The Last Dress from Paris(30)
“Isn’t it!” Why have I never been anywhere before, is what I’m wondering.
“It’s not exactly an obvious date location, but isn’t it fascinating to think that A and A met here all those years ago? That we might be walking in the same tentative first footsteps of some undiscovered love affair?” I realize as soon as I unleash the words that he’ll probably think I’m a slushy romantic, but if he does, his face doesn’t give him away. He’s too busy gawping at everything around him, touching the paintwork, sniffing the air, snapping away with his big camera. He’s quite hilarious to watch.
“I’ll have to bring my grandfather here so he can see where the Maxim’s was worn. He would absolutely love that. It would kind of bring the story alive for him.”
We pass into a darker part of the church, and I quicken my pace and pull my wool coat tighter across my chest. It’s cold, dank, and feels very different, even gloomy, compared to the main body of the church.
“Do you think it would have looked much different back in the fifties?” I ask Leon as we return to the lighter space near the altar, in the spotlight beaming from three stained glass windows above us.
“According to this”—he’s reading a small pink leaflet that he’s picked up somewhere along the way—“there’s been a major restoration project underway since 2015, so I’d say so, yes. For a start, this wouldn’t have been here. It was discovered in 1999.” We’ve both come to a stop in front of an unfinished statue of the Virgin Mary and child. It’s the oddest thing. Her face looks distorted, not having felt the refining final touches of her creator’s hand. Her bended arm is without a hand, and the baby she is holding is nothing more than a crude, barely human outline of what remained locked in someone else’s imagination. From the torso down she is nothing; she disappears as the stone is bluntly sheared off. It’s the saddest thing, this object of beauty that was never allowed to reach its glorious conclusion. A story that will stay forever unfinished. I can’t help wondering what stopped the sculptor in his tracks. To have got so far and then felt he couldn’t or shouldn’t go on. I’m distracted by the sound of Leon rubbing his hands together for warmth, and I realize the tips of my own fingers and the end of my nose are icy cold.
“We need hot chocolate,” offers Leon with a smile. “I know the perfect place. Come on.”
* * *
? ? ?
We dart across the smooth green-and-cream floor tiles and take the last free table at the back of Brasserie Lipp, which is just across the square on the boulevard Saint-Germain. The waiters, all older men, are dressed in the smartest penguin suits, thick white aprons knotted tightly around waists, the short cut of their black jackets emphasizing bellies that were left to their own devices years ago. We’re seated in a corner where the brown leather banquette that runs the entire left-hand side of the restaurant curves around under the stairs. The perfect spot for planning and plotting. Perhaps A&A came here too? It looks like it’s been here forever. The painterly ceiling with its heavy black iron chandeliers and the pretty floral tiles that line the walls around giant mirrors all seem to talk of a different time. I can almost hear the dark wooden paneling creak under the strain of all those memories—all the glamorous parties it must have witnessed. Who might have danced on these café tables, draped themselves over the smooth curving banister, or sunk deep below the restaurant to the cloakrooms to steal a kiss from someone they shouldn’t? The crease-free white tablecloths only serve to make it feel more special, and I pick up a menu printed entirely in French apart from five words at the top: “No salad as a meal.”
Sometimes the French get it so right.
Leon orders the hot chocolate, and I’m suddenly aware that I’m sitting in a chic café in Paris with a man I barely know. Granny would be proud! I am determined not to start getting all awkward about this, especially as he has the relaxed demeanor of someone who just rolled out of bed.
“I feel bad I’ve taken up so much of your time today, Leon. Are you sure you’re not being missed at the shop?”
“What do you think?” His broad smile is back, so I’m reassured he’s not just being polite. Sitting as close as we are, side by side, it’s my first real chance to take a proper look at him. His hair is a dirty blond, pushed back off his face and streaked with the memory of last summer’s sun. I wonder how he spent it. In whose arms he spent it. His skin has none of that English paleness that borders on gray at this time of year. He’s dappled with freckles across his nose, and lightly tanned, enough to make his green eyes sparkle a little under the soft lighting. He also has just enough facial hair to make him look intriguing but not unclean.
“I’m just sorry today didn’t really throw up any real clues or developments for me to share with my grandfather. Or for you, of course.” He curls the side of his mouth downward in sympathy.
“Well, I suppose all the answers were never going to fall conveniently into my lap, were they? But I think the location of their date, if we can call it that, tells us something about A and A, don’t you?”
“That they shouldn’t have been meeting? Or else why the church? It’s a great foil if they had been seen by someone they knew. Much easier to explain away than getting caught, just the two of them, hunched over a cozy restaurant table together.”