Paris by the Book(75)

“That’s that actress, isn’t it?” Molly whispered as I showed her a variety of unnecessary things, like how to record a sale.

“I can’t say,” I whispered back.

Molly grinned. “I love Paris.”

My new employee surreptitiously snapped a photo of us as we left.

The walk ahead wasn’t short—three kilometers, forty minutes or likely more—but, because of the oddities of the map, the Métro would have taken us almost as much time. (Not that this kept Peter, who considered the Métro the world’s longest and most convenient amusement park ride, from begging that we take it.) I called up to Madame Brouillard to tell her about Molly. She didn’t answer. I asked Eleanor if we could postpone talking about, you know. She did not answer.

So it was a relief when difficulties and distractions arose. We passed a carousel that had somehow squeezed itself onto a narrow traffic island by a Métro entrance. Dozens of carousels dot the city, an implausible number. From the air, Paris must look like a whirling machine of countless cogs. It’s a marvel the sidewalks aren’t more choked with children dizzily staggering away from their rides. I could see that Peter, however, was focused: a carousel and a Métro entrance? The Luxembourg Gardens and its swing sets (and especially its sailboats) could wait.

But Annabelle needed to use the bathroom. A small crisis became a larger one, as the first two self-sanitizing sidewalk toilets near the carousel were out of service. Now Peter needed to go. We walked on. And on. We were still well shy of the Gardens and their toilets, so I routed us into the first tiny crêperie that presented itself. Hardly the width of a pool table, the restaurant was for tourists. A take-out window opened directly onto the street; a darkened refrigerator case featured a haphazard array of Coke products. The counterman was the only employee and looked no more Parisian than I. Still, I would not have assumed, as Eleanor did, that he knew German, but soon they were chatting away.

Before I knew it, we’d been allowed to use an immaculate bathroom behind an unmarked door. We were then ushered through another unmarked door to a tiny courtyard behind the restaurant. Here sat a table, two chairs, and a small playground set.

Toys.

This was his backyard. His children’s toys. I turned to comment on this to Eleanor, but she was deep in negotiations with the counterman.

When he left, Eleanor cleared her throat. “Luxembourg Gardens another day,” she announced. “Today, we dine in the Garten Erdem.” Peter and Annabelle looked confused. “My new friend, Erdem—who is Turkish and thus gifted in such arts of the kitchen as Americans, and perhaps even French, can only dream of—is going to lay out a lovely spread for us,” she said. “Children, look!” And because Peter and Annabelle cannot fail to be charmed by any special gesture from anyone—a tight-smiling stranger holding open the door at Picard makes them blush—they leapt.

“Des jouets!” they shouted.

“Eleanor,” I said as the twins tackled the toys. “You are a marvel.” And she was. She’d not said an additional word about Robert. I wondered how much longer I had.

“Oh, listen to you,” Eleanor said. “And that’s even before the wine comes.”

Wine: so I had that much time. Erdem delivered a bottle of prosecco. We spent our first glass watching the twins drag the equipment this way and that, carefully arranging the smaller toys. Every so often, one would hand a toy to the other; words were exchanged, everything was rearranged.

“They’re running a little store, aren’t they?” Eleanor finally said. She reached for the bottle and poured herself another inch.

“It’s a side affliction of living above, and in, a bookstore,” I said. “Whenever they play, they play this. I don’t think they’ve seen their father enough to know how to play international consultant.”

“Don’t call it an affliction,” Eleanor said. “It’s a benefit.”

By the time we were halfway through a second glass, Erdem had delivered, and the twins consumed, a small pizza. They went back to playing. Erdem soon reemerged with a special off-the-menu meal he and Eleanor had worked out. Nothing fancy, but somehow quite exotic—a tomato cucumber salad where the tomato and cucumber were largely displaced by cubed oranges and olives. Eleanor insisted that she detected coriander. I said paprika. She asked if Declan was Irish. I said no, we hadn’t.

“Excuse me?” Eleanor said, which is when I realized I’d answered the question some wicked part of me imagined she was asking, which is whether I’d slept with the man. She watched me work this out, and then she worked it out. “Good lord, Leah.”

“Please,” I said.

“Oh, god, you did,” she said. “I can hear it in your voice.”

“We didn’t,” I said. “What you can hear in my voice is—actually, I don’t know what you hear. What I hear is this other woman, this other me, who’s been getting introduced to a new—to a different—life?”

“A single life?” Eleanor said.

“An independent life? My-own-two-feet life. I don’t know. It’s been—interesting.”

“Which is code for?”

“Maybe it’s for ‘fun,’ except it hasn’t been precisely that; it’s been disorienting sometimes and pleasant other times, but mostly, it’s been a new pair of glasses when I’m out with him. Do you know how different this city looks when you’re walking with someone, when you’re sitting beside the Seine with someone, when you’re having a glass of wine with someone?”