“OK. Maybe next time, then.” Rob collected his papers and stood. It was the time to bottle up his French pride and go to Starbucks across the street. “Will you at least let me buy you a latte?”
“Sure. Knock yourself out.”
As they walked to the Starbucks, Rob whistled a silly tune. When Amanda raised an eyebrow, he just spread his arms as if to say, I can’t help it. His life was exactly what he’d wanted it to be. He had a solid chance to graduate top of his class and find a good job. His best friends Amanda and Mat were not far behind. He’d make Grand-papa proud and prove to his parents he’d made the right choice. He’d show them it had been worth it, especially the last two years of all work and no play. But didn’t all ambitious young people have to go through a few tough years if they wanted to make it in this world? At least, most of his friends did.
Rob pulled out his cell phone. “Let me call Mat. He may want to join us at Starbucks.”
A hint of disappointment flickered in Amanda’s eyes, but she schooled her features into a pleasant smile. “I think he has a class right now.”
“Does he? I thought he finished before us on Thursdays . . . I’m probably confusing it with Fridays. Anyway, let me try.”
Mat answered his phone and said he’d meet them for a mocha.
“See? I knew he’d be free by now,” Rob said.
“Great.” Amanda turned away from him and pushed open the door to the coffee temple.
Ten minutes later, the three of them sprawled on soft leather armchairs and sipped their brews.
“I wish there were more cafés in this city where you could slouch like this,” Rob said.
“As opposed to having to keep your elbows close, so you won’t knock over your neighbors’ drinks,” Amanda said.
Mat looked up from his mug. “Are you describing La Bohème?”
Amanda only smiled.
Rob gave a sigh. “Yeah, sounds like it . . . apart from those two larger tables we have in the back with padded banquettes.”
Amanda turned to Mat. “So, Mathieu, have you made up your mind about what you want to do with your MBA? Will you stay in Paris and get a normal job or enter small-town politics in Normandy?”
“I’m still not sure. I keep changing my mind. The thing is, I’m as attached to home as I am to Paris.”
“How convenient for me that my home is Paris,” Amanda said.
Mat brushed his unruly curls from his face and sighed. “It’s like asking me to choose between Calvados brandy and Bordeaux wine and stick to that choice for the rest of my life.”
“You do realize that you don’t have to stick with your choice for the rest of your life, right?” Amanda looked at Mat like he was a confused child.
“Yes, yes, of course I do. Anyway, I may end up in neither Paris nor Baleville if I get a job offer I can’t refuse in Singapore,” Mat said.
“Singapore is the place to be these days. Who knows, you may love it there.” Amanda put her drink down and gave Mat a sly look. “But what about Jeanne, your blue-haired muse? You’d be so very far from her!”
“Over the past two years of our unilateral courtship, I’ve gotten no further with Jeanne than I was on the day I first laid eyes on her lip piercing.” Mat’s gaze became unfocused behind his thick eyeglasses. “I don’t think Jeanne would notice if I left for Singapore this minute and didn’t show up at La Bohème for a whole week.”
“Oh, but she would,” Rob said. “You always tip, and there isn’t a waiter on this planet who wouldn’t notice the disappearance of a loyal tipping customer.”
Mat shrugged. “That’s all I am to her—a loyal tipping customer.”
“Well, at least, you should be happy you can afford to tip, what with our ginormous tuition fees and the payment deadline looming,” Amanda said.
And with that little remark, Rob’s sense of a benevolent universe vanished, along with his precious moment of self-indulgence. The specter of the tuition fee oozed into his head, chased all his lightness away, and reclaimed its royal share of his attention. His bright future would crumble like a card house if he didn’t pay the fees before the end of August. No degree, no good job, no prospects.
Amanda looked at him with concern. “Rob? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Well, no, actually . . . I’m just a little worried about tuition.”
“Now, if I know you well, a little would be a euphemism for a lot, right?” Mat said.
“Well, no, not a lot. But maybe just a little more than a little. Let’s say, if I applied German discipline and precision to my language, I’d say I’m moderately worried.”
Mat and Amanda both smiled, but Amanda wouldn’t let go. “I thought your tuition was taken care of. Didn’t you get a waiver?”
“I was sure I would but it didn’t work out. And I didn’t get the loan, either.”
“Are you serious?” Mat asked.
“Banks in this country don’t like lending to students whose parents don’t act as guarantors.”
“Your parents didn’t agree to be your guarantors?” Mat sounded surprised.
“I didn’t ask them. The banker wanted proof I had a job lined up.” Rob smirked. “I gave her proof I had a part-time job waiting tables. Turned out it wasn’t the kind of job she had in mind.”
“Why don’t you just borrow from your parents? They should be able to help you out, yes?” Amanda asked.
“I can’t. When I left home six years ago, my parents were mad. They had other plans for me… So they told me not to expect any help from them.”
“I’m sure they didn’t mean it,” Mat said.
“Unfortunately for me, they did. When I ran out of money during the first year—I could only get odd jobs as a busboy back then—I asked if I could borrow a little from them. They refused. During my third year, I was trying to rent an apartment and asked them to act as my guarantors. They said sorry but no.”
“I find this hard to believe. They are such nice people,” Amanda said.
Rob cracked a bitter smile. “Nice, but pigheaded. They’re still hoping I’ll give up and return to the farm.”
“Why don’t you approach your grandfather? He’s the one who understands your ambition, isn’t he?” Amanda asked, a confused frown on her pretty face.
“All Grand-papa has is his meager pension. He was a crappy farmer when he worked. Brought the family farm to near ruin.”
“He did tell me last summer he hated farming,” Amanda said.
“Luckily,” Rob continued, “my dad was old enough by then to take matters into his own hands. He saved the farm.”
Mat gave him a concerned look. “What are you going to do?”
The crease between Amanda’s eyebrows grew so deep Rob felt he had to say something reassuring. “Oh, I’ll come up with something, I always do. Guys, I take back that I’m moderately worried. I’m not worried at all. I’ve even got a plan, I swear.”
He chose not to reveal that the plan in question was a fishy stint as a spy for a Russian businessman.
That, or an emergency intervention from a fairy godmother.
Blissful recklessness, my sweet sin,
My companion—and ruination!
You have taught me to laugh at whim,
You have filled my veins with flirtation.
You have taught me to love—and to mend,
Drop the ring, if empty of meaning,
To begin, every time, from the end,
And to end before the beginning.
To be iron—and to be silk
in this world where we are so little . . .
Battle sadness with chocolate milk,
And tend loneliness with a giggle.
Marina Tsvetaeva
TWO
Guidebook, check.
Bottle of Evian, check.
Phone, keys, money, check.
OK, she was all set for today’s bit of neighborhood recon. On the program was the quartier that stretched from Nortre-Dame de Lorette to Pigalle. H
er guidebook recommended starting from the church, but Lena had already seen it during her first two walks. So she took the bustling rue des Martyrs directly to the legendary boutique of Père Tanguy.
Or whatever was left of it.
If anything at all.
Her guidebook was suspiciously evasive on that account, and the photo next to the detailed story of Père Tanguy showed no more than a sober white memorial plaque.
During one of her visits to Paris, Lena had discovered Van Gogh’s Portrait of Père Tanguy in the Rodin museum. She loved the air of quiet serenity the Buddah-like man exuded. Père Tanguy wasn’t a random model—he was the best friend of the impressionists. The jovial fellow sold them art supplies and accepted paintings as payment. He then exhibited the paintings, one at a time, in the window of his tiny shop. On Monday it would be a Renoir, on Tuesday a Monet, on Wednesday a Pissarro, on Thursday a Van Gogh…
She had to see that place.
To Lena’s surprise and joy, the boutique was still there, sold Japanese art, and was called Père Tanguy. After chatting with the friendly manager, she found out the shop had changed hands and was converted into an art gallery a few years ago. Considering Père Tanguy’s obsession with Japanese prints, history had come full circle.
Elated, Lena bought a print and headed back home. She’d promised herself to write at least three pages of her theoretical chapter before the end of the day. It was time to get started… After she had something to eat.
It was past lunchtime, but Lena was hoping she could still order a big salad at the downstairs bistro. She took a window seat at the back. It offered a great vantage point from which to observe the passersby. Lena stretched her legs under the table and began to study the menu. She felt mature, self-sufficient, and in charge.
And single, in a good way.
A young woman with dyed pale blue hair approached her table. “Has mademoiselle decided what she’d like to order?”
The waitress’s hair, her gothic makeup, and pierced lower lip were in stark contrast to her classical French server uniform: a stiff-collared white shirt, black trousers, long black apron, and elegant black shoes. She whipped out a little notepad and tilted her head to the side to signal full attention.
“Your Savoyard salad looks interesting,” Lena said, looking to her for a confirmation.
“It isn’t interesting. It’s fantastic—our chef’s special. It’s the best Savoyard in Paris, if I say so myself.”
“Wonderful! Then I’ll have it, please.”
The waitress shook her head. “I didn’t mean to lead you on. We’re out of the Savoyard. In fact, the only salad left is the Niçoise.”
“That’s OK. I’ll have the Niçoise then, and a pitcher.”
Lena found herself remarkably unperturbed by the salad situation and pleased that she’d remembered to ask for a pitcher. During her previous visits to Paris, she had learned it was local code for tap water. It felt good to showcase that knowledge now, even though she would have preferred to drink Evian.
“Very good choice,” the waitress commented with a sly smile.
Lena wasn’t sure if she was referring to the salad or the tap water.
After finishing her meal and ordering a cup of tea, Lena turned on her iPad. Thankfully, the café offered Wi-Fi. She checked her e-mails and saw one from Gerhard. He was complaining about his current predicament: how to cut a 200-page mammoth of a monograph down to the seventy required for a master’s thesis. At the end of his note he suggested that they critique each other’s work.
So Gerhard wanted them to be thesis writing buddies. All right. It would be part of her healing. Besides, she did need help with her thesis, which at present consisted of only ten pages of theory and about forty pages of poems. The poems were Lena’s French translations of Marina Tsvetaeva, her favorite Russian poet. Even though both Lena and Gerhard majored in translation theory and practices, Gerhard was more into theory while Lena preferred the practice.
She wrote back.
Gerhard:
I have an idea. How about removing all the speculative bits, historic digressions and unnecessary footnotes?
Try it and I think you’ll be fine.
Cheers,
Lena
It helped that she knew Gerhard and the way he wrote so well. It was also much easier to critique someone else’s thesis than to write hers. She attached to her e-mail her own anorexic theoretical chapter and asked him for an honest opinion.
She considered sending Gerhard her translated poems, too—after all, they were part of her thesis. She was curious to see if her translations would stir an emotional response in a person unfamiliar with the original texts. Truth be told, Lena craved feedback on the poems she’d poured her soul into.
And that was precisely why she couldn’t send them to Gerhard.
As she packed her iPad away, a nerve-racking sound startled her. A motorcycle screeched to a halt in front of the bistro, its engine filling the street with a hideous stench and roar. Lena wasn’t sure motorcycles were allowed on pedestrian streets, but the biker looked like he wouldn’t give a hoot if they weren’t. His helmet half concealed his face. He sported a tattoo on each arm, and another one peeked from under the collar of his black T-shirt. He wore black jeans and huge black combat boots along with bulky signet rings on his hands. If appearances could talk, his was shouting that a metrosexual he was not.
A few seconds later, the blue-haired waitress came out and stood next to the biker with her arms crossed over her chest. She said something Lena didn’t catch. The biker tapped his helmet but didn’t remove it.
“You were gone for more than an hour with some chick,” the waitress shouted. “People asked me who she was and if you were coming back to the party, and I had to tell them I had no clue. And then, just as I was about to leave, you show up and behave like nothing’s wrong!”
The biker muttered something Lena couldn’t make out.
“I don’t care that she doesn’t mean anything to you!” The waitress yelled, clenching her hands in fists. “I want to know what I mean to you. After all this time, do I mean anything at all?”
Lena couldn’t hear the biker’s reply.
The waitress shook her head. “You know what? Just go away. Right now I can’t stand to look at you.” She spun around and marched back into the kitchen.
The biker started the engine and drove away, leaving stench, noise, and smoke in his wake.
* * *
From behind a tree Rob raised his gun, took aim at the mobster he had been paid to execute, and pulled the trigger. As he watched the bullet perforate his target’s chest, the mobster transformed into a petite young woman with dark hair and big brown eyes. Rob froze. There was no mistake. He’d just shot Lena Malakhova, the girl from the bistro. Suddenly, his head started to ring, the sound getting louder and louder.
He woke up drenched in cold sweat to the deafening peal of his telephone.
“Hello,” he rasped, grabbing the receiver.
“Rob, it’s Maman. Did I wake you? How’s my boy?”
He shook his head vigorously to dissipate the image of Lena Malakhova, sprawled on the ground with a big red stain spreading across her chest. “I’m fine, M’man. What’s up? How’s everyone back home?”
“We’re all OK,” Rose said. “Grand-papa is organizing a chess tournament for the Fourteenth of July celebrations. It’s put him in a good mood.”
“That’s great.”
“He even went to Besançon to order a special prize from a craftsman for the winner. We’ve been bugging him about what it is, but he only says ‘wait and see.’ I fear the worst.”
Rob laughed. “I bet it’s a chess set with topless mermaids as the queens. That, or topless firefighters as the kings. Or maybe both to make sure to embarrass madam the mayor.”
“Oh yes, Bastille Day won’t be a success unless your grandfather has embarrassed madam the mayor!”
“How’s my little sister? Is she finishing the yea
r well?” Rob asked.
“Caro’s been smack in the middle of her class since January. I suspect she’s so comfy there she’s made it a question of honor to uphold that position,” Rose said with a sigh.
“I’ll talk to her.”
“But there’s good news, too. Your sister has declared we’re no longer to buy her anything pink, rosy, or purple because it’s not cool. Her favorite color from now on is black. Please take note.”
Rob smiled. Caroline—Caro to friends and family—was an outgoing, happy child. He wondered if she would retain that personality through her teenage years. She loved to be outdoors. As a result her skin was golden and her wild hair bleached by the sun. Being her elder by twelve years, Rob had logged a record number of babysitting hours up until he left for Paris. As a matter of fact, he may have spent more time with his little sister than both his busy parents combined.
“Note taken—pink is not cool.” He gasped dramatically. “Oh no.”
“What is it?”
“I need to replace my entire wardrobe.”
As his mother chuckled, Rob stuck the handset between his ear and his shoulder, rubbed his eyes, and got out of bed. “How’s Papa? And what about you?”
“Same old. We’ve been really busy for the past couple of months, but things are calming down a bit.”
“Will you visit me then?” He knew there was little chance of that happening, considering how much his parents disliked big cities in general, and Paris in particular. They hated the traffic, the noise, the ubiquitous dog poo, and the weirdoes in the métro. He couldn’t actually remember a single thing they liked about Paris.
“There’s still some urgent work to finish here. Besides, we’re both on the organizational committee for the intervillage Olympic Games and the Firemen’s Ball. It will be special this year, you’ll see.”
During his six years in Paris, Rob’s parents visited him only three times and complained about Paris for months after each visit. So, he went to them whenever he could. That is, whenever he managed to get a weekend off at the bistro, book cheap train tickets, or find an offer to car pool.
What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1) Page 2