“For a weekly newspaper called San Francisco Voices.”
“I’ve seen it. What do you do?”
“Nothing very exciting. I layout the pages—it’s like drawing a pattern to show where the editorial goes, where the ads go. It’s a fun place to work. I really like the people and getting to know everything going on in the city.”
I take another bite of lamb stew. It is delicious, but I am not sure what herbs have been used in it. I will have to check out a recipe book about Basque cooking.
“Does that guy I saw you with at the coffeehouse work there, too?
“No.”
What’s this? A little jealousy. Or more likely, simple curiosity. Or does he want me to know that he knows I saw him and pretended I didn’t. I have to turn this around.
“Okay. My turn at Twenty Questions. Where are you from originally?”
“No-Where Texas,” he answers with a grin.
“Oh yes. Famous No-Where Texas. Really. Where are you from?”
“A little town in Texas that no one has ever heard of.”
“You don’t sound like a Texan.”
“My mother is a teacher originally from up north and she did everything she could to keep my brothers and me from speaking like Texans. It worked more or less. And I’ve been away from there for a long time. I think what was left of Texas in me got scrubbed off in L.A.”
The waiters check to see if anyone else wants seconds and begin to clear the serving bowls. 15 minutes later people start leaving the table.
“My turn now.” His honey smile is back. “Do you want to go to the B.V.?”
We continue Twenty Questions in the car. I learn that he has a younger brother, Mike; an older brother, Matt who’s a lawyer; his mother’s maiden name is Austen; he started the band with John about 5 years ago; writes the lyrics and some of the music. Peter, the drummer, joined them later. Other musicians have come and gone. Tommy is the newest addition. He learned that I have a younger sister, Joanie, still in high school; grew up in boring and dull Spokane; originally thought about being an English teacher, dropped out of college after two years and worked for TV Weekly in Seattle.
I also told him I love the song “Night Ride across the Plains”. He wrote the lyrics and music and likes that I like it. It has been their biggest hit so far. I hope I don’t sound too much like some silly groupie fan.
The interior of the Buena Vista bar at the foot of Hyde Street is dark and packed with people—locals, tourists, even a few long-haired types. Along one side is a long bar. Small round tables and chairs are lined up along the other side. We squeeze into seats at one of the tables and he orders two Irish coffees. I can hear the cable car bell clanging, outside.
His arm is around my shoulder and his fingers run around my earlobe and down my neck. It feels good now. Not too scary, although my body is still humming and I feel slightly flushed. I think I have appeared quite poised so far—at least I hope so.
The Irish coffee is served in a heavy stemmed glass and has a layer of whipped cream on top. I take one sip and realize there is a lot more of something else in it. “Wow, this isn’t what I expected.”
“It’s espresso and Irish whiskey,” he smiles. “The B.V. is famous for it.”
“Oh, so now you’re going to try to get me drunk. Is that it?” I smile as I say it.
The look on his face changes. He pulls me toward him and whispers in my ear: “For what I want to do with you I’d rather have you sober.”
I freeze, then look away. I feel paralyzed. I don’t know how to react or what to say. The bar is noisy. People are coming and going. I don’t see or hear any of it. Then I feel his fingers trace along the side of my face to my chin, gently.
“So you’re not going to look at me. Again.” He sounds amused.
My mind is churning: ‘What he wants to do with me’. I know what he means but what do I say? What do I do? Finally I turn to him. “That was truth or dare. I’ve never been good at that game. I don’t have an answer.”
“At least you didn’t jump up and run out and leap into a canoe.” He smiles that honey smile again and his blue eyes are twinkling.
I can’t help but laugh a little and the laughter dissolves some of my anxiety. “That night was so funny and strange. I know he is part of your band, but Tommy is awful. Ali and I laughed so hard after we left that we almost ran the canoe into a dock. Up close like that he is so different from his image. And so drunk.”
“That’s one of Tommy’s problems. It was his big idea to rent that boat and see the sights of Seattle from the water. It was so damned cold. Well, at least I met you there, Lady of the Mist.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about Tommy.”
Lady of the Mist? The matchbook read ‘Lady of the Lake’. I guess he has forgotten that.
“Okay, Tommy’s off limits. What do you want to talk about?”
“How I can help you come up with the right answer, Julia.” He is serious again or is he?
“I think time is what I need. Time.” My answer is serious.
“Okay. I’ve got time.”
* * *
The gate in front of the cottage squeaks as he opens it. We walk to the front door.
“Thank you for this evening. I loved the Basque Hotel. And the Buena Vista.”
“My pleasure.”
Then he takes my face between his hands, pulls me toward him and kisses my forehead softly. I close my eyes. He kisses one eyelid, “Sweet Dreams, baby. Then kisses the other: “Dream of me. Goodnight.
He turns and walks away, back through the gate to his car.
“Goodnight,” I whisper. I am barely breathing, my body vibrating. I feel I have been left hanging in an emotional limbo. Why did he do that? Why didn’t he kiss me?
The door to the cottage is unlocked, apparently Ali’s doing. She is waiting in the darkness inside, sitting on the sofa, watching TV. I flick on the overhead light.
“You’re home. Thank goodness.” I can hear her relief. “Well, how was it? How is he?”
I have to tell her something, but I am definitely not going to mention ‘truth or dare’.
“We went to the Basque Hotel near Chinatown for dinner. Great Basque food served family style. We will have to go there someday. Then down to the Buena Vista for coffee. I’m not even sure I will see him again.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Who’s this? Ali the investigative reporter?” I laugh and shake my head. “We talked about ordinary things—his family, where he’s from—nothing special.”
“Sorry. I was worried about you.”
“I’m okay.” I lie. “It was just an ordinary dinner date.”
I still don’t know what happened. Was that goodbye? But he said ‘Dream of me’. And I have to admit to myself that this evening did not cure me of Austen Raneley. He’s not awful. He’s not stupid. My attraction to him is still there and, now on top of that, there is ‘what I want to do with you.’ What should I do about that?
* * *
Sunshine floods into the bedroom. It must be late morning, but when I look over at the clock on the floor next to my mattress, it is only 9 a.m. so the fog must have cleared early today.
Sleeping on a mattress on a floor is like camping indoors and camping is something I’ve never enjoyed, even when my parents dragged my sister and me around to campgrounds in National Parks in summer. I really have to buy a bed one of these days.
Ali is in the kitchen spreading raspberry jam on a toasted English muffin when I come downstairs. I pour myself a cup of coffee.
“Should we continue our city tour today? It is such a sunny day. Maybe we could go down to the Palace of Fine Arts.”
“I have other plans today,” Ali smiles, smugly.
“Are you going someplace with Drew?”
“Yes, there is a street demonstration downtown.”
When Drew arrives, he invites me to join them, but
I decline. I know antiwar efforts are important and I have gone to one demonstration already, but today I want quiet. Besides, if that boring Sam is going to be there, I do not want to see him. He was so full of himself.
“Maybe next time.”
I decide to visit the Palace of Fine Arts by myself and take one bus, then transfer to another to get there. It is a complex of elegant and ornate buildings left from the 1915 Panama Pacific Exposition. It’s on the edge of the Marina District surrounded by a lagoon and a grassy tree-lined park. A new science exhibition, called the Exploratorium, opened there recently. I’ll have to come back another time and visit it.
The sunshine casting shadows on the beautiful buildings, the fresh breeze off the Bay and the lush green setting are very invigorating. I decide to walk home up past the beautiful old Victorian homes in Pacific Heights—avoiding Lake Street. I definitely don’t want to be seen near there and be mistaken for a nutty fan or groupie. It takes well over an hour to get back to the cottage.
Ali still isn’t home. I wonder if they are still at that antiwar demonstration or if she decided to jump into bed with him.
The cottage is quiet. Should I finish reading The Glass Bead Game? No. I dig out my old copy of Jane Eyre and once again read about romance in the 19th Century. Back then rich heiresses married rich men with titles. Poor but educated nannies married poor ministers. Jane, however, escaped that fate. And no one jumped into bed with anyone else—except Tess. I never liked that book.
* * *
Monday morning at Voices and Dan comes breezing in. We begin going over the rough layouts for the upcoming edition. I’ll do the final layouts based on what he and David decided last Friday plus any changes that happen as the week goes by. The next Thursday night closing seems to be on top of us already.
About mid-morning he turns to me with a smile and says: “What’s this I hear that our own darling Julia was seen at the Basque Hotel in the company of a notorious rock ‘n’ roll bad boy this weekend?”
I am shocked. He laughs.
“Who told you that?”
“Oh, I have spies everywhere, Julia. San Francisco is a very very small town. Everyone knows everyone else and who they area fooling around with. No secrets in here.” He winks at me.
“So, did you have fun?”
I blush. “It was okay.”
“A blush like that and you’re saying ‘okay’?”
“Yes. Okay. Please no interrogation, Dan.”
“Alright, but those guys…” He shakes his head. “No, I can’t tell you anything you probably haven’t already heard five times over.”
When Dan turns back to his work, I think ‘notorious bad boy’? He didn’t seem like that, well, except for truth or dare. And I don’t think it is wise to ask my boss what he meant, what he knows.
Late Friday afternoon Dan returns to our office after a long meeting with David and Mr. Movie Mogul. He seems happy so the meeting must have gone well. We didn’t close until late the night before and I am getting ready to go home. I am definitely ready for the weekend.
“Julia, I think it is time for you to see how the other half lives. Would you like to go out for a drink? Unless, of course you have a passionate rendezvous planned with Mr. Bad Boy.”
I laugh. Dan’s humorous take on life makes even the most stressful times at Voices so much easier. He can be very funny. And I haven’t heard anything from Austen so maybe that was goodbye. Maybe I can start to forget him.
“No rendezvous planned.”
Dan drives through a part of the city I have never seen. The streets are dirty. The old apartment buildings are drab gray. Not many people are on the sidewalks and those that I see look pretty down and out. I don’t think it is on our list of places to visit.
“What area is this?”
“The Tenderloin. Polk Gulch. You’ll see.”
He parks in front of a bar with a sign that reads: Little Foxes. He comes around, opens the door and helps me out of the car. So gentlemanly. From inside I can hear Marvin Gaye’s voice singing “Heard It Through The Grapevine”. What a sexy voice that man has.
“The perfect song for you, Julia.”
Inside it is dark, like any bar. It smells like cigarettes and booze, like any bar. But as I look around I realize that all the customers are men. I am the only woman. Not in Kansas anymore, I say to myself, with a smile. Dan takes my elbow and leads me to bar where we sit on tall stools.
“What would you like to drink?”
“White wine would be fine.”
“Oh, no. No white wine. This is not some fern bar pick-up joint over on Union Street. Here we drink real liquor, well, real liquor all gussied up.” Then he says to the bartender. “Two Manhattans.”
Dan takes out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and offers one to me.
“No thanks.”
He lights one for himself. A man about Dan’s age, but nowhere near as handsome as Dan, walks over from one of the tables.
“Who do you have here, Danny boy?”
“Julia, meet Ed. Ed, this is darling Julia, my new assistant. New to the city and already on the road to heartbreak and tears.”
“Something we know well,” Ed chuckles. “How are things going at Voices?”
“Well, I think it’s going to survive. Mr. Mogul was in town today and we went over the figures and things are on track. He says creating Voices is like producing a movie, only we do it every week instead of every three years.”
“Good news, then.”
“Knock wood,” Dan responds.
The bartender sets the drinks in front of us. I take a sip. Strong. Maybe bourbon? Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild” starts playing on the jukebox.
“I assume you heard that Politics Monthly went belly up last week?” Ed says.
“Yeah, we talked about it and David’s opinion is that the writing and ideas were provocative but the audience, the readership, was too narrow.”
“That, plus the fact that Eric’s backer pulled the plug on the money,” Ed chortles. “I heard that it was losing money hand over fist. No one wanted to advertise in it. It was too controversial.”
A minute or so later, two men walk in the front door and stop to talk to Dan. Then another. They all mention San Francisco Voices and Politics Monthly, but also talk about other things. Dan is obviously well-known.
Looking around the bar I realize that this is not much different from Voices: almost all men—although here they are all gay. At Voices Dan is the only gay man and there are only three women: myself, Susie our receptionist, and Cathy who compiles and edits the Weekly Events section.
I take another sip of my drink.
Suddenly, what Dan said to Ed registers in my mind: ‘I think it’s going to survive.’ Holy cow, I say to myself, is there a chance that Voices won’t survive? I love my job. I need my job. I love Voices. Please let it survive.
“Night Ride” starts playing on the jukebox and Dan looks over at me.
“Poor Julia.” Then to the bartender: “This young lady needs another drink.”
Two more Manhattans later I am very woozy and Dan takes me home to the cottage.
Chapter Seven
Monday evening Austen calls. It wasn’t goodbye after all. He wants to go to lunch at Fisherman’s Wharf on Wednesday. Eat with the tourists. I tell him I can’t. Wednesdays are too busy. He suggests breakfast on Wednesday instead.
“I know a bakery we can go to. It’s like Paris. No, Italy. No—Paris. We can have breakfast in Paris, Julia.”
“You’ve been to Europe?” He didn’t mention anything about that in Twenty Questions, but I guess I didn’t ask either.
“Yep. So, I’ll pick you up at 7:30?”
“Okay.”
It is foggy and cold as usual on Wednesday morning so warm clothes are in order even though it is the middle of summer. I decide to wear my short black skirt, black tights, a pale blue sweater and my salt-and-pepper suit jacket. I dig out a pink beret from the back of my closet and
slip it on my head. It makes me look French, I think. He thinks so, too.
“So I am having breakfast with a French girl this morning, am I?”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.” We smile at each other and time stops for a moment. Then he runs a finger down my cheek to my chin and says: “You look a lot like Leslie Caron. Same shape face. Same mouth. Your eyes are different, though.”
No one has ever told me that I look like her. She’s a very pretty actress and dancer, very gamine and very French. She starred in An American in Paris, one of my favorite movies of all time. And Austen thinks I look like her. That makes me feel good.
At the bakery he orders two café au laits from the man in a white apron standing behind the glass fronted display case filled with breads and pastries.
“Two croissants, too,” he adds.
We carry them over to a narrow wooden counter that is attached across the front windows of the bakery. No seats. We have to stand. On the sidewalk in front of us a businessman in a suit passes by gripping his briefcase. A secretary in a poufy hairdo, a green dress, and high heels rushes uphill. An old man in a baggie brown jacket—he must be Italian in this neighborhood— shuffles along.
“In Paris this is how everyone starts their day. Go to a bar or bakery, order a shot of espresso, down your caffeine fix, and head off to work. Croissants are optional.”
“When were you in Paris?”
“In ’61.”
“Were you travelling around, seeing the sights?”
I take a bite of the croissant. It is meltingly good.
“No. I was in the army, stationed in Germany. I’d travel around when I had leave. I spent some time in Paris, listened to French music—Edith Piaf. Django Reinhardt.
“Who’s Django Rein—“I stumble over the name.
“Django Reinhardt. He was a gypsy guitar player who recorded with Duke Ellington. He was the first to play an electric guitar, back in the ‘40s. But I’ll take Robert Johnson or Muddy Waters over them any day.”
“I don’t know who they are either.”
“I’ll play their records for you one day. They’re where rock ‘n’ roll came from. Totally American. A couple of those English bands have ripped them off.”
Playing for Julia Page 4
