Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

  So now I know married men and I know single men. Oddly the married ones seem to be the most flirtatious. Take Philippe. Not married. Not gay (as far as I know). But frankly not very flirtatious. I woke up in the middle of the night last week, sat bolt upright and said “He has a rule about sleeping with clients!” By the light of day, I think that my revelation was probably just wishful thinking… I could always stop coming to GCA. Daniele; married and suddenly very flirtatious.

  Renard, from the dinner after the Fete des Vendanges, is single and is going to come to chez moi and we will cook together. I have no idea what he expects that will involve other than pasta, a truffle and wine. The only part of this that makes me nervous is that he is Stephanie’s “best friend”. Stephanie seems to have a lot of best friends and after all, she went straight for Daniele. Not that it got her anywhere. With her green teeth. I will be sure never to have green teeth. A wine mustache, maybe. But never green teeth.

  I’m writing at my table at GCA. Philippe is doing some kind of business, whistling, walking back and forth in front of me. I can’t say I would call it flirting. I would just call it looking for attention. He’s taking my writing seriously. At the bar is a guy I’ve seen the last few times I’ve been here. He’s not bad looking. Probably mid to late forties, dark hair and beard, I think he works in the neighborhood somewhere. He actually looks a bit like Thierry. Definitely the type that catches my eye. He is turned away from the bar and facing me, maybe looking out of the window, or maybe watching me work. Wedding ring on his finger clear as day. If I smile at him, he smiles back. But he still keeps watching me work. And drinking his Chablis.

  Tonight Daniele has a rather special gig at Pop up du Label; a music club and restaurant in the 10ème. He’s all but begged me to go for the past month or two. “You’ll like it,” he assured me. “It’s very good. It’s mine!” So last week I told him I would go tonight. And now I feel like such a baby but…. I am afraid!

  Just like I cancelled my reservation at GCA three times before I ever came, I no doubt will cancel this one. I google street-viewed the location of GCA, the entrance, and where Daniele would be sitting when I came in. There was no way around it, I would have to walk right past him. It was impossible. And today I practically own the place. What about my mantra, “Life happens outside. Go outside!”?

  Siobhan said that next week she will go with me. This week she has a business trip. Will absence make the heart grow fonder? Or will I seem like the big loser that I am? Je ne sais pas.

  Maybe if I turn around and look out the window behind me I will see something really interesting going on. Now both Philippe and the handsome guy are both sitting at the bar looking directly at me. It’s terribly disconcerting. Maybe I should speak to him. Maybe I should say “enchantée”.

  Tragedy

  The years passed and Ninon kept her word never to breathe a word of her son. In truth, it was not so difficult because his father swept him off to the Netherlands when he followed the Prince after the Fronde. Ninon thought about the boy from time to time and the anniversary of his birth was always a painful time, with her taking to her salon for days on end, not willing to talk to anyone.

  So it was a great shock followed by dismay when young Louis appeared at Ninon’s salon in the company of a contingent of Dutch royalty. The young men had heard about the pleasures to be found at the now famous salon, both intellectual and otherwise.

  Naturally, Ninon did not recognize her son at first. Always happy to entertain new and very handsome young visitors she showed them her very best. The first evening of their attendance Jean de la Fontaine was reading his new fable, “La Cigale et la Fourmi”.

  Madame de Sevigne was also in attendance that night. “Ah, she exclaimed, “Le Fontaine is such a delight! Reading his fables is like eating from a basket of strawberries. You begin by selecting the largest and the best and before you know it, you’ve eaten them all.”

  Fontaine had read the fable outloud and a hearty discussion was in progress about whether the Cigale represented the improvidence of France when the young gentlemen entered the salon and were announced by the manservant. Ninon was gazing at the young men, impressed by their good looks and obvious breeding, not really noticing their names until the shock jarred her out of her reverie. “Louis de Mornay…”

  Never a swooner, Ninon was stunned and could not catch her breath. It could be no coincidence that this young man had the same name as the Louis de Mornay who Ninon had lived with for five years in the countryside some, what was it? Fifteen? Twenty? The dates ran through her head. Seventeen years since Ninon gave birth to her son. Nearly fifteen since she left desolate at the stillbirth of her second child. And when her lover had extracted from her a promise never to tell her child that she was his mother.

  While Ninon was busy reeling at the recognition, young Louis was busy experiencing his own coupe de foudre. For him, as it was for most young healthy men of his age, it was love at first sight. The years and done little to diminish Ninon’s beauty and appeal and Louis was desperate to get closer to his hostess, to this compelling woman. He must know her. He must have her.

  But it would not happen that day. Ninon had fled to her private rooms.

  Week after week Louis returned to the salon each Wednesday evening. Each week he tried to get close to Ninon. He wrote her notes, he imposed on Ninon’s friends to intervene on his behalf. Each week she managed to elude the young man. Finally, after a month of avoiding him, Ninon realized that she had to face the problem head on.

  But not yet, she decided to take a break in the countryside.

  Without much notice to anyone, Ninon accepted the long standing invitation of Monsieur M to stay at his very small chateau in the shadow of Château de Fontainebleau, on the edge of the forest. She packed few clothes, her writing paraphernalia and one servant.

  Just a half day by carriage from Paris, Fontainebleau was nothing like Paris. The air was clean and outside of the grounds of the big chateau one could imagine that there was no one around for miles and miles. Summer was warm but the trees and greenery of the nearby forest made things seem cooler and fresher. And in spite of the serenity and solitude try as she might, Ninon could not clear the nightmare that occupied her head.

  It was on a lovely Thursday afternoon that Ninon was sitting with a book and her journal in the garden nearly dozing in the sun when she heard the clopping of a solitary horse and rider. Minutes later footsteps on the gravel approached where she was sitting. A sense of dread kept her from looking up. Finally she felt a shadow blocking the sun and she had no choice but to look upon the intruder; her visitor, her son.

  She didn’t speak. After a few moments, that seemed like an eternity to Louis, he finally did.

  “My beloved Ninon”, he began “I am so sorry to intrude on your holiday like this.”

  Ninon didn’t help him at all.

  “But you leave me no alternative,” he continued.

  Ninon was mute.

  “I know that I have yet to prove myself to be worthy of your love. But I am well born, well educated and my opportunities are limitless.”

  With that Ninon looked at the young man.

  “This will never be.” she replied quite simply.

  “I cannot accept this!” Louis exhorted. For the next half hour he argued with her, if one can argue with someone who doesn’t offer any rebuttal. He fumed. He paced. He shouted. He even wept. But of course nothing could change Ninon’s response.

  “This will never be.” she responded once more, with resolution.

  “If I can’t have you, then I must end my life!” exclaimed the young man in despair.

  “Cannot have me?” Ninon looked at Louis with a mixture of compassion and heartbreak. “You say you are well born.” She took a deep breath as she prepared to break the vow she made to Louis’s father so many years ago. As she expelled the breath it was as if her very s
oul leaked from her body. “I am your mother.”

  Young Louis, was stunned. All of the color drained from his face and his bearing drooped. He stood silently in front of Ninon. He had no words. Finally he turned and walked away, his footsteps sounding on the same gravel that warned of his approach.

  Ninon slumped in her chair. She had no tears. She had no emotion. She felt dead.

  Moments later a single shot rang out. A hunter in the nearby forest? Ninon dropped her book on the ground.

  An hour later the body of young Louis was found in the woods; next to him his pistol.

  Renard

  Maybe this is where my part of the story should end. If it is, it’s only fair to warn the reader that things could not be any more unreal than they are. The cliché just gets to be more and more cliché. American woman “of an age” moves to Paris to write and find her new life. She makes many friends and a few enemies. And in the end, the perfect French man lands on her doorstep and they fall in love. Happily ever after. La Fin

  But life doesn’t really happen that way, does it? So maybe it’s in the telling that makes it less than a cliché? Maybe Ninon taught me something. Maybe Paris taught me something. I was certainly an eager learner.

  I wake up at a leisurely 10 am to a text from Renard. “What do you think, if I come to your flat tonight? I’m a little bit tired with my big working week… but with you (insert smiley emoticon with hearts for eyes) and a good bottle of wine and truffles that is all I need to my body. Or tomorrow if you can?”

  We have been texting each other in a playful way since the night of the Fete de Vendanges; talking about his cat, cooking, restaurants, truffles and random other things. Now this.

  D’accord! The rubber has met the road. Put up or shut up, lady!

  Then he adds, “And with this bad weather we need to cocooning.” So his English is good but not perfect. It’s cute.

  “Tonight is fine. Tomorrow I have plans. Tell me what we need for making the pasta and I can get it today. What time is good for you?”

  “OK. Perfect for tonight! I don’t working so I can come at 19:00 if it is ok for you? I bring everything for the pasta and a salad for after, and a peace [sic] of meat. You can buy one or two cheese, one cheese goat will be good with truffles and olive oil… and a bottle of wine. I bring a bottle also.”

  “I just need this,” he adds, and up pops a picture of a cheese grater.

  “And you have an oven?’

  “Of course I have an oven! But my cheese grater is terrible. Can you bring yours?”

  “You modern girl! And ok, I bring mine. I need your address again and door code. And I bring bread.”

  “I bring a bottle of champagne to celebrate our dinner. You know food is very important to me.”

  Oh the pressure!

  In the hours to follow I clean my apartment. I text Siobhan and she gives me the pep talk only a really good girlfriend can deliver. It’s interesting that both of my very good girlfriends here are younger than my daughters. But they don’t feel like daughters. They feel like friends. My daughters would shriek if I talked to them about this. She offers to make me an appointment where she gets her bikini waxes. Agggghhhh! That is not happening!

  But I do scrub myself to within an inch of scouring off all of my skin. And then some.

  At 6:30 I resort to drinking from the leftover bottle of white wine in the fridge. My wine rack has grown a bit empty in the last weeks but I have earmarked a really good red that was given to me when I “retired”. Is that what I did? How can that be? This feels a lot more like my college days than my retirement days. At 6:45 the wifi goes out!

  I spent five minutes trying to get it to reconnect before I finally just switched my phone to roaming and accepted that I’d pay the ten dollars to have access for the next twenty four hours!

  Just as I was wondering if he would follow the French rules of being fashionably late, bing, a text. “Can I come at 10 minutes before 7.” and then the door buzzer rings.

  I push the button to open the second door. Let the games begin.

  In moments he’s at my door. He has a huge bouquet of flowers. And a bottle of champagne. His expectations become a little more clear.

  I honestly don’t remember the next half hour or so. I know we started with la bise. And then we ended with …

  Let’s draw the curtain here to allow some privacy. Discretion is the better part of valour and all of that. How we got from champagne on the sofa to waking up together at 10 am the next morning is something best left to the imagination. Suffice it to say that after some dozen years of abstinence and truly never expecting this kind of intimacy again, somehow a charming forty seven year old man made it incredibly comfortable and easy to take me there.

  Well, it certainly didn’t hurt to have sweet French nothings whispered in my ear. And that he told me he wanted to kiss me since that very first night he was in my apartment after the Fête de Vendanges. And that I had crazy sparkling eyes full of mischief and fun. And did I mention the French? Even when he spoke English it was so incredibly charming and sexy. He opened me like a book that he couldn’t put down and I eagerly shared my story. Ugh, that is way too campy. He peeled back my inhibitions. He… let’s stick with the book analogy.

  Shower, coffee and he was on his way. I cleaned up the dishes from the night before and then reluctantly cleaned up the remnants from the night on my own self. I had a busy week scheduled. Siobhan texted me right after the cleaning was done, her wifi was not working, could she come use mine? She did and we were off to lunch, with wine and confidences shared.

  I was still worried about Stephanie. She had insisted that they were “best friends”, that he was “like a brother to her.” He said they were friends but he was not at all interested in her that way. I guess I can’t help wonder why not. For her at least. Back at my apartment Siobhan asked if she could take a nap on my sofa. Sure. Why not.

  Throughout the day I got texts from him. “Kiss kiss” “You are on my mind”.... “Answer him!” said Siobhan. I answered in kind feeling like a thirteen year old girl. Then I had a dinner commitment with Silvie, Elliott and Joan. All the while my mind buzzing with Renard.

  What would normally have been a fun dinner dragged on and on. Elliott expounding on wine and food and cheese and… blah blah blah blah blah. I was exhausted. I just wanted to go to bed. And sleep. A text from Renard, “I don’t want to disturb your friends time but I’m about to go to sleep and I want to tell you…”

  Aftermath

  Wednesday. Drinks with Evelyn. Why am I continuing this friendship? And even worse, why oh WHY did I tell her about Renard.

  “Be very careful!” “I am almost certain he has done some background investigating on you. He knows you have money!”

  The very idea that haunted me the week between “we will have dinner together” and our actual night together. Every single thing Evelyn said suggested that my sweet man was a fortune hunter, an opportunist looking for a sugar mama. Why else would he be interested in someone my age? Certainly he had done his research with Stephanie and knew I money and precisely how old I was.

  Now let me be clear. I don’t have Evelyn’s kind of money. I don’t live in a five star bubble. While spending thirty euro on a martini is not a terribly big deal, I’m practical enough to know that it’s generally a waste of money, and since I seldom stop at one, it’s an even bigger waste of money.

  “What is the one thing about yourself you would like to change?” Evelyn probed. I knew exactly where she was going. She had just hired a personal trainer. Two weeks into her regime she was past the initial pain all over your body place and had become a disciple. “It’s only 1500 euros for a month.”

  Seriously? If you paid me 1500 euros a month I wouldn’t hire a personal trainer. No use trying to explain to Evelyn how I feel about all of this. She’s on a mission. She wants to fix me. That
’s what she does. She wants to put me into a two bedroom apartment with Peter Turnley prints lining the walls at a modest 500 euro per print. She wants me fit and trim and wearing great clothing and with skin that glows from the ministrations of her very expensive day spa.

  My eyes glass over, both from the two martinis and her well intentioned advice and I tell her I have to go… I have a reservation at Le Grand Comptoir for jazz dinner. She insists on picking up the check (120 euros for four martinis) and I ran out to grab a taxi.

  Le Grand Comptoir is buzzing! My little reserved table, number thirty is sitting ready for me. It is very close to table number 31 where a couple is sitting enjoying their drinks and avidly listening to the music. As I walked in, Daniele looks up and gives me a broad grin. He never smiles that big. Philippe is waiting on some people and the bartender shouts a big bon soir. I nod to my table and he nods back.

  Philippe comes over with la bise. The people at the next table introduce themselves. They are close enough to me, that they might as well! Bob and Cindy are from Maine. They are musicians. They discovered Daniele on a previous trip and texted him to find out where he would be. They had even gone to the Pop Up du Label the night before.

  Guilloume came to take my drink order. “Une bouteille ce soir” I respond. It’s always a question… une bouteille or a carafe. Never a question of what, Côte du Rhône. Bob and Cindy were impressed.

  I got there so late it was time for the group’s first break and Daniele made a beeline to my table. He reaches out to shake my hand and I do the two hand intimate version, much more intimate than la bise, in my opinion. “Can I sit?”

  Are you kidding me? Three years of lusting after the man and now he wants to sit?