Lives Paris Took

by Rachael Wright

  “I’m sorry, David, I’m almost done,” Catherine said from the recesses of the apartment. David withdrew his hand but kept staring at the books even as Catherine strode up behind him, tugging on a pair of black gloves.

  “This is a wonderful place,” David said, still gazing around in awe.

  “It was my parents’ first nice apartment in Paris. They own another that is much larger. My mother was sad to leave, but my father wanted more room to entertain and to be closer to his work.”

  “So this was your childhood home?”

  “No, when we moved to Paris, we lived somewhere else, not at all nice. It was small, cramped. My father saw it as a challenge.”

  “Your father has done very well for himself if he owns another apartment larger and nicer than this one.”

  She smiled and pulled him towards the door.

  “Don’t stare, David. It’s not polite.”

  They laughed all the way to the Opéra Garnier. Gentlemen and their ladies streamed in from all sides. Catherine looked from side to side, exclaiming now and then at a dress that caught her eye.

  “I have come to the Opera on my own a few times,” David said as they neared the palace, its copper roof, long turned green.

  “I’ve come to the opera alone before as well; sometimes one doesn’t want to have to listen to a man’s exaggerated sighs for three hours. They either expect a lot in return afterwards, or they never speak to you again. I’ve used the opera to end a few relationships.”

  “I wonder what will happen to me,” David mused.

  He smiled broadly at Catherine, complimenting her long black dress, but his stomach was in knots. With every marble step they mounted, he was sure that she would recognize her mistake. But as they passed through, into the Opéra, even worries about Catherine were struck from his mind; to walk through the halls of the Palais de Garnier was to be transported.

  The Palaias burst into a blaze of glory. The marbled hall with its grand staircases and lights glinting from every possible surface. It was opulent in the way only the French could be. It was Paris that valued beauty in all things–her people who strove for the most flavor, the most beautiful gowns, the people for whom life should be treasured-lived with vivid intention. Through the thin soles of his Italian shoes the marble seeped, its cold tendrils sneaking up and wrapping themselves around his feet. David reached out and grabbed Catherine’s hand; the silk of her glove slippery in his grasp. In the surge of the crowd, they walked on, falling silent as they made their way through to the main opera theatre.

  It was here, in the center of it all that David was truly in awe. The melodious sounds of well-spoken French drifted across the plush, red velvet backs of the chairs, standing in straight lines like a Roman legion. The room smelled of cigarettes, of Chanel Number 5, and a less distinctive note … perhaps it was excitement or pleasure, if something could be bottled, if it could be smelled as it wafted through the air and clung to women’s gowns.

  David lost himself in the room, hardly noticing that Catherine was now herding him toward their seats; her hand on his back like a mother hen. He didn’t mind. It gave him more time to study, the exquisite room. The modernist mural caught his eye, right at the crest of the ceiling, painted by Marc Chagall. It too was French in a way that could not be denied. It depicted scenes from operas by fourteen different composers: Debussy, Tchaikovsky, Mozart, and Beethoven among them. It was a masterpiece, and in the light from the seven-ton bronze and crystal chandelier, the excesses of the 19th century, the room shone.

  The lights dimmed, and he cast his gaze to the curtain, a voluminous canvas painted to mimic red velvet. It drew the eye, like the passionate kiss of a couple in a park. The curtain rose out of sight, up up up into the abyss. The lights fell almost completely. In the dim light from the stage, Catherine’s face was aglow. She glanced up once, took David’s hand in hers, her sharp eyes on scouring his face for a short moment, and then turned to the stage.

  David would never remember every song of La Traviata, Verdi was a talent such that one forgot that one was listening to music at all. The notes and arias and grand fortes became life, words, movement, and dance. David was taken beyond this world, a one armed man, and into the music, into the opera, in between the pages of sheet music on the orchestra’s stands.

  “I can’t feel my fingers,” Catherine said.

  They made their way slowly out of the theatre and into the grand hall. All around them people chatted away, as if their lives had not been altered, as if they had not been party to the emotional havoc, as if they had come out unchanged.

  “It was … breathtaking. I must see it again,” he whispered.

  It was shameful to be speaking at all. After all, one does not chatter in front of the Mona Lisa nor talk football in the Hall of Mirrors. No, such beauty, such treasure, must be celebrated, toasted with silence because only silence can convey true depth of feeling.

  “Will you take me with you?” she asked.

  David looked at the woman holding his arm. He had quite forgotten she was there. Though it was odd, Catherine looked confused as well.

  “I’m sorry if I was poor company.”

  “You were the best company. I couldn’t imagine better.”

  “It’s impolite to the actors, to the orchestra, to the composer, to not be thoroughly engrossed,” David proclaimed.

  She smiled. They waited in line for their coats and then, as they descended the Palais’ steps, Catherine pulled him off to the right, down Rue de l’Université.

  “There’s a fantastic place just down here.”

  Her heels clicked on the pavement as she walked. A funny, fast-paced, click-click-click. The night was clear and bright and the streets teemed with life. Couples sashayed here and there, kissed in the open, gaggles of girls made eyes at groups of boys. Paris was alive.

  Catherine pulled him in the direction of a shockingly painted bistro front. A darker shade of Tiffany blue with berry pink lettering that read, ‘PETROSSIAN-fondé en 1920.’

  ‘Only a year after the First World War,’ David wondered at the difficulty of opening an establishment at the time, but Petrossian was lively, boasting their own tins of caviar and wide, open windows that beckoned to Parisians on the street.

  A THIN HOSTESS LED THEM to an upholstered bench at the back of the restaurant. It was comfortable, painted to match the bright bistro front. A suited waiter wearing a long white apron met them. Catherine took charge, ordering wine, an assortment of cheeses, grapes, olives, and caviar.

  “You cannot come to Petrossian without trying their caviar,” Catherine said as the food arrived.

  The delicacy arrived in a small, blue dish, suspended on an s-curved tripod, which lay on top of a large, silver platter. A silver spoon with a rose gold shovel-like head lay atop the platter. Catherine picked up the spoon and dipped it into the black mass with relish. As soon as the spoon left her mouth, she shut her eyes and tilted back her head in apparent ecstasy.

  “I’ve never had the occasion,” David said, eyeing the caviar with skepticism.

  “Do you trust me?” Catherine asked, staring down her nose at David.

  “It would depend …”

  But Catherine had already scooped the smallest bit of caviar and shoveled it into his mouth.

  “It is like fine wine; you must refine your palette to truly enjoy it.”

  He paused for a moment. The eggs popped one by one, then all in a rush, and a slightly sweet flavor filled his nose. It was as though they had gone out to the open sea. He looked up to see Catherine grinning at him, watching every micro expression. She smiled, picked up a cracker and took the smallest bite.

  “I will get you to try everything, everything at least once.”

  She began to list off French dishes, the multitude of ways they could be cooked, and their merits. Before long she digressed into Russian dishes, her eyes glazing over with memory. Her hands scooped and buttered the air, rolled it flat, and poured the accompanying wine
. The aromas tickled his nostrils and he salivated, sure that Catherine had just served him a seven-course meal. She paused, savoring the taste of the espresso she’d conjured before them. David moved, struck with a sudden and very rude jolt.

  “Is this what you do for a living? Are you a chef?” He had never asked. She looked slightly taken aback.

  “I’m an art authenticator. I do contract work with many of the auction houses to authenticate their works of art. My specialty is, unsurprisingly, Russian icons, although in recent years I have made a name for myself in late eighteenth century French painters.”

  Her voice was not as passionate, her hands did not have the same creative quality, and her eyes dulled a bit as she spoke. It seemed like a rehearsed speech, one that she’d given many times.

  “I am impressed. What an accomplishment,” David said, shaking his head in amazement.

  “It pays the bills, and I have been fortunate to touch and feel some of the greatest works of art in the world. But it is not where my passion lies.”

  “Where does it lie?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Catherine said, motioning to the plates and dishes in front of them. “Food! I discovered my passion for food much too late in life. I was consumed with working hard to get into college, then to graduate with honors, then further schooling to hone my craft, and then building my reputation and my business. I lived on baguettes and water.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  He had evidently asked the right question. Catherine’s face radiated joy. She reached across the dishes to grab David’s hand.

  “I want to open a bistro; a bistro with the finest foods from France and the choicest delicacies from Russia. It would be tiled in black and white with artwork hung on the walls to encourage discussion. I would serve Turkish coffee, hold meetings for writers and artists and politicians to come and discuss and give impromptu lectures. The bistro would be a hub for Parisians. A new social gathering … like an 18th century salon.”

  David sat in awe of the woman beside him. Her passion, her zest for life, was something he had never experienced. He enjoyed teaching; he enjoyed living in Paris, but it was only music, the opera, which came anywhere close to the zeal that Catherine showed. The idea of her bistro brought her to life; it magnified her features, made her smile more radiant, and transported her beauty beyond the grip of this banal world.

  “Forgive me, David, I am easily sidetracked. This bistro, is a dream,” she said, grinning sheepishly, hiding her face in her wine glass.

  “You should never apologize for something that gives you such pleasure. It is obvious how much it means to you.”

  “My mother wants to come work for me, and my father has even offered to become a primary investor, but I would like to do it on my own. It was my father that built everything we have here. I wish to show him I am also capable.”

  “What are you waiting for, to begin the restaurant?”

  “I need more money. I don’t want the project to fail before it has had the chance to live. But please, enough of me.”

  “No, truly I want to hear more.”

  “I’m curious about your arm, David. Tell me more about how it happened.”

  David was quiet for a moment, trying to best frame his answer.

  “If you don’t wish to speak of it, I understand. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Oh, no, it doesn’t. It was an aggressive bone cancer that had moved rapidly through the arm and was progressing through the shoulder. The oncologist was sure that the cancer would spread throughout my body, eventually metastasizing and killing. In 1940 it was a risky operation.”

  A shocked look had come over Catherine’s face; she sat frozen in her seat, staring at David.

  “How did you find out?”

  “I was ill, for weeks I was unable to sleep from the pain. One day I could not move from my bed.”

  “How terrible. And they took you then? To the doctor?”

  “Yes, the next day, my mother sat by my bedside the entire night, sure that I would die in my sleep,” he paused, seeing Catherine’s horrified face. “Please, it wasn’t such a travesty. I learned quite quickly how to manage. I’m sure it would have been a much harder transition if it were to have happened now, in middle age.”

  “And your family, how did they react?”

  “I have six siblings, three brothers, three sisters. I was unplanned, coming years behind Doris, my youngest sister. I suppose my father thought that I would make use of myself around the farm, once my brothers were no longer at home. After my arm was amputated, I was veritably useless. I stayed indoors, studied, and learned how to cook by my mother’s side. I am his greatest disappointment.

  “As the years went on, it turned out I was not blessed with the gift of faith that was so generously poured out on my siblings. I found accepting our religion difficult. My father wanted all of his children to serve God. He impressed it from a very young age that it was something to aspire to. He was not able to become a missionary so raising his children to be was the next best thing.”

  “Are all of your siblings in service?”

  “Yes,” he said, beaming. “They are. Either married to missionaries, or missionaries themselves. Please do not mistake me, I am proud of them all. They know who they are; they are passionate about Christ.”

  “And do they feel the same way about you? Are they proud?”

  David stared at her, furrowed his brow, and twisted his hand around the white linen napkin.

  “I am the black sheep of the family. I haven’t asked for their approval nor do I seek it.”

  “Forgive me, David. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  He reached for Catherine’s hand and held it lightly. She looked dolefully up at him, a shadow passing behind the dark eyes.

  “I’ve ruined our evening.”

  He shifted and then, before conscious thought reached his brain, leaned over and kissed her cheek. And though he only touched her skin for a moment, a thousand thoughts flooded his mind. She was soft, clean, free of makeup, and the flood of scent, which radiated from her neck made his skin flood with goose bumps. Up close, she was even more beautiful, more impressive. He was unworthy to be sitting next to her.

  Catherine’s eyes fluttered closed and her chest heaved.

  “You were looking for these,” Catherine said, taking a hold of his face and turning it to hers.

  He closed his eyes and let himself fall into the abyss of her closeness.

  IT WAS A COLD night. A gale blew into Paris, dragging in wintry northern air. The thin panes of glass rattled as gusts of wind tore down the Rue Saint-Jacques like bulls on their way to the great amphitheaters in Spain.

  In his drafty apartment, David plucked at his suit coat, a small thread stuck out from behind one of the buttons. The already tight knots in his stomach contracted even further. He fled to the kitchen and flung drawer after drawer open in his search for scissors.

  “Where the hell are they?” he seethed, slamming the last drawer shut.

  His eyes fell on the knife block that was perched on the counter, a thin slit of light glistened off the metal. He reached for it just as a light knock sounded on his door.

  “What’s that for?”

  David twirled around, meeting Catherine’s laughing eyes as she sashayed into the apartment.

  “Oh it’s…” David sputtered.

  “My parents aren’t all bad,” she said jovially, coming to rest on the faded grey arm of the sagging couch. The room brightened with her presence, he quite forgot what he was holding.

  “David, what do you need the knife for?”

  He continued to stare. As much as her presence brightened the room, she had also sucked out oxygen from the room. He couldn’t form a coherent thought or unstick his tongue from the top of his mouth.

  “Thread,” he said finally, holding up the jacket for her inspection.

  She took pity on him
and pulled a small pair of embroidery scissors from her leather purse. They closed with a satisfying snap around the base of the offending object.

  “There, that’s better,” she said, running her hand quickly over the shoulders and front of the suit, casting away two small flecks of lint.

  As he sputtered his thanks Catherine plucked the knife from his hand, replaced it in the block, and led him to the door.

  It was as though he had fallen into one of his dreams, into the light, which emanated from Catherine, which warmed his very soul. This was joy. This was acceptance. This was love. Walking down the Rue Saint-Jacques with Catherine’s thin arm curved around his own, breathing in her perfume, listening to her tinkling laugh echoing off cold marble and around the parks was paradise. A paradise David wished would continue on, past the edge of time.

  The gale had blown itself out as Catherine turned the corner of Rue de Écoles and they walked together onto the wide expanse of Boulevard Saint-Germain. Her heels clicked merrily on the sidewalks and cobblestones as they talked about the family’s move to France. Catherine talked at length of what she remembered of Russia, her fond memories of her first bowl of bouillabaisse, and the courses she took at university.

  “It is not easy, in this country, for women, certainly not those of us who are not ‘French’, or as French as they would like. I applied thrice to university before I was accepted. That was only the start of the journey. Many professors did not want to see a Russian girl in their classes. The mildest professors simply ignored me and the worst, mocked me openly, humiliating me in front of my peers.

  “I told my father about this abuse. He was sitting in his study, a small room hardly bigger than a cupboard, and he looked up from his own work and he said to me, ‘Stay or go. It’s up to you.’ I backed out of the room, terribly confused, but the next day I was in class, the same as ever. I smiled at every hurt, every injustice.

  “Once you accept who you are and where you come from, no one can use it against you. That is what I learned. I knew I was different. France needs different. France needs women to push her forward. I will be one of those women.”

  David could hardly take his eyes off her. She had spoken to his soul, but beyond that, she had cut away his cords of self-preservation and exposed his own self-pity for the seemingly endless costs associated with his handicap. Listening he could see the prejudices of the world lined in front of him, merged into a great snarling beast. Fighting it was a battle against one’s own mind. Catherine fell silent as they walked, passing Rene Descartes University, the Abbey of Saint Germain des Prés, and the Doctoral University in turn.