Chapter 23
23
By the time they had reached the cave, Orla wasn’t cold any more and she was slightly out of breath. As much as she thought she was quite fit in a cardiovascular kind of way, nothing prepared you for snowy mountainous terrain. The cave was nothing much more than a small fissure in the grey rock and she couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed. On the plus side, there was sunlight coming through the clouds now, taking away the chill and making their surroundings look a tiny bit less barren and bleak.
‘Orla, come and sit here,’ Jacques called, beckoning her over.
‘Sit?’ she queried. It might be a few degrees less hostile out here but it wasn’t camping chairs and picnic blanket weather just yet.
‘Come on,’ he encouraged. ‘I have brought cheese.’
The moment the ‘c’ word was said, her stomach flexed in appreciation. She stepped towards where he had positioned himself, sitting on a rock that was free of snow. She lowered herself down next to him and looked out at the incredible view down the valley. She could just about see the top of Jacques’s house and then flowing down, through the forest, were the first signs of habitation and the spire of the Saint-Chambéry church.
‘OK,’ Jacques said. ‘So, when I pass this to you, you have to sit very still and quiet.’
‘You have to eat cheese in silence?’ Orla asked. ‘Is that a Saint-Chambéry tradition?’
‘Please, Orla, it is for your own safety.’
‘My own safety ?’ She said it rather loudly and it echoed. She repeated it in a whisper. ‘My own safety ?’
‘You are a reporter. You have travelled across the world and been in many situations. There is always some level of danger when you go to different places, right?’
‘And I usually always know what I’m going to be faced with before it happens.’
‘Still and quiet,’ Jacques repeated. He passed her a foil-wrapped parcel. ‘Take one piece out, hold it out away from you, and keep the rest covered.’
‘Hold it out how? At arm’s length?’
She suddenly had visions of a falconry display, this cheese being the bait for a wild French eagle that was going to come soaring down from the sky and take the food and possibly her whole hand with it.
‘Quiet and still,’ he repeated. He already had a lump of gooey Brie in his fingers that smelled so delicious she really wanted to eat it, not hold out for whatever was coming.
She removed a wedge of… was it Camembert?… and held it between her thumb and forefinger, out to her left. How long did she have to wait? She was too scared to ask Jacques for a timescale when she was meant to be being still and quiet…
Then she heard it. Rustling. Scratching? Something was definitely happening and the sound was getting closer. She wanted to turn her head in the direction of the noise but something was telling her not to. She stayed still and then… something brushed her hand. The urge to move was so strong but she held it together, only her eyes darting. As the ‘something’ snatched at her hand she saw it. A silver fox. It was right there next to her, the cheese hunk hanging from its lips. She wanted to gasp, to say something to Jacques, but she also didn’t want to shock the animal away. Except now her bottom felt numb from the rock-sitting and the more she was mentally telling herself not to move the more she wanted to move…
And then another fox walked right in front of her and nudged at the foil-wrapped parcel in her lap.
‘Oh… hello,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t let it take the foil,’ Jacques instructed.
It was then she saw he had cheese in each hand and there were two foxes feasting from his fingers. It was one of the most ridiculous yet enchanting scenes she had ever been lucky enough to see. She took the parcel and peeled the wrapping back, taking out another piece of cheese.
‘Here you go,’ she said softly, stretching her arm towards the fox.
The fox looked suspicious at first, took a few tentative steps backwards, making indents in the snow. But Orla kept her hand steady, as well as her nerve and after a minute or so, the fox came back to her, not grabbing and running, but putting its snout to her hand, then a tongue and finally taking a nibble of the cheese.
‘OK, now we can talk,’ Jacques said, giving ‘his’ foxes more food.
‘Have you tamed them?’ Orla asked him.
‘They are not tame,’ Jacques answered. ‘No wild animal is tame unless it has been made that way and does not really know anything else.’
‘But you feed them regularly?’
He shook his head. ‘I feed them sometimes. When I check on them. When I know the weather is bad and they will be struggling to find food in their habitat.’
‘And you know they like cheese.’
‘It is not all I give them, but the scent of it always brings them out of the cave.’
‘So that’s why we’re at the cave,’ Orla said, the fox taking the remainder of her chunk of Camembert. ‘Is that where they live?’
‘When the weather is as bad as it has been,’ he answered.
‘I’ve not seen foxes this colour before.’
‘These ones are not quite silver, not quite black, not quite blue. A mix of all the colours.’
‘They are really beautiful.’ And she should really take a photo for her article. Except one of her hands was covered in creamy cheese… She reached into her coat pocket anyway and extracted her phone.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Taking a photo. If you move your cheese that way then that one will turn around and I can get his face more with the other two.’
‘No,’ Jacques replied.
‘They’re quite settled so now would be a good time. Before all the cheese runs out.’
‘You’re not taking a photograph,’ Jacques said again.
‘But you brought me here to give me something for a story, right?’ she asked. ‘And everyone knows that most people look at the photos before they read the story. The story won’t be as well-clicked if there are no photos.’
Jacques was just staring at her now, those intense dark eyes meeting hers and not letting go. Well, neither was she. She made no further comment and let the looking carry on. She would break him. She always won a staring contest. Except… this was hard. He was not letting up. In fact, as the seconds ticked by, his gaze seemed to be getting all the more intense and she was starting to feel the need to blink. She hated this. She felt so out of control. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any more. She let out a dissatisfied grunt as she dropped her eyes from his and the foxes scattered.
‘Oh my God,’ Orla said, getting to her feet. ‘That was your fault and now they’re gone.’
‘ My fault,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You just told me that people are more interested in photos than words. And you are a writer.’
‘I didn’t say more interested. I definitely did not say that. I said that people look at the photos first, particularly online. And online is really important. If the magazine doesn’t have a great digital presence and make the advertising revenue work then there won’t be a budget for the print edition and I will start getting sent to locations much nearer to home and there won’t be any more remote and undiscovered reports.’ And with the way Frances was pushing this reindeer article was there a chance the print edition may be in trouble?
‘But, we talked about it; it’s the feelings, the sounds, the scents, the moments that you describe that hit harder than pictures.’
‘Most people need a visual to accompany those things. Like a prompt to open their understanding of what comes next.’
‘Like with these situationships?’
‘Maybe.’
‘But no in-person moments. No stopping to look and sense and enjoy. Just a photo and on to the next topic.’
She watched him put a finger in mouth and suck off the cheese like it was sexy fondue.
‘I don’t think you get it,’ Orla said.
‘Your magazine? Or this way of interacting with people?’
‘Both,’ she answered, putting her hands in the pockets of her coat.
‘So, tell me.’
His answer took her by surprise and she didn’t immediately know what to say.
‘Tell you what?’ she said.
‘Tell me what you think.’
She swallowed. Now she really didn’t know what to say. Why didn’t she know what to say? Because no one ever asked her to tell them things. It was her job to ask others. That’s what she did in her profession. That’s what she did with her parents and Erin. That’s what she had done with Henry…
‘I think we shouldn’t be out too long, no matter how respectful you think your brother is,’ Orla replied. ‘And I’ve scared away the foxes now and there’s no photographic evidence they were even here so…’
‘Orla—’
‘Is it me or is it starting to snow again?’
‘You like to change the subject when you are scared you will be the one answering the questions instead of asking them.’
‘That’s just being a journalist.’
‘But I was not asking you as a journalist.’
He was looking at her with those dark, soulful eyes that seemed to speak a whole language of their own and one that apparently her whole body was desperate to interpret. And he was challenging her. To look inside herself. To talk from the heart. It was terrifying.
‘Well, then maybe I… just don’t have any answers,’ Orla said, her voice a little weak.
Then she turned away from Jacques and began walking back the way they’d come.