by Mj Roë
CHAPTER 27
It was drizzling and the sky was heavy when Anna stepped from the métro. She knew boulevard Saint-Germain well. She had walked the length of the Left Bank’s most celebrated thorough-fare many times. She took a detour past the Sorbonne, crossed the boulevard Saint-Michel, continued past the École de Médecine and the place de l’Odéon to Saint-Germain-des-Prés, the oldest church in Paris, for which the quarter was named. The small bookstore, Librairie Bonaparte, where she was to do her signing, was located just off the boulevard Saint-Germain on the rue Bonaparte in the sixth arrondissement. She turned right from the boulevard Saint-Germain and found the bookstore at 31 rue Bonaparte. The shop was cozy and smelled of old books and dust. There were not a lot of people as there had been in Librairie La Hune. This was more a neighborhood store where the locals came to browse on Saturday afternoons. There were dozens of small bookstores like it along this street. No one seemed to pay much attention to authors who came in to sign their books. But Harry had set it up, and it was an opportunity for Anna to promote her book to the French audience. She would do her charming best.
She greeted the bookstore propriétaire, a petite elderly woman with black hair and bright, smart eyes. They had met when Anna had introduced herself two weeks before. The woman had seemed tentative about the signing, but had agreed, she told her, because she had no one else lined up for this particular afternoon. Nothing like being wanted, Anna had thought at the time. From the look on the old woman’s face now, she hadn’t much warmed to the idea. Anna hung her coat and scarf on a coat tree and took a seat at the table where her books were stacked. No one approached her. Unlike her experience at La Hune, this was going to be a long couple of hours. She thought about the excitement that Harry had generated at La Hune. He was such a clown. At their lunch with the publisher at Brasserie Lipp, across the street from the bookstore, he had been the life of the party. Flammarion had promised to publish Anna’s new book, which Harry had calmly stated would be coming out next year. Anna had quietly crossed her fingers under the table on that point. Well, Harry had departed for California, and this was the end of it for now. Monique and she had plans to finish their Christmas shopping in the next few days, and then she would fly home.
Anna was so absorbed in thinking about the events of the week before, her Christmas list, and her impending return home that she didn’t notice the man standing in front of her.
“Am I in that book?” The question in French was more a statement than a question. His voice sounded familiar. She looked up.
“Am I in that book?” he repeated. The gray eyes studied her without showing any emotion. He had taken off his heavy winter coat. Underneath, he was wearing the white coveralls of an emergency room doctor. He wasn’t a tall man, and he was fine boned. His bearing was the stiff posture of the French. There was a youthful handsomeness about him, but the first signs of age, crow’s-feet extending from the eyes and gray streaks running through his dark hair at the temples, made him an older, saddened version of himself.
“Do you want a signed copy, Monsieur?” It was the propriétaire. “This is the author.”
He nodded, and his lips pursed together. “Don’t you recognize me, Anna?”
A tightness caught in her throat. Of course, she did. He was still as slim, elegant, and graceful in his medical attire as the young man who had carried her up those steps in Montmartre and kissed her passionately ten years before. She took a book off the pile in front of her, opened it, and wrote simply:
Pour “C-C”
Anna C. Ellis, décembre 1997
Her hand shook slightly as she handed it to him. “How did you find out I was in Paris?” She had dreamed, even written it in her journal, that when she and C-C saw each other again, it would be like a Hollywood moment, a “scène classique.”
Speechless, each of them frozen in place, they stare at each other for a long moment in recognition and disbelief. Suddenly, tears streaming from her eyes, she runs to him. They fall into each other’s arms. She holds his head in her hands, looks into his eyes, her fingers running desperately through his hair, now streaked with gray. They kiss. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you write?” they each whisper a succession of questions breathlessly.
Hollywood moment gone. That wasn’t what was happening now. They were staring at each other across a table piled with books, neither of them smiling. A shiver ran up her spine.
He answered her question. “I was curious. I saw in the paper that you were doing signings in Paris, Anna. I was at the Librairie La Hune, in the back of the shop, earlier this week, but it was so crowded that I left. I decided to try again today. The book is called L’Affaire Imprévue. I wanted to know if I am in it.” He shrugged his shoulders in the manner French men do when they don’t have anything more to say on the subject. He looked an awkward boy of ten.
“No, well, there are of course some situations that you might find familiar.” She glared at him, wondering to herself why they were having this bizarre conversation. “But you are not in it, C-C.” Her response was curt, angry. Why had he come all of a sudden back into her life? All those ignored phone calls and, in particular, the unanswered letters.
C-C paid the propriétaire for the book. He gave the old lady a quick smile. That familiar, crooked smile, Anna thought to herself.
“Merci, Monsieur. Au revoir, Monsieur.” The propriétaire waved her hand over her shoulder as she disappeared into a room in the back of the store.
“Au revoir, Madame.” To Anna he simply nodded and said adieu as he pulled his coat on and walked toward the door. Anna stared after him. That same familiar swagger, she thought again. Damn that same sexy, self-confident swagger. A blast of cold air swooshed into the shop as he opened the door and tucked her book under his arm. Anna shivered again. He was a man of few words, but the few he spoke made their point. “Adieu.” Good-bye forever. Not “au revoir.” Not “see you again.” Am I going to just let him walk out of my life? she thought as she stood up.
“Wait, C-C. I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that all the letters I sent…”
He closed the door and turned partway around, his head down. She could only see half of his face. It had a bewildered look. His eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened. “Letters?”
“Yes, after I went back to California. I tried to call you. I sent letters, then I gave up because you didn’t answer them. I never knew what happened to you.” She hesitated as he turned to look at her. “Damn it, C-C, what was I supposed to think?”
A couple entered the bookshop. They were young, bespectacled in bohemian wire-rimmed glasses, and bundled against the cold in heavy coats and gloves. Soft woolen scarves were wrapped around their necks. His was navy; it matched his long coat. Hers was a sage green, which matched a sage green turtleneck sweater protruding under her camel jacket. They both wore jeans and leather boots. The propriétaire greeted the couple warmly and introduced them to Anna. It was obvious that they were regular customers.
During the short time that the couple spent in the store, C-C remained inside the door, appearing to stare through the window out into the street. He studied Anna’s reflection in the window. She wasn’t looking his way. The weather reminded him of the driving trip he and Anna had made through the Alps to Vienna. His throat tightened as he recalled the tender, sweet warmth of her body close to his. It was as if it were just yesterday.
Anna signed a copy of her book and handed it with a smile to the young couple, who departed with promises to the propriétaire to return to check on a shipment of bouquins arriving the following week. After bidding them au revoir and merci, the propriétaire returned to her desk in the rear room, humming softly to herself. The bookstore was again deserted except for Anna and C-C.
Anna’s reflection in the window was turned in C-C’s direction. He glanced her way. Their eyes locked. His were a deep, dark, stormy gray, gray as the buildings of Saint-Germain in the chilly rain.
“Look, Anna. A lot of water
has flowed under the Pont Neuf since we last saw each other. It’s not appropriate to discuss here. I am due back at the hospital, and you have your signing. Can you meet me somewhere this evening?”
Anna felt weak. Her face felt flushed. “Where?”
“Do you remember that little fondue restaurant off the boul’ Mich near the Sorbonne that we used to go to a lot?”
“Is it still there?”
“But of course. It’s rather still en vogue even. It seems to be always crowded. I get off around ten o’clock, provided there is no catastrophe. Is there somewhere I can reach you, in case of a problem?”
“I’m staying with Monique. You remember Monique? My friend from the Sorbonne? She is married now, and she and her husband live in the eighth.” She wrote the phone number on the back of one of her cards and handed it to him, looking directly into his eyes. “We can have our talk later, C-C, but answer one question for me: Why didn’t you even once try to contact me?” Even after I left my card at La Pitié-Salpêtrière in September? “And why didn’t you answer my letters?” And where did you so swiftly move to? And why didn’t you leave Elise a forwarding address? And what were you doing in Africa? There were so many more questions that followed that one.
He came over to the table and leaned into her. His handsome face was inches from hers. He smelled of antiseptic and hospital. He was aging in a familiar way. There was a sudden twinkle in his eye and a slight quiver of a smile at the corner of his mouth. In that moment he bore a wonderful resemblance to his grandfather, Guy de Noailles. Anna softened a bit. She felt a yearning to touch the lines which the years had created around his eyes, but she seemed frozen in place, standing there behind her signing table.
“That’s more than one question, Anna.” His tone had changed. “I received no letters from you.” He stood there for an awkward moment, taking in her face so close to his, smelling her scent. “I have questions for you also.” He hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say something more. His eyes were fixed on hers. “Au revoir. I’ll see you later, Anna.”
Then he pulled on his leather gloves and held the door for two young women who were entering the shop. He glanced toward Anna once more as he departed.
Outside in the street, the precipitation was heavier. C-C drew his coat collar around his chin and wrapped his heavy wool scarf over his mouth and around his shoulders as he crossed the boulevard and headed for the hospital. He had not at all intended to come off as passive, even dismissive, when he met Anna face-to-face. He had glimpsed enough of her at Librairie La Hune to understand that he wanted to see her again. He had also noticed something different about her. She was no longer the student, no longer the girl. She was an attractive young woman, a professional. Everyone around her seemed charmed by her. There was something else, something he couldn’t quite isolate. She had a look about her that spoke softly that someone loved her. He wondered briefly if she would stand him up later at the restaurant. There was the lingering question about the letters. What letters? If he didn’t get them, who did? Why weren’t they forwarded to him? Who would have gained from keeping Anna and him apart?
CHAPTER 28
When Anna returned to the eighth arrondissement after her book signing at Librairie Bonaparte, it was already dark, though only late afternoon. The rain had let up, but the air was crisp and cold, and the streets were shiny and wet. She caught a glimpse of Monique and Sabastien rounding the corner to avenue Berthe Albrecht. She hurried to catch up with them as they headed in the direction of avenue Hoche. It was Sabastien who first caught sight of Anna following them. The little dog halted and wagged his tail until Monique recognized her. Monique kissed Anna warmly on both cheeks.
“Salut, chérie. Sabastien and I are just heading for the Parc Monceau. Want to join us?”
Monique was warmly bundled Parisienne-style with a soft, dove-gray cashmere wrap wound around the collar of her long, black wool coat.
“Sure.” Anna bent down and petted Sabastien, who was begging for her attention. “I need to talk anyway.”
“How did the signing go?”
“There were very few customers. The store is a small one, and maybe because of the weather, I don’t know, there weren’t many people out shopping in Saint-Germain anyway. If this had been the only signing in Paris, I think I would have felt like a failure. The propriétaire seemed to warm up to me as the afternoon went on. I felt guilty for not generating more business for her, so I purchased a book.” She held up a wrapped package.
Monique said, “The big department stores were quite crowded. I could only take a couple of hours of Galéries Lafayette before I gave up.”
“Are you up to some more shopping tomorrow?”
“Unfortunately, chérie, I have so much to do. We are departing for the south in a week! It’s final. Georges said today that he can get away enfin. We’ll be spending Christmas in our bastide in Provence. Isn’t that exciting?”
“Yes, indeed.”
Monique had spent much of their time together during the past few days talking endlessly about the country home, the bastide, that she and Georges had purchased near Grasse. Anna had looked at vast piles of photos of the large, but rather run-down, two-story, ocher-colored home with a tiled roof, green shutters, and wrought-iron decorated façade. The couple had made plans for extensive renovations and were planning to spend their month-long vacation in August there.
The two friends crossed the place du Général Brocard and headed toward the avenue Van Dyck entrance of Parc Monceau. Sabastien paused and lifted his leg to pee on a lamppost.
“Monique, C-C showed up unexpectedly at my book signing today.”
Monique stopped and turned toward Anna. “Oh là là! Oh dear, chérie. You poor thing. The absolute gall of the man. After all this time.”
“The strangest thing. He said that he had been to the first book signing at Librairie La Hune, but he never came up to me because of the crowd. I never saw him. You were there. You must not have seen him either.”
“No, and had I recognized him, I would have given him my opinion of him, too.”
“Well, all of a sudden, this man whom I have not seen in ten years was standing in front of my table at the Librairie Bonaparte this afternoon.”
Monique blew air through her lips in disgust. “So, what did you do? Did you ask him if he received your letters?”
“Yes. He said he never received them.”
“Ridicule!”
They entered the Parc Monceau. The trees, stiff with cold, stood out against the darkened evening sky, and the path was wet. The wind blew slightly. Park lights lit up brown vegetation, and Anna thought the effect was quiet and charming as only a Parisian garden can be in winter.
“Brr. I’m shivering,” Monique said. “Sabastien, let’s hurry up and do our duty, puppy. I want to go home and warm up. So what happened next?”
“Monique, I nearly let him walk out of my life forever. He bought a copy of my book. I signed it. Then he opened the shop door and said adieu.”
“Well, in my opinion, you should have let him walk out forever.”
“I didn’t. I couldn’t. Don’t you see? Then I would always have wondered if I had done the right thing. He asked me to meet him for dinner in the Latin Quarter tonight…at that fondue restaurant we always went to.”
“What do you think you will learn?”
“If you mean that he’s married, has children, has a life without me. Well…”
“Well? What then?”
Anna threw up her arms. “Well, so be it. It’s more than I’ve known for the past ten years, isn’t it?”
“But do you really want to know all of the details?”
“Yes. Yes, I guess I do, Monique. Don’t you see? Until this afternoon, I didn’t even know whether I would recognize him again. I didn’t even know if he would recognize me. Until three months ago, I even thought he might be dead. I have to know what’s happened to him in the past decade.”
They left the Pa
rc Monceau and walked briskly toward rue Beaujon. The streets were surprisingly full of activity. Residents were returning to their apartments for the evening, and guests at the hotel on the corner were hailing taxis. Monique put her arms around Anna’s shoulders and squeezed.
“I think you need an apéritif and a hot bath, Anna.”
Anna looked at her watch. She had missed Mark’s evening call.
CHAPTER 29
At eight o’clock in the evening, the phone in the apartment rang. Monique and Georges had already gone out, and Anna was luxuriating in a steaming bubble bath. Her first thought was, Do I want to get out of this warm bath for a call that is probably for Monique or Georges? Her second thought was, Merde, I should get that. It could be Mark. She climbed out of the tub, wrapped herself in a heavy, white terrycloth robe, slid into her slippers, and ran down the hall.
“Allô?” She was out of breath.
“Allô?” the male voice hesitated. “Is that you, Anna? It’s Charles-Christian.”
Anna’s heart thumped an extra beat. His voice over the phone evoked deep-seated memories. She took a breath before responding.
“Has…has something come up?”
“Actually, it’s really quiet in the trauma center for a Saturday night.” He hesitated. “Look, Anna, I thought that maybe I could pick you up in say, half an hour, if that would be convenient? There is something I want to show you.”
