by R. C. Graham
As I said, we have much to discuss.
Georges.
Diane found herself kneeling on the floor. Her heart and lungs didn’t seem to work.
And she realized she still had tears left.
Meeting
It’s been four months now.
I’m sitting at my table outside of Le Fin. There’s a glass of wine in front of me that serves as camouflage and I scan the street surreptitiously, looking for Diane, watching the humans as they go about their lives. My nature has made me somewhat of an emotional voyeur. Indeed, if I don’t want to allow my nature full control, I have to be.
Since I’m keeping my lungs working, I sigh. You would think that I would have learned patience at my age. Instead, I drum fingers on the table, fidget in my seat, do all the things that a man waiting for an important rendezvous with a former lover would do. Where is she? I ask myself with a somewhat vexed anxiousness.
It was the most difficult thing I’d ever done, sending that message to Diane. Our time together had ended so badly, with both of us suffering. It was my fault and so I left her. What I am, the world I live in and the events that occur in it came close to destroying her. It seemed at the time the best thing to do.
But time and distance didn’t lessen my emotions. Not a night went by that I didn’t think of her. I would think of the times we spent together. I would recall her intelligence, her learning, her passion, her love. I knew she loved me, and I discovered I felt the same way. My darling Diane possessed me and I found that I didn’t mind being property at all.
So I sent her a letter asking her to come to me, along with the means for her to make the trip. There will be no secrets this time. I’m going to tell her everything. Then we’ll make a decision. The consequences of making the wrong one will be dangerous for us both. But I now know I can’t go on without her.
My gaze glances around Le Fin with a proprietor’s eye. Which I should as I do own the place through a holding company. The street front café looks just the way I want it; relaxed, simple, a comfortable place where people can come to drink and converse.
This is actually the third incarnation of my establishment.
I’d opened the first in 1788. My arrival into darkness had just occurred and the full import of that was beginning to sink in. Since birthdays now meant little to me I decided to celebrate centuries instead. Hence the name. Le Fin was going to be the place where I celebrated my centuries.
It didn’t work out the way I expected.
I had to flee France during The Terror. Being a member of the aristocracy and a well known supporter of moderation meant the guillotine had I stayed. Not that it would have come to that. I would have burned to ashes when they pulled me into the sunlight.
I set up the second Le Fin in 1858 when I returned to France after a long sojourn in North America. It remained open for eighty five years and became a somewhat famous gathering place for intellectuals and artists of all kinds. Proust, Zola and Sartre frequented my establishment at times. I heard Edith Piaf perform La Vie en Rose spontaneously early one morning. For those moments I believed in Paradise.
That version of Le Fin was destroyed by the Nazis in 1943. I was running a Resistance cell from the place and they found out. They didn’t destroy it without paying a price. I was glutted by the time they were done. One less monster walked the night as well.
The current version opened in 1955. Again, it’s somewhat well known amongst outsiders and intellectuals. Whenever I can I lurk here, reminding myself how varied, how important the people who provide my food are.
My mind returns to today. I sigh and check the street once more. There’s no sign of Diane.
But there is another woman walking this way, her eyes fixed on me. A girl actually. Her clothes are conspicuously sexual, her make up a bit excessive. She’s smiling with a hard edge that falsifies the expression. Her brown eyes are wide and frightened while her knees have a tiny tremble to them.
I don’t look away. Her fear speaks to me. As always, I find that emotion fascinating.
“Bonsoir, chérie,” she greets as she arrives at my table. “Looking for some company?”
Ah, a working girl. Inside I feel a little tremor of pity. She’s too young to be involved in such a profession. She should be home in bed, resting up for school or a day out with friends. A mental shrug follows. Despite what I am and the power it grants me, I can’t save the world. That’s a fact I discovered centuries ago.
“Non, merci.” I tell her.
Her smile grows bigger and more false. Her hand comes up to stroke my face. The palm is cold and clammy. “Come on, chérie. I can show you a really good time.”
“Quite seriously, no,” I repeat. “I’ve someone coming and I’ve no need for company. Pardon.”
The brunette girl withdraws her hand with a jerk. A small whimper sounds in her chest and her eyes grow teary. Her smile becomes more wooden. She turns and walks away with her knees shaking.
When she’s three dozen steps away I stand with a sigh and follow her. I have an idea what’s about to happen and fool that I am, am going to interfere. But she’s too young for such a life. I may not be able to save everyone but perhaps I can save her.
Sure enough, as she gets to the corner a large man dressed in expensive jeans, running shoes and leather jacket stands away from the lamp post he is leaning against. He grabs the young woman’s arm and drags her into a nearby alley.
I pick up my pace and as I do a loud slap reaches me, with a woman’s gasp underneath it. What I am rises closer to the surface as my anger at what’s happening loosens my grip on it.
“You stupid little bitch,” cuts through the air. The man is speaking French, with a distinct Russian accent. “I’ve been looking after you for two weeks. I’m damn well going to be paid back.” Another slap sounds. “Get this straight, whore. That’s what you are now. You belong to me and you work as I tell you.” He strikes her again. “So don’t you ever come back to me with an empty purse again.” The ‘smack’ of his hand hitting her fills the air.
I’m at the mouth of the alley now and I step into it. The young woman is in a heap on the ground. “Excuse me,” I say.
The man whirls to face me. In the light filtering in from the street, I can see he has a broad, scarred face; the face of a man who’s lived a hard life. His eyes shimmer with a gleam that makes me doubt his sanity. Solidly built and about my height, if I were human I’d be intimidated.
“Fuck off, Frog!” he snarls. “This isn’t any of your business.”
I say nothing, do nothing.
“Fine,” he remarks as a vicious smile crosses his face. “Time to teach you, skinny faggot, a lesson.”
He stalks towards me, cocking his fists. The happy expression on his face shows he’s very much going to enjoy beating me to a pulp.
I make no move.
Two steps away, he lunges forward, aiming a punch at my head.
I step my right foot back just enough so his fist whistles past my nose. My hands come up, one grabs his wrist, the other sets itself against his shoulder. In this position, even if I were human, he’d be off balance and at my mercy. But I put a little of the monster into it and slam him against the wall.
The fool impacts with a crunching noise. His nose breaks, probably some ribs as well. I let him go and he collapses to his knees, wilts to the left, boneless in his unconsciousness.
For a moment I consider finishing him off. But I’m not hungry and it’s not necessary. Our conflict is over and he lost. Instead I walk over to the girl and kneel.
She’s breathing with sharp pants. Her body jerks as she tries to hold in sobs. The young brunette looks up, wide eyed, when I touch her. I can see bruises on both cheeks where her former pimp struck her.
“There, petite,” I say to her softly. “It’s over, you’re safe.”
The next instant her arms are wrapped around me and she weeps on my chest. I return her embrace, cuddle her close. Even something like me likes
being a comfort rather than a terror on occasion.
It takes several minutes but she soon winds down. “I want to go home,” she sniffles.
“Where is home?” I ask her.
“Cherbourg,” is her reply, “but I’ve got no way to get there.”
“Leave that to me. Why did you leave, young one?”
She ponders for a moment. “Being stupid, I guess. My mom was being a pain. Always telling me what to do. That’s how I felt. I wanted to come to the city, make my name, be free. I had no idea what I was getting into. Like I said, stupid.”
“Petite, if I told you the stupid things I did when I was your age we’d be here all night and until at least noon tomorrow.”
For the first time she acts like the girl she is and giggles. The young are so resilient.
I stand, drawing her up. “Let’s go. Train station. We can arrange for you to get home.”
“I can’t,” she stammers as we start out of the alley, “can’t afford something like that. Even if I sold everything I own, it’s not enough.” She looks at the limp heap that beat her. “It’s all at his place, anyway.”
“As I said, leave that to me. In a case like this it’s best to leave everything behind. Trust me, I’ve had to run at times in my existence.”
We’re now on the sidewalk and I hail a cab. The driver asks, “Where to?” when we climb in He’s Algerian so I tell him, “Saint Lazare Station please,” in Arabic. “D’accord,” he replies with a smile and sets off.
My charge clings tight the whole trip. There’s no passion involved. I’m simply the first person who’s been kind to her in a while.
We arrive and I pay off the cabby. I make sure to give a good tip. He most likely has a family to look after.
As we head for the ticket counter we attract a few looks. Paris is hardly an inhibited city but the two of us, she her age and me mine, apparently cross a line or two. I don’t care, let people make wrong guesses.
It only takes a few minutes to get the young lady a ticket. There’s a train leaving shortly. As I hand it to her, her eyes grow teary and she tells me, “Merci,” in a nearly inaudible voice.
“De rien,” I tell her. “One more thing though.” There’s a cash machine nearby. It doesn’t allow me to take out all the money I want but there are a number of machines here and I use them. After the short tour is done I hand the young lady 5,000 Euros.
Her brown eyes go wide in shock. “I, I couldn’t,” she stutters, “I can’t. I don’t know how to pay you back.”
“This isn’t a loan. It’s freedom. With this, you won’t have to make bad choices. You can stop and think.”
She looks at me. I can read in her face that she isn’t sure how to react, if she can trust me, what I might want in return. I make sure that all I show is what I want; for her to be free for a while until she can make her own life.
The young woman ponders for a moment more then reaches out, takes my gift and places it in her purse. Again, she thanks me in a voice so quiet even something like me can hardly hear it.
“We’d better go,” I tell her while wiping an errant tear from her cheek, “you’ll miss your train.”
They’re boarding when we reach the platform. I turn to her and spread my arms. She steps into them so that we share a hug for a long moment.
I release her and my charge steps back. I like the way the sweet girl looks now, happy and unafraid.
“Good bye, petite. Live a good life.”
Her face takes on a new expression and hardens in determination. The next second she darts her head forward, goes on tiptoes to give me a kiss on the cheek. “I will. Merci.” At that she turns and heads to the nearest car door. Before she finishes mounting the steps, she pauses, turns to wave.
I wave back, smiling, pleased with her.
She disappears into the train.
Shortly, a huff of air comes and the train begins to move. I watch but I don’t see the young woman again.
A smile is plastered on my face. For once I’ve done some good. I’ve needed to take little advantage of my nature. The only person hurt wasn’t badly and deserved it. I wish I had more nights like this.
Merde! I look at the platform clock. It reads 12:10 AM.
That makes me roll my eyes in frustration. The world working the way it does the time means I may have missed Diane. Of course the night she arrives will be the one where I’ve allowed myself to be distracted.
It’s difficult to keep myself reined in as I race through the station. However, throwing people out of the way like small kittens would probably not be a good idea.
I climb into a cab, direct him to Le Fin. The driver must read my mood for he hurries more than a little. He lets me off in front of my café. Blindly, I shove some money at him for my supposition is correct.
Diane sits at the table I had occupied before I was drawn away. Her back is to the street. With her elbows set on the table, her face is buried in her hands and her slumped shoulders I cannot mistake her physical state. My love is exhausted in heart, body and soul.
There is a twinge of pain in my chest at that realization. I rush over to the table, and pull up short, a couple of steps away from her. I am, to my surprise, frightened. Without intending to I’ve played with her emotions again. How she’ll react I do not know but I fear it will be with anger and disdain. It’s several long seconds before I manage to I square my shoulders and speak.
“Bonsoir, ma cheri. Comment-allez vous?”
Diane’s head snaps up, and that’s all for what seems like an eternity.
I don’t move. I won’t until I’m sure.
She sets her hands on the table and draws a deep breath. The next moment she stands, shoving her chair back. It almost hits me. After letting her breath out, Diane draws another deep one. She turns to face me.
Mon amour, je suis tellement désolé! My love, I’m so sorry! My heart, unbeating and cold though it is, almost breaks at the sight of her.
Her once bright eyes are nearly empty now. There are more lines on her face. They show that she has carried a great burden of pain and loneliness. Her mouth, those sweet lips, once wore an easy smile. Now they support a loose grimace.
We stare at each other for a protracted instant. Then her face changes.
The emptiness vanishes and her eyes glisten with tears. Her new lines smooth, disappear. Her mouth pulls up, the corners drawing into the beginning of a smile. But her lips tremble.
Then our arms are wrapped around each other.
I can feel her heart hammering. I hope she doesn’t notice that mine is silent. But it would if it could. That familiar warmth envelops me.
“Georges,” she whispers, “don’t ever do that again. I couldn’t bear that you left me.”
“I won’t,” I tell her. I hope it’s true.
We hold together for several minutes, making up for the time we’ve been apart. Finally we pull away and look at each other. Although the marks still show, my Diane is back. Once again I feel as I did when we were together, almost like a man.
“I don’t blame you for leaving,” she starts, “after what I did…”
I interrupt by placing a finger on her lips. “My going had nothing to do with that.”
She grows puzzled. Her eyes frown a question.
Before she can speak that question, I go on. “That’s one of many things we must discuss.”
Diane nods. “Now?” is the query she makes instead.
“No. Not tonight, not tomorrow night. Two nights from now. We set that night aside. We’ll need all of it.”
“Always at night,” she smiles. “You don’t change, do you Georges?”
“That’s one of the things we’ll talk about.”
“So what’s for tonight?” she inquires.
“Dinner,” I tell her. My hand takes her hand to lead her to the sidewalk where I hail a taxi. The destination I give the cabbie makes her glance at me in the mirror. I nod a confirmation.
It’s a ten minute dr
ive. The smell of the river is strong when we exit our vehicle. The building we’re in front of is three stories high, brick construction and with curtained windows. Wedged between a boutique and a bookstore it’s not apparent what purpose it serves. We climb the short flight of stairs and a discreet brass plaque informs us that we’re standing at the entrance to Le Restaurant du Carl. I reach forward, turn the knob and open the door. Smiling, I wave Diane in then follow her inside.
We’re standing in a small, well appointed foyer. None of the furniture or hangings are excessive but to someone who knows, they are the best. It’s the perfect entrance. The atmosphere is quiet and comfortable.
The maitre d’ is standing next to a small podium. His eyes light up and a smile forms at the sight of us.. “Ah, Monsieur Belleveau. I see your guest has finally arrived.”
“She has, Phillipe. I trust all is ready.”
“It is,” he replies, and brings his attention to bear on Diane. “Enchantez, Mademoiselle. It’s rare for our patron to bring a guest. We shall endeavor to make your meal a very special one indeed.”
My lovely lady colors at that. She reaches out to take my arm, huddles close. Her eyes grow worried and her mouth forms a moue of uncertainty. Diane brushes her hair with her free hand, smoothing it.
I lean over and give her forehead a gentle kiss. “Here, you’re always welcome. Don’t worry about how you appear.”
“Exactly, Mademoiselle,” interjects our greeter. “Your presence is glorious. It enhances our establishment.”
Diane colors again. Her smile comes back and she squeezes my arm.
“This way, please,” we’re directed and we follow the maitre d’ into the main restaurant.
Despite being nearly one in the morning the place is busy. There are fifteen tables here and ten are occupied. Mostly couples, they speak in low voices, smile at each other. The wait staff bustles about in an efficient manner without intruding on the patrons.
We’re led to a set of stairs. Up them we go, past a landing and then up some more to a door. Our guide opens it, steps out and holds it for us. Diane and I step through it.
She gasps at the sight. We’re on a small balcony at the back of the building. A stretch of the Seine flows past us, just on the other side of the road running beneath the railing. The lights of small boats drift past and they twinkle on the buildings on the far bank. My home city lives up to its nickname.