***
The streets of Paris in the evening it was a completely different experience from during the day. The sea of lights and neon signs put to shame my memories of Warsaw, in the evenings shrouded in eternal twilight and shadows.
Here, the street lanterns and the neon signs of the theaters lighted the main streets brightly. People sat on the terraces of cafes, drinking wine, smoking and eating supper, all in a fun, relaxed manner, without the anger or the wrangling. Everyone had a place waiting for him. And if not, then a few corners away the next cafe was. Nobody was really drunk and no quarrel was heard, no cursing, unless it was for the sake of telling a joke.
Before some terraces sidewalks were lined with home-grown artists, musicians and jugglers alike, who showed their not always smart tricks or played music on whatever they could or could not, and after the completion of their artistic program, they would take off their hats and gather their "hard earned" francs and centimes.
Indeed, merry were the Parisian nights. The wine I drank with my supper still humming in my head, I felt the atmosphere of the great world. You know what they say. Paris is the navel of Europe.
After leaving my hotel, I would stop first to say bonsoir to lady Lou-Lou, a local prostitute who made regular rounds with her small dog on a leash. Such a lady deserved to be treated politely. After all, who could tell? Maybe someday she would show mercy to a poor thingy from a communist country and give me for free? So far it had not yet occurred to her. Probably I needed to wait patiently a little longer.
I walked down the boulevard Montparnasse to the Rue de Rennes. As I did, I looked at the shop windows and watched the street performances by the jugglers, spoke French with the beautiful girls (of course, only in my imagination) and felt very proud of my worldly life of a roofer’s helper.
The French language was a real problem. Why the hell did people invent so many languages? Why couldn’t one suffice, for instance, Polish? It would make life easier for everybody.
I liked hanging around in the Latin Quarter, but at the same time, it took the most discipline to resist the smells of food from the small restaurants nearby. Tunisian sandwiches all stacked up and the aroma of meat roasting on vertical turnspits introduced my stomach to a state of eternal hunger. Over time, I began to feel like a fakir on nails. They probably learned to love the pain. If you love it, the less it hurts.
***
It was a Friday. After seeing the panorama of the roofs of Paris, a sight that captivated me as usual, I put the two banana peels into the empty milk cardboard box. (I always liked to put away things neatly.) From the baguette, of course, not a trace remained. Pasquale and I went down to have our everyday espresso. On the way, I threw the milk box into the plastic bin for rubbish. As usual, after my lunch, I did not feel hungry, but also not overly stuffed. We went to our regular cafe at the corner and ordered two small cups of black espresso at the counter. This coffee cost then from one franc fifteen centimes to a franc twenty-five depending on the café bar. What a good time it was. Coffee at the table was more expensive, plus tips, and yet another price was set for coffee on the terrace in front of the café. We always drank it at the bar. On Fridays, we usually took something extra, and on that day, we ordered two small glasses of rum. Pasquale led a lively conversation with the patron, the man behind the bar. I obviously had no idea what they were talking about. Two Algerians from our construction site standing next to us spoke Arabic. (Of course, I also did not understand them.) That was when I clearly felt someone watching me. Immediately, I looked down to see if I had failed to button my fly. The old pants, which I used for work was not exactly new or perfect. Anything could happen. No. This time, the fly was all right. Why then would someone watch such an ordinary, boring person like me? Carefully, I raised my head and immediately froze. At one nearby table, an adorable girl sat alone, clearly looking at me. Of course, I looked to my right, then to my left and back just to see if maybe she was looking at someone else. No, she was looking straight at me. I shrank somehow in my tattered shirt. What could she possibly find interesting about me? I, for one, could find absolutely nothing. Certainly not my working outfit. But apparently French ladies sometimes have the weirdest taste. What to do? Should I approach her? What if she asked me something? What should I say? Complete panic gripped me suddenly. What should I do?
Then, Emmanuelle discreetly gestured to me with her hand, as if silently inviting me to her table.
One of the Algerians whistled softly through his teeth and Pasquale, who always noticed every pretty girl in sight, stopped clucking his tongue, impressed, which happened to him rarely. Feeling the stares of my colleagues, I could not chicken out. Reluctantly, I approached her table and looked into her eyes questioningly, blue eyes under long, dark lashes. (Oh shit, what a beauty she was.)
I called her Emmanuelle because her hair was cut very short, almost like a boy. (Only back then, the boys wore long hair). Emmanuelle was at this time the title of the latest erotic movie and half of the girls in Paris had their hair cut this way. I knew this movie only from the posters, of course, who knew? Maybe I would get to see it for Polish money when it gets released in the People's Republic of Poland in a few years. There was a small chance of that, however. There was no way our censorship would let such a film pass. The public might get shocked too much for communist authorities.
In response to my questioning look, Emmanuelle gave me a clear reply. Without a word, she pointed towards the empty chair on the opposite side of her table.
"Oh, boy," I thought. "She wants to talk to me."
I sat on the edge of the chair, not wanting to leave a dirty spot on the red plush upholstery with my roofer’s helper ass. Besides, sitting this way made it easier for me to bolt if she asked me for something. I could pick myself up and run fast to the door, then straight on to my roof. Over there, she certainly wouldn’t find me.
“You’ve probably just recently come from Warsaw?” she started with a clean accent from the Vistula riverbanks. “I am desperate to talk to someone in Polish.”
“Why do you think I am Polish?” I asked, completely surprised.
“Very simple. I was in Warsaw last year. I saw such shirts in the Centrum department store.”
“Well, it is hard to hide.” I touched the collar of my chequered shirt from Wolczanka. Supposedly, it was made from the best fabric in Poland, made for export, national trademarked product quality No. 1 with a price of 150 zloty. Now, it was relegated to a rag on the back of a worker who renovated roofs “on black”.
During this time, Pasquale and the two Algerians left the cafe, the Algerians looking at us with insolent curiosity and Pasquale giving me an almost scolding glance. Emmanuelle smiled.
“I see that you have to go back to work, but maybe we could meet again sometime, for example, on Saturday evening. You could tell me a little bit about our Warsaw. I'm dying to know what has recently changed in my city. As for the place, do you already know a café closer to the city center? I'm here by accident. It is a bit far for me.”
“Of course, I know. For example, La Rotonde” I responded using the tone of someone who had been frequenting the place.
“Great! Emmanuelle cheered. “That is in my area. So maybe tomorrow at seven, we’ll have coffee together?”
She held my hand in farewell and said:
“My name is Lena, not Emmanuelle.”
“How did you know that...?”
“Again, the simple answer. Now in Paris, everyone calls the girls who wear this kind of hairstyle by that name.”
“Ah, yes, really simple.”
And then I realized I hadn’t yet presented myself so I pronounced my name and darted towards the street. I flew, not ran, to our roof using invisible wings propelled by otherworldly excitement.
***
She was already sitting at a table for two by the window. I noticed immediately that she ordered only a cup of black coffee, which really calmed me. Such expenses, of course, lay within my cap
abilities. I hoped that she was not hungry; it would not be proper to run to the next bakery after half a baguette.
She was dressed differently from yesterday. Then again, I had noticed a long time ago that the girls in Paris dressed differently every day. Why?
I was also, of course, dressed differently. I was wearing pants with well working fly and the best of my three shirts, which I had never used for work.
She held my hand and asked me to sit down.
I also ordered a small cup of black coffee.
“In this coffee shop, once, Impressionists used to meet” she said. “Are you also an artist? Maybe a painter?”
“A real painter maybe not. Just a kind of painter. I do something from time to time for fun, but here somehow, I have no time for such foutaise.”
“Foutaise? You should just go on and do it. Paris is the capital of art, after all.”
“Well...” I lit up. “But for me, everything here is so new and interesting. I really cannot focus only on painting. Everything interests me.”
“With time, that fascination will pass away. With me, it was the same. Have you been to the Louvre yet?”
“Of course. I go over there every Sunday.” (Because in those good times, the entrance to the Louvre was free on Sundays.)
Somehow, I could talk with her so freely as if I had known her for a long time.
“I also like to go there. Maybe we would take a tour together sometime?”
I agreed, of course, with enthusiasm, but after a while, I began to fear that after visiting the Louvre, I should maybe invite the lady to dinner. Or could I perhaps persuade her to eat something before leaving her house? But how should I say it in the most elegant way?
Or maybe we could just eat Tunisian sandwiches from the street kiosk?
It remained to be seen. For now, I answered her questions about the recent events in Poland and the more we talked, the deeper I sank into the bottomless well. I only saw what was going on in her blue eyes and nothing more. It felt as if we had known each other since childhood. There were no mental inhibitions, not a trace of shyness. And yet when I looked at her bare shoulders, her beautiful face and the patch of smooth skin exposed by the neckline of her blouse, I trembled with excitement.
"I should not lose her," I thought. "I must not lose her, but what could I do? Maybe, after all, I had to go crazy and invite her for supper to a restaurant?"
She talked only a little about herself, mostly asking questions. As a result, after one hour, she knew almost everything about me and I almost nothing about her. After another hour, she proposed me a meeting at the main entrance of the Louvre eleven o'clock in the morning Sunday. That meant the following day. She proposed it to me herself and I could not believe my ears. Did I agree? What a question. With a passion, of course. What caught my attention, by the way, were her furtive side-glances from time to time, as if she was afraid she was being a tracked, short look in which I seemed to get a glimpse of something like a flash of anxiety. But perhaps it was only my imagination. I knew her too little to be sure of that. She said goodbye while shaking my hand, which freed me from the feeling of burning excitement. Then she thanked me, rejecting my proposal of walking her home.
When later that night I analyzed our meeting as I lay on my rickety couch, it seemed to me that I saw a silhouette of a man rising up from one of the remote tables and leaving the cafe a little later than Lena, but probably it was just an object of my imagination.
I paid without regret the bill for two cups of coffee. Nay, I even threw a pretty solid tip to the waitress who fortunately was not too intrusive and did not remind us every few minutes that in a cafe, one should not just harp, but also spend money.
After leaving La Rotonde, I went down the boulevard Montparnasse and headed towards the Rue de Rennes, it was my favorite part of this beautiful street. I stopped by the record store along the way, investigating the recently issued long plays but of course, without the intention of buying anything. Why should I when I didn’t even have a gramophone in my room? Further down the street, I walked into one of the next cafés - there was no shortage of them - and ordered a large glass of red wine, "un balloon rouge" as they call it here.
So refreshed, I wandered on. I stopped for a moment in front of the sandwich stand. The most I liked to look at were the Tunisian sandwiches, large round rolls filled with meat, lettuce and sliced olives. I looked at them for some time, but did not buy one, so again, I felt a few francs richer, because I could have been tempted and bought but I hadn’t. This evening stroll on Montparnasse was my greatest pleasure. I returned to the hotel around midnight.
“Bonne nuit, Madame,” I said to the concierge, then scrambled up to my seventh floor with the toilet in the hallway and my banged-up couch, tired and happy, and the Parisian melodies drifting in from the open doors of nearby cafes rang in my ears for a long time.
***
She came exactly on time, striding into the lobby where the box office was located. Louvre back then was very different from what it is now. It looked more real without the imposing glass pyramid and most importantly, on Sundays, admission was free of charge. It was a real chance for the masses to see and appreciate the art.
I was walking among the numerous tourists along the counter, looking at the posters when I saw her. She walked in my direction, dressed in a light mini dress, which gracefully flowed over the curves of her slim body, and the insolent looks of other guys chased after her. That didn’t surprise me at all, though I still felt suddenly angry at them. It felt as if they were trying to steal something from me that was not mine yet, but could soon be. Something about her face was familiar to me now, something I did not notice yesterday. It is quite different when one sees a girl's face from a distance as now and when one beholds her from the other side of a small café table. Anyway, it could just be an illusion. All Polish women are a little similar to each other, even in Paris. Who would have thought that this beautiful girl was going to meet me? I moved from my place, suddenly awake and rushed toward her. I think it amused her, my haste. She smiled and just like yesterday, held out her hand in greeting.
"I hope she is not a lesbian" I thought suddenly in a panic. Most of the girls give at least their cheeks to kiss at the second meeting. In Paris, after all, the customs should have been even freer. Or maybe she really only wanted to talk in Polish and nothing else?
“Hi,” she said. “Which wing do we start with? I have not yet explored the Egyptian collection. What do you think?”
All of these antiquities suddenly no longer interested me. The most interesting exhibit for me now was Lena, so it didn’t matter which way we went.
The Egyptian department was located right on the ground floor, which was no wonder. After all, who would want to lug all the stone statues and sarcophagi up to the higher floors?
We walked not so much saying anything as we went from one exhibition hall to another. Lena carefully studied the descriptions on the labels affixed to the walls. I studied Lena carefully, her every movement and gesture, every word and comment on each antique she examined, which for me did not present great importance. She was the most wonderful and priceless discovery, and I still had so much to discover about her. I knew already that I had to explore her to the end, mentally and physically, to know her thoughts and dreams, because certainly she has some dreams, like any of us. And who knew? Maybe it would be me who would end up fulfilling those dreams.
I looked into her eyes as closely as I could, to try and see if I could guess her feelings. Suddenly, her eyes shifted somewhere to the far corner of the great hall in which we found ourselves. There, next to a huge sarcophagus painted in gold was a man standing in a light-coloured suit, a man with Mediterranean features, perhaps Italian or Sicilian, examining the illustrations covering the gold, wooden lid of the sarcophagus with high interest.
As soon as he saw that we were both looking in his direction, he opened the folder of the museum guide and looked inside it indifferently, h
eading towards the next room without one glance in our direction. Something in his look puzzled me. Had I seen him somewhere else before? Suddenly, I felt Lena squeeze my wrist tightly. “Do not look at him,” she said quietly. “And never get close to him. He is very dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” I was amazed.
“Yes. He always carries with him a dagger and a revolver.”
It froze me completely. "What the hell?" I thought. "What shit did I get caught in again?"
That day, however, I learned nothing more. Lena answered my questions casually until at one point, she stopped answering them entirely. I realized that it was better to leave it alone for now. If I was too pushy, I could lose her forever, and this I would have never forgiven myself for. As for the Sicilian (as I called the stranger in my mind), I did not see him again near us, neither with his revolver nor without it.
We stopped thoughtfully before a small sculpture depicting an Egyptian writer. The scribe looked directly into our eyes, as if to acquaint us with some secret truth contained in the document he was writing.
After visiting the section of Egypt, Lena said she was tired and needed to go back home. I was disappointed a little bit. I was already prepared even to invite her for lunch, not a hearty lunch, but something lighter, like coffee with cream and croissants at a nearby cafe, but what happened next gave me again a glimmer of hope for a bright future. She suggested that we could visit a section of the Etruscan exhibition next Sunday, at the same time. Then, without even waiting for my answer, her lips brushed against my cheek and she disappeared into the crowd of tourists at the exit to the courtyard of the Louvre before I could say anything.
Candlelight Stories Page 23