Travels Through Love and Time

by Christine Hall Volkoff

  My impression was that Linda liked me, and I was responding to her. Here’s to you, Ruthie! Here’s to you, Alison, who had the nerve to call me sick for loving you. Bad timing, you said. Well, maybe it was time for good timing now.

  Above all else, it was time for practical considerations. She said she lived in the Rue de Nevers. I could go lurking there until she showed up and pretend that I just happened to be in the neighbourhood. No. Such an indirect approach would wreck the spirit of things. The phone book was useless since I did not know her last name and she was staying at a friend’s anyway. What could I do?

  I decided to go by the Babylone at exactly 4:00 pm the next day. If there was some truth to all this, she would be there. What if she was not there? Then I would come back day after day until I had to go back home to California. I would return tomorrow and the day after just like in 'Moderato'. It would give me something to do in the afternoons and in between movies 'Thelma and Louise', I would never forget it. There was a connection between its atmosphere of danger, uncertainty, its forlorn country rock soundtrack and the way I felt now.

  There were crazy things that could be boldly attempted. Risk gave you some power even though you had none. It was daring to be honest with Alison about my hopes of getting back together. It showed some nerve to think that I could run into Linda again at the café and assume she would want to see me there too. Maybe it would end in a flash of sunshine and then nothing. Maybe this was what life was all about. It was worth it. Wasn't it?

  I kept trying to sleep and, every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing Linda and the way she looked at me. Something was going on there. She seemed upset about her boyfriend. There was nothing going on there.

  … I am crazy. Because I am craving the feeling of being loved, I am giving all kinds of meanings to a nondescript encounter in a nondescript café. And yet … how many times do strangers ask you to go to a movie with you and look at you like you were their long lost salvation? Ah! Sleep now. Sleep. Like hell! Let’s have a cigarette and think …

  Smoking was the first grown-up thing I had ever done, and it still had a liberating, rebellious aura to it. In my view, the anti-smoking fanatics were turning more people into smokers by provoking their rebel selves.

  Alison … where are you now? Why did you leave me in this predicament? No. Stop. Don’t think about Alison. Visualize. Think about a brick wall or a flushing toilet, creating a handy image of disposal-with-humor which could be soothing in a sanitary sort of way. Linda … should I take this seriously? Should I forget it, and not take any risks? Should I not embark on the adventure, whatever it is?

  I could have pretended to Alison that we would never get back together even if she was writhing at my feet and spitting on Marie. Ah! But here I go again, when I should think about a brick wall and go to sleep. Linda … I don’t even know Linda. Stop that too … One day my mind and my heart will be full of nothing but brick walls. What fun.

  It was still dawn when I woke up. Too early. I must have slept for three hours all in all. I went upstairs, to have breakfast with my mother, and came back down to call a friend and make plans to have lunch with her, anything to distract me.

  Friends were the only solid value these days. Brick walls not required. Besides, this one knew all about me and I could ask her advice and talk about Linda.

  Alison does not want me, her loss! I will never see Linda again, big deal. I’ll just have fun with my friend Françoise, and we’ll solve it all in two sentences and three jokes. Besides …there will still be time to go by the Babylone and check out the scene.

  Suddenly I was sure Linda was going to be there and everything was going to be just fine.

  My mother had let me have the car today. Parking was going to be a pain. Françoise had advised me to go, go and go to the Babylone, lurk the Rue de Nevers, spy at the TV station, all TV stations if I didn’t know which one it was, do it all. Why? Because if there was anything to it at all, it was worth it. Create something different with life, something unique and wild. What else is there in the world other than that which is unique, different, and wild to die for?

  So there I was. It was three-thirty, and I was counting on the traffic being awful so I could go slow and not arrive too early, wait, look stupid and not know what to do with myself. Worried about parking, I decided to go into the Bon Marché parking lot, and maybe spend the rest of the time until four o’clock in the store. Maybe find a copy of 'Moderato Cantabile'. Yes, that would be fun. It took forever to reach the bookstore. Pocket books? Yes. Marguerite Duras. They had every book she’d ever written except that one. Oh well. My watch. My mountain watch. Ha ha. Five past four. It was time to check out the scene at the Babylone.

  I walked up the stairs, through the store, almost running. Out on the street. It was cloudy and the Parc Boucicaut looked windswept and forlorn. Rain was in the air. The terrace of the Babylone was empty. She was not there. Maybe she was inside. Opening the glass doors, I peeked in and stared at everybody. The waiter stood in my way and said “Bonjour!”. Maybe he knew her. Maybe she was a regular. I went down the slippery marble stairs to the telephone, pretending again to make a phone call. No Linda.

  Ah! What the hell! I was disappointed, dejected, furious at her, at everything. I had probably dreamt the whole thing. What a fool I was! A fool with Alison, a fool with Linda, a fool all the way. Twenty past four. Waiting any longer was futile and I did not feel like sitting down and ordering something. It was all a ridiculous fantasy. I would not come back tomorrow. I had too much to do. Come on, be real.

  I went back down into the parking lot, drove the car out, careful to swing one more time by the Babylone, just in case. No one was there. It seemed desolate and deserted. Forget it.

  I went to a friend’s house for dinner and had a good time bordering on oblivion. I pretended that I was someone other than I was. I successfully avoided all impure thoughts. Alison, Linda, all these figments of my fertile imagination took a back seat that night. I slept better than the night before. I was so tired.

  * * *

  The next day was organized in such a way that I could not possibly have time to visit the Babylone in the morning. Looking for a movie that would last beyond four o'clock, I checked Pariscope Magazine for films, theatres, and schedules. I had seen everything. Ah! A semi-obscure Polish movie was playing at the Publicis, Saint Germain. That’s far enough. I did enjoy the film, even though I did not understand it, which was a sure sign of great intellectual content. I had the car again, and this time I had parked it on the street, a once in a lifetime spot. Alison used to say “Unlucky in parking, lucky in love” every time I had trouble finding a parking place. The irony was just perfect now. My watch said four-thirty. It was too late, too late to go to the Babylone.

  Getting back to the car after the movie, I had to walk in the general direction of the café. Hmmm … why not? I have nothing else to do anyway. Here’s a bookstore. Let’s waste some more time. Do you have 'Moderato Cantabile'? Yes, here it is, second shelf from bottom, on your right. I bought the book, and decided to go to the Babylone, and just start reading it. Like that. Just to pay tribute to the potential of what could have been. Quarter to five. I did not even look anywhere, and sat on the terrace. It was warmer than the day before, and quite pleasant. The waiter came, and I ordered a sparkling water. I opened the book and started reading …

  She arrived behind me from inside the café. She put her hand on my shoulder and said “So you are a regular here after all!”

  Speechless from sheer shock, I quickly hid the book in my bag before she had a chance to see it and catch me being sentimental. I turned around. She looked great. Her sunglasses were on the top of her head. She was wearing jeans and a black sweater, with no shirt collar underneath. Her eyes were made of cool green. I had forgotten their power. Her smile hit me again, soothing, exciting, gentle. “What time is it?”

  Her manner of approach was not very varied. I laughed, and finally managed to look at her openly
and be present. “Five o’clock. Are you a regular here?”

  “No, not at all. I was hoping to find you again. I did not know how to get in touch with you.”

  “Well, I didn't know if I could ever find you! I was planning on coming here every day until you showed up.”

  She laughed. A joke … what a joke. Yet here she was. Let’s not be cynical and self-deprecating. Now was the time to enjoy things.

  “I’ll tell you what” Linda said as she sat down next to me. “Are you free tonight?”

  Suddenly, it was like the world, the universe, everything fell into place. Life was really starting. This is what was meant to happen, and it was happening. I would not stand in the way. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. What’s going on?” I was so elated that I could not stop smiling.

  “Well, I have to meet someone for work right now, but if you didn’t mind waiting for me for about … huh … an hour and a half, maybe you and I could have dinner together and pursue our conversation of the other day.”

  “No problem. I’ll be here!”

  She got up, lugging that huge bag and touched my arm gently, looking straight into my eyes. “See you then!”

  She was gone. I felt so incredibly strong, intelligent, interesting and interested, as I pulled out 'Moderato Cantabile' from my bag. I knew I had bought it for a reason. Here it was! It was late, but the sun came out in rays from behind the clouds like God in Hollywood films, all golden and flowing down like sweet honey. I won’t disappoint you, I said to the preciousness of the moment. I’ll make the best of it!

  Chapter Four

  It was so incredibly hard to keep my mind on the book. I liked it well enough. The narrative was ominous and full of hidden meaning that was never uncovered, so you could always blame yourself for not understanding something that anyone else would be getting just fine.

  Oh my God! It’s over already! Linda was right, nothing happens. And they were able to make a movie out of it. It was not 70mm Scope or anything, but it won a major award. Some directors specialize in films that are supposed to have all kinds of meanings, but no one can really explain to you what they are. I guess that’s possible. Not everything should be explainable anyway. I should know.

  It was torture stopping myself from looking at my watch constantly. I concentrated on the reviews that fill the end of the book, and tried very hard not to think for a while. Why was Linda reading it? What kind of TV program these days would concern itself with something like this?

  What was I doing in this café which was probably going to close soon, waiting for this unknown person? Who knew if she was going to come back, and if she was, who was she anyway?

  Can we really instinctively know if people are good on first impression?

  Marie … she seemed unstable and off-kilter. Maybe Alison was just a con artist and in Marie she had found a soul mate. Maybe I was the intruder all along and never knew it.

  What if Linda was using me as bait, like Katharine Hepburn used Elizabeth Taylor in Tennessee Williams' 'Suddenly Last Summer'? Maybe she was trying to get her boyfriend’s new girlfriend interested in women so she would leave him alone ...

  These goofy ruminations were getting me nowhere. I thought of ordering some alcoholic drink to calm my nerves, but I wanted to be as present as possible if and when she came back.

  The brick wall was in place, with battlements and all, ready to guard me against fantasizing about tonight.

  Where should we go? Should I drive? Did I have cash? Ooops! Yes, I did! What a relief. Somehow, automatic teller stops are never very glamorous and should be saved for outings with people you trust. Could I trust Linda? And trust her with what? I seemed to have trusted her quite a bit already. What time? Five-thirty only. Time slows down till it dies …

  The little park Boucicaut was getting ready for the end of the day. The pigeons had calmed down, and the people were walking out of the Bon Marché loaded with red bags and packages flourishing ribbons. I was starting to feel a little bored. Marguerite Duras was over and done with. I was not hungry, nor thirsty.

  What does one do? Light a cigarette. Five minutes, that’s how long it takes, ten if you really nurse it. Here’s the waiter. Damn! How many sparkling waters can I drink without having to use the Turkish toilet? A café crème will be much safer. Another tribute to Linda the unknown …

  The waiter brought it, and I was careful to pay right away, just in case I had to leave fast.

  Should I prepare for good things, should I prepare for bad things? Just take the bet that everything will be great. Then the voice of my mother: nothing will ever be great for you. We’ve all got bad luck; nothing ever works for us, especially in love, money and fame. Ah, forget it. Linda is coming back soon. It may seem like a long time now, but it will be nothing but a nanosecond when she’s here. Besides, she’s beautiful, and she seems to like me enough to go to a movie with me, and ask me to dinner out of the blue.

  How old is she? I wonder … Younger than me, I’m sure. But when you get to be forty, everyone is all of a sudden younger than you. What could her last name be? I’ll ask tonight, so I don’t have to wonder anymore.

  I was rambling on and on, taking a few more steps into the land of asinine madness.

  Suddenly she was back before I even had the time to really worry…

  “'Moderato Cantabile’, heh? How do you like it?”

  She did not seem surprised that I had the book. Suddenly, it was easy not to pretend. Everything seemed to come very easily around her.

  “I was curious to read what you were reading. It’s OK. I did not hate it. But maybe I was prejudiced in favor of it.”

  She smiled as if she understood. “Where shall we go?”

  It was early still. I was far from hungry. I did not feel like going anywhere without having some time to get acquainted again, to get re-connected. The thought of going now seemed impossible to me. We needed something to link us together before we could face the trivial task of walking or driving to a restaurant. We had done pretty well going to the movies, but this was different. I felt shy all of a sudden. I had something to lose.

  “It is still early,” I offered, “why don’t we just go inside and have an aperitif before it’s time to go to dinner? I need to shift gears after spending all this time alone with Marguerite.”

  Linda laughed. Her laugh was devoid of any kind of mockery or ridicule, and just gave you this great feeling of having said something unforgettable. She heartily agreed and we went inside.

  The setting sun was bathing the café with golden light. Alison … Alison, and how she looked that evening in Yosemite in the setting sun. She was sitting on her haunches, listening to the park ranger and laughing at something. Her face was soft and gentle, looking very tan in the reflection of the … how do they call it? … Alpenglow…

  Ah! Stop that. Linda was looking at me in a strange way. “What’s going on?”

  I lied, for the first time since we had met. “Oh, nothing. I think I’ll have a Pastis.”

  Pastis , Ricard or Pernod, the bastard sons of absinth, the liquor of oblivion, the liquor of Verlaine and Rimbaud whose relationship was always alluded to, but never explained, by schoolteachers. Pastis, essence of anis diluted in water is refreshing and light. As a teenager, I was allowed to have Pastis as it was easy to make it just the right strength.

  Linda ordered some kind of traditional aperitif like Lilet. We started comparing strange Italian drinks made from various plants including artichokes, and reviewed the real medicinal properties of a horrible concoction named Fernet-Branca. It used to be in vogue at some point during my adolescence, and I remember forcing myself to like it. Linda said she had always dreamt of tasting it. I replied that she could never ever have a Fernet and still live a perfectly happy life.

  We were laughing when the waiter arrived and we cheerfully toasted to new friends. Everything was just fine.

  “I was so busy yesterday,” Linda said as if to apologize for her absence. “I worked fo
r ten hours in a row. I’m glad I had some time today.”

  The conversation went on about her work and what it was like. She seemed to know a lot about France and yet everything seemed to amuse her as if it was still part of a long vacation. I had felt the same way about California for the longest time. Work was not really work; everything was always new and exciting because it was foreign and nothing affected you as much as it did at home. Home … I guess California was home to me now, Alison was home. Hell, where was home now?

  Linda put down her drink and let her right hand rest on the table. It was delicate and elegant, with long, thin fingers, trimmed nails, and a silver ring on the middle finger. I was letting myself stare at her. She was looking up, smiling. A strand of her hair kept falling into her right eye and she kept pushing it back. I loved watching her do that. The effect she had on me was amazing.

  It was getting dark but they still had not turned on the lights in the café. Fittingly, someone was playing Simon and Garfunkel on the juke box. “... as the room is softly fading, I can only kiss your shadow, I cannot feel your hand...”

  Linda had something on me, and I had nothing on her. She knew enough about me to know that I could possibly be interested in her. What was going on in her mind? Did she feel lonely for some American or semi-American company? Will I find out, or will she send me a note ten years from now, saying I really wanted you but I let it go by?

  “So, I said,” daring and devastatingly original, “tell me more about yourself … ”

  Hell. I’m not a power seducer. I need the other person to be a part of it too, to meet me halfway. One more trait that did not go over too well with Alison … Don’t be like her, Linda. Take a couple of steps, give me some clue …

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Oh, you know this and that … Your background … All the stuff that doesn’t really mean much but I don't know anything about you.”