by Rozsa Gaston
Not wanting my mother to mine further information from Pascal concerning our activities of the past few weeks, I cut in.
“Mom, have you and Nina been to see the Dali animal sculptures at Place Vendôme? It’s not far from here.”
“No. Not yet,” she replied and then turned to Pascal, who leaned toward her, as if eager to hear whatever she might say.
I swear she batted her eyes at him.
“Are you a fan of Dali’s?” she asked.
Pascal stared at her uncomprehendingly. Nothing had been lost in translation. My mother and I were simply from another world than my non-Arab Frenchman.
“Bah, I could care less,” he finally replied, using one of the gentler forms of the myriad ways the French used to express disdain. His eyes remained fixed upon my mother, as if to say when it came to Dali he felt one way, when it came to her, another.
I gave him points for honesty. Had my mother deliberately chosen to make it clear to me Pascal’s world in no way adjoined mine? I doubted it. One of her strong points was her nonjudgmental nature, an offshoot of her general lack of judgment. She’d married two men with whom she shared no cultural commonality whatsoever – one Hungarian, the second Italian-American. Divorce ensued both times, at her initiative.
I wasn’t trying to marry Pascal, I was just trying to have as many orgasms with him as possible before I left town and we never saw each other again.
My mother’s eyes met mine over Pascal’s head. She liked him, I could tell. No warning flickered in them, only a twinkle. For one of the first times, I thanked God for her lack of standards.
“I see,” she responded. “Well maybe we’ll walk over there on our way to dinner. Will you two join us?”
“Sorry, Mom. We’ve got plans for dinner tonight,” I answered for both of us. We had none, but I was determined not to give in to my sister’s insistence on eating at six. After finishing her ice cream, she’d begun making noises to Mom about going somewhere for pizza.
“I hope we’ll meet again,” my mother said to Pascal as we got up to leave.
“Yes, Madame. I do, too,” Pascal replied, looking as if he meant it.
My mother had certain sphinx-like qualities, an air of stillness or mystery about her that had its effect on men. A twinge of jealousy shot through me until I remembered that I, too, was a woman of mystery. I’d had to study to become one. My mother simply was one.
“Goodbye, Mom, Nina. Pick you up at the hotel tomorrow.”
“Around what time then, dear?”
“Say, half past nine?” I suggested.
“Fine.” My mother nodded. No mention was made of where I was staying overnight. I gave my sister a firm stare to squelch any urge she might have to ask.
Nina’s mouth was already open, forming the question. I leaned in toward her, kissing her on both cheeks to prevent her from speaking.
In bed with Pascal that night, it hit me that soon I’d be saying goodbye to my Frenchman. Bonjour tristesse, hello sadness, washed over me. What if I never met another man who could activate my hot spots? I wouldn’t let it happen. Now that I knew the difference between being squarely in the center of my own scene or not, I would make sure any man in my future who stopped short of putting me there would not be part of my life for long.
Before I’d met Pascal I’d known I was aiming for something beyond what I’d already experienced. Now that I’d experienced it, I’d never settle for anything less. As my grandmother had frequently commented, “Ava – you’re too selfish not to get what you want out of life.” And what was wrong with that? Wouldn’t I be a nicer, kinder person to those around me if I was getting what I wanted out of life? Why shouldn’t I make every effort to grab the golden ring when it was within range? Tenderly, my eyes drank in the lightly snoring man who’d introduced me to life as it should be lived.
“Thank you, darling,” I whispered to his sleeping form, then leaned over to kiss his forehead. He stirred gently in his sleep. Soon, he would be part of my past, but what a place of honor he’d occupy in my psychic Hall of Fame. I welcomed him to roam there forever, checking in on my choices from time to time, always challenging me to remain the fully alive woman I had become with him.
PART III
BEING WHERE I BELONG
CHAPTER NINE
Paris Five Years Later
“Hey, could you do me a favor and play happy birthday for my friend over there when they bring out the cake?”
Groan. My job as the house singer/pianist at The Blue Willow, an upscale restaurant with a downtown clientele in Greenwich Village, would soon be over. That was fine by me. The only thing I found more annoying than being asked to play happy birthday at least twice a week, was being requested to play Piano Man by customers who would then tip me an entire dollar. The waiters at the restaurant made ten times the tips I made every night, and my base salary wasn’t much higher than theirs.
“Uh – after we do the happy birthday thing could you play Piano Man? It’s one of his favorite songs.”
Too fed up to speak, I nodded as the young guy with the outer-boroughs accent slipped two dollar bills into my tip jar. I wrapped up the supercerebral, intricate improvisation I’d been doing on the chord progressions for Song for My Father which no one recognized or cared about, and launched into Happy Birthday as the waiter came out of the kitchen with the lit-up birthday cake.
Until I’d gotten this job, I’d had no idea how banal it could be to earn a steady income as a house musician. It was right up there with playing in a wedding band or doing a hotel lounge gig. Top requirements for the job had nothing to do with talent or creativity. It was all about 1) starting on time, 2) playing customers’ requests, and 3) not singing or playing too loudly so people could hear themselves talk.
The pendulum of my ongoing internal debate over whether I was meant to be a musician or writer had swung wildly back into the musician corner after slogging through four years of paper and senior-essay writing at Yale. One thing was for sure, I was my parents’ child after all. I had picked up the impractical career aspirations gene from both of them. I thought by working as a professional musician, I’d been thumbing my nose at my Yale friends down on Wall St. working one hundred-hour weeks as investment banking associates. Contemplating my tip jar with the two dollar bills in it, I wasn’t so sure any more.
As I launched into Piano Man, I was heartened by the thought that it would all be over soon. Milton Fine, my boss and a well-known Manhattan slum lord, had gotten his comeuppance from city authorities in their latest clampdown and lost his liquor license. I had until the end of June to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.
Finding another steady gig as a house musician in the heart of Greenwich Village would be next to impossible. No musician I knew had a steady performing job in Manhattan outside of a hotel lounge. I knew what that was all about, too. I’d done a gig at Novotel near Times Square the year before – another soul-deadening experience that had paid the rent for six months. Tired of being ignored by tourists in transit in the hotel lounge, I’d auditioned for a gig at the cocktail lounge of the Gramercy Park Hotel, farther downtown. It was known as a celebrity hangout, where many well-known bands stayed when on tour in Manhattan. I’d been thrilled when they offered me a two-night a week spot.
The Gramercy Park Hotel was supposed to be the kind of place where emerging artists get discovered. After I’d been there for three months, a hotel employee pointed out hotel resident Paul Shaffer, who was dining alone in the restaurant. He was the band leader on the Late Show with David Letterman. I introduced myself to him as the hotel lounge pianist, to which he grunted unintelligibly then went back to his meal.
My next brush with fame had been one evening about a month later, when a short guy in a hooded sweatshirt and messy, day-old stubble on his chin came up to the piano and requested Send in the Clowns, stuffing a dollar bill into my tip glass. I played it, no one clapped, and the guy continued talking with his lady-friend over in the
corner, unmoved by my performance. Later in the restroom, the cocktail waitress asked me if I realized that had been Bob Dylan.
My final celebrity encounter at the hotel had been when the band Kansas came in late one Saturday evening and asked me to sit with them after my set was over. As a child, I’d loved their biggest hit song – one of the most soulful rock tunes of the 1970s. Anticipating being invited to record with them, or at least join their touring band, I was less than thrilled when one of the band members, after downing multiple bourbon shots, asked if I’d give him a blow job. My feelings for the music of Kansas scattered like so much dust in the wind.
So when Milton Fine came in a few months after that encounter and asked to speak with me after I finished my first set of the evening, I was receptive. He was old and enormously fat, with hair growing everywhere but on top of his head. This kind of schlubby-looking guy in Manhattan frequently indicates two things – money and power.
I sat down with him, noting he’d hardly touched his drink, a sign he was there on business. He didn’t waste any time getting down to it.
“Do you work here every night?” he asked.
“No, three nights a week usually.”
“You like it?”
“I guess so –,” I answered slowly to let him know that I was open to suggestion.
“You know The Blue Willow at the corner of Broadway and Bleecker Street?” he continued.
“You mean that restaurant with the high ceilings?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
I knew the place. It was exclusive, trendy, housed in a majestic, pre-war building. Its stunning exterior with twelve-foot high plate-glass windows had always intimidated me when I’d walked past. A Zagat review was posted right in the outer doorway.
“Yeah. I know it.”
“I’m the owner.”
My eyebrows shot up, but I held my tongue. Big deal. Restaurant owners were a dime a dozen in New York City. It was time to talk turkey.
“You want a job playing piano there?”
That was more like it.
“How many nights a week?” I asked, as a warm-up. What I really wanted to know was how much he would pay.
“I don’t know. How many would you like?’
“I’d have to think about it.”
“You do that.”
“I’ve got to get back to work.”
“I’ll stay till your next break if you want to talk more.”
“Okay,” I said, playing it as cool as a cucumber. I’d absolutely love to have a job at a fashionable, super-trendy place like The Blue Willow. But the price needed to be right. I got up and walked away, my back straight as a ramrod. ‘Always maintain straight posture at critical moments,’ my grandmother had advised. This would be one of them.
Back at the piano, I mulled over what kind of money we were talking here. Experience had taught me that if he asked how much I made at my present gig, I would 1) lie and 2) know he was serious. When people talk money in New York, they’re serious. Otherwise, it’s just talk.
He was still there at the end of my second set, nursing the same first glass of wine – both very good signs. This wasn’t the drink talking, whatever it was. I walked over, sat down and, bam, first thing he asked was how much I made at my present job.
I gave him a number, slightly rounded up – okay doubled, I’d spent the past forty-five minutes formulating.
He offered me fifty per cent more to come work for him, five nights a week, as his resident house pianist. Just like that. Frankly, playing two nights a week at the semi-sleazy Gramercy Park Hotel wasn’t paying all my bills. A full-time, five-night a week job at The Blue Willow with the salary he’d just promised, would.
I agreed on the spot.
But after almost a year at The Blue Willow, I was ready for an exit plan. Manhattan was eating me up and spitting me out in small pieces. I’d gotten a gig that paid the rent – a situation every New York City artist dreams of but only few accomplish. Most either worked as office temps or waited tables. I’d done both of those jobs, too. Why wasn’t I enjoying being able to make a living working as a performer? Or to rephrase – how many more times could I stomach being asked to play Billy Joel’s Piano Man or Happy Birthday?
That winter, a girlfriend of mine had brought in some French friends to see me play. Marceline and Henri had been delightful. Marceline was pint-sized and seriously chic, a true living Parisian doll. She’d worn pencil-slim black jeans in a size so small, I was sure she hadn’t bought them Stateside. Her high-heeled suede boots had tiny gold buckles on either side announcing the brand of some fabulous French designer. The black, white, and gold print silk shirt she wore featured more buckles and horsey-motifs, vaguely identifiable as straps, bridles and harnesses. Her hair was a mass of dark, golden-blonde curls, her make-up subtle – some mascara and the tiniest hint of taupe lipstick. I’d studied every inch of her, admiring her effortless style. I wanted to look like that some day.
Marceline’s husband, Henri, raved over my rendition of Peggy Lee’s Fever, mentioning a place in Paris where he could see me performing. He’d given me his card, and I’d tossed it in the tip jar, not expecting to follow up in any way.
On one of those dull gray end of March days I went through my Rolodex, looking for career opportunities that would get me out of New York to someplace I’d be appreciated. After a few minutes, I found Henri’s business card. In French, it said something about optical supplies. He’d told me he was an entertainment manager. Maybe pushing optical supplies was his day job.
I made an international call.
Henri Zidane remembered me. He agreed the French would love my repertoire of jazz standards; Fats Waller, Cole Porter, and Gershwin with a smattering of bossa nova and a few contemporary pop songs thrown in.
“Send your headshots and a cassette tape of three of your best songs, and I’ll circulate it. I have just the place in mind.”
“How soon could you arrange something?”
“When can you get here? If I can take you around with me, we can get bookings faster.”
“By late spring or early summer.” Milton had mentioned June 30th as the last day The Blue Willow would be open. There was no way I wanted to stick around for yet another sweltering Manhattan summer – even worse, in an unemployed state. I’d ask my father for an employee-pass round-trip airline ticket to Paris. It was the one really big thing he could do for me and he delighted in being able to fuel my love of travel and adventure gene. Undoubtedly, I’d gotten it from him. My grandparents had died, both passing peacefully in their sleep, well into their nineties. Nothing compelled me to remain Stateside.
Memories of Paris five summers earlier, when I’d met Pascal beckoned. God knew what he was doing now, but I’d bet he was married with at least two children, still living in working-class St. Denis, north of Paris. I treasured everything I’d experienced with him, but there was no point in tracking him down. Even during our intense few weeks together, I’d known we had nothing in common other than sizzling sexual attraction.
“As soon as I get your promo package, I’ll get on it,” Henri continued. “Do you have some good headshots?”
“Yes. I’ve got a few different poses. What kind do you want?” I had just had new headshots done for free in a barter exchange with a photographer-friend at whose fortieth birthday party I’d sung and played. Highly retouched, they looked pretty much nothing like me, just like the headshots of all my other friends in the performing arts.
“Send one of every pose. Soon. Go to the post this afternoon.”
“You’ll have them within a week.” I couldn’t believe my good luck. The stars were with me.
“You’ll hear back from me within two.”
Twelve days later, Henri called back.
“I’ve got you booked at the hottest club in Bastille,” he said, referring to a neighborhood in Paris I remembered as roughly similar to Manhattan’s East Village. “Six Friday nights from mid-July through the
end of August. That’ll give us time to find other club dates and get you settled in.”
“What’s the name of the place?” I asked, delighted.
“It’s called Le Cactus Bleu, The Blue Cactus.”
I was moving across the ocean from The Blue Willow to The Blue Cactus? My favorite color was blue. Apparently the stars had lined up.
“How much do they pay?” I asked. Despite the free plane ticket and no immediate prospects in New York, I needed to support myself. Paris was less expensive than New York, but not by much.
“Enough for you to get by,” Henri said without specifying how much. “You’ll make enough to live on while we line up bookings at other places. And you can stay with us until mid-August. By then, we’ll have you set up with gigs and a place to stay.”
“Great.” I got off the phone, shaking, unprepared for the future hurtling so quickly toward me. Now that I’d set the wheels in motion, I feared the consequences. With rashness one of my strong suits, I’d soon get over it. Plus, I’d forgotten to ask what the mid-August deadline was all about, but it seemed far away. We’d work out my housing situation once I got there.
Henri Zidane and his wife picked me up at Charles de Gaulle airport the second of July. He hadn’t changed, his bony, medium-tall French frame honed through frequent cigarette usage, but Marceline was almost unrecognizable.
Félicitations, Marceline,” I congratulated her as I took in her enormous tummy and bloated face. “When is the baby due?”
She scowled then grunted. She was no longer the sexy, chic Marceline I remembered from the winter before. Begrudgingly, she offered one cheek, then the other. Only two kisses this time, not four.
“The baby’s due August fifteenth,” Henri broke in enthusiastically. Bulbous light brown eyes looked me over then flicked back to his wife. She stared at him coolly, as if to warn him to keep his eyes off me.