Lives Paris Took

by Rachael Wright

  “We’re here.”

  They stopped somewhere in the sixth arrondissement, the quintessential Parisian buildings with their blue shingled roofs and ornate balcony railings lined up like debutantes along the Seine.

  “Where is here?” David asked.

  “229 Boulevard Saint Germain-des-Prés.”

  He started, unaware that he had actually spoken aloud. Catherine broke free of his arm and rushed to a door warden whom she greeted warmly. It wasn’t long before they were through the emerald green double doors. Catherine tugged at his sleeve and pulled him across the hall. He stared, in awe of the ornate one-ton chandelier, marbled floors, and gilded woodwork.

  “Right on time,” Catherine breathed, her shoulders relaxed as they stepped out of the elevator and onto the sixth floor.

  David looked back to the gold elevator doors, watching as they slid silently shut. Catherine’s heels clicked on the hard wood floor. The hall was silent for a single moment as Catherine stepped onto the welcome mat. He could only stare; his breathing shallow and sweat beading on his brow, as she knocked demurely.

  David continued to stare at the black door with his heart thumping wildly in his chest. He didn’t want to meet her parents. She said it was important, that it would mean so much to be able to introduce him. Her eyes had been the color of liquid chocolate, and he’d relented against his better judgment. Now, in front of the actual place, he considered flying down the staircase and making a break for his apartment. But before he could do more than smile inwardly at this comforting thought, the door burst open disgorging two greying heads, which fell upon Catherine with many cries of ‘moya lyubov.’

  David stepped over the threshold, an afterthought for a moment, and was transported into a new universe. Gold and marble dripped from the ceiling and grew from the floor, and at his feet, caramel colored herringbone wood stretched in every direction. Expansive murals and paintings lined the hallway. Gilded chairs, frames, Chinese vases on spindly side tables, and candelabras gave off a subtle glow. The expense was disorientating.

  “David, let me introduce my parents, Ilya and Irinushka Fedorov. Matz, a-Tsets, this is David.”

  Ilya rushed forward to shake David’s hand. Catherine’s father was a force. At a staggering six and a half feet tall, he towered over everyone, even his beard added to the bulk. It wasn’t just because of his magnificent physical presence that he seemed to fill the room; it was the disarming smile that stretched his whole face upward, lined as it was. Ilya’s brilliant blue eyes gazed at David with a sweet innocence: an innocence that belied many a hardship.

  “It is an honor to meet you, my son. Welcome to our home,” Ilya said with a bow and a great sweep of his arm, indicating the grand interiors beyond.

  “We are delighted you could come for dinner,” a voice said.

  David turned to the woman at Catherine’s right arm. Irinushka had a deep and melodic voice, which likened closely to a trombone. She was a foot shorter than her husband with broad shoulders, beautiful curves, and strong legs. She was quite at odds with her daughter who, despite her heritage, looked more French than either of her parents. There was something about Irinushka, with her dark hair, black eyes, deep voice, and olive skin that made David curious. From a world away she reminded him of his mother. As though she too possessed a close connection with the earth, with its gifts, with the food made from them.

  Catherine pulled him around the vast apartment, taking him from room to room where the marble and gilded mirrors and caramel floors followed. David was sure that the Federov’s home took up at least half of the top floor of their building; room upon room lay stretched beyond his sight. He glanced around the drawing room. There were books piled secretly in a corner, eye-glasses lying forgotten on the mantelpiece, an empty wine glass perched on a round end table, and childhood drawings in beautiful gold frames. The disorder created a home.

  “How long have you lived in Paris, David?” Ilya asked as they sat down at the long, 16th century dining table.

  “Almost 10 years.”

  “Catherine tells me you’ve been teaching English.”

  “Yes, I am starting a business with a friend of mine. We are going to be teaching English to French business professionals,” he said, surprised at his own daring.

  “That is quite the undertaking, but with ten years at the Université de Paris and with an American university degree, you’ll have no shortage of clients, I’m sure. I wish you well,” Ilya said, raising his glass in a toast.

  David flushed as Catherine and Irinushka beamed at him. Questions about Russia had flown to his lips with Ilya’s praise but he bit them back, unsure of how polite or welcome his questions might be. He had asked very little of Catherine, sensing there was something else beneath the simple, “we had to leave.”

  “You must miss America,” Irinushka said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

  “Very little. My family owns a farm in a rural part of the country; there is nothing of the culture or cuisine or music that Paris has to offer. These have been the best years of my life.”

  “Will you go back?” Ilya asked.

  The question was lightly inquired, but the blue eyes locked in on David’s with interest.

  “I have no intention to, though none of us knows what the future holds, I suppose.”

  “There are times I miss Russia, though I believe that comes largely from the idea of having a place where one belongs. For so long we were outsiders in this country, a feeling that still persists,” Irinushka said.

  Three pairs of eyes rose to meet hers. Catherine smiled consolingly.

  “Yet we have been so long in France, that we have no real home in Russia either,” Ilya said, his voice low and calm.

  “We lay too much at your feet, David,” Irinushka said, raising the napkin to her face to disguise the fact she was wiping away tears. Catherine grabbed hold of her mother’s hand.

  “No, please. Don’t apologize. In Paris I feel so American but on the few occasions family has visited, I feel as though I am French. I am neither here nor there. Perhaps it is a similar feeling.”

  Ilya and Catherine smiled. Irinushka glanced to the right out the windows that overlooked the Seine. Her wide, dark eyes glazed and she slumped forward, as if from a great weight. An apology sprung to David’s lips. He recognized the behavior. It reminded him poignantly of his mother, of when she would tire of constant criticism.

  “David, let us have coffee in the drawing room.” Ilya bustled off through an adjoining door and Catherine moved closer to her mother.

  “Matz, let’s clear this away before you show me the painting you finished,” Catherine said, putting plates in her mother’s outstretched hands.

  “Madame,” David said.

  “Forgive me for leaving the conversation. I don’t know what’s come over me,” Irinushka said.

  She raised a hand and patted his cheek with a vacant smile. The silk shirtsleeve slid back to reveal several small circular burns on the inside of her arm. David wondered whether she noticed him staring, but she simply floated in her husband’s direction and slid through the hidden door. David turned his head and was met by Catherine’s gaze, which burned with a caged ferocity. She shook her head slowly from left to right before following in her mother’s wake. Before he could process what had happened, Ilya reentered the dining room bearing a heavily laden silver tray.

  “This is Turkish coffee. I was introduced to it at a young age; it ruined me for anything else. I only drink tea or wine when we go out. Never French coffee,” Ilya said, raising his small white cup in toast.

  “I confess that I have never had the pleasure.”

  “Ah, such a wonder to taste it for the first time,” Ilya said with a smile.

  His smile became even broader when David gasped a moment later and sputtered that it was very good but very strong.

  “Ah, you must come more often and drink with me. You’ll soon get used to the taste,” Ilya laughed.

  A
n hour later David would have confessed to all and sundry that he was quite jealous of Catherine’s parents. Not of their wealth or prestige, but of the people they were. Ilya was the light of the family, boisterous and complimentary and always ready for a laugh. When he walked into a room, both his wife and daughter beamed with pleasure. Irinushka was the backbone. The quiet ruler of their slice of Paris. David heard her give counsel to both Ilya and Catherine during the course of the evening and it was at once accepted even though it dealt with nuanced business proposals and the authentication of a particularly questionable sculpture.

  It was Catherine, however, that surprised him the most, for she was, quite clearly, the core around which everyone rotated. It was in the presence of her parents that her true nature blossomed, a place of reality and reason and light. In the space of a single evening he laughed more than he had since moving to Paris.

  He began to realize why Ilya had such a pull over his family. There was a singular devotion and drive within the older man: to provide. Ilya sought to provide not only wealth and a beautiful home but also laughter and joy and safety. He had transformed their life into a haven, and they obviously loved him for it.

  Outside, the sky was a mass of seen and unseen stars by the time David stood alone by the massive oak doors. Irinushka was battling with Catherine in the hallway, forcing her to take leftovers home. Catherine relented, then stood in front of her parents and they beamed at her. David continued to stare as the trio laughed at a shared joke and as their arms wrapped around one another in a grand embrace. Tears pooled in his eyes, and a catch hung in his throat. He turned as if to better pull on his coat, unable to watch any longer.

  APRIL BLEW ITSELF OUT in a flurry of northern storms. Paris was grey and sodden one day and bright the next. The city put on her most dazzling spring display. Flowers sprouted in beds, which had been mulch only a week before. Paris was alive with flavor, the flavor of conversation, of fashion, and most certainly food. Jeanne was celebrating the warmth with a new menu. Delicious aromas, seeping through the floor, had been tantalizing David for a week.

  Late that afternoon, David folded into the claw foot tub, his stomach rumbling uncomfortably from the new dishes Jeanne had forced upon him, and he was slowly drifting toward sleep. A sharp ring belted out, shattering the silence. David started, water sloshed up and over the side of the tub. The floor was soaked; he slipped over the floorboards, leaving behind a trail of wet footprints. The towel around his waist slipped down across his hips as he grabbed the phone.

  “Bonjour?” he said, tucking the receiver in the crook of his neck.

  “It’s Gilbert, you owe me dinner tonight.”

  “Gilbert, I’m exhausted. Let’s do it another night.”

  “David, I have meetings set up for tonight with potential clients. It’s imperative you’re there. You’re who they are ‘buying,’ so to speak.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”

  “It happened today. You’re not going to back out on me, are you?”

  “Yes, fine. Just tell me where to be.”

  He picked up a pencil and wrote down the address of the restaurant. Gilbert hung up without so much as a goodbye. David walked to the bedroom dragging his feet. He put a hand to his stomach; it ached under the weight of so much rich food. The small pile of books on the nightstand stood like a beacon in the fading light. David sighed and pulled open the wardrobe doors. He pulled out his only good suit and nervously flattened a crease.

  The telephone rang again. It was surely going to be Gilbert, belting out another directive.

  “Bonjour.”

  “Bonjour, David.”

  “I’m so glad you called, Catherine,” David said, sighing in relief at Catherine’s dulcet tones.

  “I hope you enjoyed dinner with my parents. They haven’t stopped raving about you.”

  “It was lovely. I don’t remember ever being fed so well,” he said, rubbing his stomach.

  “That will please my mother to no end. The reason I called though, a friend of mine is opening her restaurant tonight, very chic. And I thought I must bring you. Please say you’ll come.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have a prior engagement.”

  “Oh, with whom?”

  “Gilbert called only a moment ago to say that he has arranged meetings with potential clients and that my presence is required in order to secure their business.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s odd. I talked to him yesterday, and he made no mention of any potential meetings. In fact, we have been unsure that we would have enough clientele for me to leave the Université de Paris.”

  “Perhaps it did happen quickly.”

  “With only two hours to spare? There’s something going on,” he said, showering the floor with water droplets as he raked his hand through his hair.

  “Could he be leaving you out of the loop purposefully?”

  “I’m not sure. Please, don’t worry yourself about this.”

  “You shouldn’t enter into business with someone you don’t trust,” said Catherine sagely.

  “I’ll clear it all up. It’s probably a misunderstanding.”

  “I’ll be lonely at the restaurant without you.”

  “You’ll be radiant,” David said, and if he had paid more attention he would have heard the note of pain in her voice, but he thought about the water dripping on the floor, how perhaps walking to the restaurant would help his stomach cramps, and whether the crease in his suit coat would be noticeable.

  “Au revoir, perhaps dinner tomorrow?”

  “Oui, come over and I’ll cook,” David said and barely heard Catherine’s goodbye.

  The receiver slid off its cradle with a thump, he stared mournfully, listening to its incessant beeping. He matched the device to its cradle, dropped the towel, and walked hunchbacked back to the bathroom. He pulled on the suit, not even noticing that the crease had somehow resolved itself. It was hard to describe why he dreaded so greatly going out tonight. It was the thought of selling himself and making small talk and the energy it required to strike up conversations with strangers that made him feel depleted before he had even left his sanctuary.

  But he left. He left the apartment and made the ten minute walk down the Rue de l’Estrapade, passing behind the Pantheon and coming to a stop outside a restaurant called: La Truffiére on Rue Blainville. It was more like an alleyway. The wrought iron gates were flung open. David stepped quickly out of the way for a moped to fly by and walked through with a sigh.

  Before he had even reached the hostess platform a maitre’d rushed forward.

  “Follow me, si vous plait, monsieur.”

  David followed the black-suited man to the back of the restaurant without comment. Women showered in pearls and fine jewels occupied every table and wearing the latest Chanel or Dior, and the men beside them wore crisp suits with watches that flashed as they moved in the low lighting. He pulled at the bottom of his suit coat, feeling the appraising stares of the women they passed. Soon they found themselves at a bit of a dead end. It was a barrel shipped room made of rough, yellow and grey colored stone with a tiled floor. The tables were draped in sumptuous white cloth and black chairs were also upholstered in white. Small light fixtures had been drilled, at intervals, into the rooms curved walls. To David it looked more like pictures of London during the blitz when London’s finest and poorest would gather in the great metros to wait out the Nazi bombings.

  “Ah, David! Good you made it!” Gilbert bellowed.

  “Gilbert.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I can’t afford to eat here,” David said dryly, inhaling the pungent scent of white truffle oil on a passing plate.

  “We have to put on a good show,” Gilbert said, raising his wine glass.

  “I do not have money to foot this bill.”

  “David…David.”

  “What are you doing? This last minute meeting with clients you won’t even tell me about and then
to top it off at one of the most expensive restaurants in Paris. You’re making me seriously reconsider this business,” he said, his voice dropping so low only Gilbert could hear. David tried to level his tone but his hand was shaking so badly he had to stuff it in his lap.

  “I’ll pay for dinner. Relax. I wanted to treat our guests, and you. I don’t know what’s made you so paranoid.”

  “Don’t do it again.”

  Gilbert smiled and offered a cigarette, “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He snapped his fingers at a passing waiter and loudly ordered champagne.

  “Gilbert.”

  A dour voice rose from above the table, and David raised his eyes, still glowering.

  “Jacques, welcome, please sit,” Gilbert said, rising and half bowing the newcomer to an empty seat.

  “Louis was unable to come. An issue with his wife, I believe. I am to be his emissary.”

  “What a shame. Women can be mind numbingly difficult. It’s why I couldn’t be tied to marriage. Let me at them for a few months and then I’m off to the next one,” Gilbert said, his eyes glazing over with barely concealed lust.

  David rolled his eyes and his stomach turned over as the thought of how Gilbert might treat someone like Catherine. A waiter came by to take away the extra setting.

  “Ah, let me introduce the brains of our operation, David this is Jacques; he’s the owner of quite a few companies–many hands in many pies, if you will–but mostly shipping. Jacques, this is David.”

  David glanced sideways at Gilbert before he shook Jacques proffered hand. Jacques’s eyes were dark. So dark they made him exceptionally difficult for David to read. Perhaps Gilbert had warned Jacques of the missing arm, but the man’s eyes did not flinch as David extended his left hand. Jacques was a tall well built, French-African with a small mouth and perpetual dimples.