Castle of Water: A Novel(53)

“More.”

“Probably a giant corned-beef sandwich at Carnegie Deli, on rye bread with a side of pickles. Late-night Chinese at Wo Hop, crabs in black bean sauce and Peking duck. Maybe bagels at Murray’s covered with cream cheese, and fried chicken down at the Great Jones Café.”

“Oh, la la. What time of year would it be?”

“Winter.… No? Okay, spring. He’d take you to Central Park to see the blossoms, and then to the Met to show you his favorite paintings—you’d always argue about that, because you’d like the Hockneys and the Warhols and the Jasper Johnses, and he’d much prefer the Munchs and the Cézannes and the Gauguins. But you’d agree to disagree, and you’d talk about art and aesthetics over big cups of coffee at Caffe Reggio in the Village. And then, at night, he would show you downtown, and you would go to the seaport, beneath the big towering lights of the skyscrapers and the spindly masts of the old boats and the bridges twinkling with cars, and he’d kiss you, and you’d realize that you didn’t want to leave him, that you weren’t ready to go back to France.”

“So I’d just stay?”

“No, you couldn’t. You’d just have a tourist visa, too. So you’d have to go back. And saying good-bye at the airport would be terrible. But you’d both know that something had changed. And two months later, after being heartsick and miserable every single day, he’d get a surprise. You’d tell him that you found a job at an architecture firm in Brooklyn, and that you were moving to New York.”

“Whoopee!”

“Damn right. And you’d move in with him in his little apartment in the East Village, and he’d teach you how to throw a baseball in Tompkins Square Park, and you’d go to get pancakes covered in maple syrup every Saturday morning, and tartines and croissants every Sunday.”

“What would the apartment be like?”

“I don’t think it would be very nice when you first moved in. After all, he’d be used to la vie bohème and all that, you know, bare mattresses and old rickety tables. There’d be paint spatters on the hardwood floor, and the walls would be dingy, and his bathroom would be a mess. You’d get in a big fight your first week there about cleaning it up and redecorating, but finally he’d give in, and eventually have to admit that you made the place pretty cozy.”

“There would always be fresh flowers, non?”

“Naturally. You would keep tulips in a vase on the table, and the fire escape would be covered with honeysuckle and lavender, with a little herb garden that you would pick leaves off of for cooking.”

“And the bedroom would have to be painted blue. Like the ocean.”

“Of course.”

“And we would have a record player?”

“Without a doubt. Lots of fado records, lots of chanson, all those guys you like, Jacques Brel and Yves Montand and that Charles guy.”

“Charles Aznavour?”

“Yes, him, and that song you always sing when you’re taking a bath, what’s it called?”

“‘Emmenez-moi’?”

“Exactly, that one. You would listen to them over dinner, while you sat at your little table next to the kitchen.”

“We would never have to eat bananas if we didn’t want to, correct?”

“Maybe some banana bread now and then, and the occasional banana split, but never more than that.”

“And we would be happy in the apartment?”

“Yes, very happy.”

“Would I see things outside New York?”

“Well, obviously. In the summer, you’d go together to the Jersey Shore, and spend the weekends in a little beach town called Avalon, where you would watch the sunrise on the boardwalk and get ice-cream cones in the afternoon. He would show you how to catch crabs with a piece of string and a chicken leg on the docks.”

“But we probably wouldn’t eat that much seafood.”

“No, you’re right. You’d eat steaks, mostly. Big thick sirloins you’d grill together in the backyard, until they were charred on the outside but still red and juicy on the inside, and you’d eat them with grilled asparagus, and mashed potatoes covered in butter, and you’d drink ice-cold beers and big glasses of dark red wine.”

“This is getting better by the minute. Where else would we go?”

“Of course he’d take you to his family’s farm in Illinois to meet his relatives and see where he spent all those summers as a kid. He’d show you the creek back in the woodlot where he used to look for arrowheads with his dad, and the cemetery beside the Baptist church with the tombstones so old you couldn’t read them, and the pond where he used to gig frogs, and you’d learn to drive a tractor with his uncle and make strawberry-rhubarb pies with his aunt and his mom and you’d go with him and his parents to Calhoun County when the peaches were ripe and you could pick them off the trees and buy them in wooden crates to take back for cobbler.”

“Would his family like me?”

“Yes, they’d all love you. You’d never have your French attitude with them, only with him. And even though he wouldn’t admit it, he’d kind of think it was sexy.”

“What do you mean, ‘French attitude’?”

“You know. The incessant pouting, the vast indifference, the insufferable nonchalance about everything.”