“A pleasure.”
“Will you be eating with us tonight?”
“No, I do not have time. I must also get back to my wife.”
Gilbert flushed and tipped back his champagne. “Well, ask away,” he said, regaining his composure and waving dismissively in David’s direction.
David lit a cigarette and settled back against the thick cushion of his chair. Jacques spoke simply, asking questions as to David’s educational background and time at the Université de Paris. It was in no way in depth.
“I am satisfied,” Jacques said and then promptly stood up. “You seem to be quite capable, young as you are.”
“That was quick,” Gilbert said, watching as Jacques strode gracefully around the many tables and chair legs and beyond their line of sight.
“This was a waste of time. He knew what my answer was going to be to every question.”
“I may have alerted him to your background.”
“He made the decision by sight–just meeting me.”
“What if he did?”
“Never mind. I’ve had a long day. Don’t call me until after the weekend.”
David dropped his cigarette into the ornate tray and left Gilbert to the bill. The smell of smoke permeated not only the barrel room where they sat but also the rest of the restaurant. With stuttering steps, David maneuvered his way in the direction of the bar, which was thronged with loitering clientele.
“Pardon moi?”
A hand reached out and touched the small part of his right shoulder that still existed.
“Oui?”
David turned to face a short woman, who stared out at him with glassy eyes; her long fingers clutched at a tall wine glass.
“You must be David?”
“You have me at a disadvantage, madame.”
“Isabelle. I’m an old friend of Catherine’s.”
David smiled weakly. The woman wasn’t beautiful, not compared to Catherine, but her hair was a bright shade of blonde, and she stood with grace.
“Catherine can talk of nothing else but her new American. I confess I am a bit surprised you are not at the restaurant opening with her.”
“I was invited, but work unfortunately kept me away.”
“How I wish that my work brought me here,” Isabelle said wistfully. “You must come to my apartment sometime; I shall throw you and Catherine a soiree.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“No, I insist. I shall make sure to tell Catherine myself,” Isabelle said, smiling widely.
Even as David tried to excuse himself he noticed that Isabelle’s smile did not reach her glassy eyes. They remained fixed, immovable, as if staring at something insider herself. She looked out on the world and saw none of it. The thought terrified him.
“Merci,” he said, hastily retreating.
As David hurried to the door, a black and white suited waiter strode purposefully by balancing a towering tray on one hand. David turned to watch the young man, moved by the crisp smell of roast chicken and the spicy aroma of the bouillabaisse, but his eyes caught something else. At the end of the bar, with a hand placed defiantly on her hip, Isabelle sat, still staring. David buttoned his coat, nodded, and moved past the waiting attendants at the door.
The crisp evening air glided by on a faint breeze. David stopped in the alleyway to light another cigarette as a couple moved passed him, heads resting close, marching in step like one organism; even their matching trench coats seemed to merge as they sashayed back and forth.
DAVID SET OFF DOWN the street, walking Paris in his mind, searching for the best route to the restaurant Catherine had mentioned.
“Allô!” came an indignant shriek.
He wasn’t quick enough, his leg hit something hard and with a neck jerking motion he tumbled down, smacking his head, shoulder, and back on the pavement.
“Ça va, monsieur?” a rough voice said from somewhere above David’s ringing head. A gentle arm reached under his shoulder, the world suddenly righted itself.
“I’m terribly sorry,” David said, rubbing his shoulder furiously.
“Ah, Anglais?”
David turned. An old clochard sat in front of him. The numbers of vagrants had risen greatly in the years following the war; they sulked in alleyways and passed quietly through parks on their way to the river. The man who sat in front of him was a walking contradiction; though his suit was ragged it was impeccably clean. His prominent cheekbones and dark rimmed eyes were set on a freshly washed face; even his closely cropped white hair was washed and neatly combed.
“American,” David said, leaning back against the wall of a closed shoe store.
“You had much on your mind, my friend.”
“I was thinking of … wait, your English is very good. Where were you taught?”
The old man smiled, his eyes sparkling in the light of the lamps.
“I was stationed with British regiments during both World Wars as a translator, although an ambassador would have been a more accurate term.”
“Both wars?”
“Oui. I was a young man when the Archduke was murdered.”
“Two of my brothers fought in the war,” David said. “Why did you fight again?”
The man looked at David from underneath his thick brows.
“For France,” he said. “I lost almost all of my friends in the first war. By the time Hitler’s forces were growing and the allies declared war, most of my nephews were old enough to fight. We lost two generations of men. I wish I had gone with them.”
“I am so sorry.”
David bowed his head, picking at another loose thread on his jacket.
“C’est la vie.”
David looked up, then around again. The cold was seeping through the thin fabric of his suit pants, and there was a pile of what looked like puke not ten feet from him.
“Do you want a job?” David said abruptly.
“What?”
“A job–teaching English.”
“You do not know anything about me, young man.”
“Good point. Your name, sir?”
“Georges Nevue.”
“David. A pleasure,” David said. “Now we know each other.”
Georges held out his own wrinkled hand and shook David’s. A broad smile overtook the older man’s wrinkled visage. It lit up his eyes, breathing life into him.
“Come, let’s have some dinner,” David said, offering his hand once again.
“Who are you?” Georges asked as he grasped David’s hand. He moved slowly, wrapping the threadbare coat closer around his small chest.
“An English teacher and a friend.”
David walked Georges to a quiet bistro where he ordered plates of sandwiches and large cups of coffee. Georges ate quietly and steadily through the sandwiches, which, before long, were replenished by passing waiters.
“Shall we meet on Monday?” David asked as Georges patted his stomach, and a smile finally broke over his face.
“Where?”
“At the Sorbonne?”
“The Sorbonne?” Georges repeated.
“Yes, on the steps. We can talk about your employment. I shall need someone else to help teach classes and manage client files and scheduling. It will be a small wage at first, but I can assure you that I have every intention for this to be a lucrative endeavor.”
“You are too kind.”
“Your countrymen will be honored to learn from such an eminent veteran.”
Georges waved off David’s compliment, but his cheeks flushed a deep rose red. David excused himself to pay the bill, after urging Georges to sit and enjoy his coffee.
“Set up a tab for him. Tell him you’ve decided to give him free meals. I’ll pay for it. Do you know where he could stay until we find him lodgings?” David asked as he handed the bartender francs for the meal.
“A friend of mine runs a shelter for veterans, a little outside of the city. I could ask.”
“Can you phone tonight?
”
“Certainly. It is a kind act.” The cash register dinged merrily and he slipped the francs in.
“It is humanity,” David whispered.
“I’ll make sure he’s taken to the shelter tonight and make him some meals,” the bartender said. David smiled at his curious expression, an odd mix of pity, confusion, and pain.
“Merci,” David said and, saying a quick goodbye to Georges, he left the restaurant.
CHAPTER FIVE
May 1970
“HELLO?”
DAVID’S HEAD POPPED up from the papers he was grading. It was warm in the office; the early May sun pounded through the windowpanes, turning the room into a greenhouse. He had only just come back from meeting Georges Nevue at the front of the Sorbonne and had given him his instructions. Now it was Catherine who stood in front of him. She picked her way through the maze of books and papers to sit in the rickety chair in front of his desk. She perched there, like a bird ready to take flight.
“Catherine, what a pleasure.”
He smiled shyly but Catherine beamed. It was like looking into the sun. She scooted the chair closer and placed her hand delicately on the top of a stack of papers.
“I hope you don’t mind me barging in like this.”
“Of … of course not. May I interest you in some tea?” he said, waving at the teapot, which sat on top of small metal table beside two chipped teacups.
“Bien sûr,” said Catherine.
David turned to the teapot, wishing he had something grander to offer this woman than lukewarm tea in imperfect cups.
“Ma’am,” David said as he placed the teacup in Catherine’s outstretched arms.
“I have a suggestion.”
“Go on.”
“My parents take an annual holiday to Cannes at the end of May, staying at the InterContinental Carlton for a few weeks to take in the sun, travel around southern France, and to visit Italy.”
David’s heart dropped and came to rest somewhere around his navel. She would most certainly want to accompany her parents on this holiday, taking advantage of the sea and the chance to leave the heat of Paris behind.
“That sounds lovely.”
“Yes, they do enjoy it. However, they cannot go this year since my mother has a scheduled surgery. The doctors do not want her to travel.”
“How disappointing for them. Please extend my sympathies.”
“I will. They have asked, if we would like to go,” Catherine said. She set her tea on the edge of the desk.
David blinked. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
“They want us to go in their stead. The hotel and the car are paid for, and they felt that you had to see more of France than just Paris. Would you like to go?”
“I … would … that was most kind of your parents. I do have classes, of course,” he stuttered.
His tongue tasted like sandpaper in his mouth, and blood in his head was pumping so loudly he could hardly hear Catherine when she spoke. He thought of being so close to her, alone in a hotel for weeks, away from their hectic lives in Paris.
“The city empties in the summer. It is too hot to be cloistered in a wood-paneled room at the Sorbonne to learn English.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”
“I’ll wait while you talk to your boss,” Catherine said, leaning back against the chair with an easy grace.
David was paralyzed, as he basked in conjured images of Catherine on the beach–so much so that it was a few moments before he snapped his head forward. Catherine raised her eyebrows; a smirk played on the edge her lips, as if she knew what he’d been thinking. With a cough, David catapulted himself out of the chair, skidding a little as he rounded the doorway.
“Pierre?” David said as he knocked on the heavy wooden door.
“Come in.”
He pushed open the door to see Pierre St. Claire packing his briefcase with letters, his suit coat slung over his arm.
“I’m sorry for the intrusion, Pierre. I can see you’re busy,” David said, loitering in the doorway.
“I always have time for you, David. I am only on my way out to meet my wife.”
David bit his lip, shuffling, feeling like a schoolboy before the headmaster.
“I do not, however, have unlimited time,” Pierre said with a chuckle.
“I’ve been invited to go to Cannes for a of couple weeks,” David said in a great rush.
“Ah, Cannes, lovely during the summer. Is it with the lovely young woman I directed to your office a few moments ago?”
“Yes.”
“How may I be of service?”
The older man’s black eyes crinkled, laughter bubbled away under the surface.
“I’d like to take vacation to go. I know this is late notice, and I do apologize.”
“David, you have in your contract two months holiday to take when you’d like. Put a letter in with my secretary with the dates you’ll be away, and she will contact your students.”
“I … um … thank you. Are you sure this isn’t an inconvenience? I could reschedule.”
Pierre looked up from where he was gathering his hat and walking stick. “Are you looking to back out?”
“No, well, I’m not sure.”
“You’d be an utter fool to say no to that woman,” Pierre said, moving past. He paused in the doorway and turned. “An utter fool. Don’t let fear get in your way.” He left; his suit coat whipping silently around the corner.
David stood in the empty office, bile rose in his throat. Catherine was beyond him in both looks and education. What did he have to offer her but a partial man? He could hardly think when she was around. She was a woman who knew both her body and her mind. A woman with drive and the wherewithal to achieve what she set out to do.
“Lock the door when you leave,” Pierre said, his voice booming from the end of the hallway. David started, yanking the door closed; it clicked into place with a satisfying thud.
David retraced his steps, moving slowly down the hall, Pierre’s warning echoed in his ears. With every step he took towards his office, he came no closer to a decision. It was as if a force blocked his way, detailing his own shortcomings, magnifying them. Why would any woman want to be with a man such as him?
He rounded the corner and stood in the doorway of his office. Catherine’s legs were propped against the side of his desk; the white dress fell softly over her body, every curve noticeable. She looked out the small window and the patch of grass just visible between the buildings, the sunlight fell over her like a lovers appreciative hands. Even as he conjured up excuses, Pierre’s voice thundered in his mind. Then, as though she sensed his gaze, Catherine turned, and leveled her chocolate brown eyes on him.
“Well?”
He could never recall what prompted him to say yes, only that, standing in light of her gaze, it was as if the world had fallen away along with all his excuses, his past, and his insecurities. He was suddenly whole.
DAVID ARRIVED AT THE train station on an unseasonably warm May day, clutching his faded leather suitcase. Sweat rolled down his face and beaded on his back. He pulled at his collar, shuffling from foot to foot. The sweat had nothing to do with the blistering heat that sent Parisians out in search of a breeze. Fear and uncertainty clouded his mind. Since waking, he had thought up a thousand ways the trip would end in disaster–most included Catherine failing to board the train for Cannes. It was unimaginable that a woman such as she would choose to spend her vacation with him. Perhaps it was all a joke and any minute he’d jolt back to reality and he’d be alone once more.
David took one look at the clock, suspended above the horde, and sighed; he’d arrived much too early. He walked from bench to bench, casting his gaze from the tracks to the doors and back again. An elderly woman, sitting not ten feet away, snapped her head forward, as if she were frightened of catching whatever disease he might have. He sighed, found the nearest seat and plopped onto it.
Crossing his legs, he watched a
s family after family strode past, bustling off for holidays. Another woman who was herding her four young children towards the train followed them. A small stuffed bear rolled close to his feet, and as the woman rushed back and bent to pick it up, she looked up. Her bright green eyes met David’s and her mouth curled attractively into a small smile. He smiled back, watching as her black heels click-click-clicked over the wood floors toward her chattering brood. The woman seemed to glide over the floor, conscious all the while of her limbs and posture, moving like a ballerina on stage.
“David.”
Merlot colored heels came to a melodious stop in front of him. He looked up see Catherine’s haloed outline above him. She was wrapped in her trusty trench coat, even though it was warm, her black hair pulled into a high ponytail.
“Catherine,” he said, jumping up and moving his suitcase to make room for Catherine and her bags. She turned to pull a luggage cart closer to the bench where he was sitting.
“Were you unsure of whether I’d come?”
David’s eyes followed Catherine as she sat down, her trench coat parted to reveal a hint of black fabric.
“I was.”
“Why?”
“You might have found another merrier companion.”
“You should say what you mean, David. Be direct.”
He hesitated; looking into Catherine’s eyes was difficult. They were stern yet concerned, ferocious and caring.
“I’m not sure what to say,” David said.
“It’s your arm. I understand, but I cannot believe that you are so shallow–that you thought I should let this come between us. It is a part of you even though it is gone. You are just fine to me.”
She settled herself back on the bench looking dignified, as though she had won a great argument. It settled his nerves to have her sitting by his side as comfortably as if it had always been this way. It wasn’t the absence of the limb; he’d dealt with the consequences long ago. It was that the gap … the empty space was covered and no one knew just how to react to the scooped out flesh…the depression.
“And you are not worried about … seeing it?” he asked. He was unsure of how to put his worry into words. How would she react?
Lives Paris Took Page 8
