What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1)

by Nichols, Alix

  Jeanne rolled her eyes.

  “Pierre didn’t really understand his complicated explanations on the phone this morning. Anyway, your humble servant was called to the rescue and accepted to lend a hand . . . once they told me Claude was serving seared scallops as a lunch special.”

  Jeanne put her hand over her heart and then wiped off an imaginary tear. “Your generosity knows no limits, Rob. I feel so privileged to be working with you.”

  “Can you write that down in Pierre’s guestbook?” Rob asked.

  Jeanne raised an eyebrow. “I’m too shy. But sentiments aside, is Pepe planning to show up at all today? I’d like to know if we’re going to be one man short for the dinner service.”

  “He swore on his great-aunt Dolores’s grave he’d be here by four. So I wouldn’t worry,” Rob said, his tone earnest but his mouth twitching ever so slightly.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes before Rob turned to Lena. “I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while now. What brought you to Paris? You could’ve written your thesis in Geneva, or Moscow, or . . . Bahamas, for that matter.”

  Lena put her bowl down. “I fell in love with this city during my first visit a few years ago. So I guess I couldn’t resist its pull.”

  Rob smirked. “People think they come to Paris because they’re in love with it, but in truth, they come here because they want to fall in love. And while they’re waiting for that to happen, they default to Paris.”

  Jeanne looked dubitative. “Can you give us an example?”

  “Take Pepe. He’s in love with Paris while waiting for his legendary Scandinavian blonde to fall into his lap. Come to think of it, I wonder why that genius came to Paris and not Helsinki, which is much richer in blondes . . . On the other hand, I shouldn’t be surprised, considering his IQ. But I’m digressing.”

  “What happens if people don’t fall in love with someone here?” Lena asked.

  “Well, if they don’t, then they just stay on the default option, in the same way a lot of people end up with the same iPhone ringtone. It’s elementary, Watson,” Rob said.

  “And what if they do fall in love with someone, but their heart gets broken?” Lena surprised herself asking. That chicken broth must have gone right to her head.

  “Then Paris is still there to step in as a rebound lover.” Rob shrugged. Then his eyes lit up and he turned to Jeanne. “Do you remember that old Marc Lavoine song about Paris?”

  She shook her head.

  “Oh, come on! Jeanne, you must know it. It goes”—he cleared his throat and belted out—“The Eiffel Tower, she at least is faithful. Ring any bells? No?”

  “I see now why you never sing,” Jeanne said. “And I want to thank you for that.”

  Rob placed his fork and knife on his empty plate. “It’s true what Lavoine says, you know. Once yours, it’ll always be yours.”

  Jeanne nodded, but Lena looked confused. “I don’t understand. It’s also everyone else’s—”

  “We’re talking French faithful here. What counts is that it won’t leave you, not how many others it will have,” Rob explained.

  “Is that your idea of faithful, seeing as you’re French?” Lena hoped her defiant tone and saucy smile concealed the quiver in her voice.

  “My ancestors on both sides are from Brittany, which makes me a Frenchman of Celtic descent. So I guess the word ‘faithful’ would have a couple more implications for me.”

  It was unsettling how happy his answer made her.

  Later that day, Lena stopped by the bistro for another serving of broth that Jeanne had set aside for her. As she hugged her comforting steamy bowl, it occurred to her that she now had someone in Paris to give her chicken soup when she was sick. Someone her age, fun, smart, and friendly. A friend?

  She drank her soup slowly, looking forward to Rob turning up for their now customary dose of banter. She was downing the last drops, when he finally landed next to her with his coffee.

  “I’m going to kill Pepe tonight. At precisely half past midnight,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Lena smiled. “Oh no, not again! What did he do this time?”

  “Emptied a bowl of sugar into my espresso.”

  “Which is a hanging offense in France, as everyone knows.”

  He looked her in the eyes. “This guy’s been here for three months now, and he still can’t remember I take my coffee black, no sugar. So, yeah, I’m definitely killing him tonight.”

  “I see. He pushed it too far, didn’t he?”

  Rob bared his teeth.

  “Well, that will definitely teach him a lesson.” She struggled to keep a straight face. “For the afterlife.”

  Rob took a sip from his cup and winced.

  “By the way, why at precisely half past midnight?” Lena asked.

  “It’s when my shift ends. You see, I can’t kill him while I’m working. And I’m not coming here on my free time to rid humanity of this candidate for Darwin Awards. I’m not as selfless as Jeanne seems to think, after all.”

  Jeanne, who was wiping a table next to them, said, “Rob, you have to understand that Pepe isn’t doing it on purpose. There’s no ill will whatsoever. And it’s not because he’s stupid, either.”

  Jeanne picked up the detergent and the dishrag and started for the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway to solve the Pepe mystery for Rob. “He just doesn’t give a shit about how you like your coffee, that’s all.”

  Lena laughed and caught Rob staring at her.

  He didn’t look away. “You have the sweetest smile, Lena. And those dimples of yours . . . they’re to die for.” He suddenly stood and pointed at his cup. “Can’t drink this. I’ll have to make a new one. More tea for you?”

  “No thanks. I’m going to turn in.”

  Lena dug into her purse for her wallet. She kept her head low until Rob was sufficiently far, hoping he hadn’t noticed her fierce blush. How debutante and embarrassing to blush like that from a casual remark! But there was nothing she could do about it. She was extremely pleased—no, scratch that—she was over the moon. And it wasn’t just because of what Rob said. It was also because someone else had said the exact same thing before he did, a long time ago.

  Her mom.

  She used to say Lena had a sweet smile and adorable dimples. Then she left—and no one else ever told her that. Lena began to think she had lost the smile. The dimples were still there, but when she tried to grin in front of the mirror, all she saw was a smirk, strained and lopsided. Not sweet. Lena finally settled on the theory that the smile had been an invention of her mom’s to cheer up her plain daughter and boost her own maternal pride.

  A little defeatist voice inside her head told her Rob’s remark was just an old pick-up line. But she hushed that voice, because she wanted—she needed—to believe that he’d really seen her famous smile. That it wasn’t a chimera. That there was something special about her, after all.

  * * *

  Lena ran the tips of her fingers across the leather-bound cover, as if to say good-bye, and placed the volume back on the stall. The book was romantically old but it was about bugs. She didn’t care for bugs.

  Last night, she had mentioned to Rob her plan to pay a visit to the bouquinistes, the used booksellers whose landmark green metal boxes lined the banks of the Seine. She wanted to look for original editions of Tsvetaeva’s poems translated into French.

  “I’m not working tomorrow, and I need a break from my thesis. May I come along?” Rob asked.

  This was how they ended up walking by the Seine and browsing through the bookstalls together.

  “Your first love, right?” she asked pointing at a tattered electromechanics textbook. “Didn’t you say your BA was in engineering?”

  “First and only. I’m doing an MBA, so I’m better prepared to start my own manufacturing company one day. I’ve got lots of ideas.”

  “Like what?”

  He sighed. “Where to start? Like developing a new technology for recycling metha
ne into consumer goods like furniture, for instance.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “It’s been done. But the process is still too costly and inefficient.” He put the primer back and resumed the walk. “I can spend hours talking about this, which I do with Grand-papa, but I don’t want to bore you.”

  “Just because I study literature doesn’t mean I’m not fascinated by technology,” she said. “Is your Grand-papa an engineer, too?”

  “He’s a bit of everything,” he said and went on to tell her about his grandfather and then about his mom.

  Lena found it endearing how his love for them shone through his droll observations.

  And then he asked her about her mom, and she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t feel like revealing the truth about why her mother had left. It would be too personal. Nor did she want to confess that she missed her, because she didn’t really, not anymore. But she wanted to say something about her, share a tidbit that wouldn’t mean much but would still define her.

  “My mother was beautiful. Well, she still is, unless she’s been doctoring her photos.”

  “Does she look like you?”

  “No, not at all. She’s tall, racy, and has the highest cheekbones. She used to wear such beautiful clothes. And expensive French perfume at all times, reapplied throughout the day. It made me nauseous.”

  Rob raised an eyebrow. “Impossible. Must have been a Chinese copy.”

  “I doubt it. In any event, it really made me sick. But Dad loved it and Mom loved it, so I learned to breathe through the mouth around Mom.”

  She fell silent. The little tidbit was turning too intimate. Worse still, she was tempted to continue and spill the whole story to Rob. But she couldn’t. Things were so complicated and twisted between her parents compared to normal ones. Including the ‘normally’ divorced ones. She hadn’t allowed herself any indiscretions in her seven years in Switzerland, not even with Gerhard. She had no reason to open up to Rob. If only he cracked a joke now and made light of her words! But he didn’t. He just gave her a funny look and smiled.

  They continued their walk in companionable silence, and Lena couldn’t stop thinking about her mom. She had a mane of shiny golden locks that cost her biweekly salon visits to maintain. With hindsight, Lena figured those visits had been Mom’s pretext to be with her lover, the man Dad later caught her with. Which meant Mom’s hair must have been naturally gorgeous, just like the rest of her. What a shame that the only thing Lena had inherited from Mom was her vulnerability.

  Rob interrupted Lena’s self-deprecating musings. “Look! Isn’t this your poet’s book? Marina something?”

  Lena focused on the stall before them and gasped. It was a Tsvetaeva book all right. Better still, it turned out to be an early French translation of her poems. Thrilled, she bought it without the slightest attempt at negotiating. She rushed to the nearest bench and began to examine her acquisition. Rob sat next to her, watching her with a smile.

  “Oh my God,” she gushed. “This is the first French translation of Tsvetaeva’s poems by Elsa Triolet, published by Gallimard in 1952. Rob, this is a treasure!”

  Rob grinned, pleased about his discovery.

  “Triolet has the merit of being the first to introduce the French reader to Tsvetaeva’s poetry. Though I must admit, I’m not a huge fan of hers.”

  “Why don’t you like her?”

  “She dropped the rhyme and changed the rhythm of the poems like practically all of Tsvetaeva’s other translators.” Lena frowned disapprovingly.

  “And that’s very bad because . . .” Rob drew out the last word.

  “Because those are essential to her poetry. She has only a handful of poems without a strong rhyme and none without a strict meter.”

  “I don’t know much about poetry. But aren’t rhyme and meter things of the past?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes, and for some time now. But that’s the thing. Tsvetaeva insisted on rhyme and meter in an age when most poets wrote in free verse. She produced such delightful trochees and iambs. I wish you spoke Russian to appreciate their beauty! They are so musical; it’s almost easier to sing them than to recite them.”

  “Will you sing one for me?”

  “Believe me, you don’t want to hear me sing. It may traumatize you for the rest of your life.”

  “I’m tone deaf, which gives me natural protection against bad singing.”

  She shook her head. “I have a rule. Never sing in front of another sentient being.”

  “OK. Then read me one.”

  Lena leafed through the book, hesitating on some pages, and then closed it. “They are just all so . . . ornate. This is my other problem with the French translations of Tsvetaeva. They are too decorative, too elaborate. Her poetry—like all good poetry—is neither. It’s bare human soul.”

  She reopened the book, traced her finger along the table of contents, and then turned the yellowed pages until she found what she was looking for.

  She held the book out to Rob, pointing to a poem. “I finished translating this one last week. It’s addressed to Tsvetaeva’s daughter Ariadna. I’d like you to read the first verse of Triolet’s translation, and then I’ll read you mine. And promise you’ll give me your honest opinion as to which one you like better.”

  “Cross my heart,” Rob said and took the book from Lena. He read the poem silently, then turned to her. “OK. Let’s hear yours now.”

  Lena closed her eyes to shut out the world and recited from memory.

  Don’t forget: tomorrow you’ll be ancient.

  Drive the troika, sing, defy conventions,

  Be a blue-eyed gypsy, brightly dressed.

  Don’t forget: no man’s worth your attentions—

  And bestow them upon every chest.

  Lena opened her eyes. Rob was looking at her in a funny way. His gaze was fixed on her lips, his eyes dark with something primal, fierce, and unbearably intense. Lena’s heart quickened in response—and then in panic.

  She made herself smile cheerfully. “So. Your honest opinion, please.”

  He blinked, then a sly grin spread on his face. “Here’s my honest opinion: What kind of mother advises her daughter to sleep with every stupid dude who happens to be around?”

  “A crazy, wild, passionate Russian poet mother?” Lena wrinkled her nose. “Anyway, I’m not sure she meant it quite so literally. It’s poetry, you know. Hyperbole is its second nature.”

  “Oh. Why didn’t I think of that? So, perhaps, what she really meant was: My daughter, you should always be polite to men? After all, it is terribly rude when women tell us things like ‘not a chance in hell’ or ‘in your wildest dreams, loser’.”

  “I think what she meant was that she wanted her daughter to give her body freely—and to take pleasure in it—but to withhold her heart.” Lena’s eyes darkened. “Because she herself suffered too much from rejection and heartbreak.”

  Rob grew serious, too. “I like your translation better. And that’s my honest opinion.”

  As she lay in bed that night, unable to fall asleep, Lena thought of how easy it had been to read her translation to Rob. She didn’t hesitate for a second before sharing something she had kept from everyone else. Well, not exactly everyone—she did show her translated poems to Professor Rouvier. But that was different. It was a clinical experience, like baring your chest in front of your cardiologist. Reading her translation to Rob was nowhere near a clinical experience. It was electrifying. It was thrilling. It was sensual.

  And therein lay the trouble.

  Bittersweet—the taste of passion

  On your lips. A siren’s call,

  Bittersweet—oh, the temptation

  To precipitate my fall!

  Marina Tsvetaeva

  FIVE

  The next day, after Lena was politely kicked out of the public library that had to close for the day, she went to the cinémathèque and watched an old movie. Then she walked all the way back to rue Cadet, her
stomach knotted with anxiety. What if Rob looked at her again like he did yesterday? What if he didn’t look at her like that anymore? Good Lord, what a mess.

  When she reached La Bohème, the dinner service was over and the bistro was relatively empty—not unusual for a Tuesday night. Rob and Pepe were discussing something by the counter. As Lena approached, she heard Pepe say, “Rrrrrrrrr.”

  “No,” Rob said.

  “Rrrrrrrrrr,” Pepe said again.

  Rob shook his head.

  Pepe gave Lena a pleading look. “Rrrrrrr?”

  “Are you rehearsing for a baby tiger role?” she asked.

  “Now that you mention it, he does sound like an angry cat,” Rob said, smiling at Lena.

  Pepe blew out his cheeks. “Come on, guys—you’ve got to help me. Rrrrrrrrrr. Did that sound French enough?”

  “Nope,” Rob said, putting his elbow on the counter and leaning his head into his hand.

  “Couldn’t it pass for a Midi accent?” Lena asked Rob. “They roll their r’s down in Marseille, don’t they?”

  “Absolutely. Only Pepe isn’t rolling. He’s growling.”

  “Anyway, I don’t want a Midi accent,” Pepe said. “I need those Nordic blondes from the hotel down the street to think I’m a Parisian. You know, a real one. Authentic.”

  Rob rubbed his chin. “It’s hopeless, buddy, even if you manage to get your r’s right. Even if you learn to say ‘mademoiselle’ instead of ‘mad-e-muethel’.”

  Pepe’s face fell.

  “Forget the r’s,” Rob said. “What you really need to pass for a true Parisian is scorn.”

  “Scorn?” Pepe’s furrowed his brow. “Like in ‘humor’?”

  “Like in ‘contempt’.” Rob went behind the counter to make Lena tea. “Look at Didier over there.” He nodded discretely with his head.

  Lena and Pepe turned to look at the bistro’s headwaiter.

  “Observe him in action. Notice how he’s telling that American couple they’re total losers without actually saying it.”

  The three of them fell silent and watched Didier. The distance was too big for them to make out his words, but his condescending smiles, discrete eye rolls, and impatient finger taps said it all.