And, she wondered, had he noticed her color when he'd crossed his heart? Unless he was psychic, she knew that he could not see what was going on inside her when he spoke of things such as his country and horses.
"Your husband, he is doing something very important today, no?"
"Yes. It's important. To him. Some new computer."
"Indeed. I read about it in the paper. You must be very proud,
Greta. Yes?"
"Yes, of course. He's done very well since he's been in control. Very busy," she said. She wished this topic to go no further. She let herself look at him, into his eyes.
"Yes," Jean-Pierre replied with a nod that said, without words, that he understood. It was the same look he had given her when they'd first met after they had shaken hands, when his arm had been in a sling.
They continued along in silence at a trot, and Greta renewed their conversation with enthusiasm. "Jean-Pierre, tell me more about your country. Is the French countryside similar to Northern California, as everyone here seems to think?"
"Ah, it is beautiful," Jean-Pierre said. "All year is green out in the countryside where I was born. And clean when you inhale, and pretty, all fresh and tingling in your nose, in your heart. You ride on and on and see no one for very long stretches of time. Here and there, children are playing or doing chores, you see a woman carrying a basket, a man with an ax. They wave when they see you." Smiling, he waved to her as if to illustrate, but all at once his expression changed into a grimace, as though he were suddenly in great pain.
"What is it?" Greta asked.
"This damned shoulder. If I cannot even lift it to wave, how will
I ever hold a mallet again?"