Paris Is Always a Good Idea (31 page)

The woman at the window turned slowly round, and Robert felt his train jumping the track. An apparition! It had to be an apparition!

“You've missed me? I'm glad about that: when we last talked on the phone I didn't get the impression that my absence meant so much to you.” Her green eyes glittered as she took a step toward him to embrace him.

“Rachel!” he blurted. “What are you doing here? This is … well, this is a surprise.”

Thoughts rushed zigzag through his head like hares fleeing a hunter.

She gave him a kiss—in his thunderstruck state he just let it happen—and he thought he saw a malicious smile pass fleetingly across her face. “So, I hope it's a pleasant surprise, Robert,” she purred, stroking his hair. “You really need a haircut, my dear.”

“Yes … no … I mean…,” he stuttered. “I thought we were going to talk on the phone, to discuss … everything.”

“Exactly,” she said. “But then you didn't call and so I thought it would make more sense for me to come over to … talk.” Her smile was now unmistakably ironic. “Although this room is really frightfully small—how did you manage to put up with it the whole time?”

“Oh, you know … time has just flown,” he stammered. “Sure, the room isn't particularly big, but the courtyard is pretty. And anyway, I haven't spent a lot of time in the room.”

“Really?” She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, yes, of course”—she smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand—“you were
so dreadfully busy
.” She glided over to the bed, leaned against the headboard, and crossed her long legs seductively.

The telephone beside the bed began to ring, but Robert didn't move from the spot.

“Well, darling, aren't you going to answer it? Don't let me disturb you. Just act as if I wasn't here.” She smiled at him like a snake with a rabbit.

He stared at her as if spellbound. Rachel had gotten on a plane and just flown over. That was quite something! A sunbeam fell into the room and her red curls glowed like fire. She smiled at him without saying anything, and Robert had the definite feeling that her intentions were far from positive. He wondered what she'd slipped to the receptionist to persuade her to allow her to come up to his room. The ringing stopped.

“Rachel, what is this? What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I've come to take my somewhat confused professor of literature home,” she said with an indulgent smile. “It seems to me, Robert, that you are a bit muddled.”

“What?” Robert was speechless. “Take me home?”

“Well, your four weeks are up on Thursday, my love, and I thought we could spend a few days together in Paris before flying home. You could show me around a bit, and I really want to go shopping in the rue de Rivoli. They say they have really great purses there.”

Robert shook his head hesitantly. He might as well tell her here and now. “I'm afraid that's not going to happen, Rachel.”

“What's not going to happen?” she replied like a pistol shot.

“Anything, Rachel. I'm going to stay in Paris. I was going to call you today. We need to talk.”

“About the guest professorship?” She looked at him slyly.

“Rachel, it's not just the job. Since yesterday I've known that I have a father who lives in Paris.”

“Aaaah!” she exclaimed. “Now there's a father in Paris as well. How extremely practical!”

“There's no need to be sarcastic, Rachel. I've only known since yesterday myself.” He took a deep breath. “And since yesterday I've known that I've met the only woman for me here in Paris.”

“Really?! That was quick!” Strangely enough, she didn't seem at all surprised.

“If it's the right woman, it's always quick,” he said slowly. “I'm sorry, Rachel.”

Rachel sat up and stared at him with unconcealed rage. “If you mean the girl from the postcard store, you can just forget it.” She laughed scornfully. “Because you're definitely on her shit list.” She said it with indescribable elegance.

“What do you mean, Rachel?” Robert felt his heart sinking.

“Exactly what I say.” Her voice rose in a shrill crescendo. “What do you think, Robert? Did you really believe I'd allow my future to be screwed up by a little postcard seller? What do you think you're doing with that child? She doesn't even have a proper hairdo with that stupid braid of hers. Please, Robert, you cannot be serious. Did you drink too much red wine?”

Robert turned white with rage. “What have you done, Rachel? You didn't … oh, God, you did.…” He took a threatening step toward her, ending up directly beside the French bed.

“Of course I went to see her.” Rachel fell back calmly and laughed softly. “Well, what can I say—the girl wasn't exactly pleased to discover you'd lied to her. Then I explained to her that we're not just
acquaintances
.…”

“You know exactly the terms I came to Paris under, Rachel! It was you who gave me the damn ultimatum. It was
you
who was going to leave me.”

Rachel waved dismissively. “All water under the bridge. I was very worked up at the time. Sometimes you change your mind. Anyway,” she continued unimpressed, “I told her what was what and then waved my engagement ring under her nose. The mademoiselle with the braid turned rather pale—I almost felt a little sorry for her…”

“You bitch!” He would have liked to wring her neck. “You know very well that that's not an engagement ring.” Robert still clearly remembered the visit to Tiffany's when Rachel absolutely insisted on the white-gold ring with the little diamond for her birthday.

“Whatever.” Rachel looked at the ring on her finger with some satisfaction. “She was quite impressed, I have to say. Especially when I said we're getting married in the fall.”

“You said what?”

 

Thirty-two

Half an hour later Robert was back outside the little store in the rue du Dragon ringing up a storm on the doorbell. He drummed on the door in desperation. He could see that there was a light on in the first floor, but Rosalie wouldn't come to the door. She had shut herself up in her oyster shell, and he couldn't even blame her for it after Lady Macbeth had so successfully spread her poison. He'd ushered a stunned Rachel almost physically out of his room.

“You'll regret this, you moron,” she hissed. “That girl will bore you more quickly than you can recite Hamlet's monologue and then you'll come crawling back.”

“You'll wait a long time for that,” he said between clenched teeth. “Not to say forever and a day. And now beat it!”

She leaned on the door frame of his room. “And where do you imagine I'm going to sleep tonight?”

“As far as I'm concerned, you can sleep under the bridges. But don't scare the
clochards
too much!”

Then he'd pulled the door shut tight and run to the rue du Dragon.

“Rosalie! Rosalie! I know you're up there. Open up Rosalie,” he shouted many times.

Eventually the main door of the building opened and an elderly little man with crafty eyes had come out on the street. “What do you think you're doing, monsieur? This is not a fairground. If you don't stop this hullaballoo, I'll call the police.” He looked at Robert, who was staggering about. “What's wrong with you, are you drunk?”

“I've got to see Rosalie Laurent!” was all he could say.

“Are you an American?” The old man stared at him suspiciously.

“Please!” begged Robert. “Can you let me in? I know she's in her apartment.”

“But, monsieur!” He shrugged his shoulders. “Calm down! Mademoiselle Laurent is not at home, otherwise she'd come to the door.”

The old man was hopelessly dull-witted.

“But she's there—just look! The light!” He pointed upward excitedly.

“Really? What makes you think that? I can't see anything.” Robert looked up at the first floor. Behind the window above Luna Luna it was dark.

*   *   *

AFTER HE REALIZED THAT
he wasn't going to get anywhere that night he'd returned to his hotel. After all, Rosalie would have to open the store the next day.

But when he arrived outside the store again punctually at eleven o'clock on Tuesday morning, the
CLOSED
sign was still on the door. He'd tried to leave her a message, but her phone wasn't even switched on. He tore a page out of his notebook, wrote a desperate little message, and shoved the paper between the bars of the shutters.

From then on he patrolled past Luna Luna every hour and finally—it was two o'clock—he got lucky.

The shutters were up, the store was open, but as he pressed down the latch, ready to fall down on his knees and beg Rosalie's forgiveness for his—really tiny little—lie, and then explain everything to her, he found, instead of his beautiful quarreler, a totally unfamiliar woman who looked at him with unconcerned friendliness.

“Isn't Mademoiselle Laurent here?” he asked breathlessly. The woman shook her head, and he remembered that she was Rosalie's assistant, whom he'd already briefly seen. Unfortunately he couldn't remember her name.

“When will Mademoiselle Laurent be back?” he probed.

“No idea,” she replied indifferently. “She probably won't be back at all today.”

“Do you know if she got my message?” He pointed to the door.

“What message?” She looked at him blankly with her good-natured round eyes.

It was enough to drive you to despair. Robert spun round with a groan, and then thrust his telephone number at the sales assistant.

“Listen, it's
important,
” he implored. “I
have
to talk to Mademoiselle Laurent, you understand? Call me immediately if she comes back to the store again. And I mean
immediately
!”

She nodded and casually wished him a good day.

Two and a half hours and four
petits noirs
later he was still sitting in the little café in the rue du Dragon watching the entrance to Luna Luna a couple of yards away on the opposite side of the street. By now it was half past four. The waiter came out and asked him if he wanted anything else.

He certainly did, but the way things looked he was unlikely to get it. He decided to move immediately from one drug to the next and ordered a glass of red wine. And then another. And then he had the idea of calling Max Marchais. Happily, the telephone was picked up immediately, and Robert almost laughed with relief.

“It's me, Robert. Do you have any idea where Rosalie could be? I need to speak to her urgently.” He took a deep breath. “There's been a dreadful misunderstanding, an intrigue of truly Shakespearean proportions, and now Rosalie seems to have vanished from the face of the earth.”

Max said nothing for a moment, and Robert could sense his hesitancy.

“Is she in Le Vésinet by any chance?” he asked importunately. “Is she at your place?” It was quite possible that in her grief or her anger—by now he was betting on the latter—Rosalie had fled to her old friend the writer.

He heard Max sigh. “My boy, what sort of escapades have you been up to?” his father then said cautiously. “Rosalie isn't here, but she called me yesterday. She was really beside herself. You should really have told her about your fiancée.”

“But she is not my fiancée!” Robert yelled down the phone in desperation, knocking his glass over with a wild gesture as he did so. His light-colored pants gratefully sucked in the red liquid. “Shit! Dammit!” he cursed. “Rachel wasn't even my real girlfriend when I came to Paris.” He rubbed his pants with his napkin.

“What is she then?”

“A witch, dammit! I was intending to call her and tell her everything and then she was suddenly there in my room smiling at me like Kaa the python.”

He tried to paint Max the picture in as few words as possible.

“Of course it was wrong to say she was just someone I knew,” he ended. “I admit that now. But at the time I didn't know … I mean … it all went so fast … I just never caught up with things…”

“Merde,”
said Max. “That really was a stupid train of events.”

Robert nodded. “But where can she be?” he wondered nervously. “I hope she won't do anything silly.”

Max laughed softly. “I can put your fears to rest there, my boy. Rosalie is up in her apartment. She has just called me to say that that deceitful asshole had just been downstairs in the store again.”

“She's at home?!” That cow-eyed assistant had cold-bloodedly pulled the wool over his eyes with her innocent smile. He would have liked to storm back into the store, but he forced himself to remain calm.

“Good. What did she say?” he wanted to know.

“Calm down, Robert. All is not yet lost. She said she hates you.”

“She hates me? Oh, my God!” He rubbed at the stain on his pants like a madman. “But she can't hate me. I mean, I haven't done anything!” It was worse than he thought. Of course he knew how sensitive she was. How unforgiving. That she weighed every word with the accuracy of an assayer.

“Believe me, my boy, it's a good sign.” He heard Max laughing softly. “She hates you because she loves you.”

“Aha. An interesting theory. Let's hope it's correct. But I love Rosalie because I love her.” He sighed in comic despair. “And what should I do now, Max? What can I do so that she loves me again without hating me?”

“Don't worry, we'll think of something,” responded Max. “In fact, I already have an idea.…”

 

Thirty-three

Rosalie was lying in bed railing at the world. After that unpleasant, intimidating red-haired woman had left the store she had slid stunned to the stone floor and sat there for a while as if she'd been knocked out. Then she had stood up, locked the door, and closed the store. She'd tumbled upstairs and thrown herself sobbing on the bed in her blue silk dress. The fall had been too great, the pain was boring into her innards. “Keep your hands off my future husband!” The humiliation had struck home like a well-aimed dagger thrust.