Love Story

by Janine Boissard

  “It’s just a pleasure trip.”

  He saw no point in introducing me.

  Before leaving us, David had slipped a little present into my hand. I waited until takeoff before opening it. It was a watch with two faces: one with French time, one with American time. It was eleven o’clock in Paris, five o’clock in the morning in New York.

  I put it on my wrist as a way of insisting that David join us.

  I hadn’t taken airplanes often and never to go so far. I had imagined that the Concorde would be vast, but it was narrow: a rocket. Very little room for my singer’s long legs. Under his dark glasses, his eyes were closed. He had barely spoken to me since we got up and only accepted a coffee before leaving Neuilly when Maria, who had come expressly at daybreak, brought him a fresh bread so hot it burned her fingers.

  This little bitch…

  He was angry with me. Maybe, when fear overpowered hope, he hated me. And what if he changed his mind at the last minute? What if he refused to enter the clinic?

  My nightmare.

  You’ve already done the hard part, Leblond had said. He was wrong: the hardest part was now.

  He refused the glass of champagne and the meal. I accepted everything and ate, with too much shame to enjoy it, the lobster salad, milk-fed lamb, and chocolate parfait.

  We would be met at the airport and driven to our hotel. The Pierre Hotel and the Bel Air clinic were both on Fifth Avenue, but several miles apart. No point in hoping we would walk there.

  I carefully studied the map of the city. It had become an obsession with me: to familiarize myself with the places to which I accompanied Claudio in case, as in Auxerre, he wanted to sightsee.

  In my opinion, for the trip to New York, it was pointless.

  Meanwhile I held my precious bag tightly to my chest. Passports, credit cards, cell phone, various addresses and telephone numbers: in a certain way, my survival kit.

  And when I leaned toward the porthole to admire the view, I was breathless: yes, the earth really was round. Our rocket was flying so high that I could see that Galileo was right.

  At the airplane’s exit, a stewardess was waiting for us with a wheelchair. When she wanted to help her passenger into it, I thought Claudio would strangle her. So much the better, she put our hand luggage into it.

  After customs, a driver took charge, a very attentive man, dressed like a prince. It was less than eight degrees Fahrenheit; David was right to have prepared us. Me in my anorak and Claudio in his sheepskin coat over a thick wool sweater, we were both ready for winter sports.

  As with the temperature, everything seemed multiplied by ten in the New World: the size of the cars, the highways, the ads, the buildings, even the air we breathed.

  The Pierre Hotel looked out onto Central Park. Along the sidewalk there was a line of horse-drawn cabs waiting for clients. The horses’ nostrils flared and smoked. A bellhop went straight to the trunk of the limousine. A doorman dressed in livery, braided cap, and white gloves, pushed the revolving door for us.

  It wasn’t just the door that turned: the little one’s head too.

  A man crossed the reception area to meet us. He put his hand on Claudio’s shoulder.

  “Monsieur Roman, welcome home. Did you have a good trip? Do you know that your father honored us recently with a visit?”

  He turned toward me.

  “Miss Vincent, right?” he asked with a warm smile.

  And I was honored that the hotel director knew my name.

  Claudio would have his usual suite on the seventeenth floor. Two messages had arrived for him yesterday; the receptionist had put them in an envelope for him. Then we were taken to our rooms, where our suitcases were already waiting for us.

  Two rooms, each with its own bathroom, were connected to a spacious living room where a basket of fruits and a huge bouquet of roses awaited us. From the window, we could see the park dressed in frost, protected by the surrounding city.

  Every now and then, sirens rang out. I didn’t yet know that they were part of the city’s music.

  Without any assistance, Claudio walked to an armchair, where he threw his coat. When we were finally alone, he held out the envelope.

  “Read me the messages.”

  One was from Dr. Miller. He hoped that we had had a good trip and welcomed us to New York. He was waiting for our call.

  The second was a fax from Mr. Jean Roman to the attention of his son. Five words: “I am thinking of you.” And his cell phone number.

  “Call Miller,” Claudio ordered.

  “Do you want to speak with him?”

  “I’m not the one who organized everything…”

  That he hadn’t treated me like a “little bitch” was already something. I put on the loudspeaker and dialed the number on the message. The doctor was soon on the line.

  “Mademoiselle Vincent, I’m happy to hear you.”

  Like the hotel director, he spoke perfect French. His voice was young and enthusiastic. I thought, the voice of a winner. Standing by the window, his face turned to the view, Claudio seemed to inhale the cityscape.

  Dr. Miller confirmed the appointment for the next day: before eleven o’clock at his clinic. Claudio would be operated on Wednesday morning.

  “Tell him that a superb graft is waiting for him,” he said warmly. “All will be well.”

  No doubt the state of mind of Dr. Miller’s future patient was communicated to him along with his file.

  I spluttered some thank-yous before hanging up. I was smiling inside: a superb graft. How he said that! With what faith!

  I went up to Claudio by the window.

  “You heard?”

  He didn’t reply. His eyes were closed in a pained face. Of course he had heard. Hope was giving way to fear. I would have liked him to be my child, to be able to take him in my arms and promise him the moon. And to have him believe me.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “A little after eleven o’clock.”

  Eleven fifteen in New York; already late afternoon in Paris.

  “Would you like a piece of fruit? There are all kinds in the basket, and you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.”

  Real caviar…

  “Take me to my room. I’m going to rest.”

  I took him to the one in which his bags had been left. The bed was immense, and he fell onto it without giving me time to turn down the gold satin bedspread. I didn’t dare remove his shoes.

  As I opened his suitcase to unpack, he stopped me. He heard everything.

  “Later.”

  I crossed the living room and went into the second bedroom, identical to his, leaving all the doors open in case he called.

  There was a bottle of water on the table. I drank a gulp avidly. My head was foggy. I felt as though I was outside of myself, disconnected. The Concorde had landed. Without me.

  Tomorrow, eleven o’clock…

  A superb graft.

  Would I remain calm until then?

  Magritte’s painting came to me, the tree of Great Expectations. That’s the one where you perch, Claudio had said. Maybe. But have you ever seen a bird with vertigo?

  I pulled down the golden bedspread before collapsing on the bed.

  I fell deeply asleep.

  20.

  My cell phone woke me. Where was I? For a brief moment, I didn’t know. The huge bed, the rectangular pillow, reminded me: the Pierre Hotel.

  It was David at the end of the line—a long, long line. Noon here, six o’clock there.

  “So how’s it going?” he asked in a low voice, as if afraid that Claudio could hear.

  Through the open door I could see the empty living room, the bouquet on the table.

  “We’re at the hotel. Claudio is sleeping. I think I fell asleep too.”

  “You did well. Any news from Dr. Miller?”

  “Yes. Claudio is going to the clinic tomorrow. He’ll be operated on Wednesday morning.”

  We had moved heaven and ea
rth to achieve our objective, and we were nearly there, but there were still some words we said hesitantly, without quite believing them. Did David hear the doubt in my voice?

  “It’s not too difficult, Laura?”

  “Not at all. A cakewalk. Apart from that, I’m afraid all the time. I’m sure he’s going to refuse, escape. And in the end…”

  “Now, now,” David interrupted me. “Don’t tell me you’re losing faith, Laura.”

  I laughed so as not to cry.

  “According to Miller, the graft is first class.”

  “You see!”

  “Thank you for the watch, David. It’s great. I look at it all the time. Do you want to speak with Claudio?”

  “No, no. Let him sleep. Call me whenever you want. All the time, if you want. Courage, little sister.”

  The little sister hung up, a tear welling in her eye, and put her feet on the ground. Should I have a piece of fruit?

  Going into the living room, my breathing stopped: Claudio’s coat was not on the armchair. But I was sure I saw it on my way to my room just before. In fact, I was going to hang it up but I was too tired.

  My heart beating hard, I rushed.

  Claudio wasn’t in his bed. He wasn’t in the bathroom either. His cell phone lay in the hollow of his pillow. Whom did he call? Where on earth did he go? My worst fear realized: he ran off. He was not going to the clinic tomorrow.

  Quickly I put on my boots, my anorak. The hallway was bathed in reassuring elevator music. The elevator itself took a century to arrive, and when it finally started descending, it seemed that it stopped at each of the seventeen floors. The elevator man looked at me strangely.

  No man with a beard, dark glasses, and a sheepskin coat in the foyer. In the bar? The dining room? In any of the reception areas? Where to begin? At least he’ll be on familiar ground, David had said. But if he took his coat, wasn’t that because he was going to go out? Oh, Claudio, why did you inflict all this on me?

  I dashed to the reception desk.

  “Did you see Mr. Roman go by?”

  I asked the question in French; the employee replied in English.

  “Mr. Roman went out, miss. He asked to be taken to the lake.”

  Relief swept over me.

  “To the lake? A long time ago?”

  “About a half hour.”

  “Could you tell me how to get there?” And I added, “You understand, sir, he’s blind.”

  As though he didn’t know; but I needed help.

  “Of course, miss.”

  The employee came around the counter, accompanied me to the revolving door, and pointed to the park.

  “You cross and go straight ahead, then right. You can’t miss it. Would you like someone to accompany you?”

  “No, thank you, I’m fine.”

  The revolving door turned again in my honor. I forbade myself to run so I didn’t shock the dignified doorman.

  The park glistened under a white-blue, glacial sky. It was lunch hour. A motley crowd filled the paths: furs, fur-lined coats, wool coats, anoraks, jogging gear. Roller skates, scooters, bicycles, sneakers. Everything rolling, running, or ambling, many eating: sandwiches, hot dogs, rolls.

  On the lawns, colonies of squirrels, almost as many as there were pigeons in Paris. Gray like them, confident, munching.

  Straight ahead, then right. You can’t miss it.

  The lake.

  Carried along by the music of a group of black men dressed in striking colors, people of all ages, experts and beginners, were skating.

  Claudio was there.

  I hadn’t felt the cold, but it suddenly stung me. I hadn’t noticed how magical the sight was, an image a little too beautiful for a children’s book; it astounded me.

  His eyes hidden by his glasses, his face turned toward the skaters, Claudio was sitting alone on a bench. I approached slowly and took a seat beside him.

  “It’s me, Claudio. When I saw that you weren’t there, I was frightened. You know, this, like the caviar yesterday, is my first time.”

  I didn’t try to hide the trembling in my voice. I’d had enough of pretending, of playing the grown-up, the stalwart, the mother, the sister, and the guide, when I no longer felt that in my body or in my head. And when his hand searched for mine, I grasped it with all my strength. We had forgotten our gloves: two pieces of ice joining.

  “Terrible weather for sparrows,” he said.

  The gratitude choked me. Do you realize? You finally understand that you’re not the only one to sweat blood? That the moon, while very lovely, is a little far?

  I looked at his face, which suffering, or anger, had left, for a moment, in peace. I was desperately in love with this man. And if he continued like this, maybe the sparrow would stay.

  “A long time ago, I skated on this lake,” he said in a husky voice, his ear turned toward the joyous whirlwind. “When my father came to New York for his work and it was school vacation, he brought us, my mother and me. She loved the Pierre. I imagined that it was a man; I called him Mr. Pierre. ‘When are we going to go to Mr. Pierre’s?’ As for my father, he was God to me.”

  He turned his head toward the sky, his eyes closed. What did he see there?

  “I called him just before, from the hotel. Imagine: he knows your Miller. He also believes in miracles.”

  With a sigh that could have been of doubt or of hope, he lowered his dimmed eyes toward me.

  “He asked me to forgive him.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “He who will live, will see.”

  He who will see, will live.

  21.

  I was no longer afraid that he would run away.

  His father, Dr. Miller’s supergraft, and my little self had allowed hope to overcome anxiety.

  Returning to the hotel, I didn’t hesitate to reserve, in front of him, the car that would take us to the clinic tomorrow.

  It was two o’clock when we were back in our suite. In Paris, it was eight o’clock in the evening. It wasn’t surprising that Claudio was a little hungry, since he hadn’t eaten for nearly twenty-four hours.

  Should we respect the time difference and wait for the dinner hour or should we live our lives? We opted for a light meal served in the room.

  “Do your parents know that you’re in New York?” Claudio asked me before ordering.

  “Of course not. It’s a professional secret. They think I’m in Paris. And if they could see this royal suite, they’d faint. They’ve almost never been in a hotel. Vacations are either with family or camping.”

  “So we’ll invite them to choose from the menu,” Claudio said.

  You could find anything on it, and it was translated into several languages. I read it in English, so he could admire his guide’s Normandy accent.

  To start, my father would certainly want a soup, and we also decided on soup. Tomato soup, with cream and croutons.

  Concerning the main dish, I knew my mother: she would want to try something local. Daddy would agree, though he would first grimace and call her “daughter of the North.” For them, Claudio chose the spare ribs, pork ribs lightly caramelized, served with brown rice.

  A self-respecting meal doesn’t conclude without cheese, so we chose the camembert, a strange camembert with a flavor completely different than those you usually have in Villedoye. Claudio said that it was from an ostrich. We laughed hard.

  Staying with the family, I took charge of dessert: a plate of pineapple topped with vanilla ice cream.

  And that was it, luxury. For, reigning over our basket of fruit was a pineapple that we hadn’t even thought about touching. Without vanilla ice cream?

  The meal was accompanied by a Bordeaux.

  Given the time it took for the meal to arrive under silver dish covers, plus the time to eat, we left the table around five o’clock: eleven o’clock in the evening in Paris.

  Fatigue started to make itself known. I knew someone who was having trouble keeping her eyes open.

/>   While our table was being cleared, we went to the window, and Claudio asked me to describe the view for him.

  With the evening falling, it was becoming even more fairylike. The setting sun gilded the trees in the park. The strict row of buildings, with their colored awnings, presided over the slow creep of cars on Fifth Avenue. I hadn’t imagined this city to be so beautiful, dense, lofty. As for the sirens, which I was already used to, it was like in the movies. Besides, we couldn’t be anywhere but in a movie.

  I prefer those that end well.

  David called, and Claudio wanted to speak to him: all was going to plan. He didn’t want anyone to call the clinic, and from then on, I would keep him informed.

  His mother called too. While Claudio replied in a crisp, brief manner, I saw again the face of the pièta and rediscovered my unease.

  He hung up quickly.

  “I have something else to ask of you,” I said.

  He turned his tired face to me.

  “Because you don’t believe you’ve been given enough?”

  “This time, it’s just a little piece of moon. I would like you to forgive your father. A father who believes in miracles is irreplaceable.”

  “Maybe you would also like me to invite both of you to the premiere of La Traviata?”

  “That would be great! The premiere…and in the first dress circle, please.”

  Once again, he laughed that tremulous laugh that he had given me when I had asked for the whole moon, and it seemed to me that I had scored a victory over his mother.

  A little later, two women, dressed in pink, came to turn down the beds. After having changed the towels that had barely been used, they wished us a good evening and left.

  “I also have something to ask of you,” Claudio said. “Could you wash my hair without getting too much shampoo in my eyes?”

  “You couldn’t have asked someone better. Thanks to Agatha, you’re looking at a pro.”

  I had my big man kneel beside the bathtub; I put a towel around his neck, picked up the showerhead, and enjoyed myself.

  Harder, harder, my sister ordered. Claudio didn’t say anything. I think he was pleased.