by Colum McCann
It was always my pleasure to travel to the markets around Paris in search of the finest ingredients. In general the freshest vegetables were found on rue du Bac. There was a butcher on rue de Buci whom I always visited for the best meats—he spoke a guttural Parisian that reminded me at times of Monsieur. For spices and condiments I had made the acquaintance of a Bangladeshi man in the Tenth Arrondisement who ran a tiny store in an alleyway off passage Brady.
I normally went on foot but that particular morning—since Monsieur was with the shoemaker—I asked whether I could use the car, which he had crashed and dented often. (He was a terrible driver and one of his crude New York friends, Victor Pareci, often made unpleasant comments about Monsieur’s penchant for rear-ending.)
I accomplished my chores without difficulty.
Arriving back at the apartment with the provisions, I was surprised to see the shoemaker sitting alone. He had spread newspaper on the carpet so as not to soil it with glue. I greeted him in my faltering English. He explained that Monsieur had already left for rehearsal.
The shoemaker had arrived on an early flight from London, and, thinking he might be hungry, I offered an early lunch. He politely declined.
From the kitchen, preparing the evening’s meal, I watched as he went about his work. He fitted the shoes on his hand like a glove and used a sharp knife to cut them. It seemed as if he were gutting a wildfowl. His stitching was confident and fast. At one stage, while waiting for glue to dry, he peered over his spectacles around the room. Monsieur was a connoisseur of fine art with a penchant for nineteenth-century male nudes. They appeared to disturb the shoemaker. He stood and examined the marble torso in the middle of the room. He tapped it with his fingers and was startled when he looked up and caught my gaze.
—Monsieur has a wonderful eye for art, I said.
The shoemaker stammered and retreated to his work. Thereafter he did not look up, but by mid-afternoon he was having some difficulty with one of the shoes. He grit his teeth and shook his head. I brought him some tea and asked if he were troubled. He looked at a watch which he kept in the pocket of his waistcoat.
—I’ve a lot to do, he said.
He had an odd smile which, as it spread across his face, seemed to relax him completely. He sat back and sipped his tea, consulted his pocket watch once more, then sighed and said he feared he would not get his work done before his flight.
—I don’t suppose you know of an agreeable hotel? he asked.
—Monsieur will insist that you stay here.
—Oh I couldn’t do that.
—There are two spare bedrooms.
He seemed quite undone by the notion of staying. He rubbed the back of his neck and repeated that he would prefer to stay in a small hotel, that he didn’t want to intrude on Monsieur’s privacy. He closed his suitcase and left for Montmartre where I had told him of a small pension.
Monsieur arrived home from rehearsal at five o’clock in the afternoon. I drew his bath for him. He adored it piping hot.
While changing out of his dance clothes, Monsieur asked about the shoemaker. He was unperturbed when I explained the situation and just went about his business.
While he bathed I cooked him a steak, almost raw, which he always ate a few hours before each night of dancing.
Halfway through his steak, he lifted his knife and pointed it at me.
—Phone Mister Ashworth’s hotel and tell him that I will leave a ticket for the performance tonight and later he should join us for dinner.
It flashed across my mind that there would be thirteen people at the table. Monsieur had grown increasingly superstitious since I had known him, something he had acquired from Madame Fonteyn. I opted against saying anything since I knew it was quite likely that, as the evening went on, Monsieur would invite others to join him also. (I had providently bought enough capon to feed seventeen people.)
I made the call. The hotel clerk grumpily informed me that there were no phones in the rooms and that he could only take a message, since he was the sole person on duty. I beseeched him to go to the room, even invoking the name of Monsieur, but the clerk was unimpressed. There was nothing to do but go to the hotel myself.
I hurried through the last of the dinner’s preparations, made a flask of hot tea with honey for Monsieur, took a taxi to Montmartre. It was summer and the day was still bright. A tiny park sat opposite the hotel and I glimpsed the shoemaker working in solitary comfort on the grass. I was a little taken aback, since he wore a hat and seemed very much younger than before. I crossed the street. He flushed crimson when he saw me approach and began gathering the shoes into a pile, stuffing the pair of scissors into his jacket pocket.
—Mister Ashworth.
—Tom, he replied.
—Monsieur has asked me to give you a message.
He flushed a further shade of red when I told him of the invitation.
—Oh, he said.
He removed the scissors from his pocket, took off his jacket, spread it on the grass, motioning for me to sit down. The fashion of the day was still towards short skirts but I was thankful that I wore a longer housedress, since nothing could be more embarrassing than sitting on the grass, on a man’s jacket, wearing a short skirt, and trying to maintain good posture.
He stammered that he was honored I had come all this way to bring the invitation, that he would be delighted, if his attire was suitable, to attend the dinner, but for personal reasons he never went to the ballet.
—It has to do with a rule of my father’s, he said.
I waited but he said nothing more. He stood up from the grass and extended his hand to help me up.
I returned to the quai Voltaire to prepare for the evening.
Capon is an exceedingly delicious bird when cooked correctly. I had learned the art as a young girl. To season it properly one needs nothing more than rosemary, thyme, and the juice of a lemon. One simply lifts the skin away from the breast, applies the seasoning, and allows the bird to do its work in the oven. To complement the dish I made scalloped potatoes and prepared asparagus to be lightly steamed.
The dinner was not due to begin until near midnight, but Tom arrived early. A crooked crease had been ironed in his trousers and his tie was knotted tightly on his neck.
—I am so sorry, but I didn’t catch your name, he said.
—Odile, I replied.
He held out a bunch of daffodils for me and said: Well, Odile. It is already beyond my bedtime so you must forgive me if I appear a bit giddy.
If I am to speak honestly, I must say that at the time I simply thought him a nice man, free of pretension, not attractive in any traditional sense, but certainly interesting. I took the flowers, thanked him, and asked him to make himself comfortable until the other guests arrived.
While standing in the kitchen I kept the door ajar and watched him perch awkwardly on the couch. He said he was unaccustomed to wine and he held the glass as if it might damage him.
The usual two waiters, Pierre and Alain, arrived at eleven-thirty. They were aspiring actors. They took one look at Tom and, in their rudeness, discounted him immediately. They performed the last of the preparations, polished the candelabra, set the silverware, rinsed the wine goblets, while I put the finishing touches to the appetizers and dessert.
When the guests began to arrive I was disturbed to see that Monsieur was not among them. It was not unusual—often Monsieur arrived late to his own dinner parties—but my feelings were for Tom, who was distinctly ill at ease in the presence of the guests. The party was composed of a number of dancers, an Argentinean dance critic, a film star of some sort, a business manager, and a couple of society ladies, including Mrs. Godstalk, a New York woman who made sure she was quite a regular at Monsieur’s parties. She was in her mid-fifties but she dressed in the provocative manner of a young woman, her bosom always spilling out from her gowns. She was, as far as I knew, married, but I had never heard her mention her husband.
She remarked on a painting s
he had bought for Monsieur, saying something about its formal balances. She mentioned the price and Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The Argentinean critic agreed that the painting in question had perfect tonal components.
I watched poor Tom become the chair.
At midnight I decided to go ahead with dinner, even without Monsieur. The guests took their seats grudgingly. However, Tom, without my noticing, had grown terribly drunk. I had thought originally that he was nursing the one glass of wine all evening, but it seemed that the waiters in their petty spitefulness had been topping up his glass. Unused to the wine, Tom remained on the couch and proceeded to loudly regale the table with tales of a London soccer team nobody else was interested in. Mrs. Godstalk snorted while the men attempted to drown him out. Only the dancers seemed vaguely interested.
I suggested to Tom that he take a seat at the table and I guided him across. The only available chair was next to Mrs. Godstalk. I tried to take his glass of wine but he held on to it and spilled a little on the leg of his trousers. He tucked a napkin into his shirt collar with great difficulty and one of the ballerinas giggled.
I returned to the kitchen to serve the first courses.
As the dinner went on Tom’s English accent grew stronger and louder as he waved his fork in the air, a piece of capon attached.
I watched from a crack in the kitchen door and finally decided that I’d need to take action. Tom had reached a point in his anecdote where his team was about to take a penalty kick. I waited for the appropriate moment to come out from the kitchen saying: Mister Ashworth! Mister Ashworth!
I quickly rattled off that the dishwasher had broken and, since Tom was a handyman, I would need his help, could the guests please excuse him from the table?
—At your service, said Tom, knocking his knee against the edge of the table, almost dragging the cloth with him.
He stumbled and I took his arm, sat him at the kitchen table, close to the wall in case he fell over.
—Odile, he said, slightly slurring my name.
Just then I heard the sound of Monsieur at the front door. Within moments there was some kind of altercation at the dinner table. Voices were being raised, Monsieur’s loudest of all. Someone shouted back at him. I knew trouble was imminent—it was always so when Monsieur was confronted. I told Tom to stay where he was and I left the kitchen. All the guests were standing, fingers were being pointed, nails being chewed, cuffs being buttoned, and Monsieur, in the middle of the fray, was dispatching them one by one.
—Late? he was shouting. Me, late? Out! Out!
Some were dawdling, trying to ingratiate themselves with Monsieur, but he was having none of it. Mrs. Godstalk whispered in his ear but he brushed her away. Horrified, she kept saying his name over and over again. She tried to touch his forearm but he shouted: Out! The Argentinean critic was muttering at the door and he even managed to get in a complaint about the capon, but I was too caught up with thoughts of poor Tom to be annoyed. I wanted to get back to the kitchen before he too suffered Monsieur’s wrath. I simply couldn’t imagine what might happen if Monsieur found Tom sitting there, drunk—the furies of Hades would surely be let loose.
I hurried to get the guests’ hands through the armholes of their coats, straightened their collars, all the time straining to hear sounds from the kitchen.
I finally shooed Mrs. Godstalk, the last of the guests, away.
Imagine my surprise when I found Tom and Monsieur in the kitchen, both liberally sipping from large glasses of red wine. Tom was telling Monsieur about a special pair of shoes he had made for himself for his soccer games. Tom was explaining that he had put platforms in his shoes to see over the heads of fellow supporters. But he had built the shoes so the platforms were unnoticeable and his landlady had never figured out why he was taller on days when there were soccer matches.
—My friend Victor could do with a pair of those, said Monsieur.
They spent the next hour in laughter. Monsieur took out some photographs that he kept in his wallet, one of his mother and one of his young niece, Nuriya, who had been born a few years previously to his sister in Russia. Tom held back a belch and said they were wonderful photographs, that he’d always liked Russian women.
He looked at me: Odile, even though you’re not Russian, you’re beautiful too.
His body finally gave in to the alcohol and he fell asleep at the kitchen table, his head resting against a slab of cheese.
Monsieur helped me move him into the spare bedroom. He even took off Tom’s shoes and socks and wished him a good night’s sleep. I rolled Tom over to his side and put a bucket beside him in case he should vomit.
For some reason I was inspired to kiss him, very gently, on his forehead. And then I went to bed.
The next morning broke with raindrops. I crawled from under the covers and went down the corridor. I was surprised to see the door of the guest room slightly open. I peeked inside. Tom was hunched over, trying to tie his shoelaces. His face was flush and his hair was askew.
—Good morning, Tom, I said.
He looked up, startled. His suit jacket hung precariously on the chair and his shirt was creased.
—I’d be delighted to press your clothes for you, I said.
—Thank you, but I really must be leaving.
—It would be no trouble.
—Many thanks, but no.
There was a catch in his throat. I left him alone since he seemed embarrassed. In the kitchen I prepared tea and coffee and set the table. I was cleaning up the remnants of the night before when out of the corner of my eye I saw Tom trying to leave the apartment on tiptoe.
—Mister Ashworth! I called out but he didn’t reply.
—Tom! I said and he turned around.
Never before have I seen such fear on a grown man’s face. His eyes were hooded and red, his lids were swollen, and he looked as if he was carrying the weight of an awful injury. He didn’t say a word, just fingered the buttons of his jacket. When he was sideways to the door I could see that his eyes were glassy with tears. I ran up to him but he was already stepping slowly down the curving staircase.
I went after him. At the front door he hung his head, looked at his feet.
—I shamed myself, he said. Shoemakers in my family for many hundreds of years and I shamed them.
—There’s nothing to be ashamed of.
—I made a fool of myself.
—No no no. Monsieur had a wonderful time.
—I’m a clown.
—Of course not.
—I have made my last shoe.
—Pardon me? I asked.
—Please give Mister Nureyev my apologies.
With this Tom bowed slightly and was gone, out the front door, along the quays. I watched as he moved through the rain. He pulled his suit jacket up over his head and rounded the corner.
Monsieur woke half an hour later and asked after Mister Ashworth. I told him what had happened. Monsieur stared into his tea and munched on a croissant. I stood at the sink and washed the last of the glasses. I couldn’t help but feel empty. Monsieur must have intuited something because he asked me to face him, he wanted to see my eyes. I couldn’t do it. I heard him rise from the table and then he came and touched my elbow. I stopped myself from crying or falling into his arms, but he took hold of my chin and tilted my face upwards. Monsieur had the kindest eyes.
—Wait, he said.
He went to his bedroom and came out, stuffing something into the pocket of his bathrobe, dangling his keys in the other hand.
Monsieur said: Let’s go.
—But you’re still in your bathrobe, Monsieur.
—It’ll be a new fashion! he said.
Before I knew it we were driving the wrong way down a one-way street, with Monsieur shouting some crazy Russian love song at the top of his lungs.
Ten minutes later we pulled up outside Tom’s hotel. Cars behind us hooted loudly. Monsieur jumped out and gave the drivers a rude gesture, then ran into the hotel b
ut came out shaking his head.
—We’ll try the airport, said Monsieur.
He put the car in gear and just then Tom appeared. He saw us, stopped, hesitated, then buried his hands in his jacket pockets and proceeded to the hotel entrance.
Monsieur shoved something down in the pocket of his bathrobe, jumped from the car and, at the bottom of the hotel steps, caught Tom’s arm. A porter came out of the hotel to hold an umbrella above Monsieur’s head.
Tom’s eyes darted away from Monsieur. He cleared his throat as if about to say something, but Monsieur shook his head emphatically before Tom could say a word. From the bathrobe pocket Monsieur produced a pair of old dancing slippers. He flourished them in the air.
—Fix these, he said to Tom.
Tom’s eyes locked with Monsieur’s.
—Fix them, said Monsieur.
—Pardon me? said Tom.
—I want you to fix them. Since when do you not understand English?
Tom stood fidgeting, his face raw and red.
—Yes sir, he finally stammered, taking the shoes from Monsieur’s hands. He held them a moment, and then said: You must forgive my foolishness of last night.
Monsieur hesitated: If you ever resign again I will kick you in the ass! Do you understand me?
—Sir?
—Nobody resigns on me! I fire them!
Tom bowed again, not a full bow, more a deep nod of the head. When he was upright he peered at me, his spectacles halfway down his nose.
* * *
She had practiced her smile all through the years, her stage smile, the perfect smile, the smile that said, I am in control, I am regal, I am ballet. And she was smiling it now, Margot, across the table at Rudi. Indeed, everywhere the wedding guests were smiling. Still, Margot could sense there was something wrong with the day, mismatched, out of sync, she just couldn’t put her finger on it.