Paris by the Book(56)

“Madame—”

“No,” she said, and began making her way out from behind the counter, preparing to make her exit. Through the secret bookcase door, through the tiny office, up the narrow back stairs. But first, a declaration. “I didn’t realize until now,” she said, “that you are departing.”

In a moment, I would realize I’d misunderstood her—she was referring to the funny little three-wheeled car, Declan’s taxi, that had just pulled up—but until then, I thought she’d taken some X-ray of my soul, and that she knew better than I when we would leave Paris.

“Madame!”

“Do the girls know?”

Was this true, that we were leaving? Was she a clairvoyant? How could she know such a thing? She couldn’t.

“Bonsoir, Madame,” she said.

“I think my husband’s alive,” I said, quiet enough that I wasn’t sure she heard.

But she did. “Does he drive a taxi?” she said, and nodded to the window. And so I finally turned and saw the vehicle idling, finally realized that this was the “departing” she’d been referring to, that this was what she wondered if the girls knew about.

Or not. “Bon courage,” she said, and left. It means something like “good luck,” but not quite; it translates literally as “good courage,” which should have been a helpful reminder. There are different kinds of courage, Leah, suitable for different situations. Tonight—for a change?—take the good kind.



* * *



—

The minicab couldn’t get near the address Declan had given me; the street was full of people. But once I’d made my way there, Declan found me outside. Kiss, kiss, one cheek, the other, where were my friends? Couldn’t come, I said, and he grinned and introduced me to two young women nearby. Old friends? New? Stray students? I tried to see if I recognized them from the store, but I didn’t, and of course not; of course Declan had a life outside mine. Of course he had other friends. And some of those friends would be women. Younger than me. Younger than him.

Robert had always looked younger than me and I’d always liked that; I thought it made me look sexier and more daring than I was. But now people were looking at me, and I looked at me through their eyes and saw that I was older. I reflexively clenched my right hand—not from anger, but anxiety. That was the hand Robert always held.

Then again, Robert held my right hand because it went with his left; his right hand was often sore—from writing, he claimed; he handwrote early drafts. This charmed me early on, and later, chafed. Surely some aspect of writing doesn’t involve suffering, I’d say, and then, often as not, we wouldn’t be holding hands anymore.

A waiter from inside yelled at us. Declan threw his shot back, the girls threw back theirs, I sipped at mine—no idea what it was—and Declan led us in. Dansons! he shouted, and I was game, but it was even more crowded inside than out.

So it was going to be that kind of evening: on my feet, no place to perch. Declan drew us into the bar, deeper and deeper, which made no sense, as it was only becoming more crowded, with no space to dance. But then, we were at a doorway in the rear of the room, manned by two very large men. Promising. They let Declan through with hardly a glance, but when I followed, they put a hand out to stop me. “But that is my friend,” I said in English. My friend, meanwhile, had already disappeared into the crowd and music beyond.

“Mon ami,” I corrected.

“Non,” one of the bouncers told me. “Toi, c’est non.” Not for you (and not even the formal “you,” or vous). And there it was. The bouncer was saving me from myself. How wonderful for the helpless women of the world that there are so many men so ready to look out for us in all manner of dangerous situations—entering a nightclub, say, to dance.

But now, Declan’s other “friends,” the young women from earlier, slipped past me with nods and giggles hardly half-hidden. The bouncers smiled as they passed in.

Arguing in French has always been a burden for me, so I decided to accelerate the process. It was a tricky business, the bakchich, the little gift to ease the way, and I was never sure how much to pay off whom. (In Milwaukee, it had been simpler: if a blizzard was pending and you needed your snowblower fixed, a fifth of Jack Daniel’s got you to the head of the line. Or so I’d heard; such had been all Robert’s doing.)

Awkwardly—I liked to think enterprisingly—I had tucked fifty euros in my bra before I left the store. I’d not wanted to carry a purse, and, frankly, I’d not expected to spend any money: that was what Declan was for (along with carrying my phone, which I’d passed to him outside). But here I was, digging around in my top for my emergency cash, something I’d not done since I was nineteen.

Unfortunately, this only alarmed the bouncers, and my subsequently looking for a small-enough bill—this wasn’t that much of an emergency—upset them even further, and one bouncer started hassling the other. They spoke very fast, in a very broad accent, but I was able to make out what they were saying: they were embarrassed that I was attempting to give them money. Well. They weren’t alone in that. In any case, their next words I understood perfectly: vite, vite, one said, sweeping me in quickly, refusing my money. I didn’t press the point. I hid my cash, blinked once, and went through the door, into another world.