptly and fumbled in my purse for some coins. ‘It’s been nice talking, but I have to go.’ I laid the money on the table. Jean-Paul looked at it and frowned, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. I turned red, scraped the coins up and turned to go.

      ‘Au revoir, Ella Tournier. Enjoy the Henry James.’

      I spun round. ‘Why do you keep using my last name like that?’

      He leaned back, the sun in his eyes so that I couldn’t see his expression. ‘So you will grow accustomed to it. Then it will become your name.’

      Delayed by the postal strike, my cousin’s reply arrived on June 1st, about a month after I’d written to him. Jacob Tournier had written two