Old Ways

by David Xavier

she said, sitting back. “We don’t love like a rose then. You didn’t make it nice.”

  “Do you want to walk?” he asked her.

  “But it is raining.”

  “It’s nice in the rain. It’s not raining much.”

  “We will still get wet.”

  “I’m going to walk. Would you like to come with me?”

  “Oui.”

  He left the francs on the table. She lit another cigarette and held the rose in her other hand. They went down the ramp to the river edge, the clean cold of the water misting with rain. When the cigarette was out she dropped it on the cobbles and took his arm, leaning into him and not wiping the rain off her cheeks, enjoying the cool feel of it. He kept his hands in his pockets and they were not hurried. People who cared about the rain walked fast and held newspapers above their heads and the people who did not care strolled with bare heads and blinked in the rain. The rain was not too much.

  “You like it here?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said. “Oui.”

  “I like when you say it in Français.”

  “The easy words.”

  “What are the streets like in America?”

  “I’ve told you.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “They are the same as here but they are not cobbled as much.”

  “The same smells?”

  “No, different smells.”

  “The same people?”

  “Different people.”

  “Can you write in America the way you write here?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Tell me.”

  “Because it is better to write here,” he said. “Because it is different and there are different things and different people to see. You see people as new things and the way they move and talk are all new, but they are all people and real reactions.”

  It was the truth. When you know someone too well, their actions pass you by, hidden. But he had looked around and found that people here were beginning to pass him by, not because he was used to them, but because he looked past them. The words dried up.

  “What are the American women like?”

  “I told you that too.”

  “Tell me again,” she said.

  “They are more rough and not as sweet as you.”

  “I like that I am sweeter. What are they like when they make love?”

  “I wouldn’t know, but they are not as happy as you.”

  “I like that too.”

  They went up the next ramp and walked the street to the park where the small pond was. Nobody sitting at the pond today; the bench dripped and pooled on the slats like wax paper, and the sand was matted and pocked as large drops came each time the trees shook. The ducks in the pond did not mind the rain. They watched the ducks and the rain on the surface of the water.

  “The ducks are canard,” she said. “Say it to me.”

  “Why do the French speak English?” he asked.

  “We learn.”

  “Americans do not learn French.”

  “Some do not speak anything but French. I speak Italian and German too,” she said.

  “Spanish?”

  “A little bit. It is very close to Italian.”

  “Americans do not learn anything but English.”

  “I will teach you French and Italian and German. You can teach me English.”

  “You already speak it.”

  “I can learn more.”

  “I want to learn Spanish the most,” he said.

  “You want to learn French the most,” she looked him and frowned.

  “I want to live in Spain.”

  “You do not. You live here with me.”

  “I do not live with you.”

  “But you want to live with me?”

  “No.”

  “You are mean today. You were nice when you brought the rose. The rain makes you mean. You will be better when you make love to me and we are warm.”

  They walked through the park and went to the cobbled concrete at the river’s edge. The river was green and rolled calmly over itself from underneath. A couple passed them by and they were not worried about getting wet.

  “They are like us,” she pointed.

  “Are they?”

  “Yes,” she said. “They do not care to get wet as long as they are together.”

  “You didn’t want to get wet.”

  “Do they have rivers in America?” she asked.

  “Of course. But not where I’m from.”

  “What is there where you are from?”

  “It’s flat and brown and nothing to look at that makes you wonder, and the people are plain.”

  “Is that why you cannot write there?”

  “Yes.”

  She wiped her eyebrows and blinked. “Do you think of me when you write?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I want you to think of me always when you write. Do you think your stories will be like me if you think of me?”

  “What are you like?”

  “Sweeter than American women.”

  “If I think of you while I write them, then yes.”

  “Then think of me.”

  They walked along the river edge and came out on the Rue de Rivoli and walked the street, leaving the river to fade behind them in the gray tree mist, until they came to her apartment. The rain made her makeup run slightly and their hair was matted on top and dotted with drops. He kept his hands in his pockets.

  “You will come up after you write more stories?” Berenice asked him.

  “Yes.”

  “You will write one about me?”

  “Not today, but I will write one about you and read it to you with the windows open.”

  “I can’t wait for it,” she smiled. “Au revoir.”

  He pulled her close and kissed her. The rose crushed between them. He held her there and she kissed him back.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “Je t’aime,” she said. “I love you, monsieur.”

  They held each other at the foot of the stairs to her apartment. He listened to the clop of the horses in the street and the slow drizzle of rain and he felt her warmth in his arms.

  “Come upstairs, monsieur. Make love to me today.”

  “I will come back later.”

  “I can’t be away from you. I love you too much.”

  “Go upstairs.”

  “I will be here for you. Go write your stories, American man. Think of me until it burns and you cannot stay away and I will be here for you tonight.”

  He pulled her mouth up to his and kissed her lips again. He could feel the young muscles in her back, he remembered how they felt when he held her, and he remembered the way she moved under the covers. She was too young, just a child, but he did love her and he wished he could stay and write and make love.

  They pulled away and the rose petals fell to their feet, sticking to the wet pavement. She knelt quickly and picked them up. She walked up the stairs and searched for the key. He saw that her hands were shaking. She was crying and it made her makeup run more, getting the places where the rain could not. She went in and watched him from the window, and he turned and walked and the rain was heavier now.

  A carriage stopped at the curb ahead and waited for him. He took his time and listened to his feet on the pavement. The carriage driver leaned over in his slicker when he reached the curb.

  “Monsieur, une promenade en calèche?”

  “No. Merci, monsieur,” he said to him. He would rather walk in the rain on this day.

  “Au revoir.” The carriage driver whipped the horses gently and they began to clop again on the cobbles.

  He watched the carriage bump away on the stones and turn the corner. It was misty in the distance and the buildings stretched up into the gray of the rain. He held his hands in his pockets and walked along Pont du Carrousel over the River Seine and in the distanc
e he could see the cathedral. He stopped on the bridge and watched the water move quickly beneath him. It was green and was not frothy, a powerful rolling liquid muscle.

  He shut his eyes and tried again. The words to describe it would not come and he wished he had not made a mess, having love, trying to find love and trying to break it. The cathedral had always been an inspiration and he thought of those who had found the words before him and had not made a mess as he did. He looked forward to when he could find it again and he told himself it was all that mattered.

  He walked to the Rue du Bac; the street was busy but the people had umbrellas or rain slickers now, and they did not move quickly under the rain. A small dog ran along the sidewalk. It had no collar and he thought it would be nice to be a dog and not to worry about anything but the rain. The dog stopped and shook its coat from its shoulders to its tail and continued with its tongue hanging, no need for words. He went to the corner where the flower shoppe sat breathing its petaled air to the pavement. The old man was there with his wrinkled face by the door and his cigarette between his fingers.

  “Monsieur,” the old man said to him. “Why do you walk in the rain?”

  “Because the rain is falling and I said no to the carriage.”

  The old man sat up. “The same for you today, monsieur?”

  He nodded.

  The old man went to the small refrigerator and pulled a long-stem rose from the bucket, clipping the end as he walked. He pulled a white baby’s breath from another bucket and wrapped them together with a delicate red ribbon around it. He gave the old man the francs and wished him a good day.

  The rain was more than drizzle now and he squinted against it. The wind was fast and pelted the rain against him like sand, but it was not big yet, and he could not call it a healthy rain yet. He thought it might blow over quickly, but when he looked to the sky it was darker and he saw it would come harder soon.

  He held the rose inside his jacket and was careful not to crush it. He felt the train ticket in his jacket