The café was the same, but I arrived later in the day. Thankfully no rain. Surprising for this time of year. Same barkeep that brought a glass of my usual red wine, while I pulled my computer out of my old, scared, brown briefcase. He walked away to leave me in peace.
Edging just past noon. No Stanley. A sigh of relief. Morning is his coffee spot.
I’d finished going through the three pages from yesterday.
Time to let my mind wander. That’s what wine is for.
Piddling thoughts. What would my life be like if I reconstructed it, tossed out my todays for new tomorrows?
No, can’t be done. But the more I thought, the more reconstruction charmed me. I’m a writer. But, I could stop writing, or at least stop writing trash.
Another thought swirled. My wife, Molly, had led me into the world of the ordinary. Maybe she just followed me into it. Perhaps, new wife, knew life. But, wives are wives for the most part, built to be ordinary in my experience, and soon the sex would become a good reason to play dominos instead of raising the dead.
Perhaps an affair? Stanley’s wife? Beautiful. Arrogant. Unapproachable? Probable. To think of her in bed with Stan brought on nausea.
I thumbed through one of the French novels I’d purchased, pretending I knew every word, doing my best, and knowing less with each turn of the page. I think it was the French Prime Minister Georges Clemenceau who said English is badly pronounced French.
Or, to turn around what ole Cleme’s say, French is close to English. Clem, I disagree. French is closer to a snarling wolf in a trap in the pouring rain.
I had just pushed away the snarling wolf when a woman approached. I may not know French, but I know women can sense angst like an ant to sugar.
Maybe I squirmed and pushed fingertips through my hair that sent the message. Either way, I grabbed my book again and read on in deadly silence.
“Monsieur?” Beautiful, long auburn hair, green eyes, a smile that turned rain into sunshine. If only. She didn’t fit my yeaning. Nothing special.
Not a bad body, wearing the normal French woman’s attire. White blouse, but this one was nearly see-through, showing a hint of a bra under it. Blue skirt, tight around the bottom. High black heels and colorful scarf. The heavy makeup and gaudy red lipstick trashed it. I guessed she wanted me to buy her a drink, then follow her back to somewhere congenial.
“Merci, but I’m expecting someone.”
“I speak En-gleensh. I can see you have sooom troubles.” She leaned closer. Oh what big sooms you have Goldilocks. I almost spilled my wine.
I gave her a smile, and shook my head, the signal to part company in any language.
Back to dropping the book and going on the trail to writing. I like to write under a moody, dark gray sky. Not sure why. Bright days are for laughter, drinking forcefully and feeling like suggesting a new friend to help me with the last of the champagne, and on the horizontal would be nice.
The first blank page began with, “Jack first saw Margaret in blah blah blah….”, to hell with that. Maybe, “He saw her at a small…” I took a sip of wine.
“Bonjour! Are you always here?” said another soft feminine voice behind me.
I’d barely turned. Beatrice kissed me on both cheeks.
I’m too damn American to kiss back. I just smiled, touched my glass of wine and offered an apology for drinking at noon.
She gave a soft smile. “Never too early or too late with wine, mon ami. Some friends use it to brush their teeth.” Yes, I wanted to meet some of those friends of the feminine variety.
“I already checked. Stanley isn’t here.” I stood up.
“Quel dommage.”
Yes, it is a pity, but why is she here? I kept standing and pulled out a chair. She sat. Seldom has she spoken a word to me. My haunting question fluttered in the wind.
The waiter brought another glass and a full bottle of wine. “C’est l’ami de mon ami”. A friend of a friend. I nodded, as in the Parisian way, looking as if not caring.
“I wish to speak to you,” she said.
I smiled, and waited for whatever was coming.
“Stanley and I….well….there of our marriage.” It came out sounding more like a mirage.
That pretty well covers all marriages.
“Do you want to know?”
“Do you want to tell me?” Conversational ping pong.
I took a sip.
“Well, we are not married…..” followed by a smile and pause.
I waited.
“Well, we are, but we’re not…. sais pas.”
That made two of us who didn’t know. I stayed silent to let her mind her own business.
“He wanted to stay in le France.”
I shrugged. “A marriage of convenience.” Which turned out to be very close in French, but with a dog tailed accent.
I wanted to ask for more secrets, but refrained. Knowing others’ details usually led to more than less.
“You don’t want talking about that with me, n’est pas?” She said, and took a dainty sip of wine. “But maybe a favor?”
“Depends. What kind?”
“Not for me.”
“Your husband?”
“Une de mes amis”
“Man? Woman? Lawyer who needs his throat slit?”
“A woman.”
“Anyone I know? Hopefully not one married to an angry husband who’s a crack shot!”
“Her husband is deadly.”
“Damn I hope the hell not!”
“Oh…..non….my English…” She rolled her eyes. “I mean he is not living.”
“Dead you mean.”
She nodded. “Yes. She told me.” A shrug of her shoulders.
“How long ago?” I get particular about doing favors for women, especially those I don’t know, and who’s husband is only maybe dead and thinks pulling a gun and giving it a try is reasonable.
“She is quite old.”
“Let’s not beat around the old lady’s bush.”
“She is 92. Maybe 96.”
“How long before she’s dead?”
Beatrice paused, but kept her narrowing eyes on me. “She is not close.” Anything close to a smile had vanished.
These ‘close’ and ‘maybes’ ruffle my feathers and maybe many other’s people’s feathers. Maybe a cast of feather beaters. “How close?”
“She has not to have some sex and wants to have more of it before she in too old.”
My god, how long does she figure she can hang on? “Sounds like she needs to take her wheelchair into the confessional for the last rights. Maybe just a handshake would do the trick on the way to the cemetery.”
“She wants more.”
Don’t we all. “Butter her toast? Spill tea on her delicate places and call it a night?”
“She wants….well you know.”
“Wants to suck on the lollypop?”
‘’I don’t know what that is. She wants real…well you know things.”
Sex in the graveyard is a great way of saying goodbye, and zipping up one’s pants.
How much am I supposed to know? I followed her intent, with yet another sip of wine. Larger sip. Closer to a gulp. Then I gave myself a top-off.
“She pays well.”
“Why not get a pimp to settle the bargain?”
“She’s afraid of diseases.”
“Me, too!”
And I’m afraid of things I’m afraid to think about. My wonder stick is even more afraid. I’m already praying to Jesus for redemption.
But sure, I think. No, I don’t think, but what the hell? Her morgue or mine? I didn’t really think anything was going to happen. Make that hoping. Maybe she just wanted company or maybe I could read her a naughty version of Goldilocks where she grows to love the wolf who has more than big eyes.
Yes. Guessing turned into going.
Madam de Rohan lived as you would expect, in a lovely part of Paris. Beatrice and I took a taxi to a huge apartment building, just a little shorter than the Eifel Tower and probably older. A heavily built doorman in blue livery opened the taxi door and then the heavy brass door with thick glass. It swung open easily, only if you were the size of angry ape.
The ape ushered us to the elevator. The elevator boy, who looked about sixty-five, with arthritic knees and a wrinkled face, was in the same uniform.
On the way up, yes, the thought grabbed me. What would it be worth to have me push the old lady’s buttons?
Eighth floor was sure to be elegant, with an elegant sight of the city.
Before we could say shiver my timbers we were in. Thick carpet. Walls hung with what I guess were original pieces from the late 1800s. Toulouse-Lautrec. Monet and other wonders I didn’t recognize and could never afford unless I got to know the old lady very, very well.
End of Part 2 TO CONTINUE
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