by Rozsa Gaston
Within ten minutes, I had everything I needed loaded into my backpack, which was new, clean, and fashionable, a graduation gift from my cousins, the ones who weren’t from Maine. It was black and gold, with ‘Manhattan Express’ written on the side. I tossed in my black and gold knit, long-sleeved jersey in case it got cool that evening, along with my bottle of Paloma Picasso perfume – also a graduation gift, and a book. I didn’t know if I’d open it, but if Pascal cooked the way most French people did, preparing dinner might take a while. I was good for cutting up vegetables, but for the most part I had no idea what went on in French kitchens and was better off sitting at the table and complimenting the chef while sipping wine. If he tossed me out of his kitchen, I’d go read my book in the living room.
In another ten minutes, I was back at the café.
“Ça y est? Are you ready?” Pascal asked. The phrase literally translated: Is it done or are we there yet?
“Ça y est,” I responded. I’ve never understood why the response to ça y est was the same as the question, but it was similar to ça va or how’s it going? In both cases, the same phrase served as both question and response.
We took off from the café and headed toward Saint Michel. I had never taken an RER train before. Roomy and comfortable, with royal blue upholstery and clean windows you could see out, it was unlike any American train I’d ever traveled on.
Our route was due north: first stop Gare du Nord, Paris’s largest international train station, where we changed from the blue line to the green line. Gare du Nord was in the bustling, working-class twentieth arrondissement, where many North and West Africans lived and the best bargain shopping in Paris was to be found. Elizabeth and I had spent many Sunday afternoons there. Our next stop was outside the city limits.
“Is this it?” I asked Pascal, as ten minutes later the train pulled into a station.
“Yes. We’re here.” He took my backpack as we got up.
It was exciting to be somewhere outside of Paris. We exited the station, then crossed a wide boulevard toward what looked like a large supermarket. Graffiti covered its walls. This wasn’t Neuilly-sur-Seine.
“We’ll do the shopping later,” Pascal said. “First, I’ll show you the cathedral.” We walked down the street, past graffiti-strewn walls, a school, and then a public pool. It was early in the season, but people were going in and out, carrying gym bags and large net bags of drinks. Most of them were young, in their late teens or twenties. Gerard scanned the crowd carefully as we walked by.
“If you want, we can go there later,” Pascal said.
“Isn’t it a bit cold to swim now?”
“No one goes there to swim,” Pascal explained.
“What do they do then?”
He shrugged. “Hang out. Meet friends. Have drinks. I’ll take you later, if you want.”
It sounded like fun.
Directly across from us, a busy street scene was in progress, with outdoor vendors, each at their own stall.
“What’s that over there?” I asked.
“Sunday is market day.”
“Can we go see?”
“Sure. Come on.” For the first time, Pascal took my hand as we made our way across the square. It felt natural, his hand warm and dry in mine.
I looked around for Gerard but didn’t see him.
“Where’s Gerard?” I asked.
“He had to go home. We’ll meet him later.” He’d melted away before I’d even noticed, perhaps by pre-arrangement.
“Do you live together?” I hoped he’d say no.
“Not really.” Pascal shrugged again. “Sometimes he stays with me, sometimes with his mother.”
Where would he be staying that night? I prayed his mother cooked Sunday lunch for the family so he’d be gone the rest of the day. It was time to see how much Pascal and I had in common without Gerard around.
We wandered among the vendors until Pascal came to a vegetable stand. He picked out a long skinny courgette, five tomatoes, and a good looking head of lettuce.
“What are they selling over there?” I asked, pointing to a stand run by North Africans. The aroma wafting from their direction was spicy and fruity at the same time.
“They sell sweets made with honey. Nuts, dried fruit. Do you want to see?”
“Sure.”
The nut-filled pastries on display dripped in honey, an opulent sight for early in the day.
“Do you want to buy some for after dinner?” Pascal asked.
I shook my head. Instead, I bought two packets of incense; one sandalwood, one musk. It would be my contribution to postprandial ambience that evening.
Finishing with the outdoor stalls, he led me to a row of shops on the street perpendicular to the cathedral square. First stop, the crémerie or dairy store. He picked up a small container of crème fraîche, along with six eggs, a carton of yogurt, and milk. Then we went into the boucherie or butcher shop, two stores down.
“Three hundred grams of lardon,” he ordered, referring to the cubed bacon the French use to flavor many traditional dishes as well as salads.
The florid butcher behind the counter grunted as he gave me a level look.
“Are you making spaghetti carbonara for dinner?” I asked my curly-haired companion. It was a dish Jean-Michel had frequently made.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes. Very much,” I exclaimed, with gusto. The day without Gerard was unfolding to tremendous possibilities.
Pascal’s face lit up. It occurred to me that he was the type of person who got pleasure in giving pleasure to others. I would be the enabler of his happiness that day. It was the least I could do, considering he was going to prepare one of my favorite dishes that evening.
“I’ll get the wine,” I told him, caught up in the spirit of the occasion. “But you need to help me choose it.”
“If you insist,” he agreed companionably, dropping the packet of diced bacon into my backpack, which I’d unzipped and held out to him. We were like an old married couple shopping for dinner ingredients.
Outside the streets bustled with North and West Africans, mixed in with the local French population. The shoppers looked less fashionable than they did in Paris, more homey. Everyone jostled together, pinching fruits and critically examining wares. A young mother frowned at a bunch of flowers she deemed inadequate, until the stout vendor came around the side of his cart, bent down, and pinned a red posy on the little girl whose hand the mother was holding. The woman’s frown melted into a smile as she reached into her purse to buy the bouquet after all.
“What’s your favorite color?” Pascal asked, surprising me as we slowed down near the flower stand.
“Blue.”
“Mine too,” he said, deftly reaching into the midst of the flower display where he plucked out a fat bouquet of small blue flowers. He motioned to the vendor, who wrapped them in white paper.
“For you.” He handed the bouquet to me.
“Because I like spaghetti carbonara?” I asked.
“Because I like you,” he said simply.
We continued down the street until we reached a super marché on the corner.
“Let’s get the wine in here,” Pascal said.
“But I want to get something special,” I demurred. How could supermarket wine be anything but rot gut?
“There’s plenty of good wines to choose from. And the price is better here than at the wine shops,” he said with authority.
We entered. Sure enough, an enormous selection of wines lined an entire wall. Prices ranged from very inexpensive to reasonable but somewhat high.
“What goes with spaghetti carbonara?” I asked, wondering if I’d elicit an inner pickiness in him I hadn’t yet seen. Had Jean-Michel been representative of all French men or had he just been extraordinarily fussy?
“Whatever you like to drink, Ava,” Pascal answered, sounding just like a standard-issue American male trying to please his woman.
“Shouldn’t it be red wine?
” I asked, wanting to seem sage as well as mindful of Jean-Michel’s pronouncement that white wine was strictly for alcoholics.
“Not necessarily. If we buy white wine, we can put some in the recipe then drink the rest of it.”
“Good. Let’s get a bottle of white,” I enthused. “You choose it.” For once, I could indulge my preference for white wine in the land of wine connoisseurship.
Pascal nodded then began to study the labels in the section marked ‘Loire Valley’. The French had remarkable similarity in the matter of what wines went with what dishes. It was a sacred topic with them all.
In a minute, he’d picked out a Sancerre and a Pouilly-Fumé. I felt the tautness of his chest as I took the two bottles from him, moving toward the checkout counter. Surprised at how reasonably priced they were, I paid then asked for a sack, remembering yet another of Jean-Michel’s admonitions that only prostitutes carried unwrapped bottles of wine in the street. The clerk wrapped them in brown paper then put them in the sack, handing it to me approvingly.
Finally, our errands were done. Pascal’s pace picked up as he led me to his home. After three turns, the streets became quieter, more residential. The sounds of the market disappeared, replaced by the laughs and cries of children playing in the park we passed. A final turn took us away from the park and onto a narrow side street lined with three-story buildings with wrought-iron balconies. I hoped his flat had one.
“Here we are,” he announced, stopping abruptly in front of a modest structure.
He tapped a code into the keypad next to the door. When it clicked, he pushed in, and we strode through a drab inner courtyard.
“Up two flights,” he said over his shoulder. “Sorry, the elevator isn’t working right now.”
I followed him lightly up the stairs, eager to see his home. At the top of the second set of stairs, he paused and unlocked the closest door. Down a dark hallway, we entered a large living room with light streaming in the window. It was just as I’d imagined, a large, double window from floor almost to ceiling, opening onto a small balcony. Before I could look at the view, Pascal motioned me to the kitchen, where we dropped our packages.
After Jean-Michel’s tiny room, Pascal’s flat seemed spacious. There was a living room, kitchen, bath, and another room down the hall, which I assumed was the bedroom. His home was tidy and pleasantly furnished. He appeared to be master of his domain, not mastered by it.
“Very nice,” I said, sweeping my arm through the air to indicate our surroundings.
“Thank you.” He looked proud.
“How long have you lived here?” He hadn’t over-decorated. The flat was by no means cluttered.
“Four years, about. I moved in when I got a job at the hospital here.”
We began to unpack our provisions. I was glad Gerard was no longer around to distract us from getting to know each other. Now that we were, I was finding commonalities everywhere. To begin with, he wasn’t as picky about everything as Jean-Michel had been. I felt less childish in his presence and more in command of myself. Was it due to my being four years older now or because Pascal seemed younger than Jean-Michel?
“How old are you?” I asked, surprising myself. I wasn’t usually so direct.
“Twenty-six,” Pascal replied, not appearing to mind my question. “Something to drink?” He reached for a bottle of fizzy mineral water on the counter.
“Sure, but do you have something cold?” So, he was two years older than me, virtually the same age. Whatever happened between us, this wasn’t going to be the May-November dynamic Jean-Michel and I had had. Although I didn’t doubt Pascal was going to teach me a few things.
Pascal reached into his refrigerator then held up two bottles, one of mineral water, the other a bottle of crisp, chilled white wine, unopened. He looked at me, expectantly.
It was only two in the afternoon. On the other hand, we had no plan, other than to get to know each other better, and I wasn’t in a rush to explore the non-swimming scene at the local public pool. There would be time for that another day, if this one turned out well.
My mouth broke into a smile, despite myself and I pointed to the bottle of wine. He smiled back then reached into a drawer for the tire-bouchon, literally pull-cork.
“Shall we make the spaghetti carbonara now?” he asked, pulling down two wine glasses from the cabinet then rinsing them at the sink.
I shook my head.
“A little snack, then?” He handed a glass to me.
“Yes.” A little snack would be perfect.
“A cet après-midi, To the afternoon,” he pronounced as we clinked glasses.
The wine was delicious, dry but not too dry with a fruity undertone of apples and blackberries. It would be perfect with some grapes and the right cheese.
Pascal opened the refrigerator again and began to take out small white packages. In a minute, a cheese tray was assembled. Everything we needed was there: red grapes, a soft cheese, a hard one, and a few slices of sausage. Silently, I applauded the domestic skills of French men. They knew how to gain entry to a woman’s heart via the stomach.
He picked up the tray, along with a baguette, and led the way into the living room. Sunlight poured through the long, double-doored window, the beams dancing on the floor. I sat on the couch as he fiddled with the radio. In a minute, the strains of West African techno-dance music filled the room. I nodded in approval.
Pascal sat down next to me, the smell of dried sweat mingled with a faint whiff of eau de cologne. When had he put it on? I hadn’t noticed it earlier. Then I remembered he’d disappeared for a minute when I’d first gone into the living room.
His eyes were warm and lively, the color his usual daytime brown, with hints of green. He put his left arm on the back of the couch, behind me. In his right hand, he held the stem of his wineglass. Then he put it down. The hand behind me began to play with my hair, wrapping a strand around his finger, then gently tugging. I rested my head on the couch back, giving in to his touch as I studied the specks of particles in the sunbeam path.
Soon, his fingers were on my neck.
“Umm.” Without thinking, I closed my eyes. Pleasure was pleasure, and we were in no rush. No wonder Pascal had toasted to the afternoon.
“Ouvre-ta bouche,” Pascal said, instructing me to open my mouth.
I did.
Gently, he deposited a delectable bite of soft, mellow cheese with a tangy grape.
“Umm,” again came out from somewhere deep in my throat.
With one hand on the back of my neck, he pulled me closer. I opened my eyes just in time to see the gold-flecks in Pascal’s as his face came up to mine. Then his eyes shut, and he kissed me.
The kiss went on for some time. His tongue probed but didn’t overpower. I probed back. He tasted like smelly cheese, fruity wine, and something more – the fresh, healthy taste of young, male virility.
Finally, we broke apart. I was pleased to see the shades of green in his eyes turn to gold. Instead of big and round, they had become slanted cat-eyes.
I took another sip of wine, then put it down. My hand went idly to his thigh. Immediately, he grabbed it and put it on his shoulder, near the neck. I squeezed, feeling the firmness underneath his cotton shirt. Tracing the line of the clavicle, I continued down over his chest. His heart thumped loudly as I pressed against it a minute. Then he pulled my hand away and laced his fingers in mine, kissing me again. This time, he took my lower lip in his teeth and pulled then released. It hurt.
Or did it? I did the same to his lip.
We broke apart. As I took another sip of wine, I felt my lip swell at the touch of the cool fluid. I imagined it puffing out, like a flower bud unfolding. Every part of my body now tingled, the blood circulating fast, then racing back to headquarters, my heart. Taking his hand, I put it there, giving him permission to explore. Soon, his mouth replaced his hand, burrowing inside the opening of my white cotton blouse. Teeth nipped my nipple, causing my back to arch in immediate response.<
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The hypnotic percussion of the West African dance tune locked us into its insistent beat. As we kissed again, his chest came up against mine, rocking me back and forth in subtle motion. Next, his hand found its way to the inside of my thigh and squeezed. Then it moved upward, the thumb making clockwise circles. Soon, the circles were on a part of my anatomy largely unexplored by my brief list of former lovers. The pressure felt good, repetitive and insistent. Suddenly, my body contracted, pushing away from him. But his hand came back, this time all four fingers together, circling patiently, hypnotically, in time to the music.
As the motion continued, he locked eyes with me, a dreamy expression on his face. His eyes flicked from my eyes to my mouth and back, watching and waiting for my response. He knew how to focus on another person. This was new for me. I was used to men focusing on their own pleasure. Although unsure of myself, I knew this was my moment to let him lead me to my own.
My mouth parted, and I felt my eyes slit into narrow orbs. Something about what he was doing reminded me of something from way in my past. I tried to reach for it in my mind, but his mouth again on mine distracted me. As we kissed, I felt him unsnap, then unzip my jeans. I lifted my body off the couch so he could pull them down. Then the fingers closed in again, under the thin material of my panties and then again under the hood of my clitoris. The second I felt them directly on my flesh, I jumped.
Pascal restrained me. With his other arm behind me, he pressed me back against his chest then continued the motion. Neither speeding up nor slowing down, he refused to stop, no matter what I did.
I moaned.
As his movements went on, sensation took over, and I could no longer think. A feeling of engorgement came over me, but the dam had never burst before. I was afraid to let it burst now.
“Stop – stop – you have to stop,” I sputtered.
“For a minute, cherie. Only for a minute,” he replied, relaxing his grip.
