She lived, as I did for a time, in the Ménilmontant district of Paris. It was the very end of the 1950s, and the world was in its usual way eager to change. The cold war though had not grown to its severity of a freeze, man had barely ventured into space and around the globe colonies not yet surrendered though the agenda for such was increasingly on the table. The arts too - my own area of interest, for I yearned to be a painter but currently was studying renovation at the small, obscure museum - was flexing itself for change, though a city that had given the enthusiasms of so many artists to the world was used to seeing the world differently. All the rest of the planet had to do was catch up with what the impressionists and the cubists and all the rest of the artists had already seen.
The place I lived was, like so much of Paris, a world of narrow cobbled streets and crowded buildings that had not changed much in over a 100 years. While the remnants of a war that all but devastated Europe could still be seen here and there across the continent, Paris had mostly escaped it. The Germans had marched into an open city, and retreated before the liberating forces with as much grace as war might allow. There were odd bullet marks to be seen, but none of the wholesale devastation that would engulf places like Berlin or even parts of London for that matter.
In districts like Ménilmontant life could continue its slow drift. There was no sign of what may come, and I liked it that way. I felt I could walk the same streets as Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh and Chagall and others to see what they had. The street I lived on, the Rue St Raphael, was typical of many other streets in the city then. The houses were narrow and of different heights, from a time when planning (beyond the wide boulevards and avenues) was restricted largely to what the foundations could bear and the builder could afford. Because it was a hilly part of the city the streets had no qualms about wide stone steps liberally provided with iron railings, leading from one part to the next, and in turn this meant few cars would access all the streets. The noise then wasn't as today might be of motor vehicles and irate horns but the sound of people talking and children playing and the occasional sound of music from a radio escaping through an open window.
As you would expect in the French tradition a number of houses had shutters and some bore tiny balconies, but this was an area and a culture that lived on street level and in the cafes, so Parisians did not view life from above. Washing, rather than people, hung from upstairs windows and below children played endlessly on the stone steps outside the small house where I rented my rooms. Again, because of the nature of the terrain houses like mine may have steps to the steps outside and with it a profusion of low walls to define where one set of planes intersected others. It provided fascinating small playgrounds for children, and in particular the girls, who would sit on the low walls and the steps with their dolls and make small homes in the comforting wells created by stairs and more stairs.
The girls were a particular fascination to me. By my house, under one of the Rue St Raphael's few hissing gas lamps, there was a small flat area in the stone steps that was far too small for the boys to play games but perfect for the girls to call their own. They would chalk a hopscotch pattern on the stone flags or write some simple poems or draw pictures and they themselves would sit around them and chatter happily. From my window upstairs I could look down and watch them play. I was struck by how neat they looked: the style for girls was to wear a pinafore dress or smock to protect their better clothes underneath, but some would wear very little else on a hot summer's day. As they bent to their games I would see in the split at the back of the clothes, a glimpse of pale buttocks or even - if I stared long and hard enough - the sight of an uncovered and hairless slit.
I would like to say this was an age of innocence where people did as they pleased, but often I would hear an angry mother berating her child for not covering up properly and more than one little girl was hauled indoors by her mother for a tongue-lashing or even a beating at forgetting her proper clothes, by which I took it to mean the child had gone out to play without any directoire knickers to hide her lower self.
Some ‘forgetful' girls though seemed to be spared this public humiliation and one little girl I began to notice never wore much at all beneath her smock. She was teased, I could see, by her friends and I heard them call her name. "Oh, Olive, you have forgotten to dress again!" I would stand in the shadows of my room looking down from the first-floor window and watch her ‘show' and hear the subsequent chorus from her friends. Olive even seemed to have the nickname "Ouvrir" which of course means "open."
She wasn't Olive so much as Ouvrir, but she was as lovely as any. She was about average height for a girl and I estimated her to be ten or eleven, not too thin with the hint of a shape to come. Flat chest, of course but again, a promise. The French do the art of promise very well indeed.
Ouvrir as I too began to call the girl too had black hair in a practical page boy style. A lot of girls then had that style, but whereas most girls wore it because it was the done thing I always felt Ouvrir did it because she knew it looked good on her, making her dark and mysterious eyes and large, full lips look even more attractive. Already then I could see by her movements she knew that, if anyone was watching her, she would stand out by sheer grace alone. Nothing she did was hurried or inelegant, and she would smile at her friends warmly no matter what.
I think I loved Ouvrir then but I could never tell her. Not because of language problems - I spoke French of course (it would be foolish to try to live in Paris and not speak the language) - but approaching a child even in those more relaxed times was difficult. French for me couldn't be a language of love as so many said it was. I was gay at a time when gay simply meant happy, and while lesbianism was far from unknown in Paris among the artists and models and actresses and poets it wasn't something I could easily aspire to; learning how to renovate paintings paid a small wage and my social milieu was limited. Nonetheless it was a life I chose to live and in this I accepted I had to make do on my own. Lying alone in a small bed under clean sheets with my hand between my legs was just about all I could do. I could think of Ouvrir and be happy as best I could: I could even gaps the name "Ouvrir" as I climaxed and no one would know.
I wondered if the child on the steps outside knew I was calling her name and even watching her: sometimes she would look up from her game and seemed to smile my way. But she would be pulled away by a friend to do something else and she would go, as elegantly as ever with my eyes on her.
I wasn't entirely without sex; no one could be in Paris. I could always approach a prostitute, and there were times I did when the loneliness of living as I did got too much. A woman who was paid for sex would tend to welcome a respite from the clumsy, drunken fumblings and potential violence of men, but these women had pimps who demanded I had no more than half-an-hour with the girl. That was no time to relax and explore our feelings (if we had any) and while thirty minutes was more than enough for a man to have his screw it was far from enough for me. I remember there was one prostitute (they weren't even called hookers then) by the name of Angelique who stood on the corner of Allee Victoire and Avenue Rochelle who was older than me by a good ten years and was frequently left to her own devices by her pimp, perhaps thinking she wasn't worth his time. If the evening was slow she would give me more time in her bed, and significantly for me she listened to me tell her about Ouvrir and my feelings.
"Oh, mon cherie, you are in love," she would say and kiss me deeply, as if all Angelique wanted all her life to be in love. But how could she help me other than comfort me and bring me to orgasm as I thought of the girl?
"You will find a way," she said. "Trust love."
It seemed impossible for me to simply go down the rickety stairs of the house and into the street and ask the girl, but then fate took a hand.
Unlikely as it seemed the Director of my museum had a mistress. No, that was not unlikely; it seemed to me every man in Paris had a mistress. But this was unusual as Monsieur Delange's choice was not only a woman wealthier than him but one whose financial complication demanded she shuffled some of her wealth around. Thus by some quirk of French income tax law he had her car but he couldn't keep it as Madame Delange would tolerate only so much. "You can help me," the man said to me one day, "by taking possession of it. The engine needs exercise for it will be of no use left to rust on the streets."
So, by a curious twist of someone else's passion I became the owner - temporarily at least - of a small black Citroen that I suspected had once been used by an opium dealer judging from the smell inside it. I had no garage so I would leave in the street below the steps on Rue St Raphael and each weekend take it for a drive "to exercise the engine" as Delange had said.
It was then that Ouvrir took an interest in me. She had watched me several times get into the car and drive off, and watched me return several hours later and I felt warm with her lovely eyes on me. Then, to my astonishment she approached me one day. "Madame Anglais," the girl said (they all called me that on the Rue St Raphael, so I was not offended) "I would ask you to take me with you to the country."
"And how," I asked, trying not to blush at this unexpected but equally exciting attention, "do you know where I go in my little car?"
"Because there is mud on the car wheels and I have seen straw in the grill. See, it is there now. Madame, I would love to see the country as you see it."
"Dear girl," I said, resisting the temptation to call her Ouvrir. "Your mother would not be happy to allow you to travel to places she does not know."
"I think she will, madame" smiled the girl, turned and ran off towards the steps and up them skipping lightly towards her home. That I was pretty sure would be the end of that. I could imagine the mother telling her no and not to be silly. I was, after all, a foreigner and who trusts a foreigner? Especially a ‘Rosbif' as I was.
I had put the matter as much out of my mind as I could the following week, but I still would glance at the flat place on the steps outside where Ouvrir would play. But the summer was over and with the onset of autumn there were hard rains and cold winds. The chalk on the stone steps was washed away and soon I saw no marks there and nor did I see the girl playing. Perhaps, even if the weather hadn't been so foul, she wouldn't have been allowed out for being so presumptuous.
It was the next Saturday when the sun had decided to break through the grey clouds that I set off for a journey with the car. I was tired from a demanding week working on a painting that had been badly neglected for years and Delange had been less than enthusiastic about my work. I fancied he would soon sack me and of course demand the car back. My brief freedom would be over, enjoyable though it had been.
As I climbed into the Citroen (which I had taken to calling "Sortie" which is of course "exit" as it gave me a chance to get out of Paris) little Ouvrir appeared at the car door.
"My momma says I can go," she said. With this news my heart flipped as I stared at her.
"Are you certain?" I asked.
"Yes, providing mamma can come too."
My heart sank, and as I looked back at the steps I saw Olive's mother, large and plump and dressed all in black, waddling towards us.
"Well, I am not sure," I said, wondering how we might get such a big woman in the back of the car.
"She will fit in," said the girl confidently, and she swung open the rear door of the car and beckoned to her mother. The old woman ambled up to the car and without a word climbed in with a low grunt, settling herself in the middle of the back seat with her large shopping basket on her lap. I wasn't sure if Olive's mother had given me a grunt of welcome and said "Good day, madame," over my shoulder with no reaction from the woman. Olive, hopping in to the front next to me, laughed.
"My mother is deaf, so she will not hear you," the girl said. "It means we can talk."
"I see, but how do we tell her anything?"
"There are signs I use. She knows those. But she will not disturb us."
My sunken heart rose again. Perhaps this would be a good trip, I thought as I started the car.
"Has you mamma brought food?" I asked.
"No madame. She carries her basket everywhere, empty or not. But see, I have brought my lunch for us to share," and at this she dived into the back to reach in her mother's shopping basket and produced a neatly wrapped brown paper package. "Cheese and bread. Perfect for us in the country, no?"
Us? I felt excited but tried to look calm. "I think that will be fine," I said. "If your mamma approves."
"Madam Anglais, you should not worry," said the girl, her eyes twinkling as if she understood my concern. "I am a free spirit."
"Olive, you are a child," I said, "and even in Paris children are not free."
"But you can drive and I can sit with you," she said, not querying how I knew her name. "This is like freedom, you will agree. Let us go before all the cows are gone," she added and rapped the leather covered dashboard.
I drove and little Olive gurgled with pleasure as the street and then Ménilmontant and then Paris itself slipped away from us. In the back Olive's mother sat like a stone statue, not saying a word and not even - as far as I could tell - looking out of the windows. She stared straight ahead and presently her head fell back and she began to purr as she fell asleep.
"She is asleep, as I thought she would," said Ouvrir. "Can we not go faster, madame?" She had wound the window down and put her head out so her bob hair style streamed and ruffled as much as it could. "I want all the country air in my lungs and the wind makes it better."
I didn't drive fast as the car was not powerful and anyway in those days I had discovered French drivers had their own way with roads, especially in the country. One had to be alert for a tractor hauling a trailer full of hay pulling out of a hidden turning without looking, and I suspected they would be considered to have right of way. But the car went fast enough and soon Ouvrir was talking about eating lunch and lying in a haystack together between chattering enthusiastically about what she saw along the country roads.
It was a joy to have the child with me and I listened to her chatter and heard her laugh and wanted to tell her I think I loved her. Behind us the girl's mother slept on, oblivious to our words.
I pulled the car into a field where the land fell away before us. We were parked was overlooking the Marne and it was a warm, pleasant day and I felt happier than I had for a long time. I thought there was the buzz of an insect around us but it Ouvrir's mother sleeping on, which while it seemed a waste of a trip into the countryside it gave me a sense of freedom. I could relax with the sweetest girl I had ever seen.
"Let us leave mamma asleep," said Ouvrir. "Look, there is a haystack over there. The farmer will not mind us in it." With that the girl got out of the car and ran, shouting back over her shoulder that I should bring the bread and cheese and any wine I might have.
It is impossible to consider going anywhere in France without wine and so had brought a bottle as it happened. I carried it along with the parcel of food I had been shown and followed Ouvrir skipping happily ahead. The haystack that the girl had pointed out was a modest thing but we could lie side by side in the warm sunlight and open the food and wine. I had no glasses so we drank from the bottle (French children, brought up on wine, take it in their stride) and the bread and cheese was good. We shared it all and made jokes and laughed and watched the sun slowly slip towards the western horizon.
Although French children may be more able to digest wine without getting giddy it was less so for me. I wasn't used to it and I began to feel light-headed. My tongue was running ahead of my brain and I was saying things I probably thought would make me blush later.
"Why are you called Ouvrir?" I blurted out at one point. "I mean, I know why. I have seen why you are called Ouvrir, Olive. Your dress is open all the time."
"Oh that!" the girl laughed and put her pretty bob-haired head on my shoulder. My heart began to pound harder. "My friends are silly with their names. I am not more open than anyone else. But madame, have you seen my slit?"
"What?" I blushed. "I don't know... I mean, I suppose so."
"Then see, it is a lovely young slit," said the girl and she jumped up. To my astonishment she hoisted up her pinafore dress and showed me her directoire knickers. "Look, see," she added, and hoisted them down her thin legs. There before me was her perfect little hairless slit. Then she spread her legs and holding the side of her sex she parted the little lips and showed me her pinkness. "See, I am lovely down there, am I not?"
I agreed she was, and wasn't sure how I didn't faint from seeing such a lovely young cunt in such close up. It was gorgeous and so was she. Yet I tried to assert my sensible self. "But Ouvrir, this is a time for being closed, not open. If your mamma saw you she would not be happy."
"She does not mind, for she knows I am me," said Ouvrir as she shucked her knickers off and tossed them deftly to one side. Then she sat back down next to me with her dress hoisted back and her legs spread a little. "I don't mind nice people looking at me," she said, head back on my shoulder. "Nice people can look." She sighed and seemed content. I looked down at her innocent young sex and dearly wanted to put my hand on that beautiful little place.
I didn't move hand from my side but I was overcome by passion and leaned in to kiss Ouvrir's lips and she looked up, grinned at me and our lips met. It was the most perfect kiss I had ever had, not too long and not too passionate, but warming and exciting and full of promise for the future. As it turned out, it was to be the only one. At that moment a man was approaching the haystack, grumbling as only the French can and he was talking about my car parked as it was at the entrance to his field.
With a groan Ouvrir and I broke the kiss and she tidied herself as a red-faced, bewhiskered country-type hove into view. "This is not a cafe," the farmer bellowed, at seeing our food and wine bottle. "Be off with you."
We collected the remains of the meal and the half-empty wine bottle, I apologised for my careless parking, and we returned to the car. Ouvrir was laughing and saying we should have shown the man her open slit and he would have left us alone, but I said we couldn't do that. Worse, the old lady was awake and glaring at us, as if she knew what we had been up to.
The drive back to Paris was subdued, though Ouvrir gave me a long look every so often and offered a little smile or two to show me she wasn't upset, even if everyone else was. The old woman and the little girl left the car where I parked it on Rue St Raphael. I went back to my rooms alone and I sensed something had changed. I had hoped to escort Ouvrir to my bed and kiss he and hold her and whisper that I wanted her to be part of my life, but the last I had seen of her that day was a girl being hustled up the stone steps and out of my sight.
The weather closed in and there would be no more trips to the country, either alone or with Ouvrir. At the same time my boss regretfully said he would want the old car back. "It is complicated," said Delange, though he made no attempt to explain French civil law to me, for which I was grateful.
Even without the car I was sure I would see Ouvrir again but the rain and the cold kept the streets empty of children. My work too wasn't going well and when the Director said he could not keep me at the museum I reluctantly left. Without a job I could not afford my modest rooms and I knew I would have to leave Rue St Raphael. Happily though I had an offer from Angelique to share her small apartment and with it her bed (when not occupied by a grunting, sweating man) and I had to accept until I found work.
I did, but I never went back to Rue St Raphael. I feared I would see an older child and one who wouldn't remember me, perhaps one not so lovely as I recalled. I suppose I am a coward in that way, but I also knew life moves on. Mine had to, and Angelique comforted me as best she could until I got a place of my own again.
I met a woman more my age, a girl by the name of Katerina who had trained for the ballet. She was lithe and graceful and even had hair just like Ouvrir, who I confess had never left my heart. Katerina and I were happy and we made a home. With that, life moved on.
Several years later, while I was out at lunch one spring day from a considerably better job renovating paintings, I caught a glimpse of Ouvrir. The girl - now a young woman with high breasts but the same bobbed haircut and dancing smile - was hand-in-hand with another young female and they were laughing as they skipped along. I was stood of all places near the Eiffel Tower and there among the tourists and the tradespeople selling ludicrously expensive ice-creams I saw Ouvrir and this girl. My heart soared but I knew this vision was just a way of having to say the final goodbye. The pair looked happy and while I was thrilled for her I was sad for me. The two disappeared as quickly as they came, into the crowds and though I was tempted to try and follow I knew no good would come of it.
Ouvrir was closed to me now, and that was how it should be. That night I went home and told Katerina about it all and wept and she held me and told me she loved me and suspected that Ouvrir, in her own way, would always love me.
I left Paris in 1967, with Katerina at my side, and we moved to the south where we could see the blue Mediterranean and where we were happy. But part of me was still in Paris, still looking down breathlessly on the girl playing on the steps and remembering the way she looked up and smiled. Open, as she always would be.
The End