Chapter 4
The
Would Be Trobairitz
Who in the world am
I? Ah, that's the great puzzle. – Lewis Carroll
But I, being poor,
have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly
because you tread on my dreams. – William Butler Yeats
Marie had not heard back from le Chateau de
Pays m des Merveilles, but she had decided to go to France anyway. She was certain that her lack of interest in
theoretical physics had doomed her chances, but she was now so intrigued by the
pictures of the bucolic countryside of Languedoc, she was damned well going
anyway. This was her chance to follow her
childhood dream, and she was determined to take it.
The money she got from selling her Gibson
SG and her Alvarez acoustic helped a little, and she had decided to hang on to
her Fender acoustic. But, it was Pop-Pop
Brabant’s coin collection that secured her ability to manifest her fantasy, a
little girl’s daydream. Basically, the
guitar guy had screwed her and the coin dealer treated her very well. She had enough money for the plane ticket,
and to live off of for a little while.
She would be staying in hostels and one (maybe cheap, two) star hotels,
she would eat sparsely and frugally, but she would do this. That’s why, of course, she hung on to the
Fender. She had never done it before,
but she realized that with a little bit of practice her old skill would return,
and she could do a little busking for some additional money. Busking, being the accepted term for musical
street performances, in the lingo of such performers. Playing on some street corner, a hat next to
her for her passing patrons to express their largesse was not something she
would have even considered two weeks ago, but now it seemed a reasonable course
of action.
Her plan was to fly into Paris and take a
train down to Carcassonne in the heart of Languedoc, and Cathar Country as the
local tourism board had begun nicknaming the region in hopes of stirring
visitors’ imaginations and sense of mystery.
Occitan Languedoc was the birthplace of the
Troubadour movement, if it could be called a movement. The troubadours travelled the countryside,
composing and performing, writing and reciting for the local lords. These unrivalled bards stood at the beginning
of modern, secular, Western literature and music. These minstrels were always welcomed into
chateaus, inns, and the homes of wealthy landholders. This was how they lived. Female troubadours were called trobairitz,
and were common. Marie had decided to
literally follow in their historic footsteps, in so far as was possible, in
this modern age. Perhaps, the photos she
had seen and things she had read were incorrectly coloring her
perceptions. She was aware of that. She was aware she was probably being
naïve. Doubtless, there would be
considerably more busking on subways, train stations and street corners than
there would be welcoming patrons, but you never knew. She could perhaps play coffee shops and cafes
here and there to help pay for a room in a hostel. She had no illusions that the manor lords of
Languedoc would welcome her and her music … for there were no more lords of
Languedoc … despite the medieval appearance of the towns and ruined castles
which dotted the landscape in the pictures she had seem. It was away from New Jersey, away from Roger,
away from everything she had been, every habit that pulled her into deep ruts
of semi-living that made her start her days with her quiet pleas to the
universe for the welcoming release of death.
It was a way to start anew, and figure out exactly who this person, who
answered to the name Marie Brabant was, a fresh start. How many people in life actually got such a
chance? Not many. How many had the courage, even if they found
the opportunity? Even fewer, she
reckoned. These thoughts helped lift her
self-esteem, long worn down to nothing.
She could feel a new zest for simply being alive flow through her veins
at the prospects of such an adventure.
Roger wouldn’t be able to find her. She would have no fixed address, and if
sooner or later circumstances aligned such that she did … he wouldn’t be able
to find her anyway. There was absolutely
no way he would even try. That just
wasn’t Roger. No doubt, he would spread
lies about her, make claims that she had taken this or that of his, that she
left him for another man, or perhaps that she had left him for a woman. Roger would have talked to everyone they knew
by now. First, perhaps, just to see if
anyone had any idea of her whereabouts.
No one did. But, then, he would
call them or visit them in person to slander her, or was it libel, she could
never get those two straight. One was in
print and the other by word. Whichever,
it was then.
Once she got to Paris, she would email her
sister with her location and plans, so then Karen could inform their
parents. They would all be worried, but
they would understand. They all knew
Roger pretty well by now. Dad, of
course, will have already grown weary of Roger’s complaining, whining,
badgering, yelling, screaming, and general laziness. Probably wouldn’t be long until Roger found
himself out on the street. Well, he was
big boy, he’d figure it all out. He
would have to. Marie was gone and she
wasn’t ever coming back. She knew that
much.
She looked out of the airplane window and
watched as the quilt work of fields and forests stretched out below. She had hoped to see Paris coming in, but
Charles De Gaulle Airport is far enough away from the city to prevent any such
aerial city sightseeing. Such is life,
she mused.
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