The sting of these paternal inquiries had turned Xavier more taciturn. He walked silently, his heavy-lidded eyes focused on the gravel path, as the other two chatterboxes evaluated the American women’s buttocks.
“I like the petite brunette’s tight little ass, don’t you agree?” Bertrand stretched to his full height as if preparing to pounce on Karen in one fell swoop.
“Putain, t’es serieux?” exclaimed Charles. “You always go for the tiny women with no caboose––what’s wrong with you? With your height you should pick an Amazon.”
“Sometimes I do, but tonight I feel like nibbling on caviar,” said Bertrand, “not feasting on rump roast.”
They both guffawed as if they had just won match point at their tennis club.
Lola knew the men were evaluating her figure, and she wanted to challenge them. Determined to stare them down, she spun around, shaking her crimson ringlets, and planted her hands on her hips. First she made eye contact with each man, one by one, and then she slowly undressed them with her playful eyes, all the way down to the crotch.
“Yummy, mami.” Charles smacked his lips and popped the collar of his Lacoste tennis shirt. “I think that later on I’m having a live red lobster with lots of butter.”
Xavier stopped.
“You two spoiled assholes are going to ruin our mission,” he said in an enraged whisper. “I won’t let it happen, do you hear me?’
“You don’t know any more about the mission than we do,” snapped Charles. “We’re acting exactly as we should, like three guys trying to pick up girls. If we look like you, as though we’re on our way to a funeral, do you think that Little Red Riding Hood over there would be inviting us to come and take her for a ride? Leave the babe-trawling to us. You can sit and add numbers on your head or play pocket billiards for all we care, putain. Just don’t screw it up.”
Charles and Bertrand passed Xavier and approached the American women.
“Make that lobster and rack of lamb,” Charles murmured to Bertrand, ogling Lola’s full breasts. “What a feast!”
Lola felt like playing cat-and-mouse with the three dumb mice approaching her. She wanted to test her bantering skills in French, to see if her barbs drew a little blood from any of them, and to decide which one of the three was up to her spunky standards. If she were back in L.A. she would be able to size up these men easily: where they lived, their professions, their social status––and their intent. After numerous missteps that resulted in selecting poor men, she had learned how to identify men with real money. But here in Paris, Lola was still on shaky ground, and she wanted to avoid wasting time with a cheap French guy.
She gauged the men approaching her, determined to start honing her skills right there and then. La Belle Otero had maximized her swaying hips and tasty lips, but Lola had her booty, boobs, and quick wit. She pulled and released a coil of red hair as if she were pulling a trigger.
“I thought Parisians never take the tourist boat down the Seine,” she said. “Surely, you’re not casting about for innocent foreign women to trap in your bordellos, are you?”
Xavier frowned at the insult and anxiously fiddled in his pockets. How could this girl mistake them for pimps? Then he noticed Bertrand’s overeager long strides and Charles’ cocky swagger.
Charles approached Lola and extended his hand.
“If I were a pimp, I would have to build you a palace bigger than Versailles, where your beauty would attract throngs of suitors. Alas, I am just Charles Daniel de la Tour, and my family’s château is rather small.” He gently lifted Lola’s hand and brushed it with his lips. “We must apologize for the conspicuous way we’ve been following you.”
“Indeed, were are clumsy, but at least now you know that we are neither pimps nor spies,” said Bertrand, laughing too eagerly. “We’re just graduate students in economics. I am Bertrand.”
He shook hands with all three women and wedged his tall body between Karen and Annie. Xavier remained with a sullen look on his face, saying nothing. Bertrand shot him an impatient glance.
“And may I introduce our professor, the chairman of our dissertation committee, Dr.––”
“Please, just call me Xavier,” he interrupted, glaring at Bertrand for over-embellishing their backstory and for introducing a hook they had never discussed––though, on reflection, he really didn’t mind being cast in the role of the professor. “May I buy everyone a cup of coffee and a ride on, well, yes––that tourist trap of a boat.” He pointed to the river. “But considering that we shall view many of our favorite sites, and in the company of three beautiful women, no less … well then, that is to say, we would be, uh, honored if you would join us.”
Xavier escorted Annie onto the boat with a stiff formality, drawing on the antiquated bourgeois mannerisms his grandmother had taught him back home in Bogotá. She’d always aspired to move up another notch on the social ladder, using her clever pale grandson as a stepstool, and she had managed to enroll him in Bogotá’s best schools. There, however, he was constantly reminded of the country bumpkin manners instilled in him by his grandmother. And now, among the pretty American targets, once again he felt the total yokel.
Fazed for a moment by the goofy gallantry of all three men, Lola boarded the boat alone, scrutinizing them all. Did Charles really have a family château? The way he rolled off the honorific article “de” in his last name––de la Tour––seemed as natural as when she introduced herself as Lola. But that didn’t mean anything: it had taken her repeated practice to say Lola instead of her full name, Dolores Ignacia Beltran. She’d spent months before this year abroad in Paris rehearsing her new persona, a persona that would never reveal any trace of her canned-beans and no-heat-in-the-apartment personal history.
Her own reinvention made Lola suspect Charles of the same. It was probable that he might have rehearsed his title of minor nobility and the name of the family château just to put on airs. She’d misjudged others before. When she first met Monica back at Cal State, Lola had thought the whole horse-ranch story was a pretentious lie, but she’d been wrong. Monica really did come from a ranch, but she wasn’t a wealthy girl with an expensive horse hobby. In class she was always fatigued because of the time she spent training her horses as well as going to college full-time. It had been difficult then to appreciate Monica’s beauty: she always seemed to have dark circles around her eyes and smelled of the stables. But today, when they left Monica with the French guy at the café, she looked radiant and happy––renewed. Perhaps this was the common denominator of foreigners and expats living in the City of Light. They all had newly minted personas, rising to meet Paris’ grand expectations.
For now Lola was happy to play along with Charles and his repartee, but she couldn’t let herself forget that she’d come to Paris to catch a big fish in a big pond––and so far, she was the fish out of water. Although she found Charles the most attractive and tantalizing, Lola flirted with all three men to see if Charles would show jealousy or frustration. She had to determine his level of interest in her, his true temperament, and––of course––his wealth.
“Please, come here.” Charles stretched his hand out to Lola and led her to the bow of the boat. “You must see the reflection of the Pont Alexandre III on the river. Do you see how the gilded horses appear to be swimming in the ripples of the water?”
He gazed at the reflection with a young boy’s amazement. Charles knew he was letting his guard down in front of this vivacious redhead, but it felt refreshing and buoyant rather than a possible risk to his compañeros.
Lola squinted at the river. To her, the shape of the vast golden wings and the gaping open mouth of the horse made it look as though the creature was either asphyxiating or ready to leap up and drag the boat down to the bottom of the river. Both visions depressed Lola, and she was not a woman who became depressed easily.
“For a minute there I thought you were going to say that the carved nymphs remind you of me.” She shimmied in a blatant display of
her remarkable physique, but Charles ignored her little dance.
“Ah, that would be very cliché,” he said in a low voice, sounding hurt. “You think very little of me, then.”
He walked away from Lola and rejoined the group, leaving her confused and a little embarrassed.
Bertrand and Karen were discussing their favorite songs and favorite bands, and Annie was listening politely while Xavier droned on about the doctoral program in economics.
“It is always a challenge to complete the coursework in any doctoral program,” he was saying, “but it is virtually impossible to have a discussion with a fellow professor in Paris. Where do they hide all day? Why can’t people just say what they mean?”
“I haven’t really met my professors,” said Annie, unsure of what he was talking about. “I think all we’ve had so far have been teaching assistants. It’s been chaotic, to say the least.”
Bertrand, making headway with Karen, and afraid that Xavier would cast his gloomy spell over the whole day, decided it was time to take charge of the conversation.
“Don’t worry about your classes so early on in the academic year,” he reassured Annie. “We know everyone, or at least we know how to locate anyone, so we’ll help you figure out the easiest class––”
“That’s really not my goal.” Annie looked at Xavier for some kind of validation from a fellow scholar, but he was staring moodily down at the river. “But thank you anyway.”
Lola wandered over, tired of standing by herself.
“I’ll take your offer,” she told Bertrand. “Give me all the details about the easy classes. I’m in Paris for the time of my life.”
Something about the look on Annie’s face reminded Lola not to come off as totally vapid.
“I’ll perfect my French conversation skills with you two instead,” she added, smiling at Bertrand and Xavier.
“Over dinner and dancing, then?” Bertrand asked the girls, reserving a lingering glance for Karen.
“We have to study first,” Annie said quickly, “but … we’ll join you later to go dancing.” Lola and Karen beamed their agreement.
“Superbe!” Bertrand squeezed Karen’s hand. “We’ll take you to the most exclusive disco in the whole of Paris, Le Sept. You’ll love it.”
CHAPTER SIX
Madame’s Rant
When the three coeds approached their residence on Rue de Condé in the 6th arrondissement, they were surprised to discover Madame Caron de Pichet even more befuddled than usual. Through the partially opened antique wooden door that hid the still-elegant courtyard of her hôtel particulier, they heard the pitch of her voice reach an unpleasant high note.
“This is an affront to civilization,” she screeched. “You must agree with me, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oui, but course, Chère Madame, but you must take it easy.” The worn-down concierge was trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to calm her septuagenarian landlord. Through the decades, both the concierge and Madame Caron de Pichet had witnessed each other’s calamities––dead husbands, ingrate friends, and now their shabby-yet-genteel existence. They trudged through an ever-diminishing quotidian life, because Madame Caron de Pichet’s mismanagement of her late husbands’ estates had left her with only this grand townhouse and its massive upkeep costs. She’d leased the two most valuable floors, but still retained the top floors for herself, keeping up appearances just for her own sake, as all her cohorts were either dead or shut-in, preparing to die.
A few weeks ago, Madame Caron de Pichet had allowed herself to be charmed by a vivacious redheaded American girl, and now she was renting some of her rooms to four pretty American students who entertained her with their naïveté. In turn, the Americans thought her batty and uninformed, but warmhearted for a Parisian. They referred to her, tongue-in-cheek, as their loony “housemother,” the name American students gave to the chaperones who lived in dorms or sorority houses, dispensing good advice and keeping an eye out for any problems––tasks which Madame Caron de Pichet performed in reverse, as all her advice was crazy, and she was the cause, rather than the solver, of problems. Madame Caron de Pichet looked only after herself, talking endlessly about the good old days in Paris when she had been the belle of so many Parisian balls, and describing her countless affairs in lurid detail.
Madame Caron de Pichet’s voice could climb no further, so she leaned against the concierge and let out an agonized sigh. “Why do these people come into our country and blow things up? This is la France, not some dark place who knows where!”
The concierge listened to the radio all day long and felt very informed about the insurgents teeming in the avenues of Paris. She felt a wicked desire to educate Madame Caron de Pichet.
“Actually, dear Madame,” she said, “this latest group of rebels is apparently from our own border region with Spain. They are Basque separatists from Gascony––”
“You can’t be serious! Not Gascogne. Why, that is the heart of the douceur de vivre! That’s where the French live the sweetness of life––”
“So they said on the radio. They also said that it’s near where d’Artagnan and the Three Musketeers lived. I’m telling you, Madame, ever since those student revolts in ’68, our young people are mixed up. Remember the good old—”
“Hush, I beg of you. I don’t care about The Three Musketeers. I simply don’t not want to step out on the avenue and have some idiot blow me and my Fifi to smithereens. Not my darling little companion! Is she back from the groomer yet?”
“Not yet.” The concierge stroked her own gray chopped-off hair, while Madame pulled at hers nervously.
“You are ruining your flawless chignon,” said the concierge. “Please, let’s go inside and have a cup of tea, shall we?”
“How can you think of tea when Paris is getting blown up by foreigners? I’m telling you that no French man, even a Basque French man, would ever harm Paris. No, never!” Madame Caron de Pichet shook her head violently, and strings of her silver hair dropped spaghetti-style onto her bony shoulders.
The concierge couldn’t help enjoying watching Madame Caron de Pichet’s meltdown. The old woman thought herself above everyone and everything. She had opinions about matters she knew nothing about, and the concierge was not about to let go of this moment of power.
“Dear Madame!” she said. “In fact, the police suspect that our French Basques are collaborating with the Spanish Basques.”
“Do not even mention the word ‘collaborators’ around me. Believe me, I was with the Résistance during the war and I know all about putrid collaborators––and I know all about sacrificing my youth and my body to defend la France. Don’t mention––”
“I’m simply recounting the facts, Madame. Do you recall last April, when the Jewish Agency building was damaged by a bomb explosion? Why, the blast twisted all the iron window bars, though at least no one was injured.”
“I do remember that incident, and I tell you that those were foreign agents who bombed the building, not French citizens. Did I ever tell you about the time during the war when I––”
“No need to relive the past, dear Madame. I am sharing the latest information about the perpetrators of the bombing, the one that just happened a few minutes ago, so you will keep safe and stay indoors.” The concierge didn’t want to hear yet another monologue from the old lady about her once-flawless youthful body, how she sacrificed it for France, and how men went to extremes to meet her because of her fabled beauty. “Did you know that one of the bombers was a very tall man? I heard on the radio just now that they found the bloody stump of his long leg and the remains of Italian custom-made shoes in size––”
Madame Caron de Pichet rolled up her stringy hair into ear muffs. “Have some measure of decorum!” she shrieked. “You are speaking to your landlord, not a washerwoman who wants to know the size of shoes. Go and fetch my Fifi now.”
She was trembling so much that Lola, who along with her friends had been hanging back from the conversation, ran up to ta
ke the old lady’s arm. Madame Caron de Pichet clung to her as they ambled together up to Madame’s third-floor antique-filled apartment. The other girls followed.
“I’ve never heard you shout, Madame. What’s happening?”
“Ah, ma belle rousse, there has been another bombing in Paris, just minutes ago. But don’t worry your beautiful red curls about it. At your age you should only think about amour and dancing, don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely,” said Lola, though she was unnerved by talk of a bombing. “But you seem very upset. Did someone you know get hurt?”
“No, I do not know any tall men with giant feet. I used to know only elegant gentlemen with impeccable manners. Did I ever tell you––”
“A tall man was hurt, you say?”
“He is dead. Apparently he was preparing or cooking up some bomb when he blew himself up––a mere few blocks from here,” Madame panted. She leaned on Lola’s shoulder, and patted her luscious red curls. “No one else was hurt, and apparently his confederates fled. Oh, who cares, ma belle rousse? Tell me something beautiful, please.”
“Here––you sit down, Madame,” said Lola, when they were safely inside the apartment. She led the old lady into the salon. “I’ll bring you a cup of––”
“Please do not offer me tea. I am old, yes, but today’s bombing has shattered my spirit, I must admit. Will you serve all of us some strong Armagnac, while I freshen up?”
Madame stumbled out of the room, leaving Annie looking aghast.
“Did she say she wants us to drink Armagnac with her? Right now? Ugh! I can’t do it––I have to study if we’re going out later tonight.”
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