“Êtes-vous prêt?” Luc said after he caught her taking surreptitious pictures of his coffee table. “Or are you going to abscond with some of my furniture?”
“If you ever decide to abandon your apartment for seventy years I hope you keep me in mind as potential heir. Or, at the very least, leave strict instructions for your actual heirs to contact Sotheby’s.”
“You auctioneers are vultures.” Luc chuckled and grabbed his phone. April resisted the urge to check hers. “Allons-y! Off we go!”
After bidding adieu to the glorious coffee table, April followed Luc down the stairs and into the café on the ground floor of his building. Once seated on the terrace next to a low fence overlooking the street, they promptly ordered a bottle of champagne and an assortment of fromages.
Sharing, April reminded herself as the cheeses glistened in the fading sunlight. You are sharing this with someone else.
A dozen pieces of cheese and two glasses of champagne later, the million little worry larvae started to leave April’s brain. She listened as Luc told her about his childhood in Dijon and boarding school in Lausanne, and time spent in America, at Georgetown for the second of three law degrees. Soon they were bickering about who was more egregiously over-degreed, and April realized she’d gone ninety minutes without once inspecting her BlackBerry.
As Luc settled the check, she reached into her bag, fully expecting a missed call or two. Surely Troy would ring before lunchtime in New York. Alas, April’s phone remained unbothered, not an e-mail or text or voice mail to be had.
“I’m sorry, but did you just say the word ‘bastard’?” Luc asked, eyebrows raised.
“No, no. Of course not. I didn’t say a thing.”
April sank her hand deeper into her bag. Her fingers brushed against the Manhattan skyline. She recoiled as if touching an electrical wire.
“Snake in your bag?” Luc asked, snickering.
“Don’t even go there.” April rolled her eyes. She yanked the painting from her purse. “New York City. I found this among les bouquinistes. I hate this picture. I don’t even know why I bought it.”
“You purchased a painting you do not like?”
“It sounds odd, I know.”
“Yes, yes it does.”
“But I think I was supposed to buy it. It was as if the vendor had it specifically for me. His bins were filled with all the typical Parisian landmarks, but after two seconds standing in his stall I happened upon this.”
“Sounds like a coincidence.” Luc shrugged.
“I don’t know. Of all the stalls I stopped at that one. His paintings were no more attractive than any of the others. Plus, I work at an auction house. Unfortunately I have a high bar for artwork. It’s like New York is following me.”
Luc chuckled. “It is. But not in the form of badly painted watercolors.”
He reached for the receipt and wrapped it around his credit card.
“You should’ve let me pay,” April said. “You keep saying ‘next time.’”
“It is your birthday. You do not pay. And this is a business expense for me, anyway.”
“Business expense?” She tried not to let her disappointment show. “Um, all right.”
April pushed back her rattan chair and stood, wobbling on the way up. She reached for a patio heater to steady herself. Luc winked, having caught this vulnerability. She extended a middle finger in his direction.
“That needs no translation,” he said and patted her on the back. “Êtes-vous prêt, Mademoiselle?”
“Oui. Grudgingly. Oui.”
“Ah, Avril, you make me laugh.”
Luc stepped easily over the low iron fence and out onto the sidewalk. Before April had the chance to navigate the stakes (which admittedly would have amused Luc to no end), he simply leaned over and hooked his forearm around April’s waist with a firmness that felt like a wall. Luc tucked his other arm under her knees and swiftly lifted her up and over the barrier. She didn’t have an opportunity to protest.
“You’re stronger than you look,” April said as he stooped to let her gain footing on the sidewalk.
“And you, my friend, are lighter than you look,” he said, his hand still firmly centered on her lower back. “Much lighter.”
“It’s a wonder you’re not married.” April was careful to avoid looking too closely into the eyes that were still mere inches from hers. “You really know how to butter a gal up.”
“Merci beaucoup! I do try.” He reached out and tweaked her champagne-flushed cheek.
April could not hide her smile. Luc removed his arm and jerked his head toward the nearby crosswalk.
“Allons-y,” he said.
Off they went.
Chapitre XLVIII
Already the streets teemed with partiers bumping and pushing and yelling. It was chaotic, Las Vegas bachelorette party chaotic. People walked into cars. Mopeds drove onto sidewalks, scantily clad waifs hanging off the back like flags. Without thinking or planning or meaning to, April grabbed onto Luc’s arm for anchor. He was two steps ahead but glanced back and smiled, the skin crinkling around his eyes.
They arrived at the designated caserne shortly after ten o’clock. Outside firemen stood ready to greet their guests, the pompiers’ lantern behind them lit red, fire trucks on the street also lit and on display.
Inside the first courtyard a Brazilian brass band in wigs hammered out songs loud enough to make the ground shake. Twinkle lights and flags dangled overhead. Concession stands lined the yard. Even at that early hour the crowd was thick. Couples danced. Single women prowled the food booths, trying to engage the firemen when they weren’t too busy slinging hash.
“Wow!” April said, the blood pumping through her veins in time with the music. “I sort of feel like I’m at the world’s classiest frat party. Where’s the beer garden?”
“There is a champagne bar inside,” Luc said.
Because of the noise he had to lean close when he spoke, his hot breath giving April a raging case of goose bumps.
“Champagne,” April said, stepping back. “Much better than a beer garden. Show me the way.”
Once again taking hold of his arm, April trailed Luc inside to the champagne bar/disco room, the setup not reminiscent of any municipal building April had ever seen. Of course this public building had been erected over four centuries ago, in the greatest city in the world, so they weren’t exactly talking DMV or small community town hall. April felt the gravitas then, even with the firemen attendants surrounding her in their skintight shirts.
Champagne in hand, Luc pointed her toward a long, low grill sizzling with row after row of mouthwatering sausages. Equivalent fare could probably be found in any given NFL stadium in the United States, but the building, the meats, the free-flowing champagne—everything about it was dizzying.
“Sausage!” she gasped. “It’s like I’ve never wanted anything more.”
Luc turned, eyebrow cocked. “What did you just say?”
“Uh, nothing.” She shook her head. “The food looks great.”
He grabbed her hand. “Allons manger.”
They sidled up to the barbecue, where yet another muscled, chiseled young buck rolled pieces of pork over the coals.
“Un comme ça, s’il vous plait,” April said, endeavoring to sound polite and not like the ravenous middle-aged harpy she was.
“Comme vous voulez,” the fireman said and pulled one off the grill. He plunked it on a stark white Styrofoam plate and passed it April’s way. The poor little dog looked so lonely.
“Also one of those,” she added quickly.
“What do they say in America?” Luc grinned, teeth pointier than usual. “Your eyes have grown larger than your stomach?”
April was about to protest when she noticed he had two as well.
“J’ai faim,” she said, feeling a little defensive. “Must be all the champagne and walking.”
“Ah, yes, the champagne. Of course. Let’s go this way,” he said. “Looks l
ike the other courtyard might have a place to sit.”
April nodded. Champagne glass tucked into the crook of her arm, sausage plate balanced in her right hand, she followed Luc into the adjacent courtyard, all the while thinking there was no better gastro combination than the things she held in her hands.
The second courtyard was at least four times larger than the first and boxed in by stately stone buildings. Blue, white, and red flags surrounded the stage. The dance floor writhed like a box of snakes. A woman in a white feather dress stood at the microphone belting out a bastardized version of an American pop song.
After winding through what was very nearly a mosh pit, they took a seat on a metal bench somewhere near the back. The minute April set her purse on the table, it jolted, from the music or a call, she wasn’t sure.
Just in case (would she ever learn?) April extracted her phone while almost jeopardizing the future of her drink and sausages. The music might have helped, but the BlackBerry was ringing too. April sat staring into her palm while the feather-dressed woman announced the band’s short break.
“Ça va?” Luc’s brow furrowed.
“Oui,” April said, still staring. “It’s just my father. Finally he calls for my birthday! I was starting to wonder.”
She watched the phone belch out its final rings. When it rolled to voice mail April checked and saw she had another missed call, this one from Troy.
“It’s about fucking time,” she mumbled.
“Do you need to speak with him?” Luc asked.
“Nah. It’s pretty loud out here,” she said, frowning.
It wasn’t loud, not right then. Although someone hooked up an iPod to one of the speakers, most of the dancers scattered to find another courtyard, a different place to gyrate and grind.
“Well, it is up to you,” Luc said. “But don’t let me stop you.”
“I’ll catch up with everyone later,” April said at last. She turned off her phone. “Don’t want to miss anything here!” She lifted her glass. “À ta santé!”
“And cheers to you as well.” They tapped plastic glasses and took a sip.
Using the side of her fork, April cut off a generous piece of sausage and then bit in, her teeth cracking through the thick, charred coating to reach the oily goodness inside.
“Oh my god,” she said, taking another bite, shamelessly talking with a mouth full of food. “This is ridiculous. Ridiculous!”
“It is rather good. I agree.”
Luc continued to take his reasonable, Parisian bites while April gobbled down both sausages and wondered if she should go for a third.
“So, Avril,” Luc said as he started on his second. She hated him right then for having more on his plate. April wished they were married, but only because she wanted to reach over and finish the rest of his food. “How does it feel, thirty-five?”
“Great so far!” she sang, not really knowing one way or another, though things were already immeasurably better than they had been a few hours before. “But it does feel like a milestone. Way more than thirty ever did.”
“That’s because Americans like to make thirty-five scary,” Luc said, wiping his mouth. April glanced at her napkin, which she had not yet used. There’d been no time for manners.
“What do you mean ‘scary’?” she said. “And what Americans?”
“The doctors. The television programs and newspapers.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Is thirty-five not the time when they demand women cease procreation?”
April laughed. “‘They,’ whoever ‘they’ are, don’t demand anything. There are women who have babies in their forties! Their fifties, even!”
“But do they not show you lots of terrifying literature about deformed progeny and such? This is what I hear. Pregnancy after thirty-five may only be accomplished via massive doses of drugs that make you fat and crazy.”
“I think it’s the pregnancy that makes you fat and crazy,” April said with a snort. “I’m not really sure how to respond to your … suppositions. I should probably be angry because I think you’re calling me old even though you have—what? Five years on me? Seven?”
Not that his years mattered, not that age ever did for a man. Luc had a point. For a woman thirty-five was a medical turning point. For men it was simply one more than thirty-four, one less than thirty-six.
“It is not an insult,” Luc said, slicing off another piece of sausage. “I think it’s atrocious they scare women like this. No more babies! You are too old! My sister had babies into her forties, and no one mentioned a thing.”
“There is science behind it,” April said. “Fertility nosedives at thirty-five and the risk for birth defects goes in the opposite direction. It’s a fact.”
“Or so they say.” Luc rolled his eyes.
“I tend to believe the professionals,” she said. “But I’m nutty like that. And anyway, it’s a nonissue for me. Yes I’m thirty-five, but I won’t be having kids.”
“Why’s that?”
“Beg pardon? Isn’t that question a little personal?”
“It is a question and you are a person, so…” He shrugged. “I’m only curious. Why don’t you want children?”
“It’s not that I don’t want them per se—”
“Is it because of your mother?” Luc asked, the words stabbing April in the chest. “Because you lost her so young?”
“Wow, you really know how to make a girl feel giddy on her birthday.” April inhaled deeply as Luc cast his eyes downward, in an almost embarrassed fashion. “Is it because we lost her? No. That’s not exactly how it’s all gone down.”
They had no one moment of losing, after all. There was more to it than that.
“It’s not that she died. I mean, I suppose there’s an aspect related to her illness. But, it’s simply easier to say kids were never my thing to begin with.” April crushed the unused napkin in her fist. “So, the band is getting back onstage. Shall we dance? I am in the mood for dancing.”
April was never in the mood for dancing, but it seemed a better option than continuing their current conversation.
“Are you sure?” Luc asked, hovering halfway over the bench, uncertain whether he should really stand.
“Dancing? Are you kidding me? I’m a pro. What about me doesn’t shout, ‘This girl has moves!’?”
April forced a laugh. Tears threatened to flood her eyes as she tried to smile them away. God, her mom. She missed her so much. Sandra Potter was the most amazing woman, even if she was a perfectly ordinary, traditional kind of mother. In her California beach town it was the hippie burnout parents who were cool, the ones prone to leaving pot brownies unattended on the kitchen counter. Still, despite Sandy Potter’s downright anemic coolness, April always liked her mom best.
“I’m sorry,” April said, dabbing her eyes with the balled-up napkin. “I always get a little emotional about her around my birthday. I start thinking about the ways I failed her, how I could’ve been a better daughter. God, I could still do better even if she was none the wiser.”
“We can leave,” Luc said. “We can go somewhere else. Less crowded. We can talk about this. I’m, ah”—he ran all ten fingers through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp—“I am not a very good talker but we can go elsewhere. We do not have to stay.”
“No,” April snapped and stamped a foot for good measure. “I want to dance and enjoy my birthday. You promised you could make it happen, Monsieur Thébault.” She lifted an eyebrow as her tears started to dry. “You promised.”
“Promise I did.”
Luc took her hand and held it firmly, safely in his. As he led her to the dance floor, April did her best to push away all thoughts of her mother, her birthday, parenting, and Troy. Better to let Luc simply pull her along.
Chapitre XLIX
The night slid by in a blur.
They danced, they drank, they consumed ever-more champagne and sausage, April besting Luc in food consumption though both were p
olite enough to not mention it.
Women batted their eyelashes at Luc as he displayed heroic efforts in pretending to look right through them. Whenever April spent a moment unattended, sleazy men chatted her up, actual sleazy men, not the cute-sleazy she unsuccessfully tried to ascribe to Luc. Ultimately the original supposedly smarmy Frenchman would return from the bathroom or champagne fountain to chastise the badgers for messing with ma femme. Femme meant “woman” but ma femme meant “wife.” April appreciated the gesture in a way that had little to do with chasing away strange men.
They talked about Marthe. Luc had read more of the diaries than April might’ve expected. And, for all his joking about how she thought of little else, he also spent a surprising amount of time thinking about la demimondaine.
April told him what she saw in Marthe’s words without trying to wrap it all up in the guise of provenance. They speculated on Jeanne Hugo, and also Marguérite. They joked about Montesquiou and his flamboyant ways and tried to spot dance-floor revelers who most matched his description. Indeed the fire station had many Les Comtes traipsing around but no reasonable proxy for Boldini.
By the end of the night April wondered how she could ingest so much champagne yet not feel any drunker than when she first walked in and witnessed the scene inside the caserne de pompiers. None of the social awkwardness she anticipated came to pass, not a sliver of embarrassment. It was, to sound like a seven-year-old girl, the best birthday ever. And April felt exactly that young and carefree.
When the party was over, after the firemen good-naturedly (though adamantly) pushed the crowd from the dance floors and courtyards, Luc and April stepped out into the cobalt sky of morning. They paused on the sidewalk as Luc checked his watch. It was almost five o’clock. April was not someone who stayed out until five o’clock. She was not someone who stayed out until the next morning at all.
A Paris Apartment Page 24