Bisous, Cordes-sur-Ciel!


The famous fiction writer of vampires, sex, and rock and roll, Anne-Louise Treinteunoc, arrived incognito in Cordes sur Ciel, making her longtime wish come true. Her family had roots in the region of Languedoc, the land that witnessed the first known genocide in European history.

She looked about approvingly. Cordes sur Ciel dated from the early 1200s, founded by the Toulouse family, a fortress to fight against King Louis' troops, sent to exterminate all living humans, heretics or Catholics, for the Lord would tell the difference. Later on, Cordes sur Ciel served as a bastide a home for those who survived religious wars.


She felt at home in l'Hôtel du Grand Ecuyer, the former castle of the Toulouse family when out hunting. Ah, how much adventure awaited her at the top of the hill, in the most luxurious hotel of all. Some shopping and then some young-thing hunting, why not?


Anne-Louise was only 42, her flesh still firm, her wrinkles taken care by her plastic surgeon every six months or so. She was disciplined and stuck to a diet of vegetables, fruits, champagne on occasion and young men weather permitting.

In Cordes he had a chauffeur whose English was passable and whose discretion was remarkable. They were getting along very well. Her plan was to make considerable strides in her novel, "A Tiny New Orleans Bite in Cordes sur Ciel," a novel about vampires, with an emo mood, a gothic or a metal one, or a glam rock one, whatever necessary to sell the book. And lots of discrete good taste sex sprinkled about the pages.


The hotel was so nice, close to all the action in Cordes. Many different boutiques rented the ground floors of those ancient houses. Some were dedicated to arts and crafts, one was a Museum of Sugar, peopled with sugar models of fairies or vampires, as Halloween had become fashionable in France, to the strong dislike of the older folks.

There were leather goods, regional foods and wines, a bijoutier, whose artsie jewelry had cost her a pretty penny, and
a pendulier, right by the steps that were same in number as the words of "the Lord's Prayer" in Latin. They were all nice, used to tourists, the sullen French attitude forgotten for the sight of cash.

Her plan was to shop around and later go to RockaRocky, the yearly French rockand roll festival. She could go to Lisle sur Tarn, to Le Cyber Café du Centre, route d'Albi. Toulouse-Lautrec had been born in Albi and the cathedral there was worthwhile a visit.

At the hotel she got dressed to kill, but no kill, ha-ha, she thought. A little black dress, a nice string of pearls, smoke-color tights. Her chauffeur drove her to a small club outside Cordes, in Les Cabannes. It was far form being luxurious; it should be authentic, she thought.

A trio performed what seemed to her Francis Cabrel's Sarbacane, or some other 70s or 80s hit. Hit! She was struck by the accordeon player, a tall, slender but toned, long black hair green-eyed twenty-something. Just right, she thought, making her oversized dark glasses with rhinestones on the sides more noticeable. Those made her look rich. An older woman must look rich to better lure her catch.

His name was Jean-Luc, his eyes were green. He looked adorable in his leather outfit. His long fingers slid up and down the buttons and keys effortlessly. They made eye contact, and that was a cinch.

He told her he loved zee Strrrokes and zee Grreen Day, verry politics, no Byüsh, he added. She promised him some burned CDs and lyrics to the American Idiot saga. They walked rubbing against each other all the way to the car and back to the Hôtel du Grand Ecuyer. He stared a minute at the deep and narrow well, wondering as usual why it had been made.


Anne-Louise knew that Brazilian men liked bundas ( behinds), Americans liked tits and the French were hot for legs. She kicked her shoes to a corner of the suite. Slowly, she lifted her right leg and removed the stocking, in a Mrs.Robinson fashion. Then the other.

Jean-Luc murmured, "I want to leek all of you, kiss and bite you, amourrr," in that unmistakable breathy French fashion.

Let's leave these lovebirds to their lovemaking. Privacy is fair.


Jean-Luc woke up and stretched his left arm to embrace his fiery American one-night-stand. Instead of Anne-Louise he found a pillow. He rubbed his eyes to peruse an empty room. Anne-Louise and her belongings were gone. Worse, his accordeon was gone!

He got up. At least he would take a full bath for free, the darn drought in the Tarn. On the vanity table he saw a notecard of Cordes sur Ciel:

"Jean-Luc,

Don't be angry. It's my bad habit to take souvenirs from lovers. There is one thou in the drawer. Get yourself a new accordeon. You have talent and potential as a musician and as a lover.

Yours,

Anne-Louise Treinteunoc"

"Salope," he thought. The bitch. At leasy the thousand euros could buy him a new accordeon and who knows he would strike it with another American?

In her taxi, Anne-Louise caressed the accordeon and wondered how happy Uncle Henry would be back in New Orleans. She commanded the chauffeur to drive to the Cyber Café. Her head buzzed with new ideas for the novel, "A Tiny New Orleans Bite in Cordes sur Ciel." Two vampires, he a hunk, she a slut. Maybe Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie for the parts in the film adaptation.

She never liked the film adaptations. Merde alors, if only she could have Jean-Luc... "Vite, depèche-toi!" she told the chauffeur, who patiently obliged, leaving behind Cordes sur Ciel.


Her mind concentrated on her vampires, the music, the ambiance, Cordes sur Ciel. She involuntarily caressed her cross, la croix d'Occitaine. How bizarre, vampires and a cross. A beautiful cross.



This story was inspired by a great short story called "Good Country People" by Flannery O'Connor. All characters are imaginary.