The Bridges of Madison County / Мосты округа Мэдисон. Роберт Джеймс Уоллер
moved by subtleties of the mind and spirit, were what really counted[126]. That's why he found most young women unattractive, regardless of their exterior beauty. They had not lived long enough or hard enough to possess those qualities that interested him.
But there was something in Francesca Johnson that did interest him. There was intelligence; he could sense that. And there was passion, though he couldn't quite grasp what that passion was directed toward or if it was directed at all.
Later, he would tell her that watching her take off her boots that day was one of the most sensual moments he could remember. Why was not important. That was not the way he approached his life. “Analysis destroys wholes. Some things, magic things, are meant to stay whole. If you look at their pieces, they go away.” That's what he had said.
She sat at the table, one leg curled under her, and pulled back strands of hair that had fallen over her face. Then, remembering, she rose and went to the cupboard, took down an ashtray, and set it on the table where he could reach it.
With that silent permission, he pulled out a pack of Camels and held it toward her. She took one and noticed it was slightly wet from his heavy perspiring. Same routine. He held the gold lighter, she touched his hand to steady it, felt his skin with her fingertips, and sat back. The cigarette tasted wonderful, and she smiled.
“What is it you do, exactly – I mean with the photography?”
He looked at his cigarette and spoke quietly. “I'm a contract shooter – uh, photographer – for National Geographic, part of the time. I get ideas, sell them to the magazine, and do the shoot. Or they have something they want done and contact me. Not a lot of room for artistic expression[127]; it's a pretty conservative publication. But the pay is decent. Not great, but decent, and steady. The rest of the time I write and photograph on my own hook[128] and send pieces to other magazines. If things get tough, I do corporate work, though I find that awfully confining.[129]
“Sometimes I write poetry, just for myself. Now and then[130] I try to write a little fiction, but I don't seem to have a feeling for it. I live north of Seattle and work around that area quite a bit. I like shooting the fishing boats and Indian settlements and landscapes.
“The Geographic work[131] often keeps me at a location for a couple of months, particularly for a major piece on something like part of the Amazon or the North African desert. Ordinarily I fly to an assignment like this and rent a car. But I felt like driving through some places and chose them for future reference. I came down along Lake Superior; I'll go back through the Black Hills. How about you?”
Francesca hadn't expected him to ask. She stammered for a moment. “Oh, gosh, nothing like you do. I got my degree in comparative literature[132]. Winterset was having trouble finding teachers when I arrived here in 1946, and the fact that I was married to a local man who was a veteran made me acceptable. So I picked up a teaching certificate and taught high school English for a few years. But Richard didn't like the idea of me working. He said he could support us, and there was no need for it, particularly when our two children were growing. So I stopped and became a farm wife full-time. That's it.”
She noticed his iced tea was almost gone and poured him some more from the jug.
“Thanks. How do you like it here in Iowa?”
There was a moment of truth in this. She knew it. The standard reply was, “Just fine. It's quiet. The people are real nice.”
She didn't answer immediately. “Could I have another cigarette?” Again the pack of Camels, again the lighter, again touching his hand, lightly. Sunlight walked across the back porch floor and onto the dog, who got up and moved out of sight. Francesca, for the first time, looked into the eyes of Robert Kincaid.
“I'm supposed to say, 'Just fine. It's quiet. The people are real nice.' All of that's true, mostly. It is quiet. And the people are nice, in certain ways. We all help each other out. If someone gets sick or hurt, the neighbors do whatever needs to be done. In town, you can leave your car unlocked and let your children run without worrying about them. There are a lot of good things about the people here, and I respect them for those qualities.
“But” – she hesitated, smoked, looked across the table at Robert Kincaid – “it's not what I dreamed about as a girl.” The confession, at last. The words had been there for years, and she had never said them. She had said them now to a man with a green pickup truck from Bellingham, Washington.
He said nothing for a moment. Then: “I wrote something in my notebook the other day for future use, just had the idea while driving along; that happens a lot. It goes like this: 'The old dreams were good dreams; they didn't work out, but I'm glad I had them.' I'm not sure what that means, but I'll use it somewhere. So I think I kind of know how you feel.”
Francesca smiled at him then. For the first time, she smiled warm and deep. And the gambler's instincts took over. “Would you like to stay for supper? My family's away, so I don't have too much on hand, but I can figure out something[133].”
“Well, I get pretty tired of grocery stores and restaurants. That's for sure. So if it's not too much bother, I'd like that.”
“You like pork chops? I could fix that with some vegetables from the garden.”
“Just the vegetables would be fine for me. I don't eat meat. Haven't for years. No big deal[134], I just feel better that way.”
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