by Nan
“Have you eaten lunch?” he asked.
“I’m too nervous.”
He smiled. “You are a very dangerous woman.”
“Me?”
“Yes. The most dangerous people are those who do not hide their feelings. They are not afraid to take risks.”
“Are you a risk?”
“You know nothing about me. I could be your worst enemy.”
“You? Do you think I give my Mickey to every man I meet? I know who to trust.”
“And does your husband also know who to trust?”
“Of course.”
“Does he trust you?”
“You bet your brioche! What kind of marriage do you think I have?”
The waiter cleared his throat. “Monsieur? Votre plaisir?”
“Perhaps something to drink?” Claude asked her.
“Yes.”
“What would you like?”
“You decide.”
Claude looked at the waiter. “Une verre de champagne pour Madame.”
“Et pour Monsieur?”
“L’usuel. Naturellement.”
“Naturellement,” the waiter muttered, and walked away.
Emma looked down at her hands. “I wish I smoked. Or at least bit my nails.”
Claude caressed her hand. “You have never done this before?”
“Are you kidding?” She stared at him in horror. “Clifford would kill me if he knew I took a taxi!”
CLAUDE opened the door to his room. Emma hesitated as though entering an alien atmosphere. Without a word she walked across the Aubusson and ran a finger over the lacquered top of the harpsichord. She turned and stared at the ebony writing table whose curved lines were decorated with the finest of Boulle marquetry. She touched the Baccarat decanters and tapped her fingers on the Hache desk. On her way to the window she stopped to look up at the Saint-Louis chandelier. Then, pushing aside the white silk curtains, she stared out at the Eiffel Tower. She turned back to Claude, who was leaning against the locked door.
“How dumb do you think I am?” she asked.
“I don’t understand.”
“You think I don’t know you can get the key to any room you want? Why are you trying to palm this museum off as yours?”
Claude smiled. He walked to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “This is where I live.”
“Like hell it is!” She walked to the door. “I may not know much about having affairs, but I do know that members of the oppressed working class don’t live like this!”
Claude put his hand on the door and stopped her. “This room is mine,” he said quietly. “Everything in it is mine.” He walked past her, pointing to each object as he spoke. “The paintings, the first editions, the furniture—all by the greatest artisans of France. I bought them myself. In this room you see my savings, my house in the country, my car, my vacations, my family.” Claude stood in the center of the room and pointed to the window. “And outside, my horizon. This is the part of me I wanted you to see. The most intimate part of my life. It is very important that you see all of this.”
Emma took her hand from the doorknob. She walked back into the room, circling her way around the furniture. It was an extraordinary collection, even to her unprofessional eye. “Okay,” she said, sitting down in an ornately carved armchair. “But you better have receipts!”
Claude hung his jacket in the closet. “The chair in which you are sitting is carved in the Rococo style typical of furniture made for the court of Louis XV.” He turned to her as he took off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt.
“Oh, really?” she whispered nervously.
“The word ‘Rococo’ is a combination of the words ‘rocaille’ and ‘coquille.’ It means a type of rock-and-shell work which was a very popular motif during the period.” He took off his shirt.
“I didn’t know that.” She watched as he walked past her to the window. He drew the draperies, coaxing the room into a gentle twilight. “But then, I’ve never known very much about Louis XV furniture.”
Claude walked to the bed and pulled back the cover. He folded it neatly as he spoke. “Classic French design is delineated most easily by the three kings Louis XIV, Louis XV and Louis XVI. The first period, known as the Baroque, was imported from Italy.” Claude untied his shoes and took off his socks. “It was known for its gravity, pomp and heroic proportions.” He unzipped his trousers and hung them over a chair. “I personally prefer the influence of Louis XV, in which Rococo developed as a more playful, decorative and witty style.” He took off his shorts.
Emma stared at him and took a deep breath. “Oh, I don’t know. You look pretty Baroque to me.”
Claude walked to her and held out his hand. “Emma.”
“Mommie!” she whimpered, standing up. “This is really going to happen, isn’t it?”
“I will not tell you I love you,” he said, putting his arm around her.
“That’s some line you’ve got!” She felt him unbutton her blouse. “Maybe when you turn to me later and ask—”
“You will tell me what I want to hear.” She wore no brassiere. He put his hands gently to her breasts and kiss her. After a moment, she dropped her clothes. He pressed himself close to her. “Emma, you are very special to me.” Stretching to feel every inch of her body, he whispered, “But I cannot be gentle with you.” He carried her to the bed.
Emma looked around the room as she lay in his arms. “What’s so terrific about gentle?”
He put Emma down on the bed and kissed her again. Their mouths open, teeth pressed firmly against teeth, they began to roll from side to side. His hands crushed hers. He pressed his body against her as tightly as he could. Emma felt she could not tolerate any closer contact. Only a moment ago she had felt like a leaf in his arms, and now she feared he would shatter her. She gasped as he entered savagely.
“Look around the room!”
“This incredible room. I’ll never forget it.”
“Remember this room, Emma. Remember the chandelier.”
“Yes.”
“Remember the harpsichord.”
“Yes.”
“Remember the desk.”
“Yes. And the chair.”
He thrust forward angrily. “And the paintings.”
“The beautiful paintings.” Her fingers dug into his shoulders.
“And out the window?”
“The Eiffel Tower.”
Claude reached under her and pressed himself as deep as he could. “It is not outside the window, Emma.”
Amid the credentials of the heritage he guarded, Claude held the enemy in his arms. It was the threat of Emma Benjamin that made the room even more alive. It was as though the artists themselves, in the presence of danger, had come back to cry out, “Vive la France!”
Claude did not have an orgasm. He remained hard inside her as he whispered, “The room, Emma Benjamin. You must always remember it.”
“You can call me Emma,” she said, gasping for air.
ONCE they separated, neither spoke. They lay on the bed without touching for a very long time. Emma felt confused. Cheated. It had been so violent. So unsatisfying. She turned her head to look at Claude. “What the hell was that we just did?” She reached out to touch him, but drew her hand back.
Claude propped himself up on his elbow. “Emma . . .” It was difficult to say her name. “Emma, why did you come to the Zola?”
Instinctively, she reached for the sheet and covered herself. “I had a fight with Clifford. I needed a friend.”
“You think your husband is not your friend?”
“He needs me. He has no choice. Poor Cliffy.”
“You are not happy with him.” She turned away. “I am sorry. Why do you wear that watch?”
“My Mickey? What’s wrong with my Mickey?”
“You are not the person you pretend to be.”
“Are you?” she asked.
“I am always the person I pretend to be.”
“Just an
ordinary, everyday concierge who spends a few million francs collecting the history of France.”
“You find that difficult to understand.”
“No. As long as you realize we both wear Mickey Mouse watches.”
He reached out and gently caressed the curve of one breast then the other. “They are perfect,” he said.
“They’re not the pointy kind.”
His finger traced the outlines of her nipples until they hardened. “The rounded breast is more elegant, I think.”
“Me too,” she whispered. He buried his face in her breasts and sucked gently on the nipples.
“I don’t understand you,” she said softly.
“I am just an ordinary, everyday concierge.” He lay back on the bed. “I make dinner reservations. I cancel flights. I book seats at the theater.”
“I know,” Emma said. “But what do you do in real life?”
He laughed. “In real life?”
“Yes. I know what kind of job you have. But jobs are different from real life.”
“Is your job different from your real life?”
She sat up. “You want to know what my real life is?”
Claude began tracing the outline of her mouth. “No, you must never tell me.”
“I just wanted to be honest with you.” She reached toward him, but withdrew her hand. She laughed. “You’re afraid of being honest, and I’m afraid of touching you.”
“Touch me.”
Emma put her open palm on his shoulder. She moved her hand down his chest, across his stomach, and gripped gently at his thick pubic hair. Then she cupped her hand under his testicles. “They’re uneven,” she said.
“I know.”
“Clifford’s are pretty even. But yours aren’t.” She took hold of his penis. “You know, you start out quite Baroque, but I’m afraid you have Rococo balls.”
He laughed. “They are the one part of the male anatomy that is truly Rococo in concept.”
“I like them.”
“Then I am fortunate indeed not to be Chinese.” They both laughed.
“I wouldn’t want them without the rest of you,” she said.
Claude took her face in his hands. “You are a beautiful woman.”
“If you go for neo-Gothic noses.”
“I mean what I say.”
She paused. “Then you are very dangerous too.”
“Yes.” He leaned toward her. “What would it be like to kiss you very gently?” Their lips touched for a moment.
“How was it?” she asked.
“Fatal.” He kissed her again, opening his mouth slowly, allowing their tongues to meet, circle once and part. “I am very dangerous for you, Emma.”
She put her head on his shoulder. “How dangerous can you be? I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“Checking out of your life. Heh heh.”
Claude raised himself above her and entered slowly. “There are very many things I cannot tell you.” He pushed carefully inside her.
“Dark, terrible things?”
“Yes.”
Emma put her arms around his neck. “Then how can I trust you?”
“You cannot trust me.”
She held on to him tightly. “Should I be afraid?”
“Yes.”
They lay perfectly still, concentrating on the tender pressures they exerted on each other. Emma squeezed gently as he flexed deep within her. They began to breathe in unison. Motionless, except for the throbbing of muscle around muscle, they drifted into intimacy.
Her lips touched his ear as she whispered, “I am afraid of you.”
“And I,” he said breathlessly, “I am afraid of you.”
ETIENNE Duvert sat behind the Comfortilt steering wheel of his day-old bright red Chevy Impala Landau Coupe. The electric sliding steel sun roof was open, and the in-dash 40-channel CB with AM/FM stereo radio and stereo tape system was blaring the theme from La Guerre des Etoiles. He sped along the avenue de New York, making a left turn against the light onto the Pont d’Iéna. Once across the Seine, he made a sharp right without slowing down and then an impromptu left amid the shouts and honking horns of those around him. He raced down the avenue de Suffren, past the parked tour buses, and stopped with a screech in a No Parking zone on the avenue Gustave Eiffel.
It was an absurd place, he thought, for Murphy to want to meet. He glanced nervously at the electronic digital clock and pulled down the visor to which he had affixed his OFFICIAL BUSINESS parking permit. He was upset at being late. He was upset at not being able to unhook his seat belt. But he was most upset at never having been to the top of the Eiffel Tower.
The Secretary of Tourism threaded his way through the crowd. He found himself in the center of a group of undulating clusters delineated by clothing, language and height. It was as though he had just stepped into an interplanetary waiting room filled with representatives from distant solar systems. There were shouts of “Wo ist meine Mutter?,” “Quando fu costruito?,” “Jak sie tamto nazywa?” and “¿Donde está el lavabo?” He walked quickly to the front of the line at the ticket window.
“I’ve jolly well had it with you Germans,” a woman shouted. “Why the hell don’t you queue up like everyone else?”
“I am not German, Madame. I am a member of the French Government here on official business.”
“And I am Queen Elizabeth and I’m about to save five francs by walking up instead of taking the lift.” She turned from him and slid her money under the window.
Etienne realized it would be faster to pay than to explain who he was to the ticket clerk. “To the top!” he said, reaching into his pocket for some small change.
“Twenty-seven francs.”
Etienne looked up. “Twenty-seven francs? I do not want to buy it. I just want to see it.”
“Twenty-seven francs, Monsieur.”
“You charge twenty-seven francs just to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower?”
“Oui, Monsieur.”
“For one person?”
“It is only twenty-two francs if you walk up the first two stages.”
“It is an outrage!” He took his wallet and opened it, showing his identification to the clerk. “I do not understand how you expect to do any business here at all with such prices!”
The clerk shrugged as he handed Etienne a pass. “Over three million every year.”
Etienne narrowed his eyes. “Well, you people are very lucky! If you had to build this thing today, you would never make back your money!” He grabbed the pass and walked angrily toward the ascenseur. He marched to the front of the line.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” the old guard said, allowing him to enter the half-filled elevator.
Etienne nodded and tapped his foot as he waited for the car to fill. “Pardon,” he said, turning to the man next to him, “have you the correct time?”
The man smiled. “Ich spreche kein Französisch.”
Etienne shook his head and suddenly felt himself being shoved against the metal side of the car amid squeals and cries in Japanese. “Ito! Ito! Gomen nasai! Ippai desu ka? Isoide Kudasai! Iezusu Kirisutosu!”
“Mon Dieu!” Etienne muttered, sticking his elbow into someone’s back.
A tall blond man turned quickly and yelled at him, “Ett ögonblick! Vad heter det där?”
“Oooooooh!” As the elevator began to rise, the crowd suddenly shifted its focus from the discomfort of being jammed together. “Blast off, Artoo-Detoo!” someone yelled.
“La Forza! La Forza!”
“Ito? Goran nasai!”
Etienne closed his eyes. Twenty-seven francs! As they jostled to a stop, he followed the crowd and walked toward the elevator that would take them to the second level. Somehow he got mixed into the center of the Japanese group. He tried to smile pleasantly as he towered over the sea of Oriental faces. Tourists, he thought disdainfully. Nothing but tourists. He turned to an older man standing next to him. “It looks like the ascent to the top of Mt. F
uji,” Etienne whispered.
The man smiled. He nodded his head and said, “Przepraszam. Nie rozumiem.”
“Haaaaaaaaaaa,” the crowd moaned as they reached the second level and began sorting out. Not everyone was going to the top, and Etienne quickened his step to ensure a place in the smaller elevator to the final stage. The Japanese group, sensing they were closer to their destination, began opening their camera cases, screwing special filters onto their lenses and checking film supplies. As a joke, one of them began taking pictures of the others as they prepared to take pictures. Etienne estimated that by the time they reached the top, over fifty percent of the people in the elevator had taken his picture. Some as a single-subject portrait.
The moment the elevator doors opened, cameras were being raised to eye level, and the sound of shutters snapping wafted onto the late-afternoon sky as though a swarm of crickets had been unleashed. He waited for them all to file out and then began searching the figures along the edge for Murphy’s silhouette. He stopped suddenly. Something in his peripheral vision. Below him, away from the snapping of shutters and cries for Ito, was the incredible confection called Paris. He stood motionless. His eyes cautiously followed the meanderings of the Seine as though fearful of finding warts on the face of a beautiful woman. He identified landmarks and found himself mentally pointing a finger with such joyful recognition one would have thought he had never seen them before. Despite the jostling from the man next to him, he felt suprisingly benevolent. The Secretary of Tourism realized, for the first time, that he was standing where the action was.
The man next to him had just stepped on his foot. “Monsieur, s’il vous plaît!” Etienne said angrily.
“Gotcha!” Murphy said with a wink. He put his arm around Etienne and turned him back toward the view. “That’s one helluva town you got down there, old buddy.”
“I come here often.”
“I bet it gets you every time.”
“The perspective is necessary for one in my position.”
“Here.” Murphy handed him a brand-new case with a pair of binoculars any U-boat captain would have been proud to own. “I want you to have these.”
Etienne took them. “But Murphy, you are so generous.”