Big Bear

Chapter 1

Marie Berger, France: 2 months earlier
(The cursive dialogues are spoken in French but written in English.)

There will always be a negative point to beauty. You see, riding on your favourite horse could seem like the most beautiful thing in the world. You could almost feel the wind flying around you, the feeling of absolute freedom. In combination with a fine horse that would listen to everything you say and the sun warming up your skin. The ideal world. However, you forgot how the wind ruins your hair, every horse has free will and the sun can shine right into your eyes.

I really missed riding my horse.

What I did not miss was the scolding I would get from my mother later, when I would enter the house with filthy boots and wild hair. Sadly, the flawless hair after riding did not apply to any situation outside the film business.

My horse - her name is too embarrassing - picked up her speed as I gave her a little push with my boot. The wind rushed past us as we neared the woods. The trees were dancing in the wind and so was my hair. It was a doable day. Cloudy, but dry. In the woods it was quite dark. The summer green leaves blocked the sunlight.

I slowed my horse down and looked around. It had been a little less than a year since I rode there last. I remembered how I cried into the manes of my horse, so nervous I was to leave home. Two days later I had been in Paris with a couple of suitcases and nothing else. Going to study in the north of France had made me more responsible. And educated of course. In the first months I'd had sleepless nights in which I missed my horse and my mother and my bed back home. But I grew up. I put my attention on my studies. I actually made a friend or two who shared my love for physics.

Ironically, after a year of college, coming back here had made me nervous. I had called my mother a few times, but she had been busy and to be honest I had been as well. We had never been close. She would disappear to work in the city for a week and leave me a note and some cash to buy food for myself. Or she would ask her friend Henrik, a bulky man with golden teeth and an odd sense of humour, to look after me. I had been back home for four days. Two of them consisted of my mother inviting over her friends, eating caviar on toast (I never knew mother's Chihuahua loved caviar), reading and riding. The other two my mother had been out and Henrik would swing by later that night to say hello. I still had to find an excuse to be out of the house before he would come.

I swung my leg over my horse and jumped down. I walked her over to the pond for her to drink. We had been riding for an hour. She had to stay hydrated. It surprised me my mother had taken care of my horse while I was away. Part of me had expected to find flies and dead meat in her stall.

My father'd trained her for me. My horse was the last thing I had of him. My mother never cared for horses or riding. My père had made it his sport to train two horses. After his accident, my mother sold his horse. I got to keep mine. I got to keep her and never let her go. Until I went to college, of course.

I brushed the hair on her spine. Thinking about my dad hurt. The pain of loss still gnawed at me. He would have been proud of me and my study, at least that is what my uncle told me. A decade ago my father had been busy being proud on my secondary school work. Back then I had not fallen in love with the puzzles of nature yet.

"I knew I would find you here."

Surprised by the sudden sound, I let go of my horse. She sniffed the air and walked towards the man standing near the pine tree. He brushed her nose. A warm feeling rose to my chest as I saw who the man were. It had been too long. I followed my horse. My rubber boots splashed on the wet earth. I ran around my horse to attack him.

He laughed out loud as I pulled my arms around him and hugged him tight. It had been a year and a half. I smelled his usual perfume and could not help but smile. Nothing had changed about him. I leaned back to look at the new wrinkles on his face. His hair had become a little greyer too. He was growing old. I knew he hated it when I called him vieillard, oldie.