Lives Paris Took

by Rachael Wright

  David listened halfheartedly as she expounded upon her vision of the restaurant; from the white on the walls to the light grey drapes to the china with gold filigree work. Her words stirred his mind, creating for a fleeting moment her restaurant in all its glory. It was a sight to behold–a place one would never want to leave. And Catherine was there, flitting from table to table in a black dress with her hair spilling over her shoulders.

  “You’ll be gone so much.”

  Catherine stopped mid-description of the paintings of local artists she would have hung in the restaurant.

  “Yes, I imagine so. It will take a few years to understand the business, to find a routine.”

  “We won’t be able to do this anymore,” he said, waving in the direction of the windows, where Rome lay in wait.

  “More and more tourists are flocking to Paris. There are restaurants and bistros and cafés open to welcome them. It will only be for a couple summers, until I find a manager I can trust to run it while I’m gone,” Catherine tried to assure him. “But no, we won’t be able to take a long holiday in the summer.”

  “This is our only time. We see so little of each other in Paris, our holidays together, they’re important to me.”

  “They’re important to me as well. Why don’t you move in with me? We would have more time, we’d be close, and you wouldn’t feel lonely then.”

  “I can’t move in with you,” David replied flatly.

  “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t be right. We aren’t married,” he said, crossing his arms.

  “I’m aware. But David, we vacation together, we sleep together, we’ve been intimate more times than I can count just in the past week. How is this any different?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Is this something to do with your father, your family again?” she asked.

  Her eyes brimmed with tears unshed; a muscle thumped ferociously in her jaw.

  “Yes.”

  “What does it matter? We love each other. We are happy together. Isn’t that enough?” she pressed.

  “It should be, but it isn’t.”

  “I can’t believe you,” she seethed, falling against the back of her chair. “It’s so hot and cold with you, all the time. I want to make you happy David, but I never can. There’s always something dragging you down. We couldn’t even start our holiday without you dithering away about Gilbert and his new scheme.”

  “That was important! He’s stealing money. Money I’ve earned! And he’s threatening the livelihood of my sole employee,” David shouted.

  Heads turned all around the restaurant, the bartender stopped mid-wipe of a large mouthed wine glass. Catherine mouthed an apology to the diners behind them.

  “What he has done is not the point. I don’t want to argue with you,” she whispered.

  “I am thrilled for you. I truly am,” he said, leaning forward. “This change in our lives, who knows what it will bring. It’s difficult. And I suppose I’m a little fearful of losing you.”

  Catherine looked stonily back. “I can’t always be there for you.”

  “I don’t expect you to be,” he said, offering Catherine a smile, knowing in his heart he didn’t mean it.

  The argument lay suspended between them. David leaned further across the table and Catherine sat with her back resolutely against the chair. A nervous, white-aproned waiter came and set down two after-v dinner coffees without looking at either of them.

  “What do you want to see tomorrow?” Catherine asked, picking up the white cup.

  “We could go to the Mediterranean.”

  “Let’s pack a picnic and make it a day,” she replied. “I hope you’ll come to understand and support me in this.”

  They were making their way back to the hotel now. David looked down at the rough cobblestones and drew in a sharp breath.

  “I do,” he said, reaching for her soft hand.

  “Thank you.” She walked beside him with downcast eyes, her back rigid, gait sharp and militaristic.

  CHAPTER TEN

  7 October 1978

  “HOW WAS ITALY?” GEORGES asked.

  It was early October. Catherine had returned from her trip around France. Georges had been gone on a trip of his own to England, off visiting a number of former Army colleagues. He looked lighter and much more calm than he’d been in July.

  “It was hotter than Paris. At least there was the Mediterranean. We went to Elba, where Napoleon was imprisoned. It was quite beautiful, but you could see why he plotted his escape–the isolation.”

  “I’m sure,” Georges said, wringing his hands. “Might we revisit the issue that I brought up before you left?”

  David looked up. Georges was again pale, and he collapsed into his chair with a sigh. David moved forward and sat in the chair in front of Georges’ desk. Georges hunched over the desk and pushed aside large piles of paper.

  “Tell me,” David said.

  Georges looked around, and even got up to peer around the corner of the door.

  “I am not easily shaken. Gilbert must know something is going on. After you left he was here every week checking on me, making veiled threats as to maintaining my silence. I’m sure that he doesn’t know we spoke before you left for Italy.”

  David dropped his head and rubbed his eyes.

  “I’m sorry Georges. I thought about it during the entire trip, I have no idea what to do.”

  “Perhaps I should tender my resignation.”

  “What?”

  “It might persuade Gilbert to be more discreet, or he might believe that he had successfully frightened me into silence.”

  “No. We cannot let him win. If you left, he would only become more brazen in his behavior. I need you here.”

  “That’s kind.”

  “Gilbert can be managed. Between the two of us we can find a way.”

  Georges raised his eyebrows and pulled the largest of the stacks towards him, a clear signal that the discussion was over.

  “You have three clients today.”

  “I have to leave early,” David sighed.

  “Miss Catherine is looking at places for her new restaurant?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish you both good luck.”

  David turned to gather his own papers and lesson plan for the morning’s first client. Nausea crept up his throat and his mouth was as dry as a bone. He excused himself hastily and slipped into the conference room, leaving a confused Georges behind.

  His head sank on to the table. He could hardly breathe–his chest was so tight. Gilbert, Catherine, Georges, his family…it swirled in his mind, a giant mass consuming everything in its path. The stress of it all was smothering him, he couldn’t think, couldn’t move.

  David ran. He careened out of the office and down the hall, flung open the door to the bathroom, and just reached the trashcan when his breakfast came gushing out. His whole body heaved and his feet came off the floor. He retched and retched again until he was sure his stomach was being contorted to come out his mouth as well.

  The heaving stopped and he fell, ashen faced, against the wall. Large beads of sweat pooled on his forehead and ran in rivers down his cheeks. The floor was wonderfully cool; slowly it seeped through his back and soothed the contorted muscles. He thought longingly of laying his head against its cool surface and letting his mind slip into oblivion.

  Gilbert. Catherine. Georges. He was powerless to do anything. He was backed into a corner, into multiple corners, and there was no way out. Concealing his knowledge of Gilbert’s indiscretion meant subjecting Georges to more terror. But it would be necessary to retain both the business and their livelihoods. Catherine was quite another matter. She would move forward, whatever the cost. She was strong and capable and undeterred.

  “David?”

  The call came from outside of the bathroom. David skidded on the slick floor in his rush to get up. He snatched at the paper towel roll, wiped his brow, pasted on a smile, and
then stuck his hands under the faucet.

  Georges walked in, his eyes shifting this way and that as he stood in the doorway.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, quite all right,” David said, smiling as he wiped his mouth with the wet towels.

  “Your client is here.”

  “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “Here,” Georges said.

  He handed over a small metal box. David looked down and saw that the hard thing in his hand was a mint tin.

  “Thank you …”

  “Keep it,” Georges said as he left, a soft smile on his face.

  THE REST OF THE morning slid by in a haze. One moment David was sitting down with his first client, discussing the clearest translation of a business document and the next he was with the last, a female travel agent in her fifties who wanted to expand to the UK market. As soon as she was gone, David hurried from the conference room, said a hasty goodbye to Georges, and left the office.

  His stomach grumbled loudly as he made his way to the street. In order to assist Georges with the paperwork, from taxes forms to new client requests that had piled up in his absence, he had forgone lunch. David tugged at his white turtleneck, it was far too hot to wear it, but the morning had been unseasonably cool.

  “Do you have anything to eat?” David asked the moment Catherine opened the apartment door.

  “Come in,” she said with a wide grin. “I think I have something.”

  “I didn’t have time to get lunch.”

  “It’s no trouble,” she shouted from the kitchen.

  He collapsed into one the living area’s grey wingback chairs and pulled off his boots, reveling in the plush carpet. It was a terrible way to greet the woman he loved and he knew it. Even with their years of familiarity, he thought he saw the corners of Catherine’s mouth turn down as she headed for the kitchen. Soon though she arrived bearing a sandwich on a silver tray, a glass of water, and a small bowl of strawberries.

  “You’re an angel,” David said, wolfing down the sandwich.

  She perched on the edge of the sofa, wringing her hands and sneaking glances at the clock. David looked up when she sighed.

  “Are we running late?” he mumbled past a mouthful of turkey, spinach, and tomato.

  “No,” she said, fingering the hem of her silk shirt.

  “You can’t sit still. What’s the matter?”

  “I’m nervous.”

  He wanted to laugh at the sight of her worried face but forced an empathetic grin instead.

  “It’s going to flop. All of it. What am I doing? I’ve never run a restaurant in my life. I cook for family and friends,” she said flapping her arms. “Oh, ce que je fais? Ceci est une erreur. Je devais être fou de penser–à croire.”

  David blinked in the half second it took to translate her rapid French.

  “Catherine, you aren’t crazy and this isn’t a mistake. Now get your coat,” David said, stuffing the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, “or we’ll be late.”

  Catherine looked dolefully at him before scurrying across the room.

  “Alright,” she said, pulling her arms through a beige trench coat.

  “THIS ONE, I THINK you will find to be well worth the price. The location is prime and there aren’t many other restaurants or cafés to crowd the street,” the agent said, gesturing towards a storefront.

  David frowned. They had been at this for two hours and even Catherine, who was thrilled just to be looking at properties, was beginning to tire. The building the taxi stopped in front of was even more dingy than Paris had a right to be. A single door stood to the right of two windows. From the outside David thought it looked small. The door protested loudly when the agent threw her shoulder against it. David was looking down at the door’s well-worn curve in the wood floor when Catherine backed into him, stepping on his feet.

  “No,” she said.

  David looked up. The ceiling was black and terribly low; like walking into a coffin.

  “You don’t like it?” the agent said, smoothing down her florescent pink skirt.

  “It’s terrible. I’m not running a third-rate restaurant,” Catherine said, her eyes flashing.

  “Well, on to the next one!” the agent said brightly, hailing a cab.

  “That was something,” David said.

  Catherine looked sideways at him. “I’m sure you enjoyed it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “If all the places I can afford look like this, then you know I won’t buy one and the restaurant will be further delayed. I expect you’ll be overjoyed,” Catherine spat, and then rushed toward the cab as it pulled against the curb.

  David stood for a moment, mouth open, before he sprinted toward the car. Catherine looked resolutely forward while the agent sat in front, giving directions to the driver. Catherine took exception to three more properties, they were “too small” or “too fancy” or “too far from everything”. David trailed farther and farther behind.

  THE FINAL RESTAURANT REMINDED him of Petrossian with its large windowed entryway set on the corner of the street overlooking upscale shops and cafés. Catherine stopped in the middle of the street and grabbed at David’s hand.

  “Bienvenue,” the agent said in an exhausted sort of way.

  Catherine stood motionless before the doorway, her trench coat quivered, though there was no wind.

  “Let’s see it then,” David said.

  Catherine pushed the door open. A thick layer of dust lay heavily on the bare floor. Small chinks of light filtered through thick curtains. In the gust of air from the door, dust mites swirled en masse. The room smelled faintly of peppermint and long stale cigar smoke.

  “For some light,” David said, as he set off around the room, and pulled the curtains aside.

  With two walls taken up entirely by windows, the change was astonishing. Catherine burst into tears. The agent looked as though she might scream, and David moved to stand awkwardly by the bar.

  “Wait here a moment,” Catherine said, holding up her hand and moved off to the kitchen.

  David took in the empty restaurant. A grand marble fireplace took up most the far wall. It was not difficult to picture Catherine in this space. The walls, which he assumed had once been a bright white, were lovingly decorated with crown molding. The agent excused herself outside for a cigarette, and David settled down on a dingy bar stool. It had a torn black leather seat and emitted a loud squeak when he sat on it.

  The bar was covered in the same thin film of dust as the rest of the room. Dust mites fluttered around his finger as he drug it across the soft caramel-colored wood. By his left hand was a large, dark stain. He lowered his head. It smelled strongly of peppermint.

  He heard Catherine coming long before she walked out of the kitchen. The smallest of noises echoed loudly across the empty restaurant. She came out in a daze, ambled to the fireplace and caressed its soft marble, before moving to each of the windows in turn to take in the view. Next, she walked the length of the restaurant, her head thrown back, to scrutinize the ceiling. Soon she was stomping on the floor in multiple places, checking every single light, and pounding on the walls.

  He watched her as she went about her inspection. Catherine looked up and he smiled, but she was a world away. She skipped to the bar, slipped behind it, and began the next phase of her investigation.

  “Catherine,” David said as she continued to peer in the nooks and crannies of the bar.

  “What?” she said, her voice strangely distorted.

  “Do you like it?”

  “I want to be absolutely sure,” she said, and ran off in the direction of what David assumed to be the bathrooms.

  He looked out the windows at the agent who was now on her second cigarette. The urge to go outside and ask her for one was almost overpowering. Sitting in the tepid and dust-filled restaurant made him restless.

  “I’m sure.”

  David looked up to find Catherine standin
g beneath one of the rather hideous late fifties light fixtures.

  “You’ll take it.”

  “Yes.”

  A smile broke across her face unlike any he had ever seen. Tears welled in her eyes, and she flung out her arms, twirling underneath the hideous light. A cloud of dust kicked up around her, creating an angelic haze.

  David remained at the bar, watching Catherine bask in her joy. It seemed, as he stared at her, that the floor went on forever in all directions and Catherine drew further and further away so that all he could see was the blur of her beige coat. He tried to shake the image away, but she remained at a blurry distance. He sighed and slumped toward the door, turning the strangely clean handle, and walked into the freely moving Parisian air.

  Catherine came out a minute later, still wearing the wide smile. Her eyes flashed in anticipation, the happiness was contagious. David smiled and thought of the champagne and bed they would share tonight, toasting her success. It wasn’t hard to be pleased for her.

  But as she talked animatedly to the agent, it sunk in. She was moving forward with her life, chasing dreams. Everything crumbled. The future threw itself before him … a life in ruins. A life alone. Cursing, David fumbled in the pocket of his jacket and found a solitary cigarette. As soon as the light struck the paper, a cab pulled up beside the two conspiring women. They jumped in and the car sped off before David could move. The cigarette dangled precariously in his mouth, like a plank off the side of a ship.

  He froze, on the step of Catherine’s soon-to-be restaurant, quite unable to think. The cigarette glowed bright for a long while then flickered and went out before David moved. The question circled his mind like a vulture. Why had she left? Why had she left him on the corner of a street looking dumbly at the back of her taxi? Hosts of couples out for dinner strode past him; one chatting happily about a promotion at work while his wife showered him with an adoring gaze. It was enough to make anyone throw up.

  David turned and made his way down to the Seine where he could find some space to think. The sky was ablaze with a summer sunset, blue turning to pink and then orange in a blaze of color. But the sun soon sank out of sight beyond the mass of steel and marble, casting long bars of shadows across the roads and sidewalks. The evening turned cold, the wind whistling through the alleyways and across the frigid waters of the river. What was he waiting for? Did he really believe that Catherine was coming back for him? Did she even remember?