Tonight, it is raining lightly, droplets dampening his hair. He has no hat or umbrella, but he doesn’t mind. He is a walker. New York, London, Rome, Paris. It doesn’t matter. That is why he dislikes Los Angeles and most American cities. There are not enough sidewalks.
He walks down the river and then up to the Place des Vosges, the oldest in Paris, before turning back. He finds himself on Saint-Honoré. He walks past the famous shops, Hermès, Longchamp, Gucci. Their elegant wares redolent of beautiful lives, ski trips, Mediterranean islands, wealthy tanned men, aristocratic women. He stops in front of one of the greatest and on impulse walks in, uncertain of what he is looking for. The tall, elegant
vendeuses
watch him. He is unused to being in stores like this. Unlike many husbands, he has not been dragged along on shopping trips, waiting idly outside a fitting room, watching the elaborate dance between customer and clerk.
Self-consciously he browses through the racks, inspecting the price tags, trying not to be astonished. There is a black cocktail dress that catches his eye. It is thousands of dollars. Maddy had never bought anything this expensive in her life. But the cost isn’t important. He needs, he wants to buy Claire something. He has the generosity of early love.
He calls to one of the saleswomen who, less disinterested now that she sees what he is looking at, comes over. He struggles to remember his French and not to confuse it with his even more rudimentary Italian. Unlike Maddy, languages never came easily to him.
“Je veux acheter cette robe.”
“Mais oui, monsieur. Savez-vous la taille?”
With her hands, she carves a woman’s body in the air.
He looks at her blankly. He realizes he has no idea what size Claire is.
“I don’t know,” he says, feeling stupid.
The saleswoman holds her hands to her hips. “Like me?” she asks in English.
“Comme ça?”
He has forgotten the word. “No, smaller.
Petite?
”
“Ah, pas de problème,”
she says. She locates the same dress in the next size down.
“If it doesn’t fit, I can bring it back?”
“
Oui, monsieur.
Of course.”
It is almost dark now. He walks back to the hotel swinging the bag, the dress cocooned in its box, protected by layers of tissue paper. This is not him. It is someone else. Someone who stays in expensive hotels, patronizes stylish shops, is meeting a woman not his wife. It is a role he is inhabiting, a dream. Nothing is real. If someone pinched him he’d wake up. But he doesn’t want to wake up.
He goes up to the room. It is as dark as he left it. Naked under the covers, she is just stirring. Her body warm, hair ruffled, breath sour.
She smiles, eyes half-closed. “Did you have a nice walk?” she asks drowsily, stifling a yawn.
“I did. I love walking in Paris. It was certainly the most expensive walk I’ve ever taken in Paris, though.” He shows her the shopping bag, with a smile. “I bought you a present.”
She brightens and sits up in bed. “You didn’t! Oh my god, I love that store.”
She takes the bag from him and opens the box. The cover has fallen now, revealing her breasts. The nipples soft and pink. He thinks about what is underneath the covers.
Holding up the dress, she cries, “It’s beautiful. I can’t believe you did this.” She jumps out of bed and embraces him. “It’s the nicest present I’ve ever had,” she says, kissing him. “Thank you so much.”
“Try it on. See if it fits. I had no idea what size you were. The salesgirl told me I could return it if we wanted.”
“I’ll be right back.” She runs to the bathroom. The light comes on. The heavy door clicks behind her. He sits on the bed, waiting for her answer.
“It’s perfect!” she cries from within.
“Let me see.”
“No. I want it to be a surprise.”
She comes out of the bathroom, provocatively naked. She walks to him and, bending over, dangles her breasts in his face like two ripe pears, lightly brushing her lips against his cheek. “Let me show you how much I like my present.”
That evening she wears the dress to dinner. Black hair, black dress, pale skin. She is all youth, all vitality, all sexuality. She is the most beautiful woman in the room. Other diners look up from their meals and watch her as she enters. It is as if she is not wearing any clothes at all. It is vertiginous following her. The maître d’ proudly leads them in.
Harry marvels at the transformation in her. From the artless young woman of the summer to this figure dressed in the latest style. What would her life have been like if she had never met him on the beach? If she had never come to that fateful party?
“I can’t believe we’re in Paris,” she says excitedly. Tonight they are dining in the hotel. It is a two-star restaurant. A Belle Epoque temple to Escoffier. Tomorrow they will go out.
They discuss plans. This is a city she knows from her childhood, parts of it forever associated with dreary Sundays and airless rooms. He wants to show her the other side.
The waiter hands them the menus. They order cocktails. Her French is impeccable. The waiter tries not to look surprised. He had taken her for an American.
“I had no idea you spoke so well,” Harry says. “My French is pretty much limited to what I can order from a menu or a wine list.”
“It’s been a long time,” she says. “I’ve been practicing for the trip but I’m still a little rusty. I’ve forgotten so much though. My mother always said I had a good accent. They say you never lose that.” She pauses. “I had a French passport for years. I was a dual national before they made you choose. I still have it. In a drawer at home. The photograph is from when I was twelve or thirteen. I keep it because it does remind me that, after all, I am half French.”
“Have you ever wanted to spend more time here? I mean, to live?”
“Not when I was a child. It was awful coming here. I suppose I was lucky. While most kids my age were going to Disneyland, I was going to Paris. But it was a Paris without joy, without fun or beauty or art or any of the things people come here for. My grandparents didn’t even have a TV. My brother and I would spend endless hours sitting on a hard settee in their living room while my mother chatted with them, drinking tea and nibbling on biscuits. It was agony. I could see the sky outside, imagining that the other children, the real French children, were playing in the park or going to the zoo. When my grandparents died, I was relieved. I know that sounds horrible, but it’s true.”
“At least you saw the real France. I’ve been to France, oh, I don’t know, maybe two dozen or so times, sometimes longer, sometimes shorter, sometimes coming through Paris, sometimes not, but I’ve never seen what you saw. I’ve only seen the Hollywood version, the version that France wants us to see. You lived behind the curtain.”
“I suppose, but I like this better. The food isn’t as good behind the curtain.” She laughs. Her face lights up. Her teeth are white. He can see the pink of her gums.
She orders lobster bisque laced with pistachio followed by truffled sole. He orders the same.
Harry calls over the sommelier. They decide on a Montrachet.
“I’m starving,” she says.
“And no need to worry about eating too much. They have a beautiful spa with a pool. Pamela Harriman died while swimming laps in the pool.”
“Who?”
“A famous courtesan,” he explains. Then he adds, “Actually, she was the American ambassador to France. She married a lot of rich men and had affairs with even more.”
After dinner they stroll down a long corridor to the back of the hotel. It is midweek and a reception is winding down. Businessmen are exchanging cards. They head to the little bar, down a few steps. The smell of expensive cigars perfumes the air.
“This is my favorite bar in the world,” he tells her. He would come here even when he couldn’t afford to stay in the hotel.
They walk in. Claire is surprised by how small it is. It is already crowded. Smoke plumes in the air. All the tables are occupied, but there are two seats at the narrow bar. George, the bartender, is mixing drinks.
“Mister Winslow,” says George in an English accent. “Lovely to have you back with us, sir.” He is slightly taller than average, balding, white-jacketed, precise in his movements. Harry has already sent him a note saying he would not be coming in with Maddy.
The two men shake hands. “Good to see you again, George. This is Claire.”
“Welcome,” George says. “You’ve just dined, I believe. Might I suggest a digestif?”
Harry looks to Claire. “Whatever he offers, agree to it. He is to the cocktail shaker what Picasso was to the brush.”
“All right, George. In that case I would very much like a digestif.”
“Lovely. Now, may I inquire whether you are fond of Armagnac?”
She nods. Behind the bar he wields the tools of his craft. His hands deftly lifting, chopping, swirling, pouring. Finally, a flower petal as a garnish.
“Voilà.”
She takes a sip. “Delicious,” she says.
Pleased, George permits himself a smile. “I thought you would like that.”
“What is it?” asks Harry.
“It’s called a Hôtel de France. Two parts Armagnac. One part crème de cassis. Seven parts chilled champagne. A shot of pear liqueur. I make the liqueur myself. And for you, Mister Winslow?”
“Surprise me.”
Once again the hands fly over the bar. It is like trying to watch a man cheat at cards.
“And voilà again.”
“Excellent,” says Harry. “What is it?”
“It’s a variation on the classic French 75. Before dinner I use London gin. After dinner, cognac is best. Then, of course, sugar, lemon, and champagne.”
“Superb.”
“It was my pleasure. Excuse me.”
Another customer is beckoning. George begins speaking in Spanish to him. Others come up, he responds in French. He is like a brilliant financier or someone who has the hot tips at the racetrack; everyone wants him.
“What a fascinating man,” Claire says. “I have never met a bartender who revered his work so much.”
“You’re right. To him, this is the sacred mountain. There has to be a best in everything. The best lawyer, the best shoemaker, the best baker. He is the best bartender. He has devoted his life to it. Do you know that he wakes up every morning and reads newspapers in five languages just so he will be able to converse with his clients on any topic that might interest them?”
“Does he know Chinese?”
“Not yet.”
“He should.”
“Maybe, but the Chinese don’t come here yet. At least not many.”
She sips her drink. “Just wait.”
As happens most nights, George facilitates introductions. They meet a Spanish couple from Madrid. Then some Germans. Finally, two American girls traveling on their parents’ money. Claire chats with them. Harry is smoking a cigar. A fat corona from Cuba.
“Are you having fun?” he asks when she turns back to him.
She squeezes his hand. “I am,” she answers. “Are you? Are you glad you’re here? With me?”
“There is nowhere else in the world I would rather be. And with no one else. Have I told you how beautiful you look?”
“Not nearly enough.”
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you. For this, for all this.”
Later, in the room, he stands behind her, watching her brush her teeth. The water pouring from a faucet resembling a golden swan. She is very thorough. As he brushes his teeth, she uses the toilet, leaving the door open. He can see the white of her knees. Hears the roll of the paper as she unwinds it off the spool. He is overcome by intimacy, intruding upon her, her underwear around her ankles, knees together, her breasts bare. He stands in the doorway watching her. Her hand between her legs. Surprised, she looks up at him.
“Sorry,” he says. “I wanted to watch you.”
“It’s all right.”
“I’ve never done that before.”
She flushes and stands up, leaving her underwear on the floor. “I understand,” she says, kissing him. “This is all about new things.”
She is in bed waiting when he comes in. He can see that the message light is flashing red on the phone. He ignores it as he lowers himself into her arms.
T
hey spend the day as lovers do. In the morning breakfast is wheeled into their room. Claire hides, giggling under the covers, while Harry, wearing only a terry-cloth robe, signs the bill. The waiter maintains an attitude of Gallic indifference. He has seen it all before.
There is hot coffee, croissants, buttery eggs, crisp bacon. The linen is starched and white as paper.
“Try this coffee,” he says, handing her a cup and saucer. “It’s the best in the world.”
“You say that about everything at this hotel. Oh my god, you’re right. That’s really good.”
“It ought to be. At the prices they charge.”
“And these eggs. They’re incredible. I can’t imagine I’d be hungry again after last night’s dinner, but I’m starving.”
After breakfast they go out. The sky mirrors the gray of the stones on the
place
. Drivers in sunglasses and dark suits stand in front of Mercedes parked beside the entrance talking on cell phones and waiting for passengers.
They turn up the Rue de la Paix, heading toward the Opéra.
“Where shall we go?” she asks, her arm tucked under his. She is wearing woolen mittens and a scarf. I never wear hats, she has told him.
“Wherever you like.”
“I don’t feel like going to a museum. I know I should. But it’s like waking up on Sunday and going to church. It feels like duty, not fun.”
“So that rules out churches too, I take it?” he asks with a smile.
“Oh. Well, yes, I suppose it does. I mean, I’ve been to Notre Dame. It’s beautiful and awe-inspiring but we only have a short time. I’d rather not spend it in a musty church.”
“Where would you like to go?”
“Besides back to bed at the hotel, you mean?” she says, grinning at him. “I’m happy just to walk until we’re both hungry and then stop at some random place for lunch. How does that sound?”
“It sounds perfect.”
They head north. In his mind they are heading vaguely toward Montmartre, but he is willing to choose another direction if one suggests itself.