Café Maurice spills out on the broad, cobblestone street, with wooden café chairs and round, white marble tabletops on thin cast iron legs, protected from traffic by decorated concrete blocks painted a dark pink, with white lettering on the street side that spelled out the name.
Helmut Silvester, attired in light colored slacks, whose creases could be used for felling trees, white shirt and blue sports coat, scratched his brain, his pen poised to continue. The story that plagued him was clear yesterday, but today, the bright fire dimmed into smoky ashes. Happens sometimes. Ideas are as perishable as midnight dreams, or a woman’s love.
Maybe that was the problem. Citrina left him, without a hint of conversation, only a hurriedly scrolled scrap of yellow, ruled paper left among the ceramic nick knacks on the mantel. “This isn’t working.”
He'd bought her a box of beautifully engraved note cards from Gaubert’s in La Place Dauphine. She could have used one of those. Was he only worth a ragged piece of foolscap?
A sense of loss, a feeling of desperate loneliness slowly faded, but far from being replaced by calmness, his mood had become an impending storm. The tide was turning, rolling onto the beach with a vicious roar.
She wasn’t worth the trouble! Visions danced. Nothing was ever good enough for her. The episode with the bracelet he’d bought her for her birthday. Wrong color? Gold with delicate streaks of silver when he should have known she only wore gold? The dishes in the sink she plagued him about?
Ah, but the firm thighs, the happy breasts, the…none of that mattered now.
The waiter must have seen his building agitation, the promise of either harsh words or a crashing sweep of the arm across the small table.
“Perhaps Monsieur would care for a Cognac?”
Helmut glanced at his watch. “An Armagnac.”
“Très bien, Monsieur.”
He did need a drink, but drink could bring on a bout of melancholy. That was what he didn’t need. He’d finish his café au lait, polish off his Armagnac and take a walk. Perhaps that might keep the dark dog of depression from pulling at the leash.
Helmut had problems. First off, he was American, born and raised, unlike his parents. The second problem was his name, which fit well with his Austrian ancestry, but not so well with his workmates at Hendric & Thatcher. Helmut morphed into Helmet Head,
and then into simply Helmet. His countrymen could be so crude.
He was reasonably good looking, even with thick-lensed glasses, unruly brown hair, and an aquiline nose. His French was reasonably good, unlike some of the swine he worked with. His office was fairly small, but during this fine spring weather the window looked out on a row of green leafy trees that lined the rather charming ribbon of street some four stories below, or three stories if you used the continental habit of not considering the ground floor in the numbering system. Poor old ground floor was a nothing, a zero. Perhaps it was, with its barren look of four brass elevator doors and an unnecessarily large, semi-circle reception desk. Had to do something to fill up the space, but certainly not important enough for it’s own number.
Helmut had a genius for numbers, almost instantly absorbing seemingly complicated company financial reports. He could tell at a glance if numbers were fudged, if new earnings were overstated, and his cat-like agility could spot if a company was up to its knees in cement and about to be pushed overboard.
The stories he wrote as a sideline were also quite good, or at least good enough to be published in small, rather obscure literary magazines. “I’m a writer,” was mostly good for conversation and a free drink in culture crazed Paris. He knew the conversation by heart.
“And where might I find your work, monsieur?”
“In le this and la that magazines.”
The coffee had grown cold, much as his story had. He took another sip of Armagnac, licked his forefinger, used it to touch a large flake on the small white plate, and brought it to his mouth, then shoved the plate aside, yet still staring at what was left of his croissant. It wasn’t the buttery roll that drew his attention, but the color of it. The woman in his story was a blond, or was she? How should he describe her hair? What would you call the color of a croissant? Faded blond? Brownish blond?
“Monsieur?” asked the white-jacketed waiter. He hadn’t even noticed him approaching.
“Encore un café, s’il vous plaît.”
“Et Armagnac?’
“Oui, merci.”
No need to hurry on this delightful Paris morning.
The waiter delicately balanced a small steel tray holding the snifter of amber liquor and a fresh cup of café au lait. “Merci,” Helmut said, and with a nod, the waiter turned and walked away, stopping once to have a short conversation with the woman at another table.
Hearing the feminine voice, Helmut glanced up. The woman three tables away had the same color of hair as his character, or so he supposed. Perhaps he should ask her. But what would he say? Just noticed your hair and wondered what the hell color is it? Croissant beige? Lightly moldy cheese? Radiance of urine? Ah, the anger was still with him and he had to discard it, or end up with a story unprintable and destined to be sweep by the wind through a beggar’s alley.
Perhaps he should start off lightly. “Hi, they call me Helmet. Does that hair have a touch of jaundice? And, do you often go out in public? Wig makers on strike?” Gotta shake that anger!
Instead, he finished his petit-déjeuner, glanced once more in her direction, and strolled the three blocks to his office. After the second small snifter of confidence builder, he’d forgotten about the story or the character, sat down at his desk and delved deeply into a yearly report. It left him perplexed. It wasn’t that the numbers didn’t align, but that they did. There’s always a flaw, a sin of omission, or a vagarity that the sharp financial eye will see. Normally, it’s nothing. You read the year’s projection and disagree with that future earnings will be 5.1%. You do the figures, or take a recent string of mildly bad news and come out with 5%. Nothing more than the reader being less optimistic.
The next morning, he called the office, asked if anything were pressing and told the secretary he’d be in by early afternoon, then hurried off to his usual café, and ordered the usual croissant and milk coffee. He noticed the same woman seated at the same table as before. He studied her face and took a few notes for his story. While his pen scratched the paper, a shadow crossed his table. He looked up. The woman at the other table stood there. He stood up quickly, wiping his lips and leaving his white napkin on the table, he greeted her politely, “Oui, madame?”
“Bonjour, monsieur. I saw you looking at me, but not quite looking at me.”
“Was I? A thousand pardons.” He gave a quick mea culpa nod of the head.
“You seemed to be studying me. Have we met?”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“You’re Helmut Silvester, are you not?”
“At your service, madame.” His Austrian genes almost made him click his heels.
“Helmut Silvester, the writer, oui?”
The question stunned him. He hesitated for one beat, two. “The very same, madame.” He offered another nod, as though accepting a knighthood from the queen. But, the moment he said it, the shadow of suspicion crept in. This meeting could not be by chance. She obviously knew who he was before she approached.
As if reading his mind, she said, “I’m Julianne Baton, an editor at Esprit, and I like your work, your flair for the dramatic and with a philosophic bent.”
“Je suis débordé, madame.” I’m overwhelmed. Esprit was the crème de la crème of Paris’ literary press.
She paid no attention to his modesty. All writers were politely modest at first, before they turned into self-centered pricks, just like the lover who lived with her until the day before yesterday, when he glared at her, tossed his clothes in a suitcase and walked out the door of the small apartment.
She continued, “We are both swept up in the morning rush, but would you care to join me for dinner? If Jean-Marie is free, he may join us.” Jean-Marie? Jean-Marie Domenach? The director of Esprit?
“Avec plaisir, madame!” he said, surprising himself by replying without a stammer.
Up close she really didn’t look that bad. In fact, her face showed a certain charm; her smile had already brightened his day.
There’s something about French women. A strong elegance, yet with an underlying soupcon of sexiness that can carry over into their eighties. This woman wasn’t even half that age. It’s a je ne sais quoi. The way they walk. The way their hands move with expressive grace.
“If you’ve got a bit more time, we could have another Armagnac,” he said. It befuddled him that he’d suggested so quickly, and in such a low tone, as if they could follow libations with a trip with the stairs to his apartment.
She surprised him, with a quick smile “I prefer Cognac, even though c’est un peu tôt.”
“Yes it is a bit early, but I need not be at the office until afternoon, and even then…” leaving things implied but unsaid, in the French manner.
“Nor do I monsieur.”
Her hair was beautifully blond after all, just like the woman in his story.
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