Mark

Mark Knopfler was in great form that evening and he radiated from the stage. The public, on typical French reserve, didn't really deserve such a great musician. Three and a half hour only from her house; it had been an easy, and a very merry ride down the Rhône Valley to the Arenas of Nîmes. His little Ford Fiesta seemed to please her enough – he even laughed about how she wasn't with him for money. The mock look she returned said it all; money had nothing to do with her presence in his little car. Yet, having her there, beside him… it was a bit surreal, and so normal at the same time. Frances had laid her claim upon the seat by his side; it was hers now. Her hand returned to his so often; a connection that was already becoming very addictive.

They talked freely for the very first time; there were neither ears nor eyes to be wary of. No one from school, no parents, no comrades… no one but them. No obligation and no constraints. And it seemed that eternity would not be enough to share their view of the world, for he recognised himself at every turn. Incredible, how they got along, how their minds worked alike. Everything was so simple, natural and easy. They grabbed a bite before the concert nearby, poor quality food, a little overpriced – hey, south of France ! You pay for the sun – but Frances didn't complain like his ex-wife would have. She just commented, shrugging her shoulders as she stated that 'who cared, given the present company?'. Would she feel the same in a year ? Ten ?

Wow, wow, why was his mind projecting so far ahead already ?

So if the public wasn't quite a nice as expected, Frances and Tristan had not a care in the world as they danced, intertwined, in their little share of the space at the stage's feet. They had kissed more times that he was able to count… he had trouble keeping his lips to himself. She was now swaying gently in front of him, his hips accompanying the movement, his hand around her tiny waist.

Frances wasn't as shy as he feared, and the mood unleashed her; she had tilted her head upon his collarbone, her right hand looped over his head. A slow, sensual dance that made his skin hum; Tristan bent slightly to kiss her neck, content with the music, content in the world. And despite Mark's great talent – a man he almost revered – he wasn't the star of his evening. She was, and the guitarist provided the perfect scenery to build memories.

'Shangri-La' came, and the rolling riffs of the sea intertwined with Mark's rugged voice, creating a moment of incredible peace. Frances turned around in his arms, resting her cheek upon his chest in a giant hug. Again and again, they swayed, his heart beating steadily, her heat spreading through him.

"Get that fire burning strong

Right here and right now

It's here and then it's gone

There's no secret, anyhow"

He couldn't help but remember the first time he had dragged her against him… against all sound judgment as well. He, a teacher. She, his student, locked in the restroom. But everything had changed now, he could feel it in the pure contentment that radiated from her, in the way her little fingers caressed his back in the middle of this crowd. For he wasn't a teacher here, only a man. Tristan, and his Iseult. Or so he hoped. May this moment never stop.

"We may never love again

To the music of guitars

In our Shangri-La"

How incredibly fitting those words were, and Tristan smiled. Frances had no idea their hotel was on the sea front. She had begged to get to see the Mediterranean in passing; he had obliged and couldn't wait to see her face in the morning.

"Tonight your beauty burns

Into my memory

The wheel of heaven turns

Above us endlessly

This is all the heaven we've got

Right here where we are

In our Shangri-La"

He couldn't agree more; she looked so perfect tonight. A simple pair of jeans and a t-shirt that revealed her collarbone, long hair tied in her trademark bun. Laidback, without any adornments, yet so beautiful. He lifted her face gently, long fingers cupping her cheek. And despite the dim lighting, her eyes shone brightly, hooded below long lashes. The lines of her face were so refined, noble, even, under the slightly honey coloured skin. He watched her for a long time, swaying gently, soaking in the music, the moment, the incredible chance that such a wonderful woman could look at him with awe. His little fairy.

His lips descended upon hers for a light kiss; it lasted an eternity, neither stopping nor deepening. Just a sensual dance of lips while his hand caressed her spine. Up, and down, smoothing the cotton, meeting the skin of her upper back, travelling to her neck then caressing the fine hairs that had escaped the roll. Her tongue caressed his, he let her suckle his lips with a sigh. So tasteful, this little woman, that his pants started to get tight. Fortunately, the song ended and she turned around to clap with enthousiasm.

Many more songs followed, some from Dire Straits, some from his solo albums. "Boom like that" that caused them both bounce around, the "Border River" with its celtic rhythm, "Postcards from Paraguay" to which he turned Frances around and latched his leg in between hers. There wasn't enough space to dance properly, but he'd be damned if he let such a brilliant latino rhythm pass by without taking advantage of it. Her blushing was the signal that, this time, his jeans couldn't really hide his impatience.

Tristan grinned sheepishly, and the concert continued its course without anyone being any wiser. Except for the young woman in his arms that was vibrating from anticipation. She kept him close, and Tristan would have exploded had the music not stolen half of his brain. There was just no ignoring Mark Knopfler; his talent spoke from himself, stealing attention without ever meaning to.

Wonderful Mark who offered them, without his knowledge, the greatest homage as he started 'Brothers in arms'. Silence fell into the Arena, thousands of people holding their breath for this emblematic song. Their first conversation. What would have happened if, that day, he had not been playing Dire Straits while grading his papers ? Would this connexion be here, that very first spark of interest ? The moment of vulnerability in her eyes, when her body had stilled to listen to the music. Just like now.

Mark's voice rose, full of memories of past days, half broken by the weight of an emotion he shouldn't even have known. And Tristan wondered why his own heart responded so strongly to the melancholy of a dying solider. He that had refused to even consider a military carrier despite his apparent skill. Yes. That voice haunted him, calling forth emotions buried so deep that he never allowed them to come out. His eyes misted over for a moment, the music his sole companion as Mark poured his heart out, taking with him a mesmerised audience.

A shy, little hand snaked around his waist, nearly surprising him. The little presence became a strong embrace, a sturdy anchor attached to his side. Another soul to share those feelings that shouldn't make sense, the nostalgy of warriors, the tribute to his inner self perhaps. Tristan didn't understand it, and swallowed the lump in his throat as Frances tucked her head against the side of his chest. She didn't search for more contact, didn't call his gaze. She just remained there, a support, a presence, until the last notes of brothers in arms had died and people cheered.

Tristan blinked the tears away, happy to keep them inside. Ready for another round of beauty for the next notes were already echoing in the Arena. More rhythm, more joy, and the mood changed in tune with Mark's fingers upon the guitar. He squeezed the woman by his side, sending her a look that conveyed both his amazement and his gratefulness. She smiled back, as if nothing extraordinary had happened before she started bouncing on her toes. But he, he wouldn't forget how easily she had lent support, how, without a word, without even a look, they had shared their feelings and drawn strength from each other.

When the arena released them out of its arches, they were both in high spirits. No need to ask Frances whether she had enjoyed the concert; her smile said it all. Going with the flow, Tristan dragged her to the parking, his hand fastened around hers until she got in his vehicle. At the last moment, he paused, remembering that she'd just gotten her driving licence.

— "Do you want to drive ?", he asked, wondering if she would want to test his vehicle.

Frances froze in her seat, a shadow settling upon her fair feature. Something painful danced in the depth of her irises before she turned to the window.

— "No, thank you. I… I hate driving"

— "Oh. Sorry. Do you want to talk about it ?"

— "I'd rather not, but then…"

The young woman winced; her eyes set on nightly projectors. Tristan buckled himself up and started the engine, giving her some time to gather her wits.

— "It wouldn't be very honest of me."

What, did she think she owed him an explanation ?

— "You don't have to…"

Frances' liquid eyes met his for a moment, and he kicked himself for ruining such a beautiful moment with his curiosity. Nîmes was deserted at this hour, and it wasn't too difficult to find the motorway blue display panels.

— "It's allright, Tristan."

How he enjoyed his name when it rolled so easily of her lips. No 'sir', no 'Mr Kristiansen', just 'Tristan', the guy next door. He gave her an easy smile to encourage her further; her shoulders relaxed in the car seat as she started talking.

— "My very first boyfriend… well, that's a big word, I never really kissed him."

— "How old were you ?", he asked.

— "Twelve."

Tristan's lips quirked up, imagining a flustered twelve years old Frances.

— "We remained friends, even if he was an apprentice in a truck driving school at the time."

There was a slight pause as Tristan navigated his way through the toll booth, then they sped down the motorway.

— "Montpellier ? Where are we sleeping, Tristan ?"

— "Somewhere you'll like, I think", was his evasive response.

The young woman gave him a curious look before she found the courage to continue her story.

— "Anyway. One evening, he came back from a nightclub with friends, he was sixteen and the only one not drunk. They asked him to drive since he was learning. He didn't have the license yet but he accepted. He lost control. He's the only one that made it alive."

The shock sent lead in his stomach, and Tristan inhaled sharply to get rid of the weight upon his chest. It was little wonder Frances feared driving herself.

— "Oh. That's… very tough for such a youth"

— "Yeah. I'm afraid of driving now"

Fortunately, he had been very well behaved on the road down the valley; who knew how she would have reacted if he had been more nervous on the wheel.

— "I understand. It makes an awful lot of sense now, thank you for sharing this. But you know…. I'm sure you can be careful enough."

— "Probably. Just… not now. I don't think I can handle that pressure now"

Tristan nodded, a little put out by the wisdom beyond those words. Frances had passed her driver's licence because she had no choice; now it was done, and in the to-do list for later. One thing at a time. It was sound reasoning for a twenty-year-old. Almost too sound; she would really need to loosen up if she wanted to enjoy what remained of her youth. So he gave her his vote of confidence to close the subject.

— "Well, whenever you're ready to give it a try, you can get my keys"

— "Are you nuts ?", she exclaimed, bouncing on her seat.

The teacher shook his head.

— "I trust you, Frances."

Yes. He trusted her, with his car, or his heart. He had taken such a leap of faith and wasn't disappointed in the least.