****
When I arrived at the designated spot, I saw Cygne poking around in a Lebanese market across the street, inspecting the forty-odd baskets of grains and lentils. The fresh greens and rich yellows of these varieties of rice, wheat, and beans dominated the front of the store. I joined him, and he pointed at the red lentils. “Those are of the highest quality. Make sure you come here for your dry goods.” I nodded absently, still full of ire at his treatment of me earlier that week.
Cygne pointed across the street to what appeared to be a giant golden snail presiding over an ornate black façade. Gold lettering proclaimed “L’Escargot Montorgueil.” Cygne noted my skeptical eyebrows. “You will love it.”
I slouched behind him as we brushed past the encased menu and white umbrellas, and through the heavy front doors. An immaculately dressed man immediately took our coats, while another greeted Cygne. The interior breathed through dark wood, mirrored with plush red seats and crisp white tables lit by gold sconces of candles. The maître-d’ escorted us to a table in the back, moving it to help my companion slide his enormous body behind it. Before we had a chance to look at the menu, a sommelier popped out of a red curtain, greeted us, and had an argument over wine with Cygne too fast for me to catch. Other than the swallow with Cygne a month earlier, I hadn’t tasted alcohol for years. But I was ready that night, hoping it would bring sweet oblivion.
I looked at the menu, finding numerous escargot appetizers, as might be expected. Frog’s legs, quail, foie gras, urchin, veal kidneys, turbot, l’angoustines, mullet, duck…I hadn’t tried anything on this list. I shrugged. Why not? I was going to get the most expensive, strangest stuff I could find tonight. “Would you like to share the thirty-six Burgundy snails?” I asked my torturer.
He looked at me with surprise that changed to a smile. “Oui, Monsieur Byrnes. In a Chablis cream sauce?”
I nodded. “I’m ready for anything.”
“Bien! I think you will enjoy this wine. It is one of my very favorites.”
I shrugged, looking around at the other patrons, finding that I was slightly underdressed, even in a tie and pressed white shirt. There was one man in the corner in a sweater and jeans, but he looked familiar, and I was nearly sure he was a movie star.
Cygne followed my gaze and nodded. “Yes, this place attracts many celebrities. In the past, Salvador Dali, Sarah Bernhardt, and of course my favorite author, Marcel Proust. You have not read Proust yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Save him for last.” Cygne smacked his lips.
A waiter took our order for the escargot, and another announced the specials in French, then in English for me.
“I’ll take that, the roast goose with charred foie gras.”
“Bien, Monsieur.” The waiter seemed taken aback by my American abruptness.
Cygne ordered “les langoustine de Loctudy” just as the wine came. It was dark and red, a beautiful Burgundy Grand Cru from Cote de Beaune. Cygne tasted it, approved, and then offered a toast when my glass was poured.
“Monsieur Byrnes, I am afraid that I have been rather rough on you. Here is to a poor memory of what a bastard I am.”
I smiled a little, taking a sip. Notes of caramel and cherry were laid over a rich center of loamy chocolate. I breathed in, and the aroma fused to my membranes, making me dizzy. Cygne watched with approval. Sure, I hated this man, but he knew how to pick a wine.
“I haven’t had a fine wine for many years now. In fact, I haven’t drunk anything.” I admitted, not caring what he thought of me anymore.
Cygne shrugged. “Well, Monsieur, there is always time to start again.” He didn’t press further, and perhaps because of that, or perhaps the wine, when the thirty-six escargot arrived in a luscious cream sauce, I no longer felt angry. We used the snail tongs and fork, pulling enormous gastropods out of blood-striped shells, and they were tasty, tender, not rubbery or tough at all.
“These are just what I needed,” I said, realizing how hungry I was. “I had an awful lunch.”
Cygne grunted, spearing a snail. “Why is that?”
“Oh…it was with a woman.”
“What is the problem, then?”
“Her husband was also there,” I pronounced bitterly.
“Ah…” Cygne finished his half of the snails, and sat back into the plush cushions. “You are involved in un tragedie. I should have known?”
“No, it’s not a tragedy,” I protested. “I mean, this part isn’t. But she was in an accident, and her husband is a lout, and Van Gogh scares her…” I realized I was babbling, and popped the last appetizer into my mouth to shut up.
Cygne did not laugh, and instead inspected my face closely. “Be careful, mon ami. All love stories are tragedies, it only depends how far into the future you go.”
I drank the burgundy, which tasted even richer now that it had aerated a bit. “I wouldn’t know.”
Cygne motioned to the waiter, and he poured us more wine. “Van Gogh knew, mon ami. Perhaps that is why he scares you.”
“I said he scares her.”
“Ah, well, our painter friend could teach you much. I suggest you visit him.”
“He’s not French, he’s Dutch.” I pointed out. “Not part of the curriculum.”
“But his soul was not of the Low Countries. He wrote in French, he lived in France, he died in France. We must claim him as our own!” He slapped the table, causing the hovering waiters to hover more uncertainly. Then he looked at me slyly. “Be careful, Monsieur Byrnes, or one day we may claim you, too.”
“Now I really am scared.”
My companion did laugh at this, and slapped the red cushions. “Come, mon ami, tell me instead about your reading. I assume you have read beyond The Belly, no?”
“Oui.” I considered. “Many more, in fact.”
“Mervielleux! What are you reading right at this moment?”
I thought back to Lucy’s canvas bag, which I had opened a few hours earlier, with Rousseau, Valery, the Goncourts, and on the bottom, as if hidden, Flaubert. “Well, just before I came tonight, I started Madame Bovary.”
“Mais oui. But if you just started, let me not ruin it for you. Instead, tell me what is your favorite so far?”
And so, we talked through the savory dinner, ordering desserts of brandy-soaked pastry that made me even drunker than I already was. Cygne ordered coffee, and it was midnight before I shook hands with this paradoxical Frenchman, generous and abrasive, friend and enemy. Stumbling home along Tiquetonne, I noticed for the first time a fondue brasserie directly adjacent to my apartment building. What was wrong with me?
****
On Monday another note arrived in my box at the École, longer this time, in Lucy’s exquisite handwriting.
“Dear William. I am so sorry for what happened to our day. Paul was home this weekend, and after a huge argument, he insisted on meeting you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you more about him before, but as you witnessed, he can be quite jealous. I was so hoping you would have left already, and then I could have explained everything to you later. Most weekends he is not in Paris, even though his business classes are during the week. He has what my parents in Massachusetts would call a ‘rich social life.’ This must seem like a small problem to you, having gone through a divorce. But you can see why your friendship has meant so much to me these past weeks. I hope you can forgive me, and I would like to try again this Saturday. If you can bear it, please come by the Rose Saturday morning at our usual time. Lucy”
Of course I went. I wasn’t a complete jerk. I bought coffee and croissants and showed up at her little bookstore fifteen minutes early. The door was locked, and I waited outside, until Lucy popped into the street.
“Isn’t the store open today?” I asked.
“Ma mère will do that soon.” Lucy took the coffee and bit heartily into the croissant. “We’ll go east today, if you don’t mind.”
“Sounds good,” I said, smiling.
Lucy smiled back.
“Thanks for coming, by the way.”
We wound out of the Marais labyrinth and through the Place de la Bastille, discussing the merits and defects of the enormous glass and steel opera house. Then we turned up the Rue de la Roquette, where Lucy detoured into a flower shop. “We have to make a quick stop.” She purchased a small bouquet, and we continued along the avenue, talking about our shared ignorance of European architecture. She told me about visiting the Navarres’ country house near Orléans for the first time. “It’s not exactly a mansion, but it’s big enough to house a large family and their goats. The first time I went, Paul’s grandparents were still alive. They were so sweet to me and spent that year of weekends teaching me old French recipes.”
“I’ve been trying a few of those myself,” I said. “But I haven’t had an authentic instructor to help me along.”
“Well, maybe…” Lucy stopped herself. “Anyway, they died shortly after that, and their funeral was when the Navarres formally invited me to be part of their family.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, it wasn’t maybe as formal as you’re thinking. But they offered me a place at their table every night, and turned one of the rooms at the house into a permanent space for me.”
I hadn’t been paying attention to where we were walking, and as Lucy turned through an open gate, I looked up and saw a hill of crypts unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was an actual city of the dead, with cobbled avenues lines with elaborate tombs. A wave of anxiety flooded my esophagus.
“Uhm, where…” I muttered.
“Père Lachaise, of course. I’ve just been telling you. It’s their anniversary, and I wanted to stop and say hello.” She held up the flowers.
I couldn’t very well say no, and so I followed her through the rows of mausoleums. She pointed out Heloise and Abelard’s shared tomb, and listed all the authors buried here. “You really ought to see some of them, since you’ve been reading their books.”
I nodded, slowly getting used to the place. I mean, it wasn’t really like a cemetery at all, more like a collection of monuments. Almost like a museum, except for the ravens filling the air with croaks. I saw one dragging a small piece of wood, and wondered if it was from a coffin.
“They’re just up here.” Lucy pointed out a steep rise. Was there no end to this labyrinth of death? I focused on my black boots as they navigated the uneven paths and staircases. At the top of the hill, Lucy turned right to an area of tightly packed tomb walls. My shoulder brushed against a particularly mossy slab. A raven flew overhead with what I was sure was a bony finger in its mouth.
Lucy stopped at a mid-size tomb with “Navarre” lettered over the rusted metal door. Inside was a small shelf and a partially broken stained glass window. She laid the flowers on the shelf. “Hello, grand-mère. Hello, grand-père. It’s been another year, and I just wanted to let you know that things are great. I’m making new friends, and really getting to know your city even better. I hope you’d be proud of me.”
That was sweet, I thought, that she included me. And this wasn’t so bad. It bore no resemblance to the other cemetery at all.
Lucy smiled, and we threaded our way out of the maze, and along an avenue transversale. “I think Balzac is right around here,” she said.
“All right,” I muttered.
“Are you okay?” Lucy stopped and turned to me with concern in her granite orbs. “You look terrible.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Maybe I need some food.”
“Sure. Let’s see Balzac first. We can come back after and see Proust and all the rest.”
I nodded, trying to keep my eyes on the ground. Suddenly, I heard crying. Glancing up, I saw an older couple kneeling by a tomb, arranging pots of flowers. Their faces were streaked with grief.
I had to get out. I turned and began walking fast, not caring if Lucy was following, feeling my legs turn to rubber. A moveable green trash bin had been placed on the avenue, and, yanking it open, I was sick.
I was finally able to step away and sit down, staring at my boots. Lucy sat next to me.
“You should have mentioned you were ill.”
I shook my head mutely.
“No…it’s this place, isn’t it?” She asked sharply. “Come on, let me help you.”
I accepted her arm, though I didn’t deserve it, and hated myself more. We limped down the hill and out a corner gate. Near the metro station was a café called Le Saint Amour. Lucy led me inside. “Deux, s’il vous plaît.” She added something else, and the waitress took us to the corner behind a pillar by the window. I looked at the brown paper that covered the small table, aching for calm.
“Thé, s’il vous plaît. Et pain.” I heard Lucy tell someone. Then: “William, I’m sorry.” Her voice was coming to me through a long tunnel. “Did somebody…did you lose someone?”
“Lose,” I said. “That’s funny.”
Lucy ignored this. “Was it…oh my goodness, I’m so stupid. Was it your wife?”
“She’s not…” I shook my head. “Lucy, stop it.”
“Oh, William,” she said, and folded her hands in her lap. Minutes passed, and the tea and bread arrived. My stomach had settled, and I picked at the handfuls of baguette. Lucy sipped her tea, and though she was obviously trying not to, her eyes periodically flicked toward me like spotlights.
“I want you to tell me, William,” she said softly. “Please.”
“Tell you what? That she was not my wife, just my fiancée? That’s she’s dead. That I have never been back to her grave since the day she…since her parents…” I tore a piece of baguette in half. “Is that nice? Do you sympathize with me now? Am I a tragic fellow?”
Lucy said nothing, her eyes steady and penetrating.
“Do you really want to know, Ms. Doubleday, or Navarre, or whoever you are? I doubt it, but I’m going to tell you anyway,” I hissed. “Maybe then you’ll leave me alone.”
I saw the pain I caused with that remark, but pressed on. “Yes, I had a fiancée and she loved me. But I was young, and stupid, and full of my sense of personal freedom. So…she found out, I guess, about the other girls…and I came home to a note and this ring, which she had bought me and was saving for a surprise.” I tried to take a sip of tea, and nearly choked. “So, real romantic, eh? That’s what everyone thought, like I was some Orpheus mourning Eurydice. Because I never showed anyone that note, and never told anyone this story.”
Lucy was silent for a minute. “What was her name?”
“What?” I realized I had not ventured that particular detail. “Ann Marie.”
“How did she…do it?”
“The garage. Carbon monoxide. I found her,” I said listlessly.
“That must have been terrible,” Lucy said, and I still heard sympathy in her voice.
“Don’t you get it? I never loved her. I killed her. I am not a nice person.”
Lucy sipped her tea, looking out the window. “Was she nice?”
“Nice? What does that have to do with it?”
“I don’t know…” Lucy sighed. “It’s a very disturbing story, William. And you should take responsibility for your actions. Is that what you’d like to hear?” She tried to chuckle, but it came out as a cough. “But she didn’t have to do that. We are each responsible for our lives.”
“Comforting,” I said bitterly.
“Hey!” Lucy snorted. “Don’t take this out on me.”
“Oh…I know. You’re so good it makes me a little sick.”
“Good?” Lucy realized she was raising her voice, and dropped it again. “I was…the accident? I caused that. The boy driving, well, I had a certain reputation, and we had been drinking…” She speared me with those eyes. “I was encouraging him, you know, to drive fast. And I was…not in my seat, and we crashed.”
Now it was my turn to be shocked. “Did he…”
“No, he was almost completely unhurt. But it quickly got around how I had caused the whole thing, and with my reputation as the t
own…well, that was also the last straw for my parents. They refused to come to the hospital, I’m told.”
“How could they?”
“I had been the worst daughter that a pair of strict Puritan folk could imagine. I couldn’t blame them.”
“I could.”
“This from the man who only blames himself.”
“You didn’t hurt anyone else.”
“Didn’t I? I wonder.” She paused, sipping the tea. “And hurting yourself might be the worst sin of all.”
I frowned, puzzled.
She continued, “Anyway, we apparently have a lot more in common than you think.”
I tried not to let myself get pulled into this trap, but couldn’t help it. “Really? How much do you hate yourself?”
Her eyes registered shock, then she recovered. “At least you admit to that much. But that’s not it, really. I’m just…I’m a different person. We have many lives, and this is mine right now.”
Later, I wondered at the import of those words, but at the time, well, I was in no condition. We finished the tea and she led me back along the Rue de la Roquette toward the Opera Bastille.
“You are a little like Orpheus.” She poked me in the arm. “Or rather you think you are, torturing yourself. Don’t you see, you haven’t really changed. Orpheus was self-centered right until the end.”
I nearly stopped walking in shock. “How…” I couldn’t believe she was saying this, after her comforting if misguided words in the café. How was I being selfish? A few blocks after the Bastille she turned off with a wave. At that moment, I wished I had never met her.
****
On the way to Auvers-sur-Oise, I exited the train at the wrong station. I have to say it was not entirely my fault; the exit had the same name on the sign as the next one. But once done, I had to wait for the next train coming out of Paris a half-hour later. I gnashed my teeth and tried not to curse Cygne for recommending this trip. Of course, it was my own fault. I never would have braved the Ile-de-France RER system if I wasn’t avoiding something.
Shadows of Paris Page 4
