Pain is easy, joy hard.* The only easy
joy is that of revenge. To be happy: a

I met Claude at a Paris
disco. I was studying
Economics at the
Sorbonne. I had
hoped to become a film
star. Now I would
oversee workers on
my father's farm near
Fadiouth.

I stood at the gate of
Daniel's garden,

admiring the perfume
of his night-blooming
jasmine. His offer of
tomatoes and basil
startled me. I didn't
walk past there again
for two months.




The first tomato I ate

was a huge, shiny red
with a vibrant tart-
ness.

At nine a.m., four p.m.
four a.m., I often
think of Daniel's
tomatoes and the basil.


I could smell the sweet
acrid aroma of his


body, fresh from the
garden.

Daniel's garden, in the
south of France, stood
at the mouth of a river

that emptied into the
sea. I felt safe and
relaxed in the garden,
but entering took tre-
mendous effort. My
body moved-hairline

sweating, hands
shaking-through the
toothed turnstile.

A 2-in. slash-mark
scarred his right cheek.

right or a duty? Must one enjoy a caressing voice, the first soft kisses, the promise of oysters and abandon?

*H. Miller

Christy Sheffield Sanford, Copyright © 1996.