He tried to put yesterday’s unpleasantness aside, but a nagging feeling left him so unsettled the coffee wallowed bitterly in his mouth. Same coffee, same café, but his life was turning upside down. He scraped his tongue across his teeth, which did nothing. He drew the white, starched napkin up to his lips, looked around and decided to refrain from spitting. The coffee wasn’t bitter like the green persimmon you bit into and made your father laugh. It was more of a strength that made you skip the first bite of a butter croissant and cram the whole thing in your mouth. He looked around, saw a few people at the nearby tables and again refrained. Next time he’d ask for a café au lait, and pray his taste buds would forgive and his stomach would stop the rebellion.
In this particular café, where he came every morning, the tables spilled out in front, under a green canopy. He always sat near the back, safe from an errant blast of wind, or an unholy blast from a rusty muffler.
The morning was chilly, but that didn’t stop Harry Dunn, or a fair amount of chatty others. Didn’t stop the waitress either, or the traffic. A thick red and black wool sweater kept her cozy. Harry guessed the pink of her nose signaled she would doubtlessly rather be inside, or at home. He imagined a small, cold Paris apartment devoid of luxuries, except for a single bottle of wine and an empty pantry. But, what did he know? He’d never been there, or thought about going. Maybe she’d rather be here.
Adriana, wore her hair in a chignon and must have been thirty-five, a tough thirty-five and a smoker, from the looks of the deeply creased wrinkles. Harry, as regular, spoke to her often, relying on her English for the translation. She didn’t appear to have a boyfriend, but one never knows and Harry chose not to ask. Where would the conversation go if he did ask? Nowhere was his guess.
Adriana approached and inquired politely, but no smile, “Encore?” No, he didn’t need another bitter as a bitch espresso, but he did need something. “Perhaps a coffee with milk.” He wanted to say, café au lait, but couldn’t trust his partially ruined tongue, especially after yesterday. Actually, it was his mind he couldn’t trust to form the right French words in the right order, with the right inflection. Better to be thought arrogant than stupid, although it was a toss up.
Arrogant and stupid hung like sloppy shirts on Americans, but money is money. French cafés understood the food and drink are the products, the customer was the target, and money was the reward. From Americans they expected awkward ignorance and wads of cash. He looked down at the salver. Thirteen cents. Adriana said for the French thirteen was lucky. Not the way Harry’s life was going.
In America the version of a coffee shop was very different. The waitress had been transformed into ‘server’ to please the rebelliously uneducated and unhappy. And the servers thought of themselves as both tickets and performance, while customers were only riff raff, obliged to leave a tip large enough choke a hungry squirrel.
Reginald Closter had been Harry’s French teacher in the bygone days of high school. Never to be called Reggie. Never to be called anything but Master Closter in the English public school tradition.
French class had been the humiliation found in the darkest of nightmares, the one where you’re sliding down a banister and it turns into a razor blade.
Harry’s French essays returned from the hand of the master looking like Jackson Pollock had had a temper tantrum with a red pen. Harry’s essays came back looking like devils had a hoedown in Dante’s fires of hell.
Little good high school French did him now. La plume de ma tante est sur la table, my aunt’s quill pen is on the table didn’t come up readily in conversation and quill pens had gone the way of spats and spittoons. .
Grammar was king. In good ole Closter’s class the subjunctive was a prince, and conversation and useful vocabulary came in dead last, behind words like mort aux rats, lapins dansants, and abdominoplastie. A waitress in a restaurant wasn’t interested in rat poison, dancing rabbits, and tummy tuck surgery, although with this waitress….
Harry grimaced. The master must have thought discussions of the subjunctive could win fair lady and make you the pride of the Parisian cocktail crowd.
Harry surprised himself that he would even be seated in a Paris café, sipping coffee and staring at the waitress’ ass (la cul de la serveuse) when he was old enough to be her grandfather. His mind still pictured himself as a twenty-five year old, spry hunter with a loaded pistol. And then reality exploded his dream and he went back to skim reading Le Parisian, the most popular newspaper. Yes, he could read bits and pieces of French, and took pride in finding the uses of the subjunctive. But, he still believed Master Closter was Beelzebub’s unhealthy son.
Harry spoke French, or imagined he did until he had to speak. He dabbled in reading the language, stumbling valiantly through books about monkeys in the jungle and Sept d’un Coup, Seven with One Blow, which was about a tailor killing flies. He also wrote letters, in Frenchlish. He wrote real letters, on paper, with envelopes and stamps, believing emails should follow Master Closter into the fiery depths. Harry’s epistles, scribed in French-English garble, were always well received by Maria Blanchet, or so said this mystery lover whom he had yet to meet.
Finding a lover happened rather rapidly. In an idle moment, of which there were many, Harry glanced through the dating column in a French/English/German/Italian newspaper, published on thin paper once a month. No addresses or telephone numbers or emails, but you could write or email the editor, who went by the name Frank Lee Said, and who evidently passed the correspondence along. In two weeks, Harry got a reply saying his postal address had been forwarded to Julia de la Coeur, AKA Maria Blanchet.
Looking at ads began a few months ago when Margarite, his former girlfriend and very reluctant lover, so reluctant that they had never made love, moved back to Montreal to marry a man she’d met forty years ago. Undeterred, Harry figured he better spring into action before his springs rusted.
Maria popped up. There followed an exchange of normal looking photos. Harry sent a leftover from his passport experience and was reassured to find a woman in her sixties with graying hair and a lovey smile. Plus, her handwriting earned curvaceous style points.
She was married, or so she said, and lived in Brussels, so she said, and had once won the Miss Belgian Pomme Frites contest. Harry hoped it wasn’t an eating contest. Her husband was a brute, she said, but she couldn’t afford the price of a divorce. The implication being she was ready for what the French call cinq á sept, five to seven, the hours for illicit love affairs.
Brussels was a short hop by train, but some indefinable fear crept like a silent snake through his mind and other parts of him. He sure as hell didn’t want to run into her husband, whom she claimed owned a skeet range and had given lessons to officers at the Belgian Commando Training Centre. All of Harry’s very private equipment was in working order and he didn’t fancy his delicate chimes rung by randomly aimed twenty-ought buckshot.
Just recently, Harry wrote that they should talk on the phone. Maria wrote back that was impossible because her husband was ill and the phone was in the bedroom. What about a cell phone? She said her husband used the same cell phone.
But, a love interest was not the only dilemma Harry faced. There was the matter of yesterday’s fender bender, which was not really a fender bender, but his front bumper to a woman’s back bumper bender. He never felt a bump, and anyway he claimed it was her fault for backing into him, but being behind her at a stop sign tossed a little cold water on his assertion. Matter of fact, the accident happened close to the café. Gendarmes never showed, which was a bit strange, since she had called them, in super fast, roiling French, which included the word for pain, douleur, complete with facial expressions favored by out of work actors in a death scene. The woman insisted on knowing his full particulars and judged the dent to be valued at €5,000. She switched to English midway. He disagreed strongly about the amount, also in English. She then stated her case in French, a French so rapid her tongue should have burst into flame.
He grabbed his wallet and offered her €50. She scoffed. “It’s not just the dent, monsieur. My spine….” She grimaced as she arched her back, and put the back of one hand behind her, close to her kidney. This was once again in English, but not to be undone, he tried to switch back into French.
He wanted to tell her that wasn’t her spine, but went silent when he found he didn’t know the word for spine, la colonne vertébrale, or kidney, rein, although he’d seen the word on a menu. Panic flooded him. His throat clinched and the first thing that came to mind leapt out. La plume de ma tante est sur la table. The grin on his face, meant to be friendly, slanted like a toothy gargoyle with vengeance on its evil mind.
She made a quick assessment, évaluation. The man was deranged, dérangé. He stepped forward and she backed away. Mort aux rats, he said. Before he could finish the second verse of La Plume de ma… she was in her car, terror stricken, followed closely by the merciless face of Christmas-past pounding on her already rolled up windows, doors locked. She vanished, amidst a trail of oily black exhaust.
Smoke blinded him. The €50 remained in his outstretched hand and the note with his particulars floated away, via transportation courtesy of a slight breeze. He chased it, but the breeze won the race.
He never heard from her or the police, until the next day when a man claiming to be Inspector Russo called him on his cell phone. He stuttered at first when the inspector asked him about the accident. Harry asked him to wait a moment and Monsieur Inspector could speak to his lawyer. The phone went dead.
How had she or anyone else known his phone number? The thought struck him like a blast of cold wind. Had she gone back and found the piece of paper with his particulars? Did he write the phone number down? He couldn’t remember. But, how else could she have known?
Perhaps the piece of scrap paper that the breeze caught was not his piece of paper. Perhaps she had already put the real item in her purse. Which caused him to wonder if she’d had a purse. He couldn’t remember that either.
What had she been wearing? Slacks with pockets? A skirt? Definitely slacks. Maybe not. Or, maybe the slacks, if she was wearing slacks, didn’t have pockets. He tried to recall what she did with her hands and drew a blank. The only things he knew for sure were the color of the car, faded blue, and her face, but even the details of her face now seemed bland, unremarkable. Color of her hair? Brown. Maybe brown with streaks of gray. Or, maybe her hair was all brown and the angle of the sun had made some steaks look lighter.
Harry waited for another call, hoping it wouldn’t come. His hopes were realized. But, he did get a call from Maria Blanchet, his lover to be. She would be in Paris tomorrow and wondered if they could meet. She mentioned a bistro, La Blah de Blah on Rue de Blah Blah. He asked her to repeat it and hurriedly scratched down the names phonetically, which may have been somewhat near what he had heard as her nasal tones rode past at the speed of a bullet train. Le Button de Rose on The Roo de Put It To Pro-fund.
He gamely went to the café. Adriana, the waitress, when asked, shrugged, turned away and continued clearing tables. He tried Google and found what he thought might be the key to unlock requited love, or at least a cinq a sept.
The Rose Bud on Deep Well Street rang no bells. Nice place from the looks of the Google photos, but photos sometimes didn’t tell the whole truth. Could be quite a drive amid the normally devilish frantic Paris traffic. The early evening traffic would be as bad or worse. Then there was the question of parking. Made him think more deeply about following through, or not.
He squirmed a bit, considering the pros and dingy dark cons. He ordered an Armagnac to go a second cup of café au lait. No one but an American would drink a café au lait after lunch. So be it. He needed time to run things through his mind, the ifs and buts. He ordered a second brandy.
Irene showed up, one of the upstairs neighbors. Not just slim, so anemically skinny that size zero would hang on her bony shoulders like a tent. Short gray hair also thin enough that her scalp showed. They’d chatted before , but only while passing in the lobby of the apartment building, and not often enough to call her his friend, but enough to peg her as a transvestite or gay, or whatever. No attraction on any level from either of them, but pleasant enough to talk to.
“Hi, Irene. Care to?” He rose and directed her to a chair with a smile and his open palm.
“Only for a bit.” She sat, shading her eyes, then changing her mind and her chair. She liked to see the street. She lit a cigarette and took a deep, lung-clogging drag and exhaled in competition with fumes from passing cars.
Usually, Harry preferred non-smokers, but right now his need for conversation was overriding.
Irene ordered an espresso, enviously spied Harry’s snifter of amber liquid and changed to an espresso and a brandy.
Harry explained the situation with the automobile accident. Irene listened and tossed it off. “I wouldn’t worry. The Paris police don’t make phone calls. They show up. But for a fender bender?” She shrugged.
Then he asked about the street and restaurant, not mentioning he was to meet a lover. Le Bouton de Rose.
Harry took a cab. Le Bouton was on a side street, with red awning over large mullion windows and a bright blue door. By the door, a black chalkboard sign offered specials in hand written pink and white.
Inside was a bit crowded and from the looks of things it was more bar than restaurant and larger than the outside showed. Lots of groups of working class men in scruffy clothes sitting at café tables, talking loudly, drinking any manner of things, while a waiter in jeans and black t-shirt scurried with trays of drinks and platters of food. The waiter noticed him and on the way back to the kitchen gave him an over the shoulder wave to sit where he wanted.
As Harry looked around, he saw a man in a booth giving him an unfriendly stare. Heavy set guy with a two-day salt and pepper beard and a head of greasy dark hair. The man got up and walked toward him, potbelly, double chin, and eyes looking for trouble. He yelled something to Harry, but before anything could happen, the waiter, who knew a scuffle when he saw one, said some angry words in French and pointed them to the door.
Harry left as fast as he could and the heavy man followed closely and gave Harry a shove as they sent through the door.
“You know my wife!” The man was close enough to bite Harry’s nose. Harry stepped back. The man’s slurred English was not bad, but his breath was. Harry stepped back again.
The man tried to grab Harry’s coat with one hand and take a swing with the other. The blow caught Harry’s shoulder. Damn, the guy could hit!
Harry swung at the biggest target and connected. The man doubled at the waist and vomited over Harry’s pants and shoes.
The waiter came out to get them the hell away from the doorway and the restaurant. He spoke no English, but Harry got the point. Another customer appeared, a thin, older man, who did speak English.
“This man is a troublemaker,” the man said, pointing to sturdy man who was now on his hands and knees, tossing more beans and beer on the sidewalk. “His wife is a whore and meets men here.”
“What’s her name?”
The man shrugged.
“They live in Brussels?”
“No Monsieur. They live near here.”
“Why did he pick me?”
“He picks any foreigner who looks like a foreigner. He’s done this before and been thrown out before.”
“This is Le Bouton Rose?” Harry asked.
“Yes, Monsieur.” The man’s eyes lit up. “Perhaps you look for Le Bouton Rouge? It is a restaurant on this street and a nice one. The names are often confused by tourists.” He pointed down the street.
Harry stood by the curb, but had a hard time getting a cab to take him back to his apartment. They saw the vomit and kept rolling.
Was Maria a whore? He stood and thought, considering what Maria had written. What if he did get the wrong spot? Rose, Rouge? How was he supposed to know? His life was getting more complicated than French grammar. Meeting a strange woman in a part of Paris he’d never been to? Getting into a fight in a bar? He’d not had a fight since he was a child. Maybe that vomiting bastard was Maria’s husband. Maybe not. Either way…
“I thought you might get lost.” The woman’s voice behind him was soft and sweet. “You are Harry?” Before he could answer, she said, “When you didn’t meet me, I spoke with the waitress and she told me about this place, so I came to find you.”
Harry nodded. ”Maria?”
She smiled. “What happened to you?” Then she noticed the fat man, now lying face down. “Let’s go somewhere where you can change.”
The next morning, Harry sat in the usual café, sipping a café au lait. It had been a pleasant evening. After they finally got a cab, he changed his clothes and they went for a ‘get to know you’ supper. He wasn’t twenty-five. Neither was she. Caution ruled. Then Maria took a train back to Brussels. Harry waved goodbye as she boarded.
As Harry sipped and recounted the evening, an unmarked car pulled up and nonchalantly parked next to the curb. It was clearly marked with paint and a sign as No Parking, Stationnement Interdit. A tall man, with gray hair, a little portly, wearing a dark suite got out of the car, buttoned his coat and walked to where Harry was sitting.
“You are Monsieur Dunn?” The man pulled out a small black leather booklet and flipped it open to show a photo and credentials. “I am Inspector Russo. I understand you had an accident with my wife.”
Harry stood. “Your wife?” He felt the same squeamish sensation as being in a dental chair and hearing a mention of root canal.
The tall man sighed. “My ex-wife.”
Even worse. The dentist had taken out his scalpel. “What can I do for you?” And how in hell did you know I would be here and what I looked like? Stay calm, Harry told himself. None of that was relevant now.
The Inspector’s voice was calm, non-threatening. “Will you explain to me what happened? She said you hit her from behind and then attacked her. She asked me to look into it.”
“We were at a stop sign and she backed into me. I never attacked her. My French is awful….”
“As is my English…please go on.”
“I tried my best to explain.”
“Did you offer her money?”
“Yes. I thought it best to settle immediately.”
“Do you realize it is a crime to offer a bribe at the scene of an accident?”
Harry stammered, said no; shook his head, stammered some more.
Inspector Russo held up his hand for Harry to settle down. “My wife has problems. She called the police. Actually, she called my office. She has done this before. A minor accident. Someone else’s fault. She tells them to pay some outrageous sum. She likes American dollars.”
“So,” Harry said, with a tone of relief, “What do you want me to do?”
“As a favor, I want you to do nothing. Simply forget it. Brush it out of your mind.”
Two days later, a letter from Maria arrived, saying what a charming evening they’d shared, but she was sorry to say, they could not meet again. Her husband who was ill, suffered a heart attack last night, was in the hospital and she needed to care for him. She was so sorry and torn, but her duty was clear. She hoped Harry would understand.
Harry was again at the café when he read the letter and sighed. Just as well. He ordered another brandy. Adriana brought the brandy and said, “Monsieur, do you see the lady at the table behind me? The lady in the blue dress, with the red scarf? She wonders if you might like to join her.” Adriana winked as she put down the salver. He glanced down. Thirteen cents again. “Not just thirteen, but a red scarf is also good luck,” she said.
Wouldn’t hurt to chat.
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