Rob couldn’t help doing the math. Six times his current fee, plus what he’d made on the double shifts at La Bohème, would free him of debt.
“I’ll call you if I hear something,” he said.
As Lena emerged from behind the green gate, she spotted Rob approaching the bistro. His grin indicated he had made it to his interview. He’d gone there straight from her place, figuring it was better to show up in an imperfect state than not to show up at all. So he had taken a speedy shower, borrowed her razor to shave, and used his index finger to brush his teeth. On his way out, he’d stopped by the bistro and swapped his T-shirt for one of his starched server shirts.
Already briefed by Jeanne about the reconciliation, Pepe showed them to a small table squeezed between two others. “I am afraid we cannot offer you the private terrace out back at this time. It’s currently occupied by the proprietor.”
“It’s OK,” Lena said while Rob glared at Pepe.
After they finished their lunch and ordered espressos, Jeanne joined them during her coffee break. Rob stood up and adjusted the central parasol to make sure all three of them were protected from the midday sun.
“Paris weather rocks,” Lena said, taking a sip of her coffee. “It hardly ever rains.”
“The past couple of months have been an anomaly, absolutely not representative of Parisian weather,” Jeanne said. “If you’re lucky, it may last until early September and may even come back for a week in late October.”
“Don’t you love Indian summer? Like in that Joe Dassin song.” Lena hummed the melancholy tune, and wondered if Rob would still be with her in October.
Better not think about it now.
“Yes, yes, it’s very nice,” Jeanne said. “But the norm in Paris is wet and chilly. Just like London or Brussels. Only for some strange reason, Paris has a better rep. People imagine it as sunny or brightly lit at night. But its true face is gray.”
“I’ve been to Paris several times before, and the weather was nice every time,” Lena protested. She wouldn’t have the city of her dreams trashed like that.
“When was it?” Jeanne asked. “What time of year did you visit?”
“Well, summer, mostly . . . and spring,” Lena had to admit.
“Told you. Wait till you see our real weather. Till you experience the veritable Parisian drizzle—drives you out of your mind.”
Lena turned to Rob, but he was busy talking to Pepe who had come to collect the check. Still, Lena was determined to stand her ground. “It’s just rain, Jeanne, we have that in Moscow, and in Geneva, too. What’s so special about the Parisian drizzle?”
“Oh, it’s not just any drizzle, honey. It’s this humidity hanging in the air in tiny little droplets, so tiny they penetrate your skin and then your skull and get into your brain.”
Lena shuddered at the image . . . then felt Rob’s hand on her knee. He was still talking to Pepe, his face turned away from her, but his hand—concealed by the table—got under the hem of her sundress and began to caress her thigh.
“Rest assured. You’ll be able to make your own opinion about the Parisian drizzle soon enough,” Jeanne said.
“You’re mean, you know? Even if I’m deluding myself about how great Paris is, why drizzle on my parade? Can’t you just let me bask in my dumb love a little longer?”
“Lena, dear, don’t listen to Jeanne,” Pepe said. “She’s French, so she complains. That’s what the French do, always and in any circumstance.”
“No, we don’t, you silly little—” Jeanne started.
Pepe didn’t let her finish. “It’s not your fault, Jeanne.” He turned to Lena and repeated for extra emphasis, “It’s not her fault. It’s what they’re taught from their tenderest age.”
“Says who?” Rob asked, his hand scorching hot against Lena’s thigh.
“Imagine this little baby.” Pepe made a fish mouth and emitted a couple of high-pitched screams. “So this baby is really, really happy. It just got its first squeeze of breast milk. Life is beautiful, everything is perfect. And then it hears Mommy say, ‘Oh shit, I’m so bored’ or ‘Oh shit, I feel like a cow’ or ‘Oh shit, this baby is so ugly’.”
Encouraged by the girls’ giggles, he continued, “I’m telling you, Lena, complaining is a national sport—no, it’s a national value—in this country. Didn’t you know? It’s what the revolutionaries stormed the Bastille for. They wanted every citizen to have the right to grumble.”
Pepe climbed on a chair, raised his clenched fist in the air, and recited, “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, Complain.”
The patrons sitting within earshot of Pepe cheered enthusiastically. He bowed and climbed down from the chair, looking exceedingly pleased with his deconstruction of the French character. Jeanne narrowed her eyes at him and mumbled something unintelligible.
Rob grinned, obviously too entertained—or too distracted—to defend his compatriots.
Lena smiled, as a wave of pure, unadulterated happiness washed over her.
* * *
By the time they stood to leave, Lena’s sole concern was to quickly get someplace where Rob could finish what he had started at the bistro. Without saying a word to each other, they headed straight back to her apartment.
A few hours of lovemaking later—including on the kitchen table—Lena was too exhausted to go out again. Rob said he was happy to stay put. He needed to check his e-mail and send his CV to a few more companies. Lena lent him her laptop and settled on the couch with a book, but she couldn’t focus on reading. Too many questions assaulted her mind. She wondered if Rob was going to stay for the night, if he would be prepared to leave France for a job offer abroad, if he’d managed to find the money he needed.
After staring at the same page for twenty minutes, she asked, “What are the jobs you’re applying to?”
“All kinds. I’m afraid I’m not in a position to pick my industry or location. I’ll be happy if I can negotiate the starting salary.”
There, she had at least one of her answers. Better not dwell on it too much.
She smiled brightly. “What if the job you were interviewed for this morning worked out? You said the interview went pretty well.”
“I hope so.” Rob turned to Lena. “And what about you? Any change since a month ago?”
“My supervisor in Geneva encourages me to apply for a PhD program, which means at least three more years of study. I don’t mind the study as much as the purpose of doing a PhD. It would be to stay in the academia.”
Rob quirked an eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound too bad to me.”
“Well, it’s certainly better than working for my dad in the IT field, which would either drive me crazy or bore me silly. Most probably both.”
“But?”
“But . . . I guess what I’d really like to do with my life is translating literary works. I love it and I think I’m good at it. I’ve decided to do just that during my “gap year” in Paris. I’ll translate as much as I can—prose and poetry, from Russian to French and vice versa.”
Lena smiled apologetically. “Unlike most new graduates, I can afford to experiment. After all, being a minigarch does offer a few perks.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Thanks for letting me use your laptop.” He stood and ran his hand through his hair. “Lena, I need to go to my place tonight . . .”
“Yes, sure.”
He took a step toward her. “Would you like to come with me? I know you’re tired.” He grinned smugly. “But we could have a quiet evening at my place, just watching TV. Mat is out of town, so I have the apartment to myself.”
Lena silently counted to five before answering. “OK, let’s see what your lair looks like.”
The lair was reasonably neat for a place inhabited by two young men. On the way upstairs, Rob picked up the mail and went through it, separating the junk.
“I have a letter from my grandfather. He’s the only member of my family who still writes letters using pen and paper. Now that I think of it
, he’s the only person I know who still does that.” He waved a small envelope addressed to him.
“I know. A vanishing art . . . On the other hand, look at the bright side—all the trees that weren’t cut, animals that weren’t deprived of their habitat, indigenous tribes that weren’t displaced.”
“I see your point, but when I read this letter”—he pointed at the two densely filled pages he was holding—“I can relate to the person who wrote it in a different way than when I read a three line e-mail with no caps.”
She smiled. “You have a nostalgic side!”
“I hope you still like me.” He led her to the kitchen that had a small dining table, a bookshelf, and a wall-mounted TV. “What would you like to drink?”
“Tea would be good.”
He turned on the electric kettle and put teabags into their mugs. “You know, my grandfather is the family’s maverick. He never wanted to be a farmer, had big dreams when he was young.”
“Did he pursue them?”
Rob shook his head. “He gave up on them to stay in the village and marry my grandmother. I think he spent his every waking hour ever since regretting that decision.”
“But didn’t he love your grandma? Didn’t they raise kids together? Live a tranquil life in a beautiful setting?” Lena was inexplicably disturbed by Rob’s comment on his grandfather’s choice.
“They produced my dad, and then Grand-maman died of cancer. After that, Grand-papa had a pretty long bout of depression. I’m not sure about the specifics, but my father says Grand-papa became too cozy in his depressed state to get out there and face the world.”
The kettle started beeping, and Rob interrupted his story to finish making their tea. He placed a steaming mug in front of Lena.
“Thank you. But, please, let me do this next time. I may suck at cooking, but I do know how to make tea and coffee. Isn’t it enough that you bring me food and beverages when I’m at La Bohème?”
“At La Bohème, I’m paid to bring you food and beverages. So it doesn’t count. Whereas here, I’m free to do as I please, and it pleases me to make you tea.” Rob sat down next to Lena and added, “Since I can’t very well go and hunt a saber-toothed tiger for you.”
Lena raised her eyebrows.
“Because I would, you know, if you wanted one. Had they not been extinct.” He wiped imaginary sweat off his forehead and blew out his cheeks. “Thank God.”
Lena giggled. But she still wanted to hear the rest of his grandfather’s story. “Did your Grandpa recover from his depression?”
“Kind of. After my dad took over the farm and married my mom, Grand-papa rented a little studio apartment and developed a routine that still keeps him going. He starts every day with a little exercise session.”
“Good for him.”
“He also makes sure to always have company for his meals. Usually, it’s one of his bridge club or chess club buddies. Sometimes, my sister. Then he goes for a long walk in the afternoon. And then he goes over to my parents’ place for dinner.”
“This doesn’t sound like an unhappy life to me,” Lena said.
“It doesn’t sound like it, but to him it is.” Rob took a sip from his mug. “You see, he measures what he’s got against his unfulfilled dreams. He wanted to go to college, travel the world, be a movie director . . . He didn’t do any of that, hence the regret.”
“He could’ve at least traveled once your dad was a grown man, couldn’t he?”
“He was broke.” Rob gave Lena a strange look, then said, “You see, when you’re eighteen and you hitchhike your way around the world, you’re an explorer. When you do it at sixty-eight, you’re a tramp.”
* * *
They spent the rest of the evening quietly in front of the TV, just as planned. The night turned out to be a lot less quiet.
In the morning, when they sat down to coffee and toast in the kitchen, Lena thought it was lucky that Mat was out of town. She would have been too embarrassed to face him now, considering all the commotion she and Rob made during the night.
“You bring me luck!” Rob interrupted her thoughts, turning his phone to Lena.
The company he’d interviewed with the day before had requested a follow-up interview.
“Who knew that having slept for only three hours before a job interview would work for me?” Then his tone became more serious. “This is my first follow-up, and I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”
“I’m so happy for you.” She gave him a playful wink. “Must’ve been the jeans and server’s shirt combo that did the trick.”
“How about my superior intelligence and leadership potential? Anyway, I don’t want to get my hopes too high yet. It’s just a follow-up interview, not a job offer.”
Lena was about to ask what and, especially, where the job in question was, when Rob clapped his hand to his forehead. “I almost forgot to tell you: I’ll be visiting my family this weekend. Their farm is in a small village called Saint-Fontain, next to Besançon. Have you ever been there?”
“On the Swiss side of the Jura Mountains, yes, but not in French Jura.”
“It’s the July Fourteenth, so there’ll be lots of festivities. Amanda and Mat are coming. I asked my parents if I could bring a third friend, and they said the more the merrier. So, if you don’t have better plans for your weekend . . .”
Lena noted Rob’s use of the term “friend” to describe her and it rattled her. On a rational level, she knew he couldn’t possibly have referred to her as his girlfriend, considering that they had been together for only two days. She also knew that if she had to mention Rob to her dad, a “friend” would be the word she’d use. But to her dismay, insecurity was once again clouding her judgment, making her doubt herself and others. She was aware of it, yet she couldn’t help it.
Rob misinterpreted her frown. “Lena, if you’re not too excited about spending the weekend with a bunch of village folk, drinking and making merry, I won’t blame you.”
“No, that’s not it. I’m actually quite curious to get a glimpse of French rural life. It was just unexpected.” She fidgeted with her watch strap. “And . . . you don’t need to invite me just to be polite. I can have a perfectly fine weekend here or go visit friends in Geneva while you’re away.”
“But I want you to come,” he said, taking her hand. “Once you know me better, you’ll see I don’t do things just to be polite. I’m inviting you because I’d like you to come with me to Saint-Fontain.”
She searched his eyes.
“Besides, the Swiss side of Jura is a pale sham compared to the French side. Our forests are greener, our skies are bluer, and our mountains are taller.”
“Watch out—I may bring my measuring tape.”
“Does it mean you’re coming?”
“I guess it does.”
“Great! You’ll see—it’s going to be fun.”
Lena nodded, trying to ignore her gut feeling that a weekend in Amanda’s company was likely to be anything but fun.
My buzzing city is asleep—tight,
I’ve walked away into the dim—light,
I may be someone’s mother, wife, child,—
But I remember only this—night.
Marina Tsvetaeva
NINE
Jura was beautiful, with its green forests, blue lakes, majestic mountains, and cobalt blue skies. The air was so pure Lena quickly became drunk on it. As they reached Saint-Fontain, she admired the village’s central square. As any self-respecting heart of a commune, it had a town hall with the tricolor flapping in the wind, a church and a bakery. The streets went up and down, offering breathtaking views, and every house had red, pink or white geraniums in its windows.
Rob’s parents and little sister greeted them on the porch, distributing warm hugs, handshakes, and kisses. His grandfather, who had picked them up from the station, positively glowed.
“Amanda, you’ve grown even prettier than the last time I saw you,” Rob’s mom said, making Amanda color wi
th pleasure. “And you are Lena, right? My name is Rose Dumont—please call me Rose. This is my husband, Jacques, and my daughter Caroline. We are very pleased to meet you.”
Her smile was warm and friendly, and Lena relaxed a little. “Thank you so much for inviting me. I hope I haven’t caused any last-minute rearrangements.”
“Nonsense. The farmhouse is big enough to host a football team—unlike the Parisian shoeboxes you’re used to.” Rose ushered everyone in. “I’ll let you freshen up, and then you can join us for some refreshments in the garden.”
She led the girls to their rooms, while Mat followed Rob to the opposite end of the house.
When Lena came back outside, she followed animated voices and laughter to the back of the house, where everyone was already seated around a big table under a sprawling tree. The garden was as pretty and well-kept as the house.
Rob pulled out a chair for her and filled her glass. “You’ve got to taste this. It’s the best lemonade in the universe, produced here at the Dumont Farm by Madame Dumont herself.”
Rob’s dad pushed a bowl with blueberries toward Lena. “Taste these, too. Organically grown in this very garden. And the cheese cubes in that bowl on your left are cut from the best Comté in the region, produced by your humble servant.”
He waited for Lena to taste the berries and the cheese and emit appreciative noises, then continued. “As I was telling your friends, tomorrow night we’re having a big event in the village—the Firemen’s Ball. Have you heard of it?”
Lena shook her head to humor him.
Monsieur Dumont’s eyes lit up at the prospect of educating a foreigner about the French ways. “The Firemen’s Ball is held annually all over France to celebrate the Bastille Day and to support local fire brigades. This year, we made a special effort. We’re going to have a professional rock band from Lyon, and we’re expecting the party to go on until the morning.”
What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1) Page 11