He brushed his teeth with the intensity he had used when drying himself with a towel. Would he, I wondered, take me with the same intensity—once he stopped worrying?
“Help me dry.” It was a seductive request, almost a plea, certainly not a demand. He rubbed my back and then cupped my breasts in his hands.
“You have,” he said, as if giving a benediction, “great breasts.” He didn’t say “tits” or “boobs.” It was as if my breasts had acquired a majesty, a unique life of their own. “You’d never need implants.”
No doubt many of the puck bunnies had implants.
“I’ve packed a nightgown,” I said, “a black satin one. I was going to make an entrance, but it seems silly now. I want you to feel my skin and I want to feel yours.”
We lay down together under the crisp sheet. I felt his hands, warm and rough-skinned, exploring my ears, breasts, hips, and then I felt his index finger, with its square, well-clipped nail, one of the nails I used to watch during our tutoring days, tentatively penetrate my vagina and then withdraw. Checking for size, I presumed. I thought of Mutti and her veggies and felt his penis, rock hard against my hip.
“It’s okay,” I whispered.
I felt him pushing against the tight wet cushions holding him back.
“Tell me if I’m hurting you.” His voice was hoarse with concern.
“I’m fine,” I yelped in pain. He was tearing me apart. I felt blood, warm between my inner thighs, but now he wouldn’t or couldn’t stop. As he drove into me the pain was replaced by a musical sensation, and the melody flowed over me and entered my very core.
“THERE’S BLOOD ON the bed.” He sounded contrite.
“I guess we should soak the sheet in cold water,” I answered drowsily. “No need to inform the cleaning staff at the Sinclair.” I fought the urge to laugh and continued, “If you were in the Middle East, you’d be waving the sheet from the window. You must tell Mutti, then she’ll know I’m not a girl who gets a man with her veggies.”
“It’s none of Mutti’s damn business.”
“It’ll make her happy. She sort of recruited me, you know, and this will validate her choice. I really liked it. It’s good we didn’t do it before. God knows what I would have been up to in Toronto.”
I felt him stiffen against me and mutter, “Jesus.”
My stupid mouth: the Davenport Diplomat strikes again. “Carl, lighten up. No one in the world smells like you, has your pink shiny ears,” I reached out in the darkness, touching his forehead, “and your pink shiny scar. I never, ever, wanted to have sex with anyone else; you must know that.”
I clasped my arms around him, pushed my breasts into his back, and felt his warmth. He turned and held me. And we slept.
13
THE HONEYMOON
“DID YOU KNOW THAT GENERAL von Choltitz was told by Hitler to destroy all the beautiful monuments in Paris when Germany was losing the war? But he wouldn’t do it, so now we can see them all.”
We were sitting in first class and I was reading from one of the three tourist books on Paris I had picked up at the airport while waiting for the Air France flight. We had finished one of the best dinners I’d ever had, complete with white and red wine. I was nineteen and was on my way to Paris with a husband who smelled of soap and who had felt apologetic for taking my virginity, for which I not only forgave him but was appreciative, even enthusiastic.
“It’s called The City of Light, know why?”
“’Cause it’s all lit up.”
“That and the fact that it was a place of enlightenment way back when, with lots of intellectuals and new ideas.”
He reached over and rubbed my leg.
“Tired?” I asked. I would keep the reading to myself and merely tell him each morning where we were heading.
“If you hadn’t been so secretive about the honeymoon, I could have brushed up on my French and listened to some tapes. But it should come back to me.”
I picked up his hand, studied the pink clipped nails, and then bit his index finger gently.
“Why did you insert it the way you did last night? Checking the fit?”
Being playful didn’t work. “Read your books,” he ordered, “then you can plan our week.”
“Didn’t you want to go to Paris?”
“Not really. I don’t speak French, but you wanted it—and that’s what mattered.”
“So you’re just along for the ride.”
“What’s wrong with that, me wanting you happy?”
“Nothing, I guess.” So much for the sharing of ideas and enthusiasms, but he did want me happy and that was something—and I loved the sex.
We stayed at the Hôtel du Louvre, across from the Musée du Louvre. “Really convenient,” I said with enthusiasm, “we can just nip across the street and spend hours looking at the art.” The travel agent had chosen the locality after he had told her, “My wife’s really into art and all that stuff.”
We lay down briefly to combat the creeping jet lag but had sex instead.
“I never thought you’d be like this,” he said thoughtfully afterwards, “deep down sexy. I’m really lucky. It’s something I’m good at and it makes you happy.”
I could have been flippant and made some remark about the puck bunnies, but I decided against it. It was obvious that he was very serious and had given the subject considerable thought.
That day we strolled through the streets of Paris and finally in late afternoon took a taxi to Notre Dame Cathedral. “Isn’t it magnificent,” I breathed, “those soaring ceilings and the stained-glass rose window?”
He nodded solemnly but stood behind, waiting at the back while I roamed through the church.
“You’re not participating,” I chided.
“Doesn’t turn me on like it does you, but I like watching you enjoy it.”
I would, I decided, restrict the churches, or see the Église de la Madeleine on my own.
The travel agent had booked a dinner for two at the Tour d’Argent. “It’s really high-end and very expensive,” I cautioned. “No need for us to spend money like this.”
“I told her I wanted to take you somewhere very special for our first night.”
I wore my black dress and he learned to ask for the bill.
“L’addition, s’il vous plait.”
“That’s all you really have to know,” I joked, “that will serve you well everywhere we go.”
We were satiated with eating duck done in four different ways, a bottle of wine, and a rich dessert, so we decided against having sex after what seemed like walking miles back to the hotel. Then we went out onto the small balcony to look at the city. I put my arms around him, and we decided we’d have sex anyway.
“Tomorrow,” I whispered afterwards, “we’ll be like the French. We’ll have a croissant and café au lait for breakfast and go to a nice family restaurant at night.”
“I can take you shopping. The travel agent said I had to take you shopping.”
“I thought you’d never ask. You must be sick of seeing me in my black dress with my boobs hanging out.” This time he at least laughed.
So we walked the Champs Élysees, visited the Galeries Lafayette, and even dropped in on Givenchy and Dior on the Avenue Montaigne.
“Too much money and I’ve got too much T and A,” I said, dismissing much of the merchandise.
He did, I noticed, pay much more attention to my wardrobe choices than to the historical monuments and buildings, sitting solemnly, arms crossed, while I modelled an assortment of dresses, suits, and coats, with Carl pronouncing them to be “not for you” or “perfect.”
“Too expensive and dressy,” I complained about one of his “perfect” choices. “Where’ll I wear it? Going to classes on the U of T campus, or slinking around Tim Hortons in Davenport?” But he insisted.
“You have,” I pronounced finally, “wonderful taste in women’s clothes. You lean toward nice, clean, basic lines, really classic. You’re a hidden Armani.
If you hadn’t been a hockey player, you could have been a woman’s clothes designer or at least a buyer. Even the saleslady said, ‘He’s got great taste for a German.’”
“Is that what you two were giggling about?” he said, but I could tell he was pleased. “They caved in soon enough to the Krauts in the Second World War.”
“I defended you, reminded her of Karl Lagerfeld, but it seems she doesn’t like him either. Apparently your taste’s much better.”
He did, however, admire the Arc de Triomphe, standing and looking at it with narrowed eyes for several minutes.
“Approve?”
“More than approve.”
We climbed the Eiffel Tour, bypassing the layers of tourist shops, and when we reached the top exhausted, I gasped and said with breathless gusto, arms outstretched, “Now we own Paris.”
Then we kissed.
“Like in a movie,” he said.
Rigoletto at the Opera Garnier was a mistake: Carl slept after Act One.
“Tired or bored?” I inquired.
“Both,” he answered. At least he was honest.
So the next night we attended a jazz concert at The New Morning, which we both enjoyed, and afterwards visited the Deux Magots for a glass of wine. “This was an intellectual meeting place,” I explained. “Simone de Beauvoir used to come here with Jean-Paul Sartre. They believed in existentialism, that you made your own life decisions, regardless of religion or current morality, important life-or-death decisions. De Beauvoir was an early feminist.”
“Are you a feminist?”
“I suppose I am, although I’m not as independent as I should be. I really enjoy you buying me things. Maybe if my parents had been rich I’d be a much stronger feminist. Feminists, after all, just want to be treated on an equal basis with men. Besides, I only want to be an English professor, not take on the world.”
“I never think,” he said, “of a feminist having big boobs and loving sex like you do. You’re not my idea of a feminist at all.”
“Your mother is more of a feminist?”
“Mutti is a sergeant major, but she has nothing to do with being a feminist. She doesn’t even know the meaning of the word.”
“She doesn’t need to, Carl. She’s a natural leader, not always right, in fact at times very wrong, but she’s got all the right instincts, way beyond equality.”
We both laughed, thinking back to how she controlled our wedding.
On the fourth day I woke early. I watched Carl as he slept, his brows slightly drawn, his scar shining pink against his forehead, which had acquired a slight tan. What was he dreaming of, I wondered, a missed goal or never going back to the Bruins? He was tired out. Was it all the sex or the residue of the last concussion? I felt a wave of tenderness, an urge to protect him. The day before we had walked the entire Rive Gauche, or Left Bank, and ended up at a neighbourhood restaurant that was family owned. We shared a bottle of hypnotic Beaujolais and beefsteak and frites.
“No lovin’ tonight,” I insisted as we took the lift to the tenth floor.
“Dixième étage,” he said.
“There you are,” I sang, “you can not only order a restaurant tab, but you know our floor in French. In one more year you’d be parlez vous-ing away like a true Frenchman.”
In spite of my voiced prohibition, the lovemaking started in the bathroom, continued on the balcony, and ended in a feverish finish on the bed, which was not made for two quite large individuals, by French standards.
Exhausted, I thought affectionately, watching him take a deep breath and continue his dreams, dreams that made him frown.
I DECIDED TO visit the Louvre. It opened early and it would be exciting to experience Paris on my own, if only briefly. I would be back in two hours. I placed the Occupée card on the doorknob and left.
Although it was early, there was a lineup for the Louvre. Once inside, I moved quickly from exhibit to exhibit, savouring my independence. Someday, I would come back and spend an entire week visiting the Louvre and the other museums, especially to see Renoir and the Impressionists. My interest could not be stifled by Carl’s inability to relate, although his artistry and clothes sense—women’s clothes sense—was surprising.
It was eleven when I returned. Carl was up and dressed and angry. Why didn’t I wake him? He was concerned. He’d been awake for hours, worried. Why would I sneak off without him?
“You could have gone downstairs and had breakfast.”
“You know I can’t speak French.”
“The staff here will all speak English.”
I found his insecurity unsettling, bothersome. I had enjoyed my time alone, but now he had ruined it.
“Were you worried about me, or about yourself, or because you were alone?”
“What are you trying to prove? I was worried about you.”
Both, I thought, but I knew he did not want to be alone.
“I should have left a note. It was inconsiderate, but you’re over-reacting, really you are.”
“Sorry. I’m an asshole.”
“No, you’re not. You’re great. I really thought you were tired. I was thinking of you.”
We were both liars, but it had gone on long enough.
“Let’s have lunch. We’ll go downstairs, and later I want to visit the Sorbonne, that’s where I always wanted to attend university. Then we can take the Metro; there are 384 stops. We can get off anywhere it looks interesting.”
I SMILED AT him over my café au lait, watching him cut into his omelette.
“Did you know you scowl in your sleep? I was watching you this morning before I left.”
“What were you doing that for?” It was apparently an invasion of privacy.
“It’s not as if you were snoring with your mouth open; you look cute when you sleep—just not peaceful.” Then as an afterthought, “We haven’t seen the Court at Versailles, or any of the Gardens.”
“I’ll take a pass.”
“Not interested in Louis XIV? Kings in those days made a ritual of going to the loo; apparently having a daily bowel movement in front of their courtiers was expected and complied with.” This would at least catch his attention.
“Gross.”
“I bet you’d never forgive Steve Jobs for soaking his feet in Apple’s toilet to chill out.”
“Double gross.”
“You’re so hygienic, but I appreciate it.”
Finally a smile. But I would not leave him alone again.
IT WAS RAINING. A Parisian drizzle is not unusual in mid-June, and we were in a French-style chocolate bar, only about fifty feet from Notre Dame, which soared through the mist. We were sipping rich hot chocolate and nibbling flaky croissants, where yet more chocolate had been poured and solidified. It was our last day. Tomorrow it was the Orly Airport at noon.
“I don’t want to leave; it’s been a dream. We’ll come back again someday, won’t we?”
He was frowning again, not listening.
“I’ll be going to training camp in August.”
I held my breath. “You’re not serious, you can’t be serious. It’s only been four months. You still have headaches. I know you do, even though you never tell me. Doesn’t it mean anything to you that Dr. Folkes said your brain was damaged and that you should never play again? Never. He said you’d be a suicidal idiot to play again. Remember?”
My voice had taken on a raw and grating edge and was too loud. Several of the patrons glanced at us and then looked away quickly. Outbursts never bothered the French, I thought. They understood passion.
“I never told you I’d stop. Where do you think all the money came from, for the big wedding, your Toyota, your bank account, the restaurants, our hotel, and your new designer clothes? There’s no other way I’d earn the big bucks, no way, a mil a year for the next three years. And it makes me feel good, hearing the crowd and doing somethin’ I’m great at.”
I felt my face burning and suppressed a desire to burst into tears, not from sorrow but from
rage and frustration and the unfairness and futility of the argument.
“I never asked you for any of this. I didn’t want a big wedding, high-end restaurants, and two-thousand-dollar gowns. The wedding was all Mutti’s idea, not mine, and I asked you to stop it. I didn’t want luxury at the price of your damaged brain. You thought you were buying me with a hundred-thousand-dollar bank account. You really underestimated me. I only wanted to pay for my education and to try to stop my mother from cleaning buildings and yes, I wanted a bathtub with hot water and to stop worrying about money. You’re stupid, and it’s got nothing to do with being dyslexic. You’re stupid about feelings and what matters, really matters.”
It was then that I realized how much I cared for him, how much I loved him, and not by default.
Perhaps it was the sex, or his kindness to Ma, even his taste in women’s clothes, but it was there, raw and unyielding, as tears poured down my burning cheeks, unchecked, as testament to my hurt and rage—and love.
The entire bar sat transfixed, apparently ready to applaud. In five minutes, I thought, looking back on it on our way home, I had reversed their entire perception of the unemotional North American.
“Ask for your damn ‘addition, s’il vous plait.’ I’ll be outside.”
Once outside we strode together into the mist, walking down cobbled streets and smooth treed boulevards, heads down in silence. Then the mists cleared, and we passed the Parisians on their way home from work and the occasional tourist looking for a cheap café. We kept walking the wet sidewalks shining under the street lights, and when we saw the bright sign of the Hôtel du Louvre we had been walking for hours, never speaking, clutching our respective hurts against our hearts.
Carl lay on the bed, his face buried in a pillow.
I sat by him on the bed and rubbed his shoulder, damp from the evening’s mist, my voice finally soft and plaintive. “We have enough for a great start when you get your money for the first year, and you’ll get it regardless. It’ll buy us a wonderful house, pay for my Toronto apartment and school fees, and we’ll have a cushion for the future. I don’t have to be an English professor. Wiley Wheaton told me when I got the scholarship that I was right up there at the top two percent in the standardized testing and that I could be anything I wanted. If it’s the money that’s worrying you, I’ll transfer into commerce and become a hedge fund manager.”
Sonja & Carl Page 16