The Diplomat's Wife(27)
The cab turns left and the arch disappears from view. We start across a bridge and I look back to steal a glimpse of the buildings that line the river. As I turn, my eyes catch Paul’s, locking with his. “It’s beautiful,” I say, my heart fluttering.
The taxi reaches the far side of the bridge and begins to climb upward through narrow, winding streets. The architecture is different here, the buildings close-set, rustic. A few minutes later, the taxi pulls up to the curb and Paul pays the driver. He slides across the seat and opens the door, moving away from me. Don’t, I want to cry out, instantly missing his warmth. He holds out his arm to me. “Shall we?”
I hesitate. I could have ridden around the city taking in the beautiful views all night. Reluctantly, I reach out and wrap my hand around his forearm, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt. Paul leads me to a bistro with wide-paned windows and a simple wood sign in front that reads Henryk’s. Inside, the dimly lit restaurant is overcrowded and warm. A dozen or so tables, covered in red-checked cloths, fill the room to capacity. The aroma of something garlicky hangs in the air, making my stomach growl.
I hang back behind Paul, overwhelmed by the noisy room. A few times during the war, I sat in one of the cafés that ringed the market square in Kraków with Alek and the others during a meeting. But I have never been to a proper restaurant. Staring at the fine plates and wineglasses, my mind flashes back to the café by the Servicemen’s Hotel earlier today. I can almost hear the tray of dishes crashing to the ground.
Suddenly, a burly man with a mustache rushes forward to greet us. “Ah, Monsieur Paul!” he exclaims, taking Paul’s hand and pumping it.
Paul steps aside so that I am no longer behind him. “Henryk, this is my friend, Marta.” Friend. My heart sinks. “Marta, this is Henryk.”
Henryk steps forward and plants a kiss on each of my cheeks. “Welcome, beautiful lady!” Caught off guard by his effusive greeting, I forget to be nervous. Henryk leads us to the only empty table, close to the front window, then lights the half-melted candle that sits in the center. “Monsieur Paul comes to see me whenever he is in Paris.” Henryk’s English, though heavily accented, is slow enough to understand. “But he has never brought a ladyfriend to my restaurant,” he adds as he pulls out my chair. I cannot help but smile at this. “Usually he come alone, with a book. I tell him this is no good for the digestion. I bring you wine.” He hustles off toward the kitchen.
Paul sits down across from me and unfolds his napkin. I watch him nervously. I have walked with Paul, even spent the night beside him. But sitting face-to-face with him like this feels intimate, intense. I unfold the napkin as he has done, hoping he does not notice my nervousness. “The restaurant has been in Henryk’s family for four generations,” he explains. “But he closed it during the occupation, rather than serve the Germans.” His leg bumps mine under the table. “Sorry,” he mumbles, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He’s anxious, too, I realize suddenly. It is hard to imagine anyone being nervous around me, but the thought is strangely comforting.
“What books?” I ask, eager to break the tension. He cocks his head, not understanding. “Henryk said you usually come with a book.”
“Oh, that.” He smiles sheepishly. “I like to read. Hemingway, Steinbeck.” Now it is my turn to cock my head. “Those are American authors, although some of Hemingway’s books are set in Europe. Classics, too, Dickens and such. Pretty much anything I can get my hands on in English over here.”
“I was reading Little Women with Rose,” I offer. “Before, that is.”
Henryk reappears with a bottle of red wine and a basket of bread. He uncorks the wine and pours three glasses, handing one to each of us. “To love,” he proposes, raising the third glass. Startled by his toast, I pull back, sending the wine splashing dangerously close to the edge. I do not meet Paul’s eyes but look away quickly, feeling my cheeks go warm. “Dinner will be out shortly,” Henryk announces, before disappearing into the kitchen again.
“He’s so subtle,” Paul says wryly. He holds up the bread basket, offering it to me.
I pull out a still-warm roll. “He said that dinner is coming, but we didn’t order anything.”
“I always let Henryk decide for me,” Paul explains. “His choices are better than anything I could pick.”
I take a bite of the warm roll. My stomach gurgles, reminding me that it is the first thing I have eaten today, other than the chocolate torte I purchased earlier. Feeling Paul’s eyes on me, I force myself to chew slowly, to pause before taking a second bite. I look around at the other patrons. Young couples and a few larger groups seem to fill the tables, talking and laughing over heaping plates of food and bottles of wine. “We’re in the Latin Quarter, near the university,” Paul explains. “Not that many students can afford to eat out. But you get a lot of academics, artists, writers. Fewer soldiers and foreigners than across the river.” He gestures across the restaurant with his head. “Look.” I follow his gaze to a table in the corner where an elderly couple eat in silence. “I’ve seen them almost every time I’ve been here. But I’ve never heard them speak.”
“They look like they’ve been together for many years,” I observe. “Maybe they’ve run out of things to say.”