The Engagements

by J. Courtney Sullivan

  “Everything’s good,” she said. She lit a cigarette and offered him one. He shook his head no.

  “So. How did the recording go?”

  “It was good! And afterward I did all the touristy stuff that you’d probably think of as a snooze.”

  “A snooze?”

  “Boring.”

  “Ahh.”

  “I went to the top of the Eiffel Tower,” he said. “It was a crazy wait, but it’s beautiful up there. Do you ever go?”

  “Not since I was a child.”

  He nodded. “I guess I’ve never been to the top of the Empire State Building and I live forty blocks away from it. Anyway, I did that and then I walked along the Seine and tried to go to the Louvre—well, I did go, but my God it’s huge. I got this for my mother.” He reached into a small paper bag and pulled out a plastic snow globe, with a tiny Notre Dame inside. “She collects them,” he said. “And I sat outside at a café, since I read in a travel guide on the plane ride here about how that’s the thing to do.”

  She laughed, thinking of how American it sounded: sitting outside enjoying the day because you read in a guidebook that you ought to. “And how did you find it?”

  “Fine. Not much different than drinking coffee in New York, just more people smoking. The women are so beautiful here—I know that’s a stereotype, but it’s true. The language part is hard. That’s half my life these days, being somewhere where I don’t know how to say anything except hello. But here I feel like ten Parisians are judging me every time I open my mouth. It’s a little awkward.”

  Delphine smiled. Not so awkward that he’d bothered to learn anything of the French language besides bonjour and merci. But perhaps that wasn’t fair.

  “What else should I do before I go?” he asked. “There’s so much to see. It’s overwhelming. A friend of a friend said to check out the Canal St.-Martin.”

  She nodded. It was a very young, bohemian neighborhood that Henri would never dream of visiting. She didn’t know much about it.

  “How long are you staying?” she asked.

  “Another two weeks.”

  “Oh. Henri didn’t mention that.”

  “I don’t know if I told him. I probably didn’t. I never stay anywhere longer than a night or two, but I decided that this time I’d take a real vacation. My schedule is pretty empty until September, which is rare. Please don’t take this the wrong way. You’ve both been so kind. But I don’t tend to socialize much with the music crowd if I can help it.”

  She didn’t take his comment any particular way—she felt the same much of the time. But he seemed to think he had offended her.

  “It’s just that I’m sort of uncomfortable with all the business talk,” he said. “I grew up in a family of five kids where the most serious topic we ever debated was whether we should watch Family Ties or Hollywood Squares on TV. My parents were good people, smart people, but not fancy at all. I miss that sometimes.”

  Delphine was unexpectedly touched by this. Most of the young talents in their world wanted to attend every concert and important social gathering in Paris. They spoke of their high-class families as if they had earned their membership. She thought it was quite something that this life hadn’t changed him. And she saw now that he was only being polite the night before.

  “I hope my husband didn’t overwhelm you. He gets so excited,” she said. “My family wasn’t fancy either. We loved music, but not everything that seems to go along with that for others. My mind sometimes wanders when Henri starts talking about theory. My father only ever cared about the sound.”

  He nodded. “Same here. I’d rather play than talk about playing. I give about fifty concerts a year now. Almost one a week. It’s hard to make room in my life for anything besides the violin. I switched to a big management company a couple of years ago. Their roster is major. They’ve got Yo-Yo Ma, for Christ’s sake. But it’s mostly just a parking lot, you know? So impersonal, so fake. I have this manager named Marcy. She’s great, but it’s like every move I make is calculated. I play a free concert for charity every so often—her idea—but only because of the good press it gives me. Oh God, that makes me sound like a jerk.”

  “No.”

  “What I meant was, she really tries to capitalize on this story line of the poor, small-town kid made good. So when I donate a concert or something, it’s supposed to be like I’m giving back to my own community. It just feels forced. Poor kids don’t want violin solos, they want iPods.”

  She thought back to that night with Yefimov, how surprising he had found it that this white, midwestern boy could play so well. She wondered if that’s what P.J. meant.

  “Do you enjoy all the traveling?” she asked.

  “Not really. I never get to see anyplace. Just a lot of hotel rooms. Usually I play at eight p.m., and I can hear my stomach growling onstage. But I have to go to a reception, thank the donors, give a talk. By that point, I’m starved. Restaurants are closed. A lot of times I have to remind myself what city I’m in before I go to sleep so I won’t have a panic attack when I wake up. And I’m always mixing up names. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve felt like everybody knows my name, but I don’t know anyone else’s.”

  Again, she thought of her father, who had once told her that the only hard part of being a hotel piano player was coming to terms with anonymity—no one would ever care to know his name.

  “You’re a celebrity,” she said.

  He laughed. “Hardly. Nine-point-nine out of ten people on the street have no idea who I am. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I don’t usually talk like this to anyone. But I’ve been at it for five years now. It’s lonely. I miss my dog.”

  She laughed.

  “But really! When you’re a soloist, everyone thinks you have all this freedom,” he said. “But what that amounts to is showing up, not knowing anyone in the orchestra, playing one rehearsal and then maybe once for the conductor, and that’s it.”

  She nodded. She had often thought to herself that it wasn’t quite fair that in the world of elite musicians, you had to decide your own future before you knew anything at all about life.

  “You should go to the steps of Sacré-Coeur with a thermos of wine at sunset,” she said. “The Centre Pompidou, if you like modern art.”

  He wrinkled his nose.

  “Then the Musée d’Orsay,” she said. She had always loved Degas, his pretty ballerinas when she was a girl, and later, L’absinthe.

  “Go to the Rodin Museum,” she continued. “It’s magnificent. All of his work displayed in his own home. And some of Camille Claudel’s sculptures, as well. Such beautiful pieces. So full of feeling.”

  “Claudel,” he said. “Now who was he?”

  “She,” Delphine said, “was Rodin’s mistress.”

  “What is it with Frenchmen and their mistresses?” he said.

  “This is different than any other kind of man, in your opinion?”

  “Yes. Americans, for example.”

  “Bill Clinton?” she said.

  “Oh, don’t start in on him. I’m talking about real Americans. Rock stars and politicians don’t count.”

  “But artists do?” she teased. “I’ve never understood why Americans care so much about the private lives of their public figures. As if a man’s sexual proclivities had anything to do with his ability to govern.”

  “Don’t they?” he asked. “A blow job in the Oval Office during business hours, for example.”

  “Well, would you fault the man for taking an afternoon walk as stress relief?”

  His eyes widened. “You’re equating an afternoon walk with oral sex from an intern? You’re my kind of woman.”

  “Take our Mitterrand,” she said. “He was married with sons, and he also had one daughter with his mistress. The mistress and daughter stood right beside the rest of the family at his state funeral. No one minded. The French simply don’t believe in the public’s right to know the way you do in your country. And we’re more sensible about t
hese things. Not that we do them any more than you do, but there’s not so much outrage when they happen. Even the Élysée Palace, where all French presidents live, was built as a residence for Louis Quinze’s mistress, Madame Pompadour. In America, you’d probably burn it to the ground.”

  When the waiter came, P.J. watched Delphine give the order.

  They drank a bottle of wine with dinner, and each had a glass of champagne with dessert. Without Henri, the feeling between them was entirely different. They hardly spoke about work. He made for a better conversation than she had imagined, talking about films they had both seen or wanted to see, the movie stars who were causing a stir in America, and the way his country had changed after the terrorist attacks. When the meal was over, he insisted on paying the check.

  “I’m so glad you met me here tonight,” he said. “Thank you.”

  She could sense him saying goodbye, and she felt disappointed. She imagined arriving home to her apartment, the soft hum of the television news drifting out from the living room.

  “Another place you should visit while you’re here is Versailles,” she said. “The palace and the gardens are so beautiful. It’s a nice train ride out there. You’ll go right past lots of sweet little towns.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Thanks. Hey, would it be rude to ask if you want to have one more drink?”

  Her heart tripped in her chest. “Not at all. I know a good place.”

  A few minutes later, she was directing a taxi driver to the Hôtel de Crillon. In the dark backseat, P.J. reached for his seat belt and his hand brushed hers.

  “I’d better let Henri know what we’re up to,” she said.

  The words sounded strange to her, but he was busy looking out the window at the buildings whizzing by.

  “It’s a beautiful city, isn’t it?” she said. “There’s nowhere else quite like it.”

  On her cell phone, she typed out a text message to her husband: The American wants another drink. Home soon, I hope.

  Henri wrote her back: Poor you. I’m sorry! Thanks for doing it.

  “What’s that?” P.J. asked her, pointing.

  She looked up at the glowing neon Ferris wheel looming over the Tuileries Gardens.

  “It’s just a summer carnival,” she said.

  “Should we go?” P.J. asked.

  “Now?”

  “Sure.”

  He grinned. She told the driver to pull over at the gate. Inside, a Gypsy band shook tambourines and families sat at picnic tables, drinking wine, eating crêpes and cotton candy. Children jumped on trampolines, their lithe bodies seeming to float in the air. They walked along the path, past a haunted house on a track and twenty or so different games. A man was hosing off a ride that spun you all around.

  “Looks like someone lost his dinner,” P.J. said.

  The city was so alive at this hour. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been anywhere but a concert hall or a restaurant after nine p.m.

  When they reached the end of the fair, they passed through the gate and crossed the Place de la Concorde. She nodded at the doorman outside the Crillon before they went through the revolving doors, half expecting him to know her, even though they had never met.

  When they entered the lobby with its checkerboard marble floors and white columns, its gilded crystal chandeliers, P.J. looked down at his clothes.

  “Am I dressed up enough for this place?” he asked.

  She nodded. “You’re fine.”

  She led him past the closed door of the boutique, the glass light boxes showing the best of Dior, Prada, Lancel. The lobby widened and then narrowed again as they passed large silver pots overflowing with fresh white roses, and then turned left into the bar with its red velvet chairs, dark wood-paneled walls, and frosted windows. It was totally different than it had been when she was a girl—in those days, the bar was in the basement, and far less fancy. They called it the American Bar.

  “Come over here,” she said, gesturing toward a table by the piano player. “This is my favorite spot.”

  It was still early, only eleven, and the room had yet to fill in. There were eight small tables, and twenty-four seats, plus eight more at the bar. Far fewer than in her father’s time.

  She lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply and then watching the smoke escape her lips. It had been ten years since she was here, at least.

  “You don’t smoke,” she said.

  “Nah. Just a few times in high school. Then my mother caught me and made me eat a cigarette as punishment.”

  “Eat?” she asked, thinking that perhaps she didn’t understand his meaning.

  “Eat,” he said. He looked around. “Nice place.”

  “My father used to be the piano player here when I was a child,” she said.

  “Oh yeah?”

  She nodded. “I used to sit at a corner table all night, watching him play. The bartender would fix me Shirley Temples and the waiters would play jacks with me when it was quiet. I’d be falling asleep in school the next day.”

  “That sounds—unusual,” he said. “Not that practicing violin three to five hours a day when you’re nine qualifies as usual.”

  Delphine smiled. “Did you ever wish for a more normal childhood?”

  “Yes. Did you?”

  She shrugged. “I never knew any different.”

  “Where was your mother?” he asked.

  “She died when I was four.”

  This was what her father had told her for most of her life. When she turned twenty-five he revealed that in truth her mother had left them when Delphine was four, vanishing one night without warning. He never heard from or of her for fourteen years, until a coroner’s office in Saint-Mandé sent a letter saying that she had died and he as next of kin should come get the body.

  Delphine had sat with the information for weeks, allowing it to flatten her. But eventually she decided to un-know it; whether her mother had died when she was four or eighteen made no difference now. She was gone either way, and always had been.

  She had only ever told Henri the truth.

  “Oh man,” P.J. said. “That’s rough. I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “You must have been lonely,” he said.

  She had often painted a pretty picture of her youth for her husband and their business associates, all of whom loved her stories of sitting up late at Le Crillon with American actors, or wealthy Parisian businessmen and their whores. If you told a story enough times, it became almost true. But now, sitting here with P.J., she remembered. There had been too many nights when her father drank himself into a stupor; she had had to drag him home, afraid, always afraid. When she was only eleven, one of the businessmen followed her into the bathroom one night. After that, she convinced her father that she was old enough to stay home alone. But she hated the quiet apartment, and watched the clock, waiting for his return.

  She told P.J. some of this now, leaving out the businessman in the toilette.

  “My old man’s a drinker too,” he said. “From him I learned a hundred words for being drunk. Hammered, loaded, shit-canned, shattered, bombed …”

  She felt guilty as she imagined what he might be picturing. She added, “But my father would have done anything for me. He was so talented. Until my mother was gone, he toured with a very well-known trio. He only took this job so he wouldn’t have to travel. He worked days giving piano lessons so he could be there when I came home. He sent me to a good Catholic school, even though he couldn’t afford it. All of this, for me.”

  The girls at Saint Agatha’s had been cruel to her. She wasn’t invited to their birthday parties or playdates. At fourteen, someone started a rumor that Delphine had seduced a young priest, and from then on no one would speak to her. She counted the moments each morning until it was time to run home for lunch. She didn’t tell her father any of this. Delphine wanted him to believe that she was the happiest girl in the world. Sometimes she’d pretend to be gossiping on the telephone wh
en he entered the kitchen, even though there was no one at the other end of the line.

  “When I think of the sacrifices he made, it breaks my heart,” she said.

  Through the open door into the lobby, she saw a maid scurry across in a black dress and a white apron.

  “My father was the same,” P.J. said. “He gave up everything for us kids. You have to respect that, although sometimes I look at him and just wonder what his life’s been for. I wonder if he resents us. Did your father go back to more serious music after you were grown?”

  “No. He ended up in real estate. His girlfriend got him into the business, and me too for a while. I don’t think he ever enjoyed it. And neither did I. I was just—lost. He made a lot of money at it, though.”

  She had used that money to buy the shop, which her father would have loved. Delphine had always thought that she was doing it for him, but perhaps the choice had been more selfish than that. Perhaps she was only trying to keep him alive on that day when she first met Henri. Her father had died at sixty, still so full of life.

  The waiter came by—a skinny old man with white hair in a crisp black suit. Delphine didn’t recognize him.

  They ordered two glasses of champagne.

  “This hotel is the best in Paris,” she said. “They add such nice touches to everything they do. If a woman travels here alone, they put fresh flowers in her room each morning, and women’s magazines, and a special diet menu and a guide to all the best shopping.”

  He smirked. “If a hotel in America tried that, they’d probably get sued.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Feminism.”

  “So,” she said. “Do you have a girlfriend in New York?”

  “No ma’am. Plenty of girls and plenty of friends, but no girlfriend.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Unlucky in love, I guess. There was one girl, Shannon. A long time ago.”

  “What is a long time in the life of a twenty-three-year-old?” she asked. “You’re practically an infant.”