by Rozsa Gaston
“Entirely correct. I’m from somewhere else,” he answered maddeningly.
“And where would that be?” I insisted. This was a party thrown by Larry for the Anglo-Saxon ex-pat crowd. Different rules applied.
“Where would you like me to be from? Take your pick. I’m yours to serve.” He bowed, but not before raking me again with twinkling blue-green eyes that reminded me of my father’s. Nothing else about him did.
“You mean you’re at my service,” I corrected him. He must have misspoke.
“No. You’re at mine.” His eyes gleamed.
What cheek.
“Well thanks, but no thanks.” Feeling my face flame, I turned back to speak with the gay contingent but they had already faded into another group. I searched for Sam or anyone else who looked safe. Where was Scott from Omaha when I needed him?
“Thanks, but thanks, you mean,” he shot back.
“I didn’t say that.” This time, I bared my teeth as I looked at him.
“No, but that’s what you meant.” His laughing eyes continued their sweep over my form.
“I think I know what I meant,” I hissed.
“I think I know what you meant, too,” he hissed back. His English was accented but perfect.
This time, I couldn’t control the color that shot into my face and neck.
“You look nice in red,” he whispered.
“I’m wearing blue,” I looked down just to make sure. Whatever self-possession I’d faked from the moment I’d walked into the party was now in a puddle on the floor in front of me.
“I meant your blush,” he replied maddeningly.
“I think I know what you meant,” I countered, wondering how long I could keep this up. Conversations with him would be exhausting. We’d need to find something else to do. My racing blood told me that wouldn’t be a problem.
“Blue suits you, too,” he continued, not missing a beat.
“Do you think so?”
“I do.”
“Well – I’d better get back to my friend,” I ad-libbed. “Nice sparring with you.” I turned to go back to the kitchen. After that encounter, I needed another glass of white wine.
“When’s the rematch?” he asked, blocking my way.
“The what?”
“Part two.”
“Was this part one?” There was no doubt it was.
“Wasn’t it?”
He had me there.
“Do you want it to be?” We’d turned into characters from Waiting for Godot.
“Do I?” I threw the ball back into his court.
“Do you?”
“You tell me.”
“You do.” His tone was clear, manly.
“Do I?”
“Yes, you do.”
“Well then – make me an offer.” With this man, I’d never be in the driver’s seat. But I couldn’t help wanting to take the ride.
“Dinner next week?’
“Call me.” I needed to be sure this wasn’t just party talk.
“Give me your number, and I will.” His voice softened, taking on intimacy.
“Get me a glass of white wine, and I might.” I lowered my own to match his.
“Your wish is my command,” he replied, taking the glass gently from my hands, his fingers brushing mine.
“It’s about time,” I replied, not too sharply.
His lean, muscular back flexed as he searched carefully among the already opened bottles, then looked in the refrigerator. After a minute, he took out a green wine bottle labeled in medieval German script.
“Here’s something worthy of a Rhine maiden,” he said as he handed me my filled glass.
“Do I remind you of one?”
He nodded, saying nothing, his compliment more effective by not following it up with yet another bon mot.
The wine was dry but sweet. It tasted crisp, like the barbarian’s conversation. I didn’t even know his name.
“I like it. It’s crisp and snappy,” I commented.
“Like me?” The man didn’t lack confidence.
“Do I like you? Or do I think you’re crisp and snappy?”
“Both.”
I took another sip, looking at him over the rim of my glass.
“Perhaps one out of two.”
“So we need to get to Part Two to establish the other.” He took out a pen and pocket datebook. “Number?”
“I don’t give my number out to strangers.”
“Am I a stranger?”
“Do I know your name?”
“Ahh. Allow me to introduce myself. Arnaud de Saint Cyr.” He took my free hand in his, bent down, and kissed it. “At your service.”
His touch was warm and dry.
I smiled at the way he’d said his name. It had come out like ‘Ar-know the Sincere’, Ar-know the Insolent was more like it. Nevertheless, I was hooked.
He clinked his glass with mine. Then, I gave him my number, and we talked long into the night.
Two days later, he called. Henri and Marceline were out. The voice speaking into their answering machine crackled with energy.
“Arnaud de Saint Cyr here calling for Ava about the rematch. When, where, yours to decide. You can reach me at….”
“It’s me. I’m here.” I cut in, finally locating the phone receiver on the kitchen counter.
“Ahhh. Felt safe to pick up, finally?” Wit, intelligence, and audacity all flew through the air to my heart and brain, jabbing me with electric jolts.
“I – just heard your voice and realized it’s you.”
“So, what about our rematch?”
“When, where, yours to decide,” I parroted back, eager to hear what he might propose.
“Where do you live?”
“I’m staying with friends near Place de la Bastille.” Why was I giving him information about myself? He didn’t need to know anything more about me than how to see me again.
“Do you know Café de la Bastille right above the exit to the metro there?
“Sure.” It was un-missable, the largest café on Bastille’s enormous traffic circle.
“Let’s meet there tomorrow evening at seven. We can go to dinner from there.”
“Um – tomorrow’s not good, I’ve got a rehearsal.” With myself of course, but no need to seem ridiculously available. The russet-haired barbarian needed to work hard to see me. I couldn’t just fall into his lap. Although I wanted to.
“Hmmm. Thursday’s out, I’ve got a meeting. What about Friday?”
“Sounds fine.” Friday had always been my favorite day of the week – the threshold of the weekend.
“Any type of food out for you?”
“None. Well, perhaps head cheese or horsemeat.”
“Favorite drink?”
“Excuse me?” That was a broad subject. Where might I begin, especially in France?
“Favorite summertime drink?”
“Umm, let’s see – “ A good question, showing attention to details. The barbarian had a civilized side. “I like sangria.”
The following three days passed in a flurry. Now that I knew the full scope of Henri’s interests, I was sure I didn’t want him to act as my manager. But anticipation had replaced the fear I’d felt in the pit of my stomach the day I stumbled on the drawing in his office. Henri’s interest in my career had gotten me to Paris. Marceline’s interest in reeling in her husband would get me out of their apartment. And whatever interest Arnaud de Saint Cyr and I had in each other would set the stage for the next chapter of my new life in Europe. In the meantime, I had to figure out what I would wear to my meeting with him less than forty-eight hours away.
On Thursday, Henri and I went over to The Blue Cactus. Henri introduced me to the owner, a Monsieur Thibault who sported a handlebar moustache and whose first name I didn’t catch. He spent less than five minutes with us, then had the bartender set us up with drinks while we caught the evening’s performance.
It was less than stellar. A male guitarist playe
d unmemorable background music while diners ate, chatted, and paid him no attention whatsoever. No sound equipment was in sight. Concerned, I asked Henri if there was indeed a house P.A. system with microphone, reverb, and sound mixing board available for the night of my performance.
“It will all be taken care of, Ava. N’inquiète pas, don’t worry,” he reassured me.
Back in New York, it hadn’t taken me long to figure out the waiters and waitresses at the trendy Village restaurant where I played piano and sang, made more money than me. It was due to tips. Customers felt obligated to give a fifteen to twenty per cent tip in New York for standard service, but the tip jar on the piano didn’t beckon to them as an obligatory stop on the way out the door. Still, I had big ambitions for a career as a recording artist and songwriter, so what did I care if playing piano in a restaurant was a dead end? I wasn’t planning on doing it for too much longer.
“Do you want another cocktail?” Henri asked pointing at the tiny glass I’d emptied in four sips. Mixed drinks in Europe were both miniscule and expensive. I’d stick with wine the next time I went out – perhaps sangria with Arnaud the following evening. My stomach warmed at the thought.
“No thanks. I’m done,” I said politely. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the evening drinking with Henri. He’d probably confess something to me I wouldn’t want to hear, and then it would be even more uncomfortable returning to the accusatory eyes of his wife back home. I’d be an accessory to crime by providing him with the object of his fantasies. Against my will, no less. That’s how the world worked for attractive, unattached young women.
I wanted to leave as soon as possible to get away from Henri. “Shall we go?”
“If you like.” he shrugged, clearly open to further suggestion.
I’d offer him some food for thought. “You and Marceline have the flat to yourselves tomorrow evening. I’m meeting a friend.”
His eyebrows went up. “Another musician?”
“No. He’s a-a- a…” I had no idea what Arnaud did for a living. Who cared? No one talked about that kind of thing at parties in Paris. But it had been a literary gathering, ostensibly. “He’s a writer,” I finally said.
“Oh.” One eyebrow lowered, the other remaining up, in a speculative expression. “I see.”
I ignored him, as I got off my barstool and headed to the door. He didn’t see anything. Even I didn’t see clearly what the following evening would offer. The thought of it made me feel like a newly-sharpened knife, except for some part deep inside that went all quivery and mushy at the thought of spending time alone with Arnaud de Saint Cyr.
For a split second, I felt the tiniest bit sorry for Henri, about to go home to his grumpy wife. She was right to be suspicious. Irritable, uncomfortable, swollen, and exhausted, she had every reason to be. But that didn’t stop her husband’s eye from roving. I made a mental note to take extra care to keep any future partner well away from single, attractive females if I one day found myself in a heavily pregnant state.
The next morning, Marceline left early for work. Then Henri finally went out on an appointment. At the sound of his Citroën accelerating down the boulevard outside my window, I pulled out a black and white dress I’d brought from New York. It needed ironing. In the kitchen, I found the ironing board and iron, being careful not to set the iron on any surface that would burn. Marceline had already dropped several comments about minor infractions I’d committed around the flat, which Henri had relayed to me apologetically. The dollop of skin moisturizer for babies I’d used from a jar in her bathroom hadn’t gone unnoticed. She’d been saving it for the baby and I’d inadvertently opened it for the first time. I needed to get out of there as soon as possible, to save myself as well as their marriage.
The form-fitting cotton/linen dress ironed, I tried it on. Everything about it screamed Audrey Hepburn, except the figure of the person inside. That was probably for the best. In my experience, skinny men liked women who weren’t skinny. Arnaud de Saint Cyr was slim as a weasel, but with broad shoulders. I didn’t yet know how much I wanted him to like me, but if it turned out I did, this dress would do the trick. Taking it off, I hung it on a hanger, admiring the way it retained an hourglass shape without me in it. There was something to be said for good tailoring.
That afternoon, I rehearsed well. My mind focused, I was able to master some country western/pop crossover tunes I knew would appeal to a French audience for their exoticism alone. No one would know if I forgot a word or phrase here or there.
At half past six, the key turned in the door. Marceline and Henri came in together, their arms full of shopping bags.
“Want some help?” I called from my room.
“No, we’re fine,” Marceline called back, sounding cheerier than she had in days.
I continued drawing the finest of dark brown eyeliner lines above my upper lashes. Done, I admired my handiwork in the mirror on the bureau.
“Getting ready for your date?” Marceline stood in the doorway, a sly smile on her face.
I turned. She looked like the old Marceline I’d met in New York the year before – foxy and full of spice. For the first time since I’d arrived, I relaxed in her presence.
“What do you think?” I asked, genuinely seeking her opinion, woman to woman.
Henri must have told her I had a date that evening, although I’d simply said I was meeting a friend.
“I think he’s going to like it.”
“Thank you.” I winked to cover my blush. What if it turned out I didn’t want Arnaud de Saint Cyr to like me? What if he was a highly intelligent, raving lunatic? I was nuts to put this much preparation into a first date.
Marceline turned, humming a tune as she went to the kitchen. She was a regular wellspring of good cheer that evening.
Catching her mood, I continued preparations, putting on a subtle rose-colored lipstick that wouldn’t look too obvious if it got rubbed off. There was a chance it would, non?
I sprayed Paloma Picasso on my neck, one wrist, and between my breasts. The black and white dress was so form-fitting that it created the tiniest hint of cleavage, even though it wasn’t especially low cut. Mentally, I thanked its designer, vowing to make him famous when I became a smash-hit pop star, picking up my first Grammy Award wearing his design.
Henri had gone downstairs to park the car by the time I headed out the door. I waved goodbye to Marceline. No doubt, she would light a candle that evening to the patron saint of good dates in hopes this one would hasten my departure.
On the sidewalk, I turned down the first side street to escape Henri’s notice. If he saw me in my black and white dress, I could only guess there’d be a new sketch of me forthcoming in his private collection. Despite being a performing artist, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with putting my charms on display for the general public. The New England side of me bristled at such a thing. But making an impression on a private audience I found interesting was another thing. I looked forward to seeing Arnaud de Saint Cyr’s jaw drop when we met. Or would he play it cool? Who was I kidding? There was no way that man was capable of playing anything cool. He’d probably say something outrageous, throwing me off guard. I vowed I’d get back on track quickly, if he did.
Never had I dated anyone with a wit like the blade of a sword. As much as the thought of sparring again with the man unsettled me, it excited me even more. My stomach tightened as I hastened my step.
In fifteen minutes, I was at Place de la Bastille, one of Paris’s many large, round traffic circles. Four years earlier, I had read a book on the unusually high number of fatal traffic accidents that happened at Place de la Bastille. The author hypothesized that due to the location of the Bastille, Paris’s most terrifying prison during the French Revolution, the souls of thousands of enemies of the revolution who had died violently within its thick walls were trapped in limbo in the area, leaving a collective psychic agitation, which led to a higher than usual number of traffic accidents. It made sense to me.
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I slowed my gait, running a hand through my hair to smooth it behind my ears. Crossing the street carefully, I reached our meeting place.
It was show time. Arnaud would be inside the café at a window seat, on the lookout for me. Sauntering past the length of the café front, chin held high, I’d let him find me.
At the end of the terrace of the café, I turned and made my way back, this time even more slowly. I was ten minutes late, in other words – right on time. Where was he?
CHAPTER TEN
Mad Summer Night
“Ava,” a voice rang out behind me.
I turned. Arnaud looked taller than he had at the party, perhaps a shade under six feet. His wavy, auburn hair flowed down on his shoulders like some sort of medieval troubadour. He wore a dark purple shirt with a Nehru collar.
“Arnaud?” Just saying his name was like singing.
“Did you just get here?” He sounded out of breath.
“Yes. What about you?”
“Thought I wouldn’t make it on time.” His gaze roved over my dress. “I was in meetings all afternoon.”
“Did you accomplish anything?”
“Next assignment.” He stepped closer – his scent woodsy, a trace of spice. “Ready for a drink?”
“Sure. What about here?” I gestured to the terrace of the café we stood next to.
“Let’s go somewhere quieter.”
“Fine.” I fell into step beside him. In another five minutes, he stopped in front of a tranquil side street café with three tables out front. It was more amenable to conversation than Café de la Bastille would have been, directly on a busy traffic roundabout. We sat at a table outside.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked.
“You already know.”
His blue green eyes twinkled, a half smile playing across his lips. As if on cue, a waiter materialized, and Arnaud ordered two glasses of sangria, while I studied his mouth. It was wide, with a noticeably curved upper lip – one I could imagine belonging to Tiberius or another of the especially cruel Roman emperors. Warning bells should have been going off in my head, but something else was instead, further south.