Yahtzee - Tart

[classic_rando]

 The trip to Moineau’s house was rather circuitous. First they rode in the back of a panel van - in passenger seats, thank god - through a suburban landscape, until it pulled around the back of a restaurant. There they transferred to a minivan with tinted windows. At that point they seemed to backtrack a bit by going north, though Jacques was too paranoid to ask about it. By the time their course turned back to the south Jacques’ jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. Then they transferred one more time - into Moineau’s crossover, her in the driver’s seat, Jacques in back hiding behind more tinted windows. This was the home stretch, and the rest of Jacques’ muscles started to relax. The protein bars he’d been snacking on since the start of his journey had proved inadequate and his stomach had been growling for the last three hours, not that he had the energy to complain about it, or even ask about his food options. 

Moineau’s driving wasn’t aggressive, but it wasn’t exactly sedate either. Lead-footed, she exceeded the speed limit everywhere except the two town centers they passed through, which was actually kinda refreshing after all the cautious driving he’d endured. At least, it was at first, before he started feeling lightheaded. Thankfully it wasn’t long before she was pulling into a garage in a hillside neighborhood overlooking a quaint beach town. Fucking finally. 
 

“You are hungry?” Moineau asked as they stepped out of the car.

“
I’m starving.”

She nodded and led him into a charming country kitchen, sat him down at the table, brought water and plates, then a platter sporting a perfectly crisp tarte tatin. Jacques’ mouth was watering before she even cut into it. The caramel, the sliced apple, the puff pastry, every element was executed to perfection. The best pastry chefs in France couldn’t make anything this delicious, even if they had access to Corona’s superior apples. Moineau made one hell of a tarte tatin. How did she know this would be just what he needed?

“I am working to get you to the spaceport,” she said between sips of coffee, “for you to speak at the UN. That is not a problem?”
 

“Hmm…?” safe and comfortable, Jacques finally had the space for exhaustion, “Talk at the UN? Oh, you mean about the shooting and all that? Oui, sure, of course… Is that my ticket off-world?”

“Non, I manage your travel, they just will hide your name so Victoire cannot learn that you are leaving.”

“Hopefully…”

“Oui, hopefully. Victoire is not trusted in the UN. They should not find out until after you are gone.”

Fingers crossed…

 

Jacques was dead asleep when a cold hand slid over his stomach. Merde alors! He bolted upright, tangled sheets flying aside, only to find the hand was his own. Jesus, his left arm was so completely numb he couldn’t even move it at first. Must have gotten pinned under his body… Fuck, what a way to wake up in… wherever he was. Jacques rubbed his bleary eyes, trying to sort through the blur of memories jumbling around his brain. Who knew clandestine travel would be so disorienting? It was almost like being hungover, Jacques could barely remember dragging himself into this… guest room(??) last night, let alone undressing for bed. He couldn’t even remember if he was in a safe house or What’s-Her-Face’s home. What time- Merde alors, he’d slept something like twelve hours! How dare his body still be exhausted!
 

As he stumbled out of bed Jacques noticed a piece of paper under the door. “I have gone to run some errands,” it said in neat handwriting, “and will be back after 15:00. There are fresh towels in the bathroom, eat anything you want in the kitchen. The back garden is safe to enjoy, but stay away from the front of the house ~ Moineau”
 

Jacques reached up to scratch his head and got a whiff of himself. Oof, he was ripe. But showering in somebody else’s house always felt weird, even when greeted by a weirdly charming surfing seabat shower curtain, and he rushed through it, preemptively mortified of being in the shower whenever she returned. Didn’t matter that he’d have to stay in there for several hours for that to happen. And he was still famished. One delicious, sugary slice of tarte had sated him enough for sleep, but he was way overdue a real meal. Jacques crept halfway down the stairs hugging the wall until he could see that they dumped him straight into the kitchen. A loaded French press and the leftover tarte tatin were waiting for him on the counter. 
 

A sliding door led out to the back patio, with the yard’s privacy guarded by tall hedges, and views of the distant ocean framed by a delicate ornamental tree. Jacques sat at the table, with his hot cup of nutty Corona coffee, and a generous portion of tarte overflowing with delicious local apples, and a gorgeous view with a warm breeze under a midday sun. Fuck, he was about to leave so much behind. And Franck - whose roots in Victoire were so much deeper - he’d given up open spaces and fresh air and his entire way of life all alone. How could a man so in love with nature learn to love the engineered facsimiles found in space stations? Jacques had never seriously pondered what their new life would look like, keeping his shit together required too much energy, but now he couldn’t picture anything. Their life in Victoire had been filled with outdoor activities. With weather! And nights! He had no idea how to live without them.