“I am expecting a friend,” she tells the waiter, “so bring a bottle of Saint Emilion and two glasses.”
“Oui,” he answers and scurries off.
Max is pleased with the thought of once again sharing a bottle of wine with Julien. It is what they often did. She closes her eyes and imagines the picture. With long strides and a quick step he will cross the courtyard, late as always. He will smile, rattle off a quick apology, then bend and let his lips land lightly on hers. Afterward he will slide into the seat opposite her, and they will talk.
Soon it is seven-thirty and then eight. The evening air grows cold, and Max pulls the red scarf closer around her neck. Every few moments she stretches her neck and searches the walkway. She is uncertain from which direction he will be coming, so she looks one way and then the other. When the first glass of wine is finished, she pours a second.
Three times the waiter returns and asks if she would like to move inside where it is warmer. “I will watch for your friend,” he offers.
Although Max shivers from the cold, she answers no.
“It’s quite comfortable here,” she lies.
Shortly after nine, the waiter, a man with silver hair and a sizeable paunch, comes with a bowl of beef soup and a basket of bread. Max has ordered nothing but still he sets it on the table and says, “You must eat.”
Max protests, saying she will wait for her friend and they will eat together.
The waiter shakes his head and waves off such a suggestion. He repeats, “You must eat,” and adds that on such a chilly evening it is not healthy for a person to be without food.
The soup smells good and since she has not eaten since this morning’s croissant, Max is hungry. She lifts a spoonful to her mouth and smiles. “Thank you.”
He gives a satisfied nod then disappears back inside.
After a few spoonfuls, Max can eat no more. The taste is good, but the pieces of beef are stuck in her chest and refuse to go down. Her stomach is too knotted to accept food. She is beginning to worry that perhaps Julien had a different café in mind. One by one she tries to recall the cafés where they sat across from one another and lingered for hours over a single glass of wine. There are a dozen, perhaps more, each one special in a different way but none with the sentimental significance of the Café du Marche. Since he simply called it the café, it would seem he meant this place.
She checks her watch and continues to wait. It is soon nine-thirty and then ten. Most of the customers from inside have already gone; only one of the tables is still occupied. The waiter comes, frowns at the remaining soup in the bowl then carries it off. When the couple at the last table leaves, the waiter starts to clear away the menus and tablecloths. It is almost eleven, and the café is about to close.
He isn’t coming. Something’s happened again. The waif perhaps, Max thinks. I should have told him where I’m staying.
She wants to trust that since he knows she is in Paris, he will try to find her. If something prevented him from coming tonight, he will surely be here tomorrow.
This is what Max tells herself, but in the back of her mind her mama’s voice is screaming, Fool! Believe in a man such as him, and you’ll end up like me.
Max waves to the waiter and signals for the check. When he comes and hands her the bill it is twenty-eight euros. He has charged her for only the coffee and wine. She thanks him then fumbles through her bag looking for her wallet.
Pushing aside a clutter of tissues, hair clips, notepads, pens and other things, she burrows down to the bottom of the tote. Her wallet is not there. She empties the bag onto the table, and a jumble of things fall loose. The wallet is not among them. Neither is her iPhone. Frantically searching through the pockets of first her jacket and then her jeans, she exclaims, “My wallet is gone!”
“Is it possible you forgot it at the hotel?” the waiter suggests.
Again Max rummages through the pile of clutter on the table. “No, it’s not. I had it and my phone with me this morning—”
“Do you remember where you were?” he suggests. “Maybe the wallet fell out of your bag. You could go back and look for it.”
Max looks up, wide-eyed. “My phone is gone too!”
He makes a tsk-tsking sound. “These days there are many pickpockets here in Paris,” he says sadly. “It is possible…”
“No,” she argues, “there was no chance…” She stops, remembering the boy on the skateboard.
The waiter says nothing; he waits and listens. He remembers several years back when his wife’s purse was stolen from beneath her nose.
“There was a boy on a skateboard,” Max says. “He knocked me down and threw a milkshake in my face, but he was gone in an instant. He didn’t have time to—”
The waiter grimaces and gives a nod. “A diversion. The boy was only a ruse. While you were distracted by him, a nearby accomplice reached into your bag and took your things.”
“Impossible,” she says, “the boy was alone.”
He shakes his head in disagreement. “Someone was there,” he says. “That’s how these pickpockets operate.” He tells the story of his wife’s purse being stolen.
“She had it right beside her as she was picking out tomatoes at the market when this woman started shouting about the price of one thing or another. She turned to see what all the fuss was about, and when she turned back her bag was gone.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Not kidding,” he says. “The street thieves are quick like lightning!”
Max begins searching her pockets for loose coins. She finds two five euros, a single two-euro and several dimes.
“I don’t have twenty-eight euros,” she says sorrowfully. “I can give you twelve and then send…”
“Keep it,” he replies. “Tonight is no charge.” He lifts the check from table, tears it in half and slides both pieces into his pocket.
Max stands, wraps her arms around him and kisses his cheek.
“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you so very much.”
When Max leaves the café the dampness of the day still hangs in the air, but it is accompanied by the bitter cold of night. Even though it is late, she walks back to the hotel. The streets have grown dark and quiet; the only sound she hears is the clicking of her heels against the cobblestones. A single question settles in her head. What now?
If only I could text Annie, she thinks. She could send money or at least help me figure out what to do. It is then that she remembers the tea Annie gave her as a parting gift. The words are still in her mind.
It is a brew that protects the traveler.
If ever Max needed protection, it is now.
Tomorrow morning there will be no coffee; there’s no money for it anyway. Tomorrow morning she will ask for a pot of hot water, fill the silver infuser with the tea and allow it to steep for a full five minutes. Then she will drink it down to the last drop.
Afterward she will go back to the Petit Pontoise; possibly the wallet and phone fell from her purse when she stopped for coffee. From there she’ll go to Notre Dame and check. Afterward she will follow her footsteps along the Quai de la Tournelle to where the accident happened. It was raining, she wasn’t paying attention; it’s conceivable that her wallet and phone just fell from the bag. Maybe they are still lying there somewhere along the route, pushed to the side of a wall or hidden beneath a trashcan.
It simply makes no sense to think they were stolen because no one else was anywhere close to her. Only Julien and his waif-like friend.
Fool! her mama’s voice repeats.
Back in Burnsville
Max has been gone for less than a week, yet Annie misses her terribly. Over the past several months they have gotten into the habit of speaking once a day or at least every other day. Often it is about nothing in particular—some new potpourri Annie has discovered or the job Max is working on—but the warmth of friendship is threaded through every conversation.
On Sunday evening she mentions this to Oliver.
“I’m concerned about Max,” she says. “I haven’t heard from her for three days.”
He is hunched over the study desk poring through the transcripts of the custody battle that will start tomorrow morning. He absently replies, “Didn’t she text you and say she got there safely?”
“Yes, but I haven’t heard from her since.”
Oliver looks up and says, “That was just a few days ago.”
“I know. But I’ve got this feeling…”
“It’s nothing,” he says and returns to his paperwork. “She’s probably just busy having fun.”
“Unh-uh.” Annie shakes her head dubiously. “If everything was good, she’d have written to tell me about it.”
Without looking up Oliver says, “Can we talk about it later? This trial starts tomorrow, and I’ve got to finish going through these reports.”
“Okay. Sure.” Annie turns away and leaves him to his work. The conversation is over, but there are still a bunch of worrisome thoughts picking at her brain.
After all that has happened, Annie has learned to trust her instincts. And whether or not there is justification for it, she is starting to believe something has gone wrong.
She and Max have been friends for one short year, but in that year they have grown close as Siamese twins. Although it is as unexplainable as a potpourri that reflects a person’s thoughts, their tie to one another has become both physical and emotional. They somehow sense what one another will say before the words are spoken, and thoughts travel between them like telepathic waves.
Although Annie seldom works in the apothecary on Sunday, this particular evening she is inclined to do so. Her head is filled with questions, and none of them have answers. The busyness of blending teas or sorting through tins of herbs is something that brings peace of mind. There is magic in every room of Memory House, but in the apothecary it is more powerful. There Annie finds clarity of vision, and she believes that being there will enable her to see things she might not otherwise see.
Ophelia laughs at such a thought and claims this belief is something Annie hangs on to like a rabbit’s foot or a four-leaf clover.
“The magic isn’t in the apothecary,” she says. “It’s in you and what you bring to the apothecary.”
Although she has heard this a dozen or more times, Annie is still reluctant to believe it. Her contention is that Ophelia left behind whatever magic there is when she moved out of Memory House. It is like the hall table or the bedroom lamp, left behind for the next occupant to take and use.
Annie’s cell phone is in her pocket. She keeps it with her hoping it will beep a text message. Tomorrow will be four days since she last heard from Max. Too long, she thinks.
Lifting a tin of dried strawberry leaves from the shelf, she adds a scoop to the mixing bowl and then reaches for the basket of broom flowers. Countless times Herbert Blander has been warned to cut back on steaks and red wine, but he refuses to give them up. Instead he looks to the apothecary for a soothing tea. Annie adds a spoonful of dried cherry bits to sweeten the mix, then pours it into a box marked with Herbert’s name.
As she sets this aside she checks her watch: 10PM. It is 4AM in Paris; she knows there will be no message from Max tonight. She pulls the phone from her pocket and settles in the chair alongside the skirted table. She turns the phone on and waits until the message icon pops up, then scrolls back through the list. There is one from Giselle with a picture of the twins, another from a college, an advertisement from Dyson’s Drugstore and lastly the message Max sent Thursday morning. She has already read this message, but there is a certain comfort in rereading it. She clicks on Max’s name and waits until the text appears on the screen.
Arrived OK. Trip was good. Met a nice guy on the plane, Claude Barrington. He’s staying at the Baltimore Hotel. Fancy place. Must have a few bucks. I’ll let you know when I find Julien. Luv, M
She reads the message several times but can find no clue or word of foreboding written between the lines. The logical part of her brain argues quite possibly Max hasn’t written because she hasn’t yet found Julien. Annie wants to believe this, but the thought of trouble has created a stumbling block.
When Oliver pops his head into the apothecary to say he is heading upstairs to bed, he sees the worried look on her face.
“I’m certain Max is fine,” he says and takes her hand in his. “If anything was wrong you’d be the first person she’d call.”
“That’s true,” Annie says. “But…”
“But nothing.” Oliver smiles. “Max is fine.” He says this definitively as if it is something he is absolutely certain of.
Annie reluctantly turns off the phone, but even as she trudges up the stairs she can’t close down the niggling worry that has settled inside her head.
Apartment on Rue Racine
When the shouting starts it is so loud that Madame Chastain, the woman in the downstairs apartment, takes a broomstick and bangs against the ceiling.
“Keep it up, and I’m calling the police!” she hollers.
“Drop dead you, old biddy!” Brigitte yells back.
Brigitte is a tiny thing, barely five feet tall and less than one hundred pounds, but she isn’t afraid of the devil. Nor is she afraid of either Madame Chastain or Julien.
“Keep your voice down!” Julien shouts, even though his is every bit as loud as hers. He has no fear of Brigitte, but twice the building manager has warned that if the rowdiness continues he will set them and their belongings out on the street. This is something Julien does not want to happen. The rent for this apartment is cheap, and there are three different doorways by which he can leave the building. Right now this is merely a convenience, but given Brigitte’s lack of discretion it could one day become a necessity.
She is a liability, but she is also an asset. Her small fingers are so quick and light they can pluck a watch from a wrist before a single second ticks by. She looks harmless, but she can steal a wallet and smile at the same time.
Julien is certain of this. He lowers his voice slightly.
“You saw my signal,” he says. “You should have backed off.”
Brigitte’s mouth curls in a sneer. “Why? Because she’s some babe you used to bang?”
“I had feelings for her—”
Brigitte raises her voice three octaves. “Oh, so you had feelings. Isn’t that special!”
Julien turns away. “It’s not something you’d understand,” he grumbles.
When he walks into the bedroom, she follows close at his heels.
“And what about me?!” she screams. “I don’t have feelings? You think I didn’t see you looking at her with those moon eyes?”
“I was surprised to see her, that’s all. I didn’t expect—”
“You think I’m stupid or something?”
Julien has heard her ask this same question a thousand times before, and he knows there is no good answer. Regardless of what he says, she will come at him tooth and nail.
“No,” he says wearily, “I don’t think—”
“You’re damn right!” she snaps. “I saw you whispering. What’d you say?” Before he has time to answer she screams, “What?” Her voice is so loud it rattles the windowpane.
Madame Chastain again bangs on the ceiling, this time harder.
“I said I was sorry.” His voice is now lower, higher than a normal speaking voice perhaps, but considerably lower than hers.
Giving Madame Chastain’s banging no notice, Brigitte yells, “Sorry? Sorry about what?”
When he doesn’t answer, she grabs an ashtray from the dresser and hurls it at his head. He ducks, but when it hits the bedroom wall it gouges a hole in the plaster then clatters to the floor.
“Liar!”
In the year they have been together, Julien has learned that when Brigitte is in these moods there is no placating her. The best he can do is ride out the storm. On the outside she is willful and strong, but inside she is frail and damaged.
After she is done throwing things there will be tears, and after the tears lovemaking. This is how it has been from the start. Violence and passion; it is what brought them together and what keeps them so.
Even now Brigitte’s eyes are filling with water. “You said you’d meet her, didn’t you?”
“Of course not.”
“Liar! I heard you say it!” Brigitte turns her back to Julien and faces the wall. It irks her to be so weak-willed, yet the tears are something she cannot prevent. She can often hide them but almost never prevent them.
“I didn’t mean it,” he replies. “I just didn’t know what else to say.”
Brigitte’s voice is softer now, raspy sounding, with a touch of bitterness.
“Why?” she asks. “Why is this one so special?”
Julien hears the throatiness of her question and knows it is time.
“She’s not special,” he says, then crosses the room and wraps his arms around her narrow little shoulders. “You know you’re the one,” he whispers.
She gives no answer, so he whirls her around to face him and brings his mouth down hard upon hers. When his hands drop down to lift her buttocks into his body, she wraps her skinny little legs around him and they tumble into the bed.
Long after they have finished making love, Julien lies there staring up at the ceiling. He spoke the truth when he said seeing Maxine was a shock, but he didn’t mention that ever since that moment it’s been impossible to get her out of his head.
Brigitte
Afterward we made love as we always do. First there is fighting, and when I no longer have a stomach for it I fall to tears. Then he comes to me and soothes my sorrow with the passion of his lovemaking. I know I am a stupid woman for letting it be so, but this is how it has always been.
Except this night was different.
He was as he always is, running his hands across my body and whispering his words in my ear, but the hunger of passion was missing. Even at the moment of climax I could feel him thinking about that woman. He was seeing her, not me.
What the Heart Remembers Page 8
