Girl From the Old Country

 Girl From the Old Country    
       
     The French Quarter is my playground where my imagination roams free. My eighteen year old fantasy takes me on a stroll down colonial avenues to the wharf where the schooner holds my mystery woman. Though I’ve never set eyes on her, the prospect of this woman fresh from the convent but ready to break her vow of chastity enthralls me.        
     And so before me the schooner with sails furled beckons with the passenger who is to be my wife. Like a Christmas present as yet unwrapped I hold her in my mind. The gangplank is rolled out. With each disembarkee my heart beats like a drum roll for my Francine.        
     Like a sunrise over summer in Bordeaux she emerges onto the deck carrying her only luggage, a case which holds her clothing. But when she enters my house I will dress her up like a woman freed from celibacy. And in her freedom she will be liberated from customs which bind like an ill fitted corset. She looks like a bewildered castaway, lost on a foreign shore. But I run up the plank and bear her suitcase for her. With a half smile she undoes her pony tail and lets her hair fall like spring rain down her shoulders. I refrain from touching her out of respect. As strangers we tell each other the stories of our lives.        
     She follows me down the narrow streets and into the new world of her home. She unpacks her clothes as I stand at a respectful distance.        
     I know not if she is a churchgoer. So with polite deference I tell her, “I’m going to mass. But you are free to stay here if you like. After your voyage you may want to rest.”        
     Francine says, “Andrei, you know I came from a convent. So please do take me to church. This land is so strange and church is something of my past which lives here. It will make me feel at home.”        
     I tell her, “There is something which feels subversive about taking you to church. I can’t define it. Though you were raised Catholic, there is heresy in your lilt. And I could easily grow enamored by what feels to me to be your pagan spirit.”        
     “Oh you tease, you do make me feel right at home. Now take your heathen bride to your place of worship.”  
     Francine and I walk under a brilliant blue sky with puffy clouds floating lazily overhead. Immigrants walk by in herds making their procession. We pass through the crowd together on our own journey. As we approach Place d’Armes the sensual beauty of Francine in her tight floral print summer dress makes me giddy.     For the first time we touch each other. I put my arm around Francine’s waist as we walk toward St. Louis Church. Her body feels so warm and supple in my embrace. She is my dream, my destiny.        
     She tells me of her virtue. “I was shipped from Parisian convent. My virginity is guaranteed. I promise you to be your pride and joy among gents of old New Orleans.”        
     She cozies close to me in a church pew. With her ring finger she parts my lips and we steal a naughty kiss during mass. We take great pleasure in the priest’s scowl.        
     We walk toward the bakery. We enter the store and I smell the rich aroma of baking French bread, Camembert and Roquefort cheeses. My mouth waters and I yearn to taste the savory cuisine.  We order a loaf of bread dripping with cheeses.          
     As we sit eating, I gaze at her. I love watching her devour the sandwich. She licks her lips and I long to lick them for her.  Everything she does, even eating, is done with such erotic sensuality that I feel the fire of arousal in my sex. She reaches across the table and brushes my hair from my forehead. Then she traces my lips with her fingertip. I sigh so passionately, I feel a tremor of throbbing deep in my manhood. I want her so badly, more than life itself.          
     We pass in front of St. Louis Church where a fiddler plays tunes from the old country. So in addition to the edibles I get my ration of music. To my delight Francine gathers up her skirt and dances to his jig. She sings a duet with his bow strokes on the violin. In her bounce are the stars over a Provencal vineyard in the boyhood which passed me by.