Louise Part 2 - The Brasserie- (B@GoE)
The Louise Storyline - Backstage @ the Garden of Eden - Draft 2
She dug in the soft earth. Surely this was a mistake. WHY of all of the jobs she could be given, was it the “Gardener’s Apprentice”? Surely there were more qualified people here? She’d proven she couldn’t keep a cactus alive. Hoping no one would notice, she kept digging. From the earth came a locket with a broken chain. Inside, was an antique photo of a beautiful woman, shyly smiling at the camera. As she held the locket, the story came alive inside her.
Northern France, 1920 - A makeshift brasserie; could have been an old barn or shed.
“My name is Louise.”
The barmaid held out her hand to shake mine. Soft, firm, confident. We shyly met eyes. Our souls glanced off each other.
“Whiskey.” As I laid out my coins. Her smile was set on her face. Fashioned to ensure a few tips and keep the peace. She put down the change carefully. Did she linger or was she being careful to make a show so not to be accused of slight of hand? My hand was so close to hers the hairs stood on end.
A shout and laughter cut through the moment. Glass broke and an overconfident drunk laughed at his own disgusting joke. Others laughed at his expense. The wet stain on the front of his trousers left her and I wondering. Our eyes met again. We shared the silent joke. Each imagined the same mishap as he had drunkenly relieved himself against the building.
“Madamoiselle! Madamoiselle! Viens! Viens ici’t. Assit toi!” A vulgar motion for her to sit on him.
“T'a fermes-tu, ta gueule, Ghislain!” she responded, the smile unwavering. I didn’t not understand, but her message was clear. She’d learned their slang and slung it back at them. These were Canadians washed up by the war, unable to return for fear of catching a glimpse in their mother’s eye of what they had become here, at Ypres, at Passchendaele, at Vimy.
Some soldiers didn’t know how to be civilians again. The structure and comradeship were gone. They could not speak to their wives or families about what they had seen. Some still wore a piece of their uniform: a beret, a jacket, a chip on their shoulder for the demotion to farm hand. The roamed together looking for a sense of purpose.
Laughter erupted from his buddies. Ghislain pouted but finally quiet, he slammed back his whiskey. A hard life a barmaid. She seemed to find a way to manage it.
We were grateful for a sort of peace after the long years of the war. And simply, life itself. It wasn’t easy. So many displaced, lost with horrors in their minds. Those with terrible visible wounds lived in isolation afraid to frighten children. Those with mental wounds lived out in the daylight, unable to quiet the torture that came every day. Some took their own lives after having survived years of imminent death on the battlefield. Their pistol or a noose released their pain.
The civilians were equally hollowed out by their experiences. They’d survived like rats. I didn’t know what Louise had seen nor did she know my story. We kept our secrets for fear speaking them would horrify. Better to drive ourselves mad.
I learned later we had both been recruited as nurses during those years, though not in the same grimy place. The kind of butchery we bore witness to damned us to a lifetime of bloody nightmares.
I no longer showed my femininity. Something had died, grown black and hard. My breasts strapped down, hidden under heavy cotton shirts. My hair shorn as was the fashion for the men. A dirty hat pulled low, I appeared clean shaven but a little rough. The whiskey helped my image. It slammed against my throat, holding down the secret.
Simone became Simon. Miles from home, no one questioned, no one cared. My clothes hung on me and didn’t draw attention. So many still starved. Survival a daily effort. I had a fierceness that kept most away. A scalpel hid in my boot for those that ventured too near.
I eyed the Canadians down the bar, adjusted my hat and made my leave, catching Louise’s eye one last time.
"Our souls glanced off each other." Beautiful phrase.