What the Heart Remembers

by Bette Lee Crosby

  In time he’ll forget Max. He did it once before; he can do it again. He thinks about tonight’s dinner in the restaurant and tries to picture Brigitte in the red dress, but what he sees is Max’s face last Sunday morning. This only angers him more.

  As much as he wants to hate Max, he can’t. He is still in love with her.

  He crosses back over Rue Emireau and storms into the bistro. The table is empty, the buyer gone.

  Julien turns to the waiter and grabs the front of his shirt. “Where is he?”

  The waiter, a small man with the frail bones of a child, trembles. “Where is who, monsieur?”

  “The buyer! The man who was just sitting at this table!”

  The waiter gives a helpless shrug. “He is a stranger, monsieur. He comes, he goes, but where he does not say.”

  Julien releases his hold on the frightened waiter and storms out. He knows this is true. The buyer is a shadow that comes for one hour then disappears into nothingness. His money is gone. The only thing he can do is wait until tomorrow, pay the additional thirty euros and take possession of Max’s phone.

  Hopefully it will be worth all the aggravation.

  Julien again turns toward the apartment building and walks. This time his steps are slow and his shoulders sloped forward.

  It is after six when he arrives home, and Brigitte is already at the apartment.

  “I thought you said you needed to take a nap,” she growls. The sound of anger is like an electrical current running through her words.

  “I do,” Julien replies and heads for the bedroom.

  Brigitte is right behind him, trailing so close her toes bang up against his heels. “Where were you?” Her voice is higher now, not screeching but on the verge of it.

  “I went for a walk,” Julien answers; then he plops down on the bed.

  She leans over him, her nose a hair’s breadth from his. “Liar! You went to meet that girl, didn’t you?”

  “What girl?”

  “You know what girl!” She pushes her hands into his chest. “The one from Sunday. The one with the pink phone.”

  Julien shakes her off and stands. “Stop screaming!” he yells, but his voice is louder than hers.

  Seconds later Madame Chastain bangs on the ceiling.

  He lowers his voice and then says, “I told you I have no interest in her—”

  “Liar! You found the phone and took it to her!”

  “Brigitte, listen…” He reaches for her, but she backs away.

  “Don’t touch me! I already know! You took the phone from under the mattress!”

  Several thumps come from the ceiling below, and Madame Chastain hollers that she will call the police if they don’t quiet down.

  “Call them if you want!” Brigitte yells back. “I don’t give a crap!”

  “Please, Brigitte…” Julien again reaches for her, and again she backs away.

  “Do you think me so stupid that I don’t know when you lie?” She turns away from him. “I know,” she says bitterly, “but I put up with it.”

  “Okay, you’re right,” Julien admits. “I did take the phone, but I put it in with all the others you took to the buyer. I was going to keep it, but I didn’t.”

  “Ha!” Brigitte tosses her head and glares over her shoulder. “Even that is a lie! The buyer counted the phones in front of me, and there was no pink phone!”

  Julien remembers the case in his pocket. “I took the cover off,” he says. “I told you that damn pink cover was too identifiable.”

  “Liar.”

  “It’s the truth. Look, I still have the cover.” He pulls the pink case from his pocket. “I was going to toss it in a trash bin far from here but forgot.”

  Brigitte doesn’t answer; she doesn’t even turn around. She stands there silent, her back to Julien.

  “Please, Brigitte baby, you’ve got to believe me. You know how much I love you. How can you not know?”

  She gives an almost imperceptible shrug but doesn’t turn around.

  Julien comes up behind her, wraps his arms around her narrow shoulders, and whispers in her ear. “I love you, Brigitte; you know I do. I’ll give you anything you want. Please, baby…”

  In time he wears away her resistance and she turns, offering up her mouth.

  Afterward they make love, and it lasts long into the night. He whispers of how much he loves her, and Brigitte believes him because it is what she wants to believe.

  When she falls asleep, Julien is still awake. He is thinking of tomorrow.

  Throughout the night Julien is restless. Several times he wakes and then struggles to get back to sleep. When the first light of morning is in the sky, he climbs from the bed and pulls on his clothes. He moves slowly and silently, moving like a shadow so he will not disturb Brigitte. She is a sound sleeper, but still he cannot afford to take chances.

  When she groans and twists her body from one position to another, he presses his back to the wall and remains hidden.

  Before he leaves he must get another thirty euros for the buyer. Lifting the floorboard in the closet would be too noisy, so he slides Brigitte’s purse from atop the nightstand and takes the bills she has in her wallet. Sixty euros. It is enough.

  Leaving the apartment he closes the door softly behind him. There will be hell to pay when he returns, but that is something to deal with when the time comes.

  For now he can think only about meeting the buyer and the information he will find on Max’s phone.

  Brigitte

  Julien was gone when I woke this morning. I knew then that last night was nothing but more of his lies.

  I am worn weary of lies and stealing, of ducking into doorways when we see a policeman. I want a life like my sister has. Elena works in a bakery surrounded by the smell of fresh bread and sweet rolls. At the end of the day she comes home to a husband who offers her hands dirty from work, not filled with money from other people’s pockets.

  Hers is a simple life, not one of fancy dresses and evenings at the café. But she is happy. Eli is not a handsome man, but he has a good heart and a warm smile. Elena never questions whether or not he loves her. She knows he does, because he is always there. If I so much as blink an eye, Julien is gone. Off chasing another woman or perhaps looking for greener pastures.

  I know loving him has made a fool of me, but I am neither stupid nor blind. I saw how he looked at that woman. It was as if he were standing naked before her, stripped of all pretenses and left with only an apology to offer.

  Not once has he ever looked at me that way. Not once. If he did I would follow him to the ends of the earth. I would continue to steal for him and lay down my life if need be. I would damn my soul to eternal hell for Julien if he loved me; but he does not.

  This morning I took the suitcase from beneath the bed and packed my clothes in it. I left the red dress behind, because where I am going I will not need such a dress.

  When Julien returns, if he returns, he will find the money from the box and me both gone. He will no doubt rant and rave, swearing that I have taken everything and left nothing for him. That is not the truth. I have left behind something far more valuable than stolen money. I have left behind a large piece of my heart.

  This morning I promised myself that once I walk out the door, I will no longer think of Julien.

  I want to believe this, but I know it is a lie. I am a woman who has grown used to living with lies, so I lie—even to myself.

  The Messages

  Julien is at the bistro a half-hour before it opens. He sits on a bench in the park and waits. At seven-thirty a portly man with a ring of keys dangling from his belt comes and unlocks the door. It is not the waiter of yesterday evening but more likely the owner.

  After a few moments Julien crosses the park and enters the bistro. The man behind the counter now has an apron tied around his waist.

  “Coffee?” he asks.

  “Double,” Julien grunts and moves toward the back.

  The morning is j
ust getting started, and most of the chairs are still upended on the tables. When Julien reaches the table in the far corner he yanks a chair down and sits where the buyer usually sits, facing the door with his back to the wall. It is a way of gaining the upper hand, a way of showing his disdain for the hefty price the buyer charges.

  It is not yet eight o’clock. Two hours to wait. The buyer is never early, never late. Like some sort of pompous king, he sets the rules and forces those who want to do business with him to abide by them. This thought rankles Julien.

  The owner comes, sets a large cup of coffee on the table and says nothing. Julien could care less about him. The man is a peon. Julien’s anger is reserved for the buyer.

  Today he will say something. He will say the price for unlocking a cell phone is outrageous and demand half the money back. Although he is angry, he is also clever enough to wait until he has Max’s phone in his hand. Once he sees it is unlocked, that’s when he will tell the buyer the truth of what is on his mind.

  Julien drops a single lump of sugar into his coffee and stirs it. He thinks back to Sunday and pictures the look on Max’s face. Shock, yes, but there was something more. When he said “Later at the café,” she nodded. She came that night, he is almost certain of it.

  True, she is a woman with expectations, but perhaps that is what he needs to spur him on to all he is capable of achieving. He made good money selling small sketches that took minutes to do; perhaps if he were to stand at the easel and paint, as she wanted him to… He imagines a gallery showing and smiles at the thought.

  Of course, there is the problem of Brigitte. She is a feisty little tart with an uncontrollable temper. Julien doubts he can just slip away from her; she is clever enough to track him down. Perhaps he should offer an excuse. Something to placate her until the anger dies down.

  He decides to say he will be gone for just a month or two. He will claim he is going to Chartres to care for an ailing cousin. That is a believable enough story. He will give Brigitte two hundred euros and tell her to keep the apartment; that way if things do not work out, he can come back.

  Confident that he has the best of plans, Julien leans back in the chair and signals for another coffee. He checks his watch. Five minutes after nine. It is now less than an hour. The minutes crawl by, and as he waits he downs three more of the double espressos. When the long hand of his watch ticks past the hour Julien becomes edgy.

  It is not like the buyer to be late, yet it is already one minute past ten. Nervously drumming his fingers on the table, he thinks back to the conversation of yesterday. Ten o’clock. He is certain the buyer said ten o’clock.

  Julien stands, walks to the front of the bistro and steps out onto the street. There is no sign of the buyer. He looks both ways then grumbles, “Son of a bitch.” Seething, he stomps back inside and plops down at the table.

  He downs the last few drops of coffee and tries to think. What if the buyer doesn’t show up? What then? There’s no way to get in touch with him, to get either the phone or his money back. The thought of being suckered rises like the steam of a teakettle. Julien is just about to boil over when he finally sees the buyer come through the door.

  With his eyes narrowed and his face set in a look of defiance, he waits until the buyer nears the table then says, “You’re late!”

  Without saying a word, the buyer turns and starts back toward the door.

  Julien jumps up. “Wait!” he shouts and hurries after the man. He stretches his arm and catches the buyer’s shoulder.

  The buyer turns, his eyes as cold and hard as ice. “Do I know you?”

  “Of course you do,” Julien says. “We were to meet here.” Too much caffeine has jangled his nerves, and the sound of desperation is threaded through his voice. “You’re supposed to deliver a phone, and I’m to give you another thirty euros.”

  “Fifty euros,” the buyer says.

  “Yesterday it was thirty.”

  “Fifty,” the buyer repeats. “Yesterday was before you gave me attitude.”

  “I’m sorry,” Julien mumbles. “Please—”

  “Fifty. You’ve got ten seconds to decide.”

  Julien reaches into his pocket and pulls out the bills. After he hands the buyer the fifty, he is given the phone.

  “Don’t come back,” the buyer says.

  Julien looks at him quizzically. “What do you mean, don’t come back?”

  “This is it,” the buyer says. “Hotheads like you have trouble written all over them. We’re through doing business.”

  With that the buyer turns and walks out the door.

  “You think I give a shit?” Julien mutters. “Assholes like you are a dime a dozen.” He goes to the counter, hands the owner his last ten-euro note and walks out the door.

  Crossing over to the park, Julien returns to the bench where he sat earlier. He turns the phone on and waits while it loads. A number 3 pops up over the icon for messages.

  Julien clicks on it and begins to read.

  The most recent message is from someone named Annie. She asks if Max is still at Hotel Vendome and whether or not she has found Julien. She came here looking for me. A good sign.

  He moves onto the second message. It is from a Mark Treadway. He says Doctor Kelly’s construction is going well and that a check is in the mail. He also mentions that he has another new client for Max. She is obviously making money, Julien thinks. So much the better.

  The third message is again from Annie. It says if Max has not yet found Julien she should try not to be too upset.

  He smiles. She is as good as his. He will say what she wants to hear, and she will fall into his arms as she did before. Again his thoughts drift back to Sunday and now he can see it clearly. The look on Max’s face was not shock, it was adoration. She is still in love with him.

  Julien arrives at the Hotel Vendome just minutes after Max and Andrew have left. When the desk clerk says there is no answer in her room, Julien says he will wait. He moves to the small group of leather chairs in the corner of the lobby, sits down and picks a magazine from the table.

  ~ ~ ~

  This is their last full day in Paris, so Max takes Andrew on a walking tour. They weave in and out of narrow cobblestoned streets and stroll the wide boulevards. She shows him the buildings that fired her love of architecture and points out tiny details, details that are often too small to garner notice: a cornerstone dating back to the 1700s, a chandelier of rose-colored glass, a twist of wrought iron, a cherub with part of the face chipped away.

  Andrew listens as if she is speaking the word of God, and he cannot take his eyes from her face. He delights in the way she touches a stone as tenderly as she would a child and how her skin reflects the sunlight when she tilts her face to point out a row of pitched roofs.

  In time they leave the Latin Quarter and take the metro over to the fashionable right bank. They stroll the Champs Elysées and stop for lunch at the Renault, an outdoor restaurant with pink placemats and napkins tied with ribbon.

  As they linger at the table with coffee and a small plate of pastries, Andrew says, “I came here thinking this would be an ordinary business trip.” He hesitates then adds, “But being with you has turned it into the best vacation ever.”

  He stretches his arm across the table and lifts Max’s hand into his.

  She looks at him, her eyes soft and gentle. “I’ve enjoyed it also. You’ve been…” She is going to say her knight in shining armor but she decides such a phrase is too corny, so she replaces it with, “A life saver.”

  Life saver is good, but Andrew is hoping for more. “When we get back to Virginia, let’s continue this.”

  The “this” of his statement is understood. Max knows he is referring to the relationship that has blossomed.

  “I’d like that,” she says. “Very much.”

  Without taking his eyes from her face, he lifts her hand to his mouth and drops a kiss into her palm. He then folds her fingers back and says, “Hold on to that. It’s
yours to keep.”

  The moment is so special Max intends to hold on to it for a very long time. She takes her closed fist, moves it to the spot where her heart is, then opens her hand and presses it to her chest.

  “This is where it will stay,” she says.

  Andrew smiles. If he had any doubts that he is falling in love with her, they are now gone.

  After lunch they visit the Arc d’ Triomphe, then head for the Tulleries Gardens to stroll along the pathways. When the sun is low in the sky, they cross the Pont des Arts bridge and start toward the Eiffel Tower. Andrew tells Max he has planned a sweet surprise for their last evening.

  “I think you’re going to like it,” he says.

  “The suspense is killing me,” Max replies.

  When they reach the Eiffel Tower they circle around to the far side—to the entrance that houses the private elevator going up to Le Jules Verne.

  Max gasps. “Are you serious?”

  This is the reaction Andrew hopes for. “Have you been here before?”

  “Gosh, no,” she replies. “This place was way beyond my budget.”

  “Good,” he says. “I wanted it to be something special, sort of a first for us.”

  Max tilts her head so she is eye-to-eye with him. “We’ve had a lot of firsts, and they’ve all been pretty special.”

  A maître’d takes their name, confirms the reservation, then escorts them up in the elevator. They sit at a table alongside the window and gaze out as the last rays of sunlight filters across the landscape of Paris.

  “From here the city looks so beautiful,” Max says.

  “From where I’m sitting everything looks beautiful,” Andrew replies.

  The room seems to be lit by only the candles on the table, and the sound is as hushed as a lullaby. The waiters move silently and are almost invisible unless there is another goblet of wine to be poured or dish to be served.