The Other Side of Midnight

She was sitting in a cool, tree-shaded courtyard in a lovely old abbey outside Rome, trailing her fingers in the sun-warmed water of an ancient fish pond. The gate opened, and a tall priest entered the courtyard. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long black cassock and he looked exactly like Ron Peterson.

Ah, scusi, signorina, he murmured, I did not know I had a visitor.

Catherine quickly sprang to her feet. I shouldn’t be here, she apologized. It was just so beautiful I had to sit here and drink it in.

You are most welcome. He moved towards her, his eyes dark and blazing. Mia cara … I lied to you.

Lied to me?

Yes. His eyes were boring into hers. I knew you were here because I followed you.

She felt a thrill go through her. But – but you are a priest.

Bella signorina, I am a man first and a priest afterwards. He lurched forwards to take her in his arms, and he stumbled on the hem of his cassock and fell into the fish pond.

Shit!

Ron Peterson came into the Roost every day after school and would take a seat at the booth in the far corner. The booth would quickly fill up with his friends and become the centre of boisterous conversation. Catherine stood behind the counter near the cash register and when Ron entered, he would give her a pleasant, absent nod and move on. He never addressed her by name. He’s forgotten it, Catherine mused.

But each day when he walked in, she gave him a big smile and waited for him to say hello, ask her for a date, a glass of water, her virginity, anything. She might as well have been a piece of furniture. Examining the girls in the room with complete objectivity she decided she was prettier than all but one girl, the fantastic looking Jean-Anne, the Southern blonde with whom Ron was most often seen, and she was certainly brighter than all of them put together. What in God’s name then was wrong with her? Why was it that not one single boy asked her for a date? She learned the answer the next day.

She was hurrying south along the campus headed for the Roost when she saw Jean-Anne and a brunette whom she did not know, walking across the green lawn towards her.

‘Well, it’s Miss Big Brain,’ Jean-Anne said.

And Miss Big Boobs, Catherine thought enviously. Aloud she said, ‘That was a murderous Lit quiz, wasn’t it?’

‘Don’t be condescending,’ Jean-Anne said coldly. ‘You know enough to teach the Lit course. And that’s not all you could teach us, is it, honey?’

Something in her tone made Catherine’s face begin to redden.

‘I–I don’t understand.’

‘Leave her alone,’ the brunette said.

‘Why should I?’ Jean-Anne asked. ‘Who the hell does she think she is?’ She turned to Catherine. ‘Do you want to know what everyone says about you?’

God, no. ‘Yes.’

‘You’re a lesbo.’

Catherine stared at her, unbelievingly. ‘I’m a what?’

‘A lesbian, baby. You’re not fooling anybody with that holier-than-thou act.’

‘Th – that’s ridiculous,’ Catherine stammered.

‘Did you really think you could fool people?’ Jean-Anne asked. ‘You’re doing everything but carrying a sign.’

‘But I–I never —’

‘The boys get it up for you, but you never let them put it in.’

‘Really – ’ Catherine blurted.

‘Fuck off,’ Jean-Anne said. ‘You’re not our type.’

They walked away, leaving her standing there, numbly staring after them.

That night, Catherine lay in bed, unable to sleep.

How old are you, Miss Alexander?

Nineteen.

Have you ever had sexual intercourse with a man?

Never.

Do you like men?

Doesn’t everyone?

Have you ever wanted to make love to a woman?

Catherine thought about it long and hard. She had had crushes on other girls, on women teachers but that had been part of growing up. Now she thought about making love to a woman, their bodies intertwining, her lips on another woman’s lips, her body being caressed by soft, feminine hands. She shuddered. No! Aloud, she said, ‘I’m normal.’ But if she was normal, why was she lying here like this? Why wasn’t she out somewhere getting laid like everyone else in the world? Perhaps she was frigid. She might need some kind of operation. A lobotomy, probably.

When the Eastern sky began to lighten outside the dormitory window, Catherine’s eyes were still open, but she had made a decision. She was going to lose her virginity. And the lucky man was going to be every maiden’s bedside companion, Ron Peterson.

Chapter Two

Noelle

Marseille – Paris: 1919–1939

She was born a Royal Princess.

Her earliest memories were of a white bassinet covered with a lace canopy, decorated with pink ribbons and filled with soft stuffed animals and beautiful dolls and golden rattles. She quickly learned that if she opened her mouth and let out a cry, someone would hurry to hold and comfort her. When she was six months old her father would take her out in the garden in her perambulator and let her touch the flowers and he would say, ‘They’re lovely, Princess, but you’re more beautiful than any of them.’

At home she enjoyed it when her father lifted her up in his strong arms and carried her to a window where she could look out and see the roofs of the high buildings, and he would say, ‘That’s your Kingdom out there, Princess.’ He would point to the tall masts of ships bobbing at anchor in the bay. ‘Do you see those big ships? One day they’ll all be yours to command.’

Visitors would come to the castle to see her, but only a few special ones were permitted to hold her. The others would stare down at her as she lay in her crib and would exclaim over her unbelievably delicate features, and her lovely blond hair, her soft honey-coloured skin, and her father would proudly say, ‘A stranger could tell she is a Princess!’ And he would lean over her crib and whisper, ‘Someday a beautiful Prince will come and sweep you off your feet.’ And he would gently tuck the warm pink blanket around her and she would drift off to a contented sleep. Her whole world was a roseate dream of ships, tall masts and castles, and it was not until she was five years old that she understood that she was the daughter of a Marseille fishmonger, and that the castles she saw from the window of her tiny attic room were the warehouses around the stinking fish market where her father worked, and that her navy was the fleet of old fishing ships that set out from Marseille every morning before dawn and returned in the early afternoon to vomit their smelly cargo into the waterfront docks.

This was the kingdom of Noelle Page.

The friends of Noelle’s father used to warn him about what he was doing. ‘You mustn’t put fancy ideas in her head, Jacques. She’ll think she’s better than everybody else.’ And their prophecies came true.

On the surface Marseille is a city of violence, the kind of primitive violence spawned in any waterfront town crowded with hungering sailors with money to spend and clever predators to relieve them of it. But unlike the rest of the French, the people of Marseille have a sense of solidarity that comes from a common struggle for survival, for the lifeblood of the town comes from the sea, and the fishermen of Marseille belong to the family of fishermen all over the world. They share alike in the storms and the calm days, the sudden disasters and the bountiful harvests.