Weekend in Paris

by Robyn Sisman

  His eyebrows rose in astonishment. Probably he wasn’t used to hearing the truth. No doubt other people kow-towed to him as he sat around eating caviar with his so-called lefty friends, spending his dead wife’s money. But not her. She was not ashamed to speak out for what was right. “Fabrice is so talented. And all you do is make it impossible for him to show his brilliance. He doesn’t even have a proper studio. You’ve stopped him taking classes.”

  The eyebrows rose higher. “Is that—”

  “Remember Rodin!” Molly wagged her finger at him.

  “Who?”

  “Rodin. The famous sculptor. He didn’t have any money either, and was forced to take menial jobs. He was dead before his genius was recognized. Is that what you want for Fabrice?”

  “You are suggesting that my son is a genius?”

  His supercilious smile enraged her. “How can you laugh? It’s not funny. Fathers are supposed to love their children, not make jokes about them. Imagine how it feels to have a father who doesn’t care about you, who abandons you with no money while he goes off and enjoys himself with—with rock stars and so forth.”

  “Rock stars?”

  “Fabrice has already lost his mother. He needs a father, a real father who will encourage him and appreciate him, not call him worthless. Nobody is worthless.” Tears of passion stung her eyes. “Nobody,” she repeated.

  There was a silence. Molly wrapped the sheet more tightly around herself, folded her arms and gave a defiant sniff.

  “May one inquire your name?” Fabrice’s father asked at length.

  “Molly,” she told him. “Molly Clearwater.”

  “It must be said, Mademoiselle Clearwater, you are not quite what I expected when I saw you lying there with the champagne bottle.” He bent to pick it up from the floor, and glanced at the label. “One of mine, I see.”

  “Yes. Well.” Molly blushed. “I’m sorry about the champagne. I agree, we shouldn’t have drunk it. In fact, I would like to pay you back for it.”

  “No, no. Please.” He looked pained.

  “I insist. One would not, after all, wish to be accused of stealing!” Head high, Molly trampled across the bed in search of her bag, stepped on the end of her sheet and would have toppled over if she had not grabbed the headboard in the nick of time. It creaked ominously under her weight: another priceless heirloom, no doubt. Her bag, she now realized, was still in the other room. “I’ll find the money in a minute,” she said, with dignity.

  “Don’t be absurd. Allow me to offer it to you as a gift, from an old Frenchman to a charming young English girl.”

  Now he had the audacity to smile at her. Molly raised her chin. She was much too clever to be beguiled by such obvious French flummery. But when he smiled, he reminded her of Fabrice. And it had just occurred to her that she had very little cash left, and that champagne was expensive, especially the sort that this man would drink. “Well, all right. Thank you.” She gave a queenly nod. “Now, if you will allow me to dress . . .”

  “Of course.” He returned her nod, and withdrew.

  Half a minute later, as Molly was on her knees searching under the bed for her knickers, having discarded the sheet, there was a knock on the door. “Mademoiselle?”

  “What?” she demanded, flustered.

  “Since you are getting dressed, I thought you might want these.” The door opened a few inches, and a hand appeared clutching her jacket, dress and bra, with her bag dangling from his wrist.

  Molly crept around the edge of the room as if avoiding sniper fire. From behind the door she reached a hand round to take her clothes. “Merci.”

  “De rien.” The door closed again.

  While Molly was dressing, she heard Fabrice return and waited anxiously for him to come to her. Now that she’d had time to reflect, it occurred to her that there was a certain element of embarrassment in being found in someone else’s flat, naked and uninvited. Imagine if it was the other way round, and her mother had returned unexpectedly to the cottage and found clothes strewn all over the sitting room, and a strange Frenchman lying naked in her spare bedroom. Of course, that didn’t excuse the father’s arrogant, unfeeling behavior; nevertheless, Molly felt a twinge of conscience about her intrusion, and could not altogether rid herself of the sordid impression made by the tangle of sheets on the bed, and the coverlet of antique lace carelessly crumpled on the floor. She needed Fabrice to put his arms around her and tell her everything was all right. She needed him to confirm the magic of their afternoon together.

  But he didn’t come. She heard a rumble of voices from the other room: the pompous, hectoring tones of his father, a defensive outburst from Fabrice, then both together, rising to an angry pitch. Poor Fabrice. He was being told off. She must go and help him. First, as quickly as she could, she made an attempt to put the room in order by roughly folding the sheets into a pile and smoothing the coverlet over the mattress. Then she unearthed her hairbrush from beneath the Cleopatra wig in her bag (she hoped his father hadn’t seen that!), and brushed ruthlessly through the knots, her face growing stern as she listened to the mounting quarrel next door. Fabrice was being bullied: she couldn’t bear it. She wouldn’t bear it. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she hurried down the corridor and into the living room.

  Instantly, they fell silent, but their body language was expressive enough. Fabrice’s father sat in a throne-like armchair, his face thunderous, while Fabrice stood by the window, shoulders hunched, jerkily smoking a cigarette. His features were pinched and mutinous.

  “Ah, Mademoiselle.” Fabrice’s father made a show of courtesy by rising to his feet.

  Molly marched straight past him and up to Fabrice, took his face in her hands and kissed him boldly on the lips, determined to show that she cared about him, even if his father didn’t. She stroked his cheek and smiled into his eyes. “Don’t worry,” she told him.

  Then she turned to face the father. “I suppose you want to speak to your son now.” She gave the word a bitter emphasis, reminding him of the fatherly duties he had so selfishly neglected.

  “Euh, Molly—” began Fabrice.

  “No, Fabrice.” Molly held up a hand. “Don’t worry about me. I can easily find my way back to the hotel. We’ll talk later.”

  “Later?” he echoed.

  Molly looked at him. He was being rather dense, but naturally he was upset. “Yes, later. After you’ve talked to your father and I’ve, er, had a shower and so forth.”

  “But—”

  “No doubt, Fabrice, you will be taking Molly out to dinner,” Fabrice’s father cut in smoothly. “There is L’Orangerie, just around the corner. Or perhaps she would enjoy something more traditional, like Bofinger or La Coupole. I will reserve for you. Shall we say nine o’clock? Fabrice can pick you up half an hour before. Hein, Fabrice?”

  “Oui, oui.” He pouted.

  “Ha!” Molly gave a sardonic laugh. La Coupole was in her guidebook, under the “Expensive” heading. “I doubt whether Fabrice could afford that.” She turned to Fabrice and said tenderly, “It doesn’t matter to me where we go or what we do. I’m not hungry.” Unfortunately, as she spoke the words, her tummy rumbled loudly. She was ravenous! She cleared her throat, hoping that no one had heard, then walked over to Fabrice’s father and with cool politeness held out her hand. “Good-bye, Monsieur Lebrun. I’m sorry if we have, er, deranged you.” (Was that the right word?) “I hope you will remember what I said and—and act upon it.”

  He shook her hand with equal formality. “I am not at all deranged. Quite the contrary. It has been enchanting to meet you.” He held her hand for a fraction longer than was necessary, and seemed to smile at her with genuine warmth. Or was it a sneer? Who could tell with the French? Molly flickered back an uncertain smile, gave Fabrice a last glowing look, and left.

  When she emerged into the courtyard below, she saw that night had fallen. It was dark, and spookily still, apart from the sound of her heels on the cobbles. Decorative box bushes sh
e had not noticed on the way in loomed from the shadows like figures lying in wait. For a disconnected moment she felt the presence of ghosts from history, imagined the smoky flame of torches, servants running, horses sweating and stamping after some desperate dash. When she stepped through the outer gate and let it swing back behind her, it seemed to clang shut with the reverberations of centuries.

  Where was she? There was a sign ahead, by the bridge. Molly walked toward it and dug a hand into her bag, feeling for her map. “Pont de la Tournelle”: she had a suspicion she was going the wrong way. In a minute she would orient herself. But first she looked back to study the handsome house, now softly lit by street-lamps. How odd to think that even the illiterate would once have been familiar with the deities carved on its façade, which she, with all her education, could not recognize; and would have read at a glance the emblems of shields and leaves and strange beasts she could not decode. Lights glowed in the flat one story from the top. A shadow passed across the window, and she raised her hand to wave. But if it was Fabrice, he didn’t see her.

  17

  Anguille fumés . . . pintade au cerfeuil . . . lotte à la crème de safran . . . pommes mousselines . . . salade de fenouil aux girolles. Molly held the stiff menu to her face, hiding her eyes from Fabrice as they skidded and slithered across pages of unfamiliar words. She’d never seen such a detailed list of dishes, so grandiosely presented, so bafflingly arranged: “Menu Gastronomique,” “Menu Traditionel,” “Menu du Jour.” And no prices! Could there really be people so rich that they didn’t need to inquire?

  Neither the restaurant nor its glamorous clientele, in full cry after the pleasures of the table, seemed to be in any doubt of their own worth. The room was opulently large, like a very grand coach station, with greeny-blue walls decorated with murals, and slender columns that sprouted gold leaves at the top. Everything glittered in the bright lights: mirrors, wine-buckets, silver caskets leaking fragrant steam, cufflinks and buckles, necklaces and earrings, dresses of lamé and silk worn with sinuous assurance. The waiters were magnificent in black jackets and white ties, patrolling the aisles with the stiff deportment and smooth, inhuman speed of robots on castors. It was the smartest restaurant Molly had ever been to.

  “Really, the food is nothing special,” said Fabrice, “but the ambiance is quite agreeable.”

  “Oh, Fabrice, it’s fantastic.” Molly lowered her menu to smile at him, fearful that he had misinterpreted her silence as criticism.

  Tonight he looked more beautiful than ever, lounging against the banquette opposite her in a pink silk shirt, cigarette drooping from his elegant fingers. The shirt, he’d told her, had been forcibly lent to him by his father, who was ridiculously old-fashioned in such matters and insisted he could not accompany Molly in his paint-stained T-shirt. “What a tyrant!” Molly had exclaimed, eyes flashing. “I wouldn’t mind what you wore.” Or didn’t wear, she’d added privately, thinking of the bedtime treats that lay in store. Presumably she’d get to see his place at last. Even if it was a hovel, she’d be too happy to care. She hoped Fabrice didn’t mind that she was still wearing the same red dress. There was nothing else remotely suitable in the conference wardrobe she’d brought to Paris, and at least she’d managed to pep up her outfit with a necklace and some not-too-businesslike black heels, though now that she saw the slinky numbers other women were wearing, the effect didn’t seem quite so successful as she’d thought in her hotel room.

  A waiter was gliding toward their table. Molly ducked her head again, hoping to be invisible. She had no idea what to order. She felt him stop at her shoulder, saw his twinkling black shoes execute a neat quarter-turn. Without even looking up, Fabrice dismissed him with a sweep of his cigarette. Molly shot him a relieved grin.

  “One has to keep these people in order,” he told her. “After all, we’re paying, non? ”

  “Absolutely,” she agreed, impressed by his cool mastery. French men were so good at this kind of thing; no wonder the English had had to import the phrase savoir-faire. But the question of who exactly was paying preoccupied her. She couldn’t bear for Fabrice to spend money he didn’t have on something as silly as food, just because his father had bullied him into it. But with all the expenses of this weekend, her own credit card must be nearly out of juice, and she doubted that she could pay even for her own meal here, let alone both. The idea of having her card returned publicly by one of these haughty waiters made her toes curl.

  Fabrice stubbed out his cigarette and leaned across the table to go through the menu with her. There was some kind of seafood platter they could share as a starter—would she like that? Molly agreed gratefully. She didn’t particularly like seafood, but sharing would be cheaper, wouldn’t it? Fabrice must be worried about the money too, for as a main course he decided on pigs’ trotters. Her appalled face made him laugh.

  As for herself, after making Fabrice explain a dozen complex dishes (including brains, eel and sauerkraut), she admitted that she’d be happy with steak and frites. Ah, but what kind of steak? Contre-filet, faux-filet, pavé, tournedos, bavette? And how exactly would she like it cooked? Would she prefer the sauce béarnaise or the sauce au poivre? Molly thought it mad but marvellous that anyone could care so much, and asked bluntly which was the cheapest.

  “Don’t worry about that. I managed to squeeze some cash out of my father.”

  “You didn’t! How?”

  But Fabrice just looked sly and snapped his fingers at a passing waiter.

  At last the food was ordered, the wines selected and a bottle already nestling in a cooler, their cutlery whisked away and replaced with more appropriate tools, and they could talk. Exaggerating only slightly, Molly told him how she had walked out of her job and jumped on a train to Paris. Somehow this hadn’t come up before, and she was startled and flattered by his reaction.

  “But I adore this story,” he said, taking her hand between both of his. “That is how life should be. Impulsive. Unplanned. One must follow one’s spirit, not submit oneself to the petty exigencies of commerce.”

  Molly nodded, smiling to herself at the pomposity of the French language, which could make anything sound like high philosophy.

  “You are a heroine,” he told her.

  “An unemployed heroine.”

  “That is of no importance. You are free. Tomorrow you can get on another train, for Rome or St. Petersburg.”

  “Tomorrow I need to go home and find another job.” She sighed, wondering if he would beg her to stay in Paris, with him.

  “A job.” He frowned. “But why?”

  At that moment an extraordinary object was borne to their table and laid upon it with a flourish, like some great trophy of battle. It was a three-tiered tray, the bottom one at least eighteen inches across, on which crayfish, scallops, dismembered crabs and oysters lolled on a bed of crushed ice, among various smaller crustaceans, fronds of parsley, and lemon halves carved into petals. The waiter returned with extra starched napkins, a sauceboat of melted butter, and bowls of warm colorless liquid in which lemon slices floated (fingerbowls, not soup: she knew that much). With swift, neat contortions of the wrist he laid out an operating theater’s worth of steel tools, variously hooked and hinged, filled their glasses and withdrew.

  Fabrice lifted a crayfish from the top tier and jerked off its tail. “A job is a prison,” he declared. “It puts chains on the mind. A job is what people do who have no imagination, who cannot envisage the great possibilities of life. How many great men can you name who have worked in a job?”

  Molly’s mind blanked as she watched him run a thumbnail up the belly of the fish, peel open its coral casing and pop out the creamy flesh. The other crayfish seemed to watch her with black beady eyes, daring her to do the same. She chose a scallop. “I agree that jobs aren’t always that interesting. Mine certainly wasn’t. But we all need them.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, to live. To eat.”

  “Oh, eat.” He shrugged dismissively, dun
king his crayfish in the butter.

  “And they’re not all boring. Some jobs are really worthwhile. They give people the sense that they’re contributing.”

  “Contributing to what?” Fabrice demanded, reaching for a small snail. “The bank accounts of greedy businessmen? The egos of presidents? The destruction of the planet through pollution and the plundering of natural resources? These are delicious, by the way. Here, have one.” He tossed a shell onto her plate. “That is why art is supreme. By ‘art’ naturally I mean also literature, music, performance, et cetera. Art contributes to nothing except ideas—ideas that enrich the soul and cannot be valued in money terms. It is beautifully selfish.”

  Molly gazed at him admiringly. How well he talked. It had not occurred to her before that selfishness could be a positive thing. She felt pedestrian and narrow-minded by comparison. With some difficulty she had managed to insert a hook into her shell, and now drew out a grey, squidgy body. It didn’t look very appetizing, but that just showed how unadventurous she was. “Chains on the mind . . .” She raised the snail to her mouth, then paused as a thought struck her. “But surely even artists have to earn—”

  “Ah, non. Artists do not earn, they give. Don’t you see? It is so much more pure. One cannot be bought, one gives freely.”

  Not squidge, rubber. She held the half-chewed snail in her mouth, feeling her gorge rise. As soon as she could, she spat it discreetly into her napkin.

  “One must never work for money, only for the glory of the work itself, because that is your vision. Otherwise the work is debased, and you find yourself the slave of someone like ce type Pig.”

  “Figg.” Molly giggled.

  “His name is of no interest. He is nothing, nul, an empty suit, his pockets stuffed with worthless diplomas.”