by Rozsa Gaston
“Was that Sade you were just playing?” he repeated, referring to the low-voiced, low-profile English singer of African origin who’d burst onto the pop music scene in the late 1980s, then disappeared, after three award-winning albums. She was one of my favorites, both for her spare songwriting style and sultry, mystery-laden voice.
“No. That was my own.”
His English was good, with a slight French accent.
“You mean you wrote it?”
“Yes.” My heart fluttered.
“What’s it called?”
“Method and Madness.” I was used to being ogled; admired for idiotic, exterior things like my hats or my Hungarian cheekbones that didn’t seem intrinsically a part of me. My songs were.
“Method and Madness?”
“Yes.”
He stepped back, cocking his head.
Mentally, I did the same. His hair was wavy and full, darker than Arnaud’s. His face was less perfect in its proportions, a slightly too-long, too-thin nose and sharply angled cheekbones that jutted out so far they made the lower half of his narrow face look gaunt.
“Can you explain it to me?”
I smiled. “An artist shouldn’t explain her creation. It’s enough to just create it.”
“You’re right. It’s enough just the way it is.” He paused, looking at me gravely, nothing like the outrageous, joking but flirtatious way Arnaud had pushed himself into my life. “But I want to know more.”
“Why?” I was pleased. Someone was actually asking about my original music. Not about where I was from, my astrological sign, or my availability for a drink later that evening. Although that might come.
“Because I’m a mathematician.”
“Oh?” Now that was interesting. I’d never met a real mathematician before. “What kind of math do you do? – or – uh – study?” I wasn’t sure if mathematicians did things or just studied them. Maybe he taught.
“I’m working on a project to define M.”
“To define M? What’s M?” It sounded like a good name for the kinds of songs I wrote.
“Bahh –.” His long, angular body shifted, while his large hands gestured in the air, cryptic and vague, as if engaged in a sign language neither he nor I could understand. “I can’t really explain it.”
I laughed. “That’s exactly how it is with my own songs. I can’t really explain them. You either like listening to them or you don’t.”
“I do.” Hemming and hawing, his hands still attempting to define M in the air around him, he stood there looking gawky and interesting.
So what are you going to do about it, buddy? The minute the thought crossed my mind I knew how very American I was to the core. I’d never be French.
A French person wouldn’t feel the need to do anything after engaging in a flirtatious exchange. He or she would just let it happen. An American would feel a categorical imperative to follow up.
Frenchmen flirted with women everywhere all the time. Married men flirted with married women, gay men passed compliments to straight women, and women critically eyeballed other women (in Paris that’s a big compliment). In France, it was all about the journey, not the destination.
In my experience, American men flirted in order to get somewhere. They spent a lot of time rounding bases on their way to home plate. It was all about scoring – or at least thinking about scoring. French men didn’t seem to interact with the opposite sex in those terms. They knew how to be here now. Or at least they knew better than American men how to be here now.
But the tall, awkward mathematician wasn’t doing anything about us being there then, to my vexation.
“Good,” I said in response to his appreciation of my original music. I got up and smartly disappeared into the dressing room behind the bar. There was no way I was going to help him make a next move. He’d have to figure it out all on his own. Anyway, I wasn’t available, I reminded myself. Then, I scolded myself that I’d needed reminding.
When I came out, he was gone. Telling myself I could care less, I began my next set with Rodgers and Hammerstein’s “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair.”
The next afternoon, Arnaud called, surprising me. He never called when he was away.
“Minou, how are you?”
“I’m fine, darling. How are you?”
“Missing you.” Something must have really gone wrong out there in Indochina. This was a first. “Are you missing me, too?”
“Sure I miss you,” I lied. I’d thought about how his blue-green eyes didn’t really reassure me, which far from qualified as missing him. “Why are you calling?” I asked, straight to the point.
“Minou, could you do me a favor?”
“Of course. What is it?” Why had I said “Of course?” What was I, his wife? Non. His hired assistant? Mais, non. A naïve American chick? Certainement non.
“My friend Pierre is in Paris. He’s staying at my place. I told him about you, and he wants to hear your music. Just be nice to him if he turns up.
“Who’s your friend, Pierre?” I asked, pleased to know Arnaud had mentioned me to his friends. I’d never met any of them thus far.
“He’s an old school friend.”
“You mean from the military academy – Saint Cyr?”
“C’est ça. That’s it. He’s a little weird, but you’ll like him.”
“How is he weird?”
“He’s what you Americans refer to as a geek.”
“How so?” I felt ready to defend the geek, whoever he was. There were times when I found Arnaud just a tad too polished, too smooth. Like when he was sliding in and out of my life on yet another assignment to somewhere I wasn’t invited.
“You’ll see when you meet him.”
“How’s that going to happen?”
“I told him what nights you play at Teddy’s. He said he’ll drop by.”
“How is it out there?” I asked, careful to conceal how happy I was someone had expressed interest in hearing my own music.
“It’s hot. Affreusement mouillé. Horribly humid.”
“And how’s the assignment going?”
“Slow, darling. Very slow and unexciting.” A pause. “Like Pierre, I’m afraid.”
“Then why are you sending him my way?” I asked, irritated.
“I told him you write songs. He asked what kind, and I said I couldn’t really explain, he should just go and hear you perform.”
“Okay, I’ll look out for him,” I replied, irked that Arnaud hadn’t been able to come up with a single adjective to describe to his friend what kinds of songs I wrote. My articulate, intelligent boyfriend had been completely incapable of a single description of my creative work. A small balloon popped amongst the cluster I held in my heart to celebrate our love.
“I’ll see you when I get back, ma chère.”
It was as if he’d said, “take care of yourself.” Just something to say, with no meaning or commitment attached to it at all. I tried not to be disappointed, as another balloon burst.
“See you then,” I responded, just a bit coldly.
“Je t’adore.” That was better. My heart sang. His words sounded so romantic, so French. What American man would tell his girlfriend he adores her on a regular basis?
“Moi aussi. Me too. Au revoir,” I answered and hung up.
That evening at Teddy’s I didn’t look up when a piece of paper fluttered into my tip jar. Why bother, if it wasn’t accompanied by currency? A working musician’s cynicism took over when I was on the job. It was just another gig after all, meaning I wanted to get paid for it, tips welcomed. When I finished the piece I was playing, I unfolded it.
“Method and Madness, s’il vous plaît, please.”
I glanced around the room, my eyes focusing in the dim, smoky light.
In the corner, the man from the evening before nodded.
He was back!
A tiny, naughty thought crossed my mind. Then, it decided to stay awhile.
Launc
hing into Method and Madness, I lost myself in my latest composition. In the middle section, or the bridge, I extended the instrumental riff for extra drama. Caught up in the genius of my solo, I was startled when my boss’s face suddenly loomed before me.
“Ava, could you play something everyone knows?” he whispered. It was the first time he’d ever commented on my song selections. Blood rushed to my head as I tried to prevent my cheeks from flaming. How dare he direct me back to yet another base, inferior top-40 cover tune? I was playing my own music for God’s sake, something that would one day be famous!
“I’m playing a request right now,” I hissed.
“That’s great, but no one’s ever heard of it. Could you play Careless Whisper again?”
I wanted to gag. It was my employer’s favorite English pop song, one of the only ones he knew. I’d heard it one too many times to be able to enjoy playing it anymore. It was as if my boss had just asked me to toss out the vintage Mouton Lafitte Rothschild in his glass and refill it with Boone’s Farm strawberry wine.
“Sure. As soon as I’m finished with this one,” I snarled back. I needed to stand up for myself. But I also needed to eat and to earn a living in order to retain some independence from Arnaud.
Why did I need to do that when the man adored me? Because I just did, that was all. An artist didn’t need to explain herself.
My eyes wandered back to the man sitting in the corner. He wasn’t particularly good looking. But I liked the way he listened intently as I played my song. He seemed earnest, more like an American than a Frenchman. French men were all about smooth moves or suavity. They had it in spades. They practically majored in it back at lycée or high school.
The guy in the corner was now scribbling something on a cocktail napkin. For several seconds, I studied him as I launched into the dramatic opening riff of Teddy’s request. It was nice not to be the star of whatever thoughts the stranger in the corner was caught up in at that moment.
Yet I wanted to know what they were. All of them.
By the end of Careless Whisper, the mathematician hadn’t looked up once. Meanwhile, I received the first tiny, barely audible round of applause of the evening.
It seemed like a good time to take a break. Ignoring all my rules for la chasse, the hunt, I went over to the stranger’s table in the corner and sat.
He continued to scribble on the cocktail napkin.
The more he concentrated, the more intrigued I became.
Finally, he looked up.
“Bon soir, Ava,” he said.
“How did you know my name?” I asked, surprised.
His eyes danced. “Ça va, ce soir? How are you this evening?” He eluded my question, the first smooth move I’d seen him make yet.
“Ça va très bien, merci. I’m fine, thank you. And who would like to know, may I ask?”
“Ahh, excusez-moi. I am Pierre Castel. A friend of Arnaud de Saint Cyr. Enchanté.” He put out his hand to shake mine, American style.
“You’re Pierre?” Incredulous, I pushed back from the table. This was Pierre? Arnaud had described him as slow and unexciting.
Not in my book.
“Oui. I am Pierre. And you are Ava. From New York, non?”
“Yes. Are you – I mean you are – you’re Arnaud’s friend from childhood?”
“We went to school together.”
“To the military academy?” One of the few things Arnaud had told me about his past was that he’d spent time at a military academy that shared his name. When I’d asked if there was a family connection, he’d changed the subject.
“Yes.”
“How fascinating. Does that mean Arnaud is some sort of – army officer in France?”
“Bah, non, pas exactement.” He cleared his throat. “Arnaud did not complete his studies at Saint Cyr. He moved in another direction.”
That didn’t surprise me. He’d probably dropped out. Or been thrown out. His outsized personality would definitely have gotten him tossed out of a boarding school back home. Nothing about Arnaud suggested “team player.”
“So does that mean you’re an army officer?”
“Justement. Exactly.”
Now, I was in big trouble. I’d spent my entire life categorically rejecting every tenet of my grandmother’s value system. Yet here I was, ready to melt upon hearing the man sitting across from me was a military officer. I could have kicked myself, except I was too busy soaking up Pierre Castel. What would he look like in his military uniform? Would it have epaulets? Badges? Or was that for Boy Scouts? Medals, perhaps? Would there be a large hat with a horsehair plume on top?
I shivered involuntarily. My grandmother’s voice sang in my ear. Play your cards right, Ava. And for God’s sake get that hair out of your face.
“Huh. Did you actually fight a war somewhere?”
“Non. France is not fond of making wars at this time in history.” He smiled, delicately refraining from mentioning other countries by name that were.
“I see. So what exactly is the French military fond of doing at this time?” Horseback riding? Fencing? Interbreeding with the locals? I was all ears.
He smiled. “Do you really want to know?’
“Mais, oui, bien sûr. But yes, of course,” I said, exactly as I’d heard the French say when they found something strongly interesting.
“Then, why don’t you join me tomorrow at my military canteen for lunch?”
“Lunch at a military canteen?” I was dumbfounded. No one had ever asked me on a date to a military canteen before. It sounded unappealing, but in the interest of getting to know Pierre Castel better, I could put up with a single, army-issue meal.
“Yes. There’s one here in Paris, not far from Arnaud’s place. I invite you.”
“Bah…” I thought I’d try out the French ‘bah’ expression to at least pretend I was playing hard to get. Then I remembered. I was Arnaud’s girlfriend. This couldn’t possibly be a date. It was just some sort of friendly lunch, since we both knew Arnaud and were at loose ends while he was out of town. “Well … all right.”
“Très bien. I’ll pick you up at half past twelve, tomorrow. Where do I find you?”
Pierre was getting smoother by the minute. Slow and unexciting? How well did Arnaud know his childhood friend? And how well did he think he knew me? On both counts, a tad too smug in his judgments, I thought.
“I’m here. I live in the apartment above Teddy’s,” I burst out, before remembering I was a woman of mystique.
“Good,” he responded, smiling.
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were last night?” I demanded.
“Je m’excuse, Ava,” His smile widened, his expression sincere. “I just got caught up in – in your music.”
Hmm. Just as I was getting caught up in his earnestness or whatever it was that hummed to me.
The manager caught my eye and tapped his watch.
“I’ve got to go, Pierre. My last set.”
“I’ve got to go, too. See you here tomorrow, half past twelve?”
“Not here. Go to the door around the corner to the left of the front entrance. You’ll see it. There’s a little lantern outside. I’m at the top of the stairs on the first floor if I’m not downstairs already. Just knock.”
“I’ll find you.”
“Bon. A demain. Till tomorrow.”
“A demain, Ava.” He stood as I rose from the table, giving me a taste of military manners. All the geeky awkwardness of him from the night before had melted away. He stood erect, practically saluting, as I passed on my way to the piano.
That night, I wrestled with my grandmother’s angel before falling asleep. Memories of our neighbor Chip Hopkins, leaving for Naval Reserve weekends from his house across the street from us in West Hartford, filled my head. Once every three months or so, Mr. Hopkins would emerge from his house on a Friday afternoon wearing a crisp white jacket and trousers. Gold buttons, medals and gold and black trim decorated the front of his U.S. Navy Reser
ve jacket as he marched down the front steps. His blonde, slim, athletic wife Poppy would follow behind, practically bursting with admiration. She’d fuss over him, hand him his regulation duffle bag, affix his white cap on his head, then hug and kiss him a few times, making a huge public display of affection. My grandmother soaked this up in vicarious delight, as she spied on them from the couch next to the large, bay window in our living room.
“There’s Chip going off on his reserve weekend. Poppy is one lucky woman to have a husband like that,” my grandmother would sigh. Unlike me, every pore in her body would silently exhale. “Look at him in his uniform, Ava. Have you ever seen such a fine figure of a man? Too bad you couldn’t have had a father like that.” My grandmother knew how to drive home a point.
She’d swoon and moon over Chip, as he got into his Ford Falcon and drove off. Lithe, blonde, and suntanned Poppy in lime-green culottes would wave and blow kisses goodbye then turn to check on her flower beds. Poppy was one of those perpetually tanned athletic West Hartford ladies. She and Chip played tennis at their club. Twice weekly, they’d drive off on Chip’s Vespa in their white tennis outfits, rackets stashed behind. They appeared to spend all of their time playing tennis or gardening when not tending to their three children, all of whom enjoyed effortless super-WASPy looks. The entire family had good hair.
I’d secretly disliked the Hopkins, whom I’d renamed the Snotkins. They weren’t actually snotty, it’s just that they pretty much represented every snotty value my grandmother possessed in her large repertoire of discriminatory and unfair social class distinctions. They were the ‘It’ family in her book, and we were the ‘Not Its’.
However, I couldn’t help but admire the white jacket Chip Hopkins wore on Navy Reserve days. It was an uncontrollable attraction in direct contradiction to my knee-jerk opposition to anything my grandmother stood for.
Sleep eluded me as speculations on Pierre intermingled with thoughts of Arnaud. As I drifted off, our phone conversation came to mind.
“See you when I get back” hadn’t exactly thrilled my heart, but “je t’adore” had. Back to back, his two final lines had bewildered me. If a guy I was dating back in New York had finished a long-distance phone conversation with ‘see you when I get back’, I’d have taken it as a sign I was free to do what I liked in the interim. Yet, he’d finished off with “je t’adore.” That meant he loved me, right? A little angry with him to have left me in such a confused state, I fell asleep.