Paris Adieu

by Rozsa Gaston

  In the car, I thanked them for picking me up. “Je vous remercie, Henri, de me retirer de l’aeroport. C’est bien innoportun, je sais. It was really inconvenient, I know,” I tried to say in French.

  “Pas du tout, Ava, pas du tout. Not at all,” Henri replied.

  Marceline nodded in agreement with me, giving Henri a baleful stare. I decided not to ask if pregnancy was agreeing with her. Apparently not.

  “Je suis très excitée d être ici,” I continued, meaning ‘I’m very excited to be here.’

  Marceline’s head swiveled around abruptly. Her glare was unmistakable. Had I made a blooper? I looked in the rearview mirror for guidance from Henri’s face. It was flushed, his eyes straight ahead on the road.

  A strained silence ensued. I wracked my brain to think of something next to say. Then, it occurred to me. Exciter is one of those false friends from English to French. ‘I’m excited’ could mean a variety of things in English, but it meant only one in French – to be aroused. I’d just told Henri I was very sexually aroused to be there. No wonder Marceline was giving me the hairy eyeball.

  “I mean it’s very nice to be here,” I amended, looking out the window to hide the enormous blush now covering my entire body.

  Henri and Marceline’s flat was near Bastille, a lively neighborhood with good nightlife where The Blue Cactus was located. I would stay with them at least a week until my first performance took place, the following Friday. The six gigs Henri had contracted for me over consecutive Friday evenings, guaranteed me an income at least until the end of August. After that, we would see. I set up my synthesizer in the spare room next to Henri’s study where I practiced with headphones, ostensibly not to disturb them, but frankly so as not to be disturbed by Henri who was in the habit of interrupting me while working from his home office, which was most of the time.

  “Did you bring that dress you wore in your professional photo with you?” he asked a few mornings after I arrived, as he stood in the doorway between the study and his office.

  “Which dress?” I asked, although I knew immediately. It had to be the Norma Kamali dress I’d picked up at a sample sale. A skinny woman in the group dressing room had thrown it at me after pulling it off, saying “You should try this on. It would look great on you.” She’d been right.

  “Umm – the one with the – uh – cut outs. You know.”

  “The one I’m wearing in the photo with the big hair?”

  “Yes. You brought it, right?”

  “I’ve got it here. Why?” I nodded toward the closet door in the corner where I’d hung the slinky, long black dress to smooth out the wrinkles. The cut-outs on the shoulders and below the neckline gave the garment a bizarre appearance on its hanger. When I wore it, the effect was anything but bizarre. Stunning and devastatingly sexy was more like it.

  “Maybe you could wear it your opening night.”

  Did Henri care about fashion? He was French, so perhaps he did. Still, the way his eyes shifted between the dress hanging on the door and my person, somewhere below the neck, told me it wasn’t the dress, but me in it, he was thinking about.

  “I had another outfit in mind. Something a little more chic,” and less provocative, I told him. I’d worn that dress in my professional photos on the advice of my stylist, Mitchell, my gay friend back in the East Village. He’d told me it would help me score more gigs.

  “You can try on a few outfits, then we’ll decide,” Henri answered, his eyes still on my torso. I wasn’t exactly chesty, but this was France, world headquarters for connossieurs of small breasts.

  “There’s plenty of time to decide before the gig,” I told him, hoping he understood it was going to be my decision and mine alone. The thought of trying on outfits and parading myself in front of Henri made me want to throw up. But that’s what managers were for, wasn’t it? They provided critical feedback on everything – not just the product, but the package the product was presented in. I was the product, he was my manager. Still, I vowed I’d find a way not to put on a fashion show for Henri Zidane. Something about the idea made my skin crawl.

  By my third day in Paris, I was getting antsy. I needed to practice aloud, but the walls of most Parisian buildings were thin. Flushing a toilet or taking a shower in an old building in Paris was an event heard by all of its occupants; singing, or playing a keyboard instrument were in the same category. Henri suggested that I prepare my sets more or less sotto voce or under my breath, which didn’t really help me to work on my voice, never mind practice with sound equipment – microphone and reverb units. I prayed the sound engineer at The Blue Cactus would know what he was doing and that we’d be able to go in for a sound check the day before my performance.

  Marceline was at her job during the weekdays, but when she returned home, I had the distinct sense it had not been her idea to have me stay with them. Never having been pregnant, I had no idea what late-stage pregnancy in the middle of summer could do to a woman, but it was clear she was not in a good mood most of the time. At the sound of the key turning in the lock on weekday late afternoons, I’d run into my room before Marceline entered the flat. All sorts of sounds would ensue, indicating exasperation. The slam of her keys and bags hitting the counter would be followed by muttered complaints as she put away the groceries. After awhile, the banging of pots and pans, along with cupboards being forcefully shut told me she’d begun dinner. I tried to help the first day, but I put everything away in the wrong place then refrigerated the cheeses which were supposed to be left out for the evening meal. The scowl on her face after I put a glass in the dishwasher that was supposed to be hand washed told me it was time to exit the kitchen. After that, I made an excuse to get out of the flat every evening just to get away.

  Mid-morning on the fourth day of my stay, I went into Henri’s study to fetch a pen while he was out. I was making notes on the newest pop song I was working on, a smoky blues tune I wanted to rehearse full voice before Henri returned or a neighbor pounded on the door.

  I reached over a pile of papers on Henri’s desk next to his computer to grab a black pen. Something with a tip like a fine magic marker would make my orchestral notes on the musical score stand out. I couldn’t find anything suitable on his desk, so I looked around. Glancing at the pile of papers, I saw the corner of one which had been marked up with a pen exactly like the kind I was looking for. It looked like a drawing. Curiously, I pulled it out.

  It was a caricature of a nude woman with long, wavy hair, high perky breasts and a button nose. I’d know her anywhere. She was in the mirror whenever I looked.

  Shoving the sketch back into the pile, I grabbed a black pen and retreated to my temporary studio, careful to leave everything in Henri’s office exactly the way I’d found it.

  Yuck. No wonder Marceline’s default expression these days was one of stormy stares and unspoken recriminations.

  After another half hour of practice, I went through my wardrobe, carefully stashing lingerie in the zippered compartments of my suitcase, out of sight of Henri’s roving eye. What were the chances of Henri drifting into the room I was using as a bedroom when I was out? Probably as high as the likelihood of me visiting his office while he was out, as I’d just done. I would find somewhere else to stay as soon as possible. I needed a place where I could rehearse as well as not worry about what was going through the mind of my host.

  As I hid the Norma Kamali dress with the cut-outs in the far corner of the closet, I came across my black leather postman’s satchel, into which I’d emptied out my handbag the first night I’d arrived, retiring all New York-related items such as subway cards and gym passes, U.S. currency, and business cards of people I’d met at my performing job. Among the collection was the business card of an older American man I’d run into at the Blue Willow. He’d mentioned he threw parties at his Paris apartment for the literary ex-pat set. “Lawrence Pemberwick” it said in small, elegant script. No title, no company. Just an accompanying eight-digit Paris phone number and the add
ress.

  Less is more, I thought approvingly, along with Diana Vreeland.

  I called. Going to a party would get me out of Henri and Marceline’s flat. Besides, I could invite interesting people I might meet there to The Blue Cactus to see me perform.

  Someone with an Australian accent answered to say Larry wasn’t around but could he help?

  “Well, Larry mentioned in New York that he throws parties from time to time so I thought I’d come to the next one if it’s alright. Could I leave my name for him to call?”

  “No need, dear. His salon happens every Sunday evening. Starts around sevenish. Potluck sort of thing. The more the merrier, especially if you’re female,” the voice chortled at the other end.

  “What should I bring?”

  “Beauty and brains, love.”

  It was my turn to laugh. A dose of Anglo-American wit would go a long way toward lifting my spirits, chilled by the frozen atmosphere of Henri and Marceline’s flat.

  “And a bottle of wine?” I offered.

  “No need. We’ve got enough booze on hand to sink a ship. Bring a dish of something.”

  “Um, er, I’m staying with friends, I can’t really cook anything to bring over. How about some dessert?”

  “Marvelous. Something big and messy, like most of Larry’s guests.” His laugh boomed over the airways, welcoming and warm – definitely not French.

  The Australian gave me directions to Larry’s flat, including the metro stop. It was located in the east of Paris, near Parc de Vincennes, a section I was unfamiliar with.

  The next few days flew by. I had something to look forward to. Wishing I had a girlfriend to accompany me to the party, I remembered an axiom my singer/actress friend Jessica had often mentioned back in Manhattan. She’d said the best way to meet a man was to go out alone. And the fastest way to scare one off was to go out with a pack of girlfriends. If I could maintain my self-confidence, there might be an advantage in going to the party alone. Just the challenge of going to a party where I knew absolutely no one increased my excitement. I was already in a city and a country where I knew practically no one. What did I have to lose?

  I ran errands Saturday afternoon, picking up a tarte de Breton at the local patisserie to bring with me to the party. It wasn’t messy, but it was large.

  Nothing in Paris was messy other than foreigners who didn’t belong there and would leave sooner or later. The city’s very signature was precise, orderly, well-thought out and most of all – in excellent taste. The French word that summed up all these ideas was exigeant or exacting, demanding due to high standards. The Parisian personality was exigeant above all else.

  Fortunately, foreigners had a pass not to be exacting. Even if they were, it wouldn’t matter. Parisians would still look down their noses at them, whether they were travelling tourists or ex-pats who’d lived there for decades. It was wonderfully freeing not to have to even pretend I was exacting. Little did I know that years after leaving Paris I would realize how much the city had left its mark on me – thanks to my time there, I would forever after drive my family and friends batty in questions of taste. In Paris, I couldn’t exercise my newly-acquired Parisian standards, since the Parisians would have none of it from an outsider. It was only back home Stateside that I got to exercise my true inner Parisian.

  At half past seven on Sunday, I exited the metro at Porte de Vincennes and was immediately struck by how good the air smelled. The neighborhood was residential, close to Parc de Vincennes, where the city’s zoo was located. Around me, leaves rustled on trees, lit gold by the remains of the day. They hinted at something, bobbing and waving as I walked past. Some sort of secret was being passed, one which involved me, but which I wasn’t in on yet.

  Feeling more light-hearted than I had since my arrival, I followed the Australian’s directions to Larry’s apartment. The lushness of the foliage, the density of the trees lining the sidewalk all increased my anticipation of the evening to come. In a minute, I’d found 59, Rue d’Horloge and buzzed the name of L. Pemberwick on the name directory next to the outer gate.

  “Yah, come on up,” a garrulous non-French, non-exacting voice responded. The gate clicked open, and I was in.

  Up two flights of stairs flanked by a curlicue, wrought-iron staircase, the door to Fred’s flat was already open. Inside, the crowd was dense, almost all male. Immediately my adrenalin kicked in. Or perhaps it was my testosterone.

  I steeled myself and entered, willing my face into a proud, mysterious mask. Surrounded by men, I’d play my best defense – the enigmatic female card.

  “And who do we have here?” a voice rang out. A stout, balding man with a good-natured, florid face greeted me near the door.

  “I’m Ava Fodor. I met Larry in New York a few months ago and …”

  “Ava from New York, eh?” he announced loudly to the surrounding male masses. “I’m Sam. Come on in and get yourself something to drink.” He took my patisserie box and motioned me in. “Make way for the lady, mates. We’ve got a live one here from New York. Shape up boys,” he boomed out as he led me to the kitchen, elbowing bodies out of the way.

  My nose pointing to the ceiling, it was all I could do to keep my composure or sangfroid. But that was the whole point of being back in Paris again, or one of the main ones. Maintaining sangfroid counted for a lot. It was another thing I was determined to learn how to do well and then take home with me.

  “Some white wine, please,” I told a middle-aged man in the tiny kitchen. He wore a cravat tucked into a pristine, white-collared shirt. His well-manicured eyebrows suggested he might be gay.

  He handed me a delicately-stemmed glass, and I quaffed. It was good to be at a rollicking, roaring, Anglo-Saxon party; even better to have a few gay men in attendance just to keep the heterosexual males in check. I steeled myself to enter the main room, drawing on my performer’s skills to maintain composure. A ship in full sail, I sallied into the salon, drink in hand.

  After a minute, a few females became apparent, all with male escorts. They looked mousy, timid – unlike me. I would be queen bee of this crowd. Perusing the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, I ignored the myriad male eyes upon me.

  “Hi, I’m Scott from Omaha. Have you come to one of Larry’s parties before?” a blond, cornfed Midwestern guy asked.

  “No.” Not my type.

  “Are you here with someone then?” he followed up.

  “Yes,” as far as you’re concerned.

  Over the din of the crowd, a sharp voice stood out. “The wisdom of life, my friend?” The accent was cultured, more Continental than French, although it was that, too. It belonged to someone well-traveled. “The wisdom of life consists in the elimination of nonessentials. For example – speaking with you now.” A raucous laugh ensued.

  Now that was rude. I swiveled my head to scan over Scott’s shoulder in search of the voice’s owner. What kind of brazen boor would say such a thing? He had to be drunk, completely ill-mannered, or talking to his younger brother.

  After a moment I located him – tall and brash, a man with a high forehead and golden skin tossed back longish, auburn hair. Dashing but raffish, I imagined he would take no prisoners in a battle of wits.

  I willed him to look my way.

  The face turned, and a mobile, full mouth rearranged itself the second he saw me.

  I pretended to look beyond him. Fortunately, the man who’d greeted me at the door stood behind him, chatting with a group of bookish types.

  “Sa-a-a-a-m,” I called out, in my best Audrey Hepburn impression. I might not look like her, but I’d watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s so many times I was confident I could channel her when the occasion arose. Pointing my small, slightly upturned nose toward the ceiling, I moved in Sam’s direction, brushing past the reddish-haired barbarian as I passed. I made sure not to give him the tiniest glance.

  He took the bait.

  A low growl followed as I swished past. It was as if the air rumbled between us, making the ha
ir stand up on my arms.

  The man called Sam looked pleased but slightly baffled as I approached.

  “What a delightful party,” I sang out as I broke into his circle of friends, all with manicured hands and eyebrows to match carefully mannered expressions. Gay, the lot of them, I’d surmise. Unlike the uncaged lion a few paces behind me.

  “Thank you. Let me introduce you to Trevor, Henry, and Jean-Paul,” he offered graciously, clearly unsure of my name.

  “How darling to meet you. I’m Ava from New York,” I said, loud enough for anyone in the general area to hear.

  “And what brings Ava from New York to Paris?” a voice that was all angles rang out behind me. Sharp as a knife, it crackled with testosterone.

  I turned slowly. No need to hurry. Something told me that whatever I was about to face would be part of my very near future.

  “And what brings you to Paris?” I asked back. He was way too uncivilized to be a Parisian.

  “I live here.” he answered, in a voice that sounded like a challenge.

  I shivered, then braced myself.

  “But you’re not from here, are you?” It was a presumptuous guess – as presumptuous as his greenish-blue eyes, now roving over me, insolent and unapologetic.

  The floor cleared on both sides, as if a duel were about to take place.

  At Parisian parties, strangers didn’t introduce themselves by immediately asking personal questions such as ‘where are you from?’ or even worse, ‘what do you do?’ These were private matters to be uncovered slowly, perhaps through discreet inquiry of a third party. At most Parisian parties I’d attended, small clusters of French people stood in separate corners, eyeballing the crowd, whispering amongst their own group and disdaining to interact with anyone outside their own circle. When I’d made attempts to infiltrate a cluster of unknown Parisians by introducing myself and saying where I was from, the response would usually be polite, but not forthcoming. “Hello” might be followed up with “Hello, I’m Anne-Marie,” but it was never followed up with “Hi, I’m Anne-Marie from blah blah blah. So, how do you know so-and-so?,” whose party it was, or “what brings you to Paris?” Less drinking, less noise, and less interaction all added up to a lot less fun from what I’d observed.