Girl in the Moonlight

by Charles Dubow

  I knew no one there and instead wandered from room to room, admiring the décor until I heard someone speaking in English. It was a tall, ash blond girl with large green eyes and a lovely figure. She was talking to an older couple.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I hope you don’t think me very rude. But I don’t know anyone here, and my French isn’t good enough to just strike up a conversation. I heard you speaking English and hoped you would take pity on me and let me join you.”

  “But of course,” said the ash blonde. For the first time I noticed she spoke with an accent. The older couple drifted away.

  “Are you French?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You speak English very well.”

  “Thank you. I lived in New York for two years. That helped.”

  “I’m from New York.”

  “You are! I miss it.”

  “Where did you live?”

  “On Central Park West. My aunt has an apartment there.”

  Some men might have found her nose a bit too large, but I found it rather attractive. She was studying acting at nights and to support herself worked for a public relations firm. We flirted happily, and one thing led to another. There were dates, quick lunches, sex in semipublic places. For the first time in my life when I looked at a woman, I didn’t see Cesca instead.

  After we had been seeing each other for several months, she invited me to stay with her family in the Vaucluse for Easter. We drove in her little car, and I was honestly surprised to see us turn down a long avenue lined with poplars and pull up in front of a good-size château. Two dogs, an old Alsatian and an equally ancient terrier, ran out to meet her, barking in mad delight. She knelt down to embrace them and let them lick her face. They then began barking at me, although their tails were wagging the whole time.

  “Tais-toi! Stop that, you old idiots,” she commanded fondly, and gave me a kiss on the cheek to show them everything was all right.

  As I was beginning to unload our luggage, two young men came down the front steps as well. Selene embraced them no less eagerly than the dogs and then introduced me. “These are my brothers, Achille and Horace.”

  The former, who was very handsome with blond hair and electric blue eyes like those of Peter O’Toole in Lawrence of Arabia, gave me a firm handshake. As I was to find out later, he had just earned a commission in a French cavalry regiment after graduating from Saint-Cyr. The latter, the baby of the family, was still at university. He had his siblings’ good looks but seemed to conceal them behind large glasses and a shock of unkempt brown hair.

  We put our bags in our rooms—Selene’s in her bedroom and mine in the guest room down the hall—and then she took me for a walking tour around the estate. It was a fine spring afternoon, just cool enough to require a jacket but not so cold one couldn’t detect the ripening of the earth. In the little village, we had an aperitif. There were only a few other patrons in the café, but she seemed to know them all, and was treated with a mixture of fondness and deference.

  “I didn’t want to say anything to you before,” she said. In her accented English “anything” became “anyzing,” for example. “But my father (“fazzer”) is a count.”

  “Does that make you a countess?”

  She shrugged. “Yes, in a manner of speaking, but it doesn’t mean much anymore. The titles these days are purely courtesy.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” I really couldn’t understand. I secretly congratulated myself on having slept with a countess. Despite my democratic background, I was still young enough to be impressed by things like titles and châteaux.

  “Because it can make things awkward. I had hoped you would like me for me and not because of my family.”

  “I do.” I smiled. “It doesn’t matter to me at all.”

  Afterward we strolled back to the château and, giggling like schoolchildren, snuck up the back stairs and made love on her childhood bed. It was an old room with old furniture. There was a cassette deck, a few porcelain horses on a shelf, a tattered Rolling Stones concert poster in French on the wall, a nearly empty closet, riding boots propped against a corner, and the small, creaky four-poster bed that barely fit us both.

  I met her parents that night at cocktails. Still giddy from our lovemaking and the bath we’d shared, we walked into a long drawing room with eighteen-foot-high ceilings and tall windows that let out onto a view of a wide park. The furniture, carpets, and paintings, which had once been quite grand, were worn with age and use. The silk on some of the cushions was threadbare, and, in places, the wallpaper was peeling. There was a large water stain on one of the walls. Still, it was quite a room.

  A dapper looking man of late middle age, balding yet still quite trim and handsome, stood by the bar. He was wearing a velvet jacket of a deep purple, crisp white shirt, dark blue necktie, and pearl gray trousers. His slippers, too, were velvet, and they had little coronets on the toes.

  “Ah, you must be the American,” he said good-naturedly in nearly perfect English. “I hope you’ll join me in a martini. How do you take it?”

  Before I could answer he smiled and continued, “I prefer it dry myself, or, as Noël Coward said, I just like to wave the finished concoction in the general direction of Italy.”

  Despite Cesca’s attempt to inculcate me, I was not much of a martini man, but I felt it best to go along with my host.

  “Daddy loves America. He spent four years there. He was at Harvard architectural school—like you.” I was surprised to hear this. This seemed like something she would have already told me. But she had told me very little about her family. I had formed a completely different impression of them.

  Selene had never attended university, which was not unusual for young ladies from privileged backgrounds then. I already knew that, after leaving convent school at sixteen, she had worked as an au pair for a family in Austria and later in Italy. The ostensible reason was to improve her languages, of which she spoke five, but the primary goal was to find a husband. There had been an engagement, but it had broken off, something she didn’t like to talk about. She had been in her twenties when she discovered acting, while living in New York.

  “That’s right,” put in her father, “I was Class of ’Sixty. Selene tells me you were there as well.”

  I told him that I had been and the name of the firm where I was working in Paris.

  “I know it. Very good,” he said with a smile, handing me my cocktail. “Bottoms up.”

  After drinking the cold, clean liquid, I asked, “Are you still an architect?”

  “Being an architect is like being a drunkard. You are never not one—even if you don’t practice. But to your question, it is no longer my occupation. Once I fancied myself a new Corbusier. But then my father died, and I had to come back to take care of this place, hélas. I still like to keep my hand in. This is an old estate with old buildings. It needs constant renovation so . . .” he said, trailing off with a shrug.

  “Daddy’s being modest,” said Selene. “A few years ago he converted an old monastery outside of town into a hotel. It’s beautiful.”

  Pleased by the compliment, the comte allowed himself a little smile but, with tact, changed the subject. “You must tell me about some of your work, Wylie. What is Tokyo like? Le japonais. Are the women all like dolls? Selene tells me you’ve been there. I have always wanted to go.”

  At that point Selene’s mother appeared. I hadn’t heard her approach but turned and saw at my side a tall, still very beautiful woman. Her hair was white blond, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. She must have been well into her fifties but easily looked two decades younger. Selene more closely resembled her father.

  “You must be Wylie,” she said, with a faintly amused expression, as though laughing at some private but good-natured joke. There was an ethereal quality to her. Her eyes were so blue they were almost translucent. “Don’t let Jacques make you drink that drink if you don’t like it,” she said in an amused voice. “He i
s always looking for someone to share them with. He thinks all Americans love them because that’s where he learned to drink them. Most Frenchmen think they’re disgusting.”

  I blushed and stammered, “Really, it’s quite all right. I do like martinis.”

  “Nonsense, darling,” chimed in Selene’s father with a smile. “Let me know when you want the other half, Wylie,” he said, rattling the shaker.

  The next several days were full of excellent meals, long walks, parties, Easter celebrations and masses, horseback riding and picnics. The weather was marvelous, and the family couldn’t have been more welcoming to me. Even though I wasn’t much of a horseman—and everyone in Selene’s family could ride beautifully, except for Horace, who was studying for final exams at Sciences Po, and rarely seemed to venture out of his room and usually only then in a ratty old dressing gown and slippers—they were able to find a tame old mare for me.

  Selene and her brother Achille both rode like jockeys, as did their father, who, maybe unsurprisingly, had also been a cavalry officer. The mother could also ride but seldom did. In fact, she appeared to spend most of her time napping, which could have explained why she looked so young. In spite of being so languid, there was still something beguiling about her, and I wasn’t surprised to learn that she had graced the cover of French Vogue several times in her youth.

  My initial fears that the family would resent—or be cool to—me proved utterly groundless. Never had I met people so charming or who lived in so charming a way. There was an easy elegance about them that I had never encountered before. There was no yelling, no slammed doors, no bitterness.

  “I love your family,” I said to Selene as we returned to Paris the following Monday. After that we spent many weekends driving the seven hours or so down and back to her château, and we spent almost the entire month of August there. We swam in the old swimming pool built by Selene’s grandfather, ate lunch outside every afternoon, went on day trips to Avignon, and listened to Verdi or Puccini every night under the stars after dinner. Selene and I became brown as nuts. She sunbathing topless. Every Saturday we went to watch Selene’s father and Achille play polo in a local league and spent the matches on the sideline cheering on his team, stamping in the divots, and drinking champagne with her friends, many of whom were now becoming mine. On Sunday mornings I joined them for mass at the local Catholic church and then for a traditional French lunch at a restaurant in the village. For the first time in my life, I had created a happiness that did not involve Cesca.

  19

  WHEN SEPTEMBER CAME, I WENT BACK TO WORK, ALONG with the rest of France. One day at the office, Aurelio called. “Hola!” he said. “I am in Paris. Can you meet me for dinner?”

  “Of course,” I said. Selene had an acting class that night, and I had no plans. On those nights, we slept apart because her class ended so late.

  Aurelio and I agreed to meet at a little auberge near my apartment on the Quai de la Tournelle. I dined there several nights a week. It was cheap, reliable without being excessive, and the staff had come to treat me like a regular. It was still warm enough to sit outside, and I was waiting at a table reviewing some papers when he walked up. The streetlights were just coming on, but I could see that he looked thin, even more gaunt than usual. We greeted each other warmly; under his coat he felt like bones. There was a bottle of house red on the table. Lio poured himself a glass and swallowed the wine in several enthusiastic gulps.

  “You look well,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Being an architect suits you.”

  “I wasn’t much of a painter.”

  “It isn’t much of a time to be a painter.”

  “And you? How are you?”

  “I’ve been better. I think I’m fighting something. A flu, probably.”

  “What about your work?”

  “It is coming. I have a gallery in New York interested in my work at last. A good one too.”

  “Will there be a show?”

  He nodded. “There is talk of a group show next spring.”

  I ordered dinner for us both. Even though I am sure he was probably far richer than I, I insisted on paying for it. I would have been amazed if he even possessed a credit card. I had seen him in cafés, emptying his pockets like a beggar, a jester, searching for crumpled notes and loose change. We both had the escargots and the pavé de boeuf.

  I ordered us each a cognac after dinner, and we each smoked a Gauloise bleu. I was not a regular smoker, but in those days everyone in Paris smoked.

  I was on the verge of telling him about Selene when he said, “I have a surprise for you.”

  “Oh really? What’s that?”

  “Cesca is joining us tonight. She is working for a fashion house in New York these days, and they are sending her over to spend a few months in Paris in order to work at headquarters.”

  I wasn’t sure what my face looked like, but for the first time in my life I was actually unhappy to hear of Cesca’s presence. The timing could not have been worse. “When will she get here?”

  “Any minute. She had some work function she had to attend; otherwise she would have come with me. She told me to make it a surprise.”

  “How long has she been here?”

  “I’m not sure. A week or so. She said she didn’t have your phone number or else she would have called.”

  I nodded at the obvious lie, letting it slip past like flotsam in the current. My mind was still trying to comprehend what it all meant.

  A quarter of an hour later a large black Mercedes pulled up in front of the restaurant. The driver held the door open, and Cesca emerged, her lithe brown legs first, wearing a short, elaborate dress in a kind of dove gray. She lingered for a moment, chatting with the person in the backseat, and then swept over to where we sat.

  “Look at these two handsome men!” she exclaimed, reaching out both arms wide to embrace us. “I am the luckiest girl in Paris!”

  The waiter appeared instantly, and Cesca ordered vodka on the rocks. “How are you, Wylie?” she asked, her hand on mine, as though we were old friends who’d simply happened to run into each other.

  “Lio told me about your new job,” I said. “It sounds very exciting. How long will you be in Paris?”

  “I don’t know. A few months for sure,” she answered, “and I’m counting on you to be my escort.”

  With Cesca’s arrival, the evening was reenergized. She insisted we go somewhere. Did I know anywhere fun? I knew some places. In Pigalle, in Montmartre. We took a taxi to the first place, where we drank some more. There was music. Cesca danced with every man in the bar, while the other women, wives or girlfriends, looked on angrily. We went to other places and drank more. It became a blur.

  Some people we met took us to yet another bar. They were Eastern European, possibly Arab. It was impossible to tell because their accents were so thick, the music so loud, and we had all had too much to drink. They wore their shirts tight and unbuttoned to the solar plexus. Gold chains. They had mustaches and flashed a lot of cash. At one point, we lost Aurelio. It was just Cesca, me, and the Eastern Europeans. Cesca and I were dancing slowly, her arms around my neck.

  “Don’t leave me, Wylie,” she giggled. “I think they want to sell me.”

  “That’s not all they want to do to you,” I joked back.

  “What would you like to do to me? I think I’d like that much more,” she said, reaching up and kissing me deeply. “Oh, Wylie, I’ve missed you so much.”

  I’d like to say I thought of Selene at that moment, but I didn’t. As usual, I was helpless, utterly in Cesca’s power, pulled in like a dinghy in a maelstrom. I don’t remember much more. The protestations of the Eastern Europeans. A cab ride home kissing. Laughing up the stairs to my apartment. Pulling off our clothes. Falling into bed together. I cannot be certain of the number of times we had made love over the years, but I had learned her body well enough, knew what she liked. I was familiar with her smell, and the heat of her flesh, the supple s
trength of her limbs. And she also knew what I liked.

  In the morning, my alarm went off after less than three hours’ sleep. She groaned and pulled a pillow over her head. I showered and dressed as quietly as I could, my head throbbing. I was even tempted to call in sick but instead took several aspirin. As ever, on those days when I woke to find Cesca next to me, I couldn’t help feeling a kind of pride, like a freshman who had slept with the homecoming queen. She was precious to me. Her elegant dress of last night lay tossed in a corner. I leaned down to kiss her lightly on the temple, which made her grunt and roll over. I closed the door behind me.

  Only when I began to sober up did I realize what I had actually done. I had forgotten all about Selene. She and I had plans to see each other that night. As usual she would come to my apartment rather than going back to hers, which she shared with two roommates. She even left a few items of clothing there. A pair of shoes. Makeup. A toothbrush. And I had left Cesca there!

  All morning at the office, my mind raced with fury at myself for betraying Selene, aghast at the thought of her finding out about Cesca. I wondered if Cesca was still in my apartment. And if she had left, would she come back? And she was going to be here for several months now. Was she going to reenter my life at the worst possible moment? And what did I want? Who did I want to be with? Until the day before, until Cesca reappeared, I thought I knew. But now I was no longer sure.

  I rang my apartment several times, but there was no answer. Was she still asleep? Had she left? Was she being discreet? Or was she simply displaying her usual disregard for the telephone? I dared not leave a voice message in case Selene might chance to hear it. At one point my office phone rang. It was Selene. My innards contracted when I heard her voice, terrified she might have somehow found out, and she was calling to tell me we were through. But I was letting my imagination get the better of me.

  “Bonjour, chéri,” she trilled. “How are you today? I missed you last night. I almost came over.”

  A bolt of dread passed through me. “Uh, I’m glad you didn’t. An old friend was in town from Barcelona, and we went out. You remember, I told you about him, Aurelio? I didn’t get home until late.”