Moonlight Over Paris(31)
Rosalie was a short and stout lady, somewhere north of fifty years old, her person enveloped in a grease-and tomato-spattered apron. It was nearly impossible for Helena to follow her and Sam’s conversation, but she was fairly certain that the signora was pleased that he had brought a young lady to dinner, and that Rosalie would bring them the best of everything from her kitchen. Sam said something more, gesturing at Helena as he did so, and this seemed to please Rosalie immensely.
“What did you say to her?” Helena asked as soon as the signora had retreated to her kitchen.
“I told her you’re an artist. She approves.”
“How did she come to be so far from home?”
“I’ve no idea. I know she was an artist’s model for a while. When that came to an end, she opened this place. She does all the cooking, the tables are always full, and if you can’t pay she’ll ask you to sweep the floor or wash a few dishes. You’ve heard of the sculptor Modigliani, who died a few years ago? When he was flat broke and halfway to starving one winter, she took him in and let him sleep in the back. Never asked for anything in return.”
Luigi brought their first course, huge servings of vegetable, bean, and pasta soup, and as they ate they talked of home and food and the things they missed. Helena confessed to missing currant scones and properly made tea, and spent some time trying to explain the appeal of bread sauce to a mystified Sam.
“If I’m ever in England, I promise to try it,” he said, but she could tell he wasn’t convinced.
“What do you miss about America?” she countered.
“Lots of things. And d’you know what? At this time of year, when it’s getting close to November, I really miss Thanksgiving.”
“That’s an American holiday, isn’t it?”
“The holiday. Here it’s just another Thursday in November, but at home it’s a big deal. You try to be with your family, if you can, and the table is piled with food. Roast turkey with all the trimmings, and American things like corn pudding and baked squash and pumpkin pie.”
“Pumpkin?” she asked, wrinkling her nose at the thought.
“Don’t make that face. It’s really good.”
Their main course had arrived, a pork stew with dark, garlicky greens, and for a few minutes they ate in silence, lost in their appreciation of Rosalie’s cooking.
“This is delicious,” Helena said. “I’ve never eaten anything like it before. My parents aren’t overfond of foreign food.”
“Their loss,” he said, wiping his plate clean with a chunk of bread.
“It is. Where did you learn Italian?”
“Here and there. At college I took a course in Italian Renaissance literature. Dante and the like. Thought it would be easy but I barely scraped through.”
“So Dante isn’t your favorite poet?” she asked, thinking to tease him a little.
“I don’t know if I have a favorite. School put me off a lot of poetry—hard to love something when you’re forced to read it.”
“I loathe Coleridge for exactly that reason.”
“See? I don’t mind some of the more modern stuff, though. Have you ever heard of Rainer Maria Rilke? Not much of his work has been translated, and I don’t read German, but I’ve one book of his poems.”
“What are they about?” she asked.
“Same thing as most poetry. Love. I remember one bit—
“‘In the deep nights I dig for you, O Treasure
To seek you over the wide world I roam,
For all abundance is but meager measure
Of your bright beauty which is yet to come.’”
Their eyes met, and something passed between them, an acknowledgment of some sort, and she was certain he was about to speak when Rosalie bustled up and pinched Sam’s cheek and the moment was lost. The signora said something in Italian, he laughed, and Luigi came over with a scrap of paper, which Sam examined and returned to him with a five-franc note.
“She wants us to finish up and move along,” Sam explained. “She loves me, she said, but I am costing her money. I should have asked before I paid—do you want a coffee? Something sweet?”
“No, thank you.”
“Then let’s be on our way. Where’s your aunt’s house? Is it far?”
“It’s on the ?le St.-Louis, just across from the cathedral. A little less than two miles.”
“Do you want me to find a taxi, or shall we walk? The rain is pretty light. And we’ve got my umbrella if it really starts to pour.”
“Let’s walk, please.” She didn’t want the evening to end, not yet, and if that meant a damp coat and hat she didn’t mind at all.
Inches apart, never quite touching, they walked north along the boulevard St.-Michel, its eastern side packed with smoky cafés made raucous by wine-fueled laughter and impassioned arguments.
“Where do you live?” she dared to ask.
“I’ve a room in a hotel on the rue de Vaugirard. Most of my colleagues from the paper live there, too. It’s nothing much to look at, but it’s cheap and clean.”
In the distance, a rumble of thunder sounded. Lightning split the sky and a hard, cold rain began to fall. They stopped short, looking at one another disbelievingly, and then Sam pulled his umbrella from under his arm.