"Hey, could you do me a favor and play happy birthday for my friend over there when they bring out the cake?"
Groan. My job as the house singer/pianist at The Blue Willow, an upscale restaurant with a downtown clientele in Greenwich Village, would soon be over. That was fine by me. The only thing I found more annoying than being asked to play happy birthday at least twice a week, was being requested to play Piano Man by customers who would then tip me an entire dollar. The waiters at the restaurant made ten times the tips I made every night, and my base salary wasn't much higher than theirs.
"Uh – after we do the happy birthday thing could you play Piano Man? It's one of his favorite songs."
Too fed up to speak, I nodded as the young guy with the outer-boroughs accent slipped two dollar bills into my tip jar. I wrapped up the super-cerebral, intricate improvisation I'd been doing on the chord progressions for Song for My Father which no one recognized or cared about, and launched into Happy Birthday as the waiter came out of the kitchen with the lit-up birthday cake.
Until I'd gotten this job, I'd had no idea how banal it could be to earn a steady income as a house musician. It was right up there with playing in a wedding band or doing a hotel lounge gig. Top requirements for the job had nothing to do with talent or creativity. It was all about 1) starting on time, 2) playing customers' requests, and 3) not singing or playing too loudly so people could hear themselves talk.
The pendulum of my ongoing internal debate over whether I was meant to be a musician or writer had swung wildly back into the musician corner after slogging through four years of paper and senior-essay writing at Yale. One thing was for sure, I was my parents' child after all. I had picked up the impractical career aspirations gene from both of them. I thought by working as a professional musician, I'd been thumbing my nose at my Yale friends down on Wall St. working one hundred-hour weeks as investment banking associates. Contemplating my tip jar with the two dollar bills in it, I wasn't so sure any more.
As I launched into Piano Man, I was heartened by the thought that it would all be over soon. Milton Fine, my boss and a well-known Manhattan slum lord, had gotten his comeuppance from city authorities in their latest clampdown and lost his liquor license. I had until the end of June to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.
Finding another steady gig as a house musician in the heart of Greenwich Village would be next to impossible. No musician I knew had a steady performing job in Manhattan outside of a hotel lounge. I knew what that was all about, too. I'd done a gig at Novotel near Times Square the year before – another soul-deadening experience that had paid the rent for six months. Tired of being ignored by tourists in transit in the hotel lounge, I'd auditioned for a gig at the cocktail lounge of the Gramercy Park Hotel, farther downtown and known as a celebrity hangout, where many well-known bands stayed when on tour in Manhattan. I'd been thrilled when they offered me a two-night a week spot.
The Gramercy Park Hotel was supposed to be the kind of place where emerging artists get discovered. After I'd been there for three months, a hotel employee pointed out a hotel resident, Paul Shaffer, who was dining alone in the restaurant. He was the band leader on the Late Show with David Letterman. I introduced myself to him as the hotel lounge pianist, to which he grunted unintelligibly then went back to his meal.
My next brush with fame had been one evening about a month later, when a short guy in a hooded sweatshirt and messy, day-old stubble on his chin came up to the piano and requested Send in the Clowns, stuffing a dollar bill into my tip glass. I played it, no one clapped, and the guy continued talking with his lady-friend over in the corner, unmoved by my performance. Later in the restroom, the cocktail waitress asked me if I realized that had been Bob Dylan.
My final celebrity encounter at the hotel had been when the band Kansas came in late one Saturday evening and asked me to sit with them after my set was over. As a child, I'd loved their biggest hit song – one of the most soulful rock tunes of the 1970s. Anticipating being invited to record with them, or at least join their touring band, I was less than thrilled when one of the band members, after downing multiple bourbon shots, asked if I'd give him a blow job. My feelings for the music of Kansas scattered like so much dust in the wind. Sigh.
So when Milton Fine came in a few months after that encounter and asked to speak with me after I finished my first set of the evening, I was receptive. He was old and enormously fat, with hair growing everywhere but on top of his head. This kind of schlubby-looking guy in Manhattan frequently indicates two things – money and power.
I sat down with him, noting he'd hardly touched his drink, a sign he was there on business. He didn't waste any time getting down to it.
"Do you work here every night?" he asked.
"No, three nights a week usually."
"You like it?"
"I guess so –," I answered slowly to let him know that I was open to suggestion.
"You know The Blue Willow at the corner of Broadway and Bleecker Street?" he continued.
"You mean that restaurant with the high ceilings?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
I knew the place. It was exclusive, trendy, housed in a majestic, pre-war building. Its stunning exterior with twelve-foot high plate-glass windows had always intimidated me when I'd walked past. A Zagat review was posted right in the outer doorway.
"Yeah. I know it."
"I'm the owner."
My eyebrows shot up, but I held my tongue. Big deal. Restaurant owners were a dime a dozen in New York City. It was time to talk turkey.
"You want a job playing piano there?"
That was more like it.
"How many nights a week?" I asked, as a warm-up. What I really wanted to know was how much he would pay.
"I don't know. How many would you like?'
"I'd have to think about it."
"You do that."
"I've got to get back to work."
"I'll stay till your next break if you want to talk more."
"Okay," I said, playing it as cool as a cucumber. I'd absolutely love to have a job at a fashionable, super-trendy place like The Blue Willow. But the price needed to be right. I got up and walked away, my back straight as a ramrod. 'Always maintain straight posture at critical moments,' my grandmother had advised. This would be one of them.
Back at the piano, I mulled over what kind of money we were talking here. Experience had taught me that if he asked how much I made at my present gig, I would 1) lie and 2) know he was serious. When people talk money in New York, they're serious. Otherwise, it's just talk.
He was still there at the end of my second set, nursing the same first glass of wine – both very good signs. This wasn't the drink talking, whatever it was. I walked over, sat down and, bam, first thing he asked was how much I made at my present job.
I gave him a number, slightly rounded up – okay doubled, I'd spent the past forty-five minutes formulating.
He offered me fifty per cent more to come work for him, five nights a week, as his resident house pianist. Just like that. Frankly, playing two nights a week at the semi-sleazy Gramercy Park Hotel wasn't paying all my bills. A full-time, five-night a week job at The Blue Willow with the salary he'd just promised, would.
I agreed on the spot.
But after almost a year at The Blue Willow, I was ready for an exit plan. Manhattan was eating me up and spitting me out in small pieces. I'd gotten a gig that paid the rent – a situation every New York City artist dreams of but only few accomplish. Most either worked as office temps or waited tables. I'd done both of those jobs, too. Why wasn't I enjoying being able to make a living working as a performer? Or to rephrase – how many more times could I stomach being asked to play Billy Joel's Piano Man or Happy Birthday?
That winter, a girlfriend of mine had brought in some French friends to see me play. Marceline and Henri had been delightful. Marceline was pint-sized and seriously chic, a true living Parisian doll. She'd worn pencil-slim black jeans in a size so small, I was sure she hadn't bought them Stateside. Her high-heeled suede boots had tiny gold buckles on either side announcing the brand of some fabulous French designer. The black, white, and gold print silk shirt she wore featured more buckles and horsey-motifs, vaguely identifiable as straps, bridles and harnesses. Her hair was a mass of dark, golden-blonde curls, her make-up subtle – some mascara and the tiniest hint of taupe lipstick. I'd studied every inch of her, admiring her effortless style. I wanted to look like that some day.
Marceline's husband, Henri, raved over my rendition of Peggy Lee's Fever, mentioning a place in Paris where he could see me performing. He'd given me his card, and I'd tossed it in the tips bowl, not expecting to follow up in any way.
At the end of March on a seriously dull gray day, I went through my Rolodex, looking for career opportunities that would get me out of New York to someplace I'd be appreciated. After a few minutes, I found Henri's business card. In French, it said something about optical supplies. He'd told me he was an entertainment manager. Maybe pushing optical supplies was his day job.
I made an international call.
Henri Zidane remembered me. I'd bet the French would love my repertoire of jazz standards; Fats Waller, Cole Porter, and Gershwin with a smattering of bossa nova and a few contemporary pop songs thrown in.
"Send your headshots and a cassette tape of three of your best songs, and I'll circulate it. I have just the place in mind."
"How soon could you arrange something?"
"When can you get here? If I can take you around with me, we can get bookings faster."
"By late spring or early summer." Milton had mentioned June 30th as the last day The Blue Willow would be open. There was no way I wanted to stick around for yet another sweltering Manhattan summer – even worse, in an unemployed state. I'd ask my father to provide a employee-pass round-trip airline ticket to Paris. It was the one really big thing he could do for me and he delighted in
being able to fuel my love of travel and adventure gene. Undoubtedly, I'd gotten it from him. My grandparents had died, both passing peacefully in their sleep, well into their nineties. Nothing compelled me to remain Stateside.
Memories of Paris five summers earlier, when I'd met Pascal beckoned. God knew what he was doing now, but I'd bet he was married with at least two children, still living in working- class St. Denis, north of Paris. I treasured everything I'd experienced with him, but there was no point in tracking him down. Even during our intense few weeks together, I'd known we had nothing in common other than sizzling sexual attraction.
"As soon as I get your promo package, I'll get on it," Henri continued. "Do you have some good headshots?"
"Yes. I've got a few different poses. What kind do you want?" I just had new headshots done for free in a barter exchange with a photographer-friend at whose fortieth birthday party I'd sung and played. Highly retouched, they looked pretty much nothing like me, just like the headshots of all my other friends in the performing arts.
"Send one of every pose. Soon. Go to the post this afternoon."
"You'll have them within a week." I couldn't believe my good luck. The stars were with me.
"You'll hear back from me within two."
Twelve days later, Henri called back.
"I've got you booked at the hottest club in Bastille," he said, referring to a neighborhood in Paris I remembered as roughly similar to Manhattan's EastVillage. "Six Friday nights from mid-July through the end of August. That'll give us time to find other club dates and get you settled in."
"What's the name of the place?" I asked, delighted.
"It's called Le Cactus Bleu, The Blue Cactus."
I was moving across the ocean from The Blue Willow to The Blue Cactus? My favorite color was blue. Apparently the stars had lined up.
"How much do they pay?" I asked. Despite the free plane ticket and no immediate prospects in New York, I needed to support myself. Paris was less expensive than New York, but not by much.
"Enough for you to get by," Henri said without specifying how much. "You'll make enough to live on while we line up bookings at other places. And you can stay with us until mid-August. By then, we'll have you set up with gigs and a place to stay."
"Great." I got off the phone, shaking, unprepared for the future hurtling so quickly toward me. Now that I'd set the wheels in motion, I feared the consequences. With rashness one of my strong suits, I'd get over it. Also, I'd forgotten to ask what the mid-August deadline was all about, but it seemed far away. We'd work out my housing situation once I got there.
Henri Zidane and his wife picked me up at Charles de Gaulle airport the second of July. He hadn't changed, his bony, medium-tall French frame honed through frequent cigarette usage, but Marceline was almost unrecognizable.
Félicitations, Marceline," I congratulated her as I took in her enormous tummy and bloated face. "When is the baby due?"
She scowled then grunted. She was no longer the sexy, chic Marceline I remembered from the winter before. Begrudgingly, she offered one cheek, then the other. Only two kisses this time, not four.
"The baby's due August fifteenth," Henri broke in enthusiastically. Bulbous light brown eyes looked me over then flicked back to his wife. She stared at him coolly, as if to warn him to keep his eyes off me.
In the car, I thanked them for picking me up. "Je vous remercie, Henri, de me retirer de l'aeroport. C'est bien innoportun, je sais. It was really inconvenient, I know," I tried to say in French.
"Pas du tout, Ava, pas du tout. Not at all," Henri replied.
Marceline nodded in agreement with me, giving Henri a baleful stare. I decided not to ask if pregnancy was agreeing with her. Apparently not.
"Je suis très excitée d'être ici," I continued, meaning 'I'm very excited to be here.'
Marceline's head swiveled around abruptly. Her glare was unmistakable. Had I made a blooper? I looked in the rearview mirror for guidance from Henri's face. It was flushed, his eyes straight ahead on the road.
A strained silence ensued. I wracked my brain to think of something next to say. Then, it occurred to me. Exciter is one of those false friends from English to French. 'I'm excited' could mean a variety of things in English, but it meant only one in French – to be aroused. I'd just told Henri I was very sexually aroused to be there. No wonder Marceline was giving me the hairy eyeball.
"I mean it's very nice to be here," I amended, looking out the window to hide the enormous blush now covering my entire body.
Henri and Marceline's flat was near Bastille, a lively neighborhood with good nightlife where The Blue Cactus was located. I would stay with them at least a week until my first performance took place, the following Friday. The six gigs Henri had contracted for me over consecutive Friday evenings, guaranteed me an income at least until the end of August. After that, we would see. I set up my synthesizer in the spare room next to Henri's study where I practiced with headphones, ostensibly not to disturb them, but frankly so as not to be disturbed by Henri who was in the habit of interrupting me while working from his home office, which was most of the time.
"Did you bring that dress you wore in your professional photo with you?" he asked a few mornings after I arrived, as he stood in the doorway between the study and his office.
"Which dress?" I asked, although I knew immediately. It had to be the Norma Kamali dress I'd picked up at a sample sale. A skinny woman in the group dressing room had thrown it at me after pulling it off, saying "You should try this on. It would look great on you." She'd been right.
"Umm – the one with the – uh – cut outs. You know."
"The one I'm wearing in the photo with the big hair?"
"Yes. You brought it, right?"
"I've got it here. Why?" I nodded toward the closet door in the corner where I'd hung the slinky, long black dress to smooth out the wrinkles. The cut-outs on the shoulders and below the neckline gave the garment a bizarre appearance on its hanger. When I wore it, the effect was anything but bizarre. Stunning and devastatingly sexy was more like it.
"Maybe you could wear it your opening night."
Did Henri care about fashion? He was French, so perhaps he did. Still, the way his eyes shifted between the dress hanging on the door and my person, somewhere below the neck, told me it wasn't the dress, but me in it, he was thinking about.
"I had another outfit in mind. Something a little more chic," and less provocative, I told him. I'd worn that dress in my professional photos on the advice of my stylist, Mitchell, my gay friend back in the EastVillage. He'd told me it would help me score more gigs.
"You can try on a few outfits, then we'll decide," Henri answered, his eyes still on my torso. I wasn't exactly chesty, but this was France, world headquarters for connossieurs of small breasts.
"There's plenty of time to decide before the gig," I told him, hoping he understood it was going to be my decision and mine alone. The thought of trying on outfits and parading myself in front of Henri made me want to throw up. But that's what managers were for, wasn't it? They provided critical feedback on everything – not just the product, but the package the product was presented in. I was the product, he was my manager. Still, I vowed I'd find a way not to put on a fashion show for Henri Zidane. Something about the idea made my skin crawl.
By my third day in Paris, I was getting antsy. I needed to practice aloud, but the walls of most Parisian buildings were thin. Flushing a toilet or taking a shower in an old building in Paris was an event heard by all of its occupants; singing, or playing a keyboard instrument were in the same category. Henri suggested that I prepare my sets more or less sotto voce or under my breath, which didn't really help me to work on my voice, never mind practice with sound equipment – microphone and reverb units. I prayed the sound engineer at The Blue Cactus would know what he was doing and that we'd be able to go in for a sound check the day before my performance.
Marceline was at her job during the weekdays, but when she returned home, I had the distinct sense it had not been her idea to have me stay with them. Never having been pregnant, I had no idea what late-stage pregnancy in the middle of summer could do to a woman, but it was clear she was not in a good mood most of the time. At the sound of the key turning in the lock on weekday late afternoons, I'd run into my room before Marceline entered the flat. All sorts of sounds would ensue, indicating exasperation. The slam of her keys and bags hitting the counter would be followed by muttered complaints as she put away the groceries. After awhile, the banging of pots and pans, along with cupboards being forcefully shut told me she'd begun dinner. I tried to help the first day, but I put everything away in the wrong place then refrigerated the cheeses which were supposed to be left out for the evening meal. The scowl on her face after I put a glass in the dishwasher that was supposed to be hand washed told me it was time to exit the kitchen. After that, I made an excuse to get out of the flat every evening just to get away.
Mid-morning on the fourth day of my stay, I went into Henri's study to fetch a pen while he was out. I was making notes on the newest pop song I was working on, a smoky blues tune I wanted to rehearse full voice before Henri returned or a neighbor pounded on the door.
I reached over a pile of papers on Henri's desk next to his computer to grab a black pen. Something with a tip like a fine magic marker would make my orchestral notes on the musical score stand out. I couldn't find anything suitable on his desk, so I looked around. Glancing at the pile of papers, I saw the corner of one which had been marked up with a pen exactly like the kind I was looking for. It looked like a drawing. Curiously, I pulled it out.
It was a caricature of a nude woman with long, wavy hair, high perky breasts and a button nose. I'd know her anywhere. She was in the mirror whenever I looked.
Shoving the sketch back into the pile, I grabbed a black pen and retreated to my temporary studio, careful to leave everything in Henri's office exactly the way I'd found it.
Yuck. No wonder Marceline's default expression these days was one of stormy stares and unspoken recriminations.
After another half hour of practice, I went through my wardrobe, carefully stashing lingerie in the zippered compartments of my suitcase, out of sight of Henri's roving eye. What were the chances of Henri drifting into the room I was using as a bedroom when I was out? Probably as high as the likelihood of me visiting his office while he was out, as I'd just done. I would find somewhere else to stay as soon as possible. A place where I could rehearse as well as not worry about what was going through the mind of my host.
As I hid the Norma Kamali dress with the cut-outs in the far corner of the closet, I came across my black leather postman's satchel, into which I'd emptied out my handbag the first night I'd arrived, retiring all New York-related items such as subway cards and gym passes, U.S. currency, and business cards of people I'd met at my performing job. Among the collection was the business card of an older American man I'd run into at the Blue Willow. He'd mentioned he threw parties at his Paris apartment for the literary ex-pat set. "Lawrence Pemberwick" it said in small, elegant script. No title, no company. Just an accompanying eight-digit Paris phone number and the address.
Less is more, I thought approvingly, along with Diana Vreeland.
I called. Going to a party would get me out of Henri and Marceline's flat. Besides, I could invite interesting people I might meet there to The Blue Cactus to see me perform.
Someone with an Australian accent answered to say Larry wasn't around but could he help?
"Well, Larry mentioned in New York that he throws parties from time to time so I thought I'd come to the next one if it's alright. Could I leave my name for him to call?"
"No need, dear. His salon happens every Sunday evening. Starts around sevenish. Potluck sort of thing. The more the merrier, especially if you're female," the voice chortled at the other end.
"What should I bring?"
"Beauty and brains, love."
It was my turn to laugh. A dose of Anglo-American wit would go a long way toward lifting my spirits, chilled by the frozen atmosphere of Henri and Marceline's flat.
"And a bottle of wine?" I offered.
"No need. We've got enough booze on hand to sink a ship. Bring a dish of something."
"Um, er, I'm staying with friends, I can't really cook anything to bring over. How about some dessert?"
"Marvelous. Something big and messy, like most of Larry's guests." His laugh boomed over the airways, welcoming and warm – definitely not French.
The Australian gave me directions to Larry's flat, including the metro stop. It was located in the east of Paris, near Parc de Vincennes, a section I was unfamiliar with.
The next few days flew by. I had something to look forward to. Wishing I had a girlfriend to accompany me to the party, I remembered an axiom my singer/actress friend Jessica had often mentioned back in Manhattan. She'd said the best way to meet a man was to go out alone. And the fastest way to scare one off was to go out with a pack of girlfriends. If I could maintain my self-confidence, there might be an advantage in going to the party alone. Just the challenge of going to a party where I knew absolutely no one increased my excitement. I was already in a city and a country where I knew practically no one. What did I have to lose?
I ran errands Saturday afternoon, picking up a tarte de Breton at the local patisserie to bring with me to the party. It wasn't messy, but it was large.
Nothing in Paris was messy other than foreigners who didn't belong there and would leave sooner or later. The city's very signature was precise, orderly, well-thought out and most of all – in excellent taste. The French word that summed up all these ideas was exigeant or exacting, demanding due to high standards. The Parisian personality was exigeant above all else.
Fortunately, foreigners had a pass not to be exacting. Even if they were, it wouldn't matter. Parisians would still look down their noses at them, whether they were travelling tourists or ex-pats who'd lived there for decades. It was wonderfully freeing not to have to even pretend I was exacting. Little did I know that years after leaving Paris I would realize how much the city had left its mark on me – thanks to my time there, I would forever after drive my family and friends batty in questions of taste. In Paris, I couldn't exercise my newly-acquired Parisian standards, since the Parisians would have none of it from an outsider. It was only back home Stateside that I got to exercise my true inner Parisian.
At half past seven on Sunday, I exited the metro at Porte de Vincennes and was immediately struck by how good the air smelled. The neighborhood was residential, close to Parc de Vincennes, where the city's zoo was located. Around me, leaves rustled on trees, lit gold by the remains of the day. They hinted at something, bobbing and waving as I walked past. Some sort of secret was being passed, one which involved me, but which I wasn't in on yet.
Feeling more light-hearted than I had since my arrival, I followed the Australian's directions to Larry's apartment. The lushness of the foliage, the density of the trees lining the sidewalk all increased my anticipation of the evening to come. In a minute, I'd found 59, Rue d'Horloge and buzzed the name of L. Pemberwick on the name directory next to the outer gate.
"Yah, come on up," a garrulous non-French, non-exacting voice responded. The gate clicked open, and I was in.
Up two flights of stairs flanked by a curlicue, wrought-iron staircase, the door to Fred's flat was already open. Inside, the crowd was dense, almost all male. Immediately my adrenalin kicked in. Or perhaps it was my testosterone.
I steeled myself and entered, willing my face into a proud, mysterious mask. Surrounded by men, I'd play my best defense – the enigmatic female card.
"And who do we have here?" a voice boomed out. A stout, balding man with a good-natured, florid face greeted me near the door.
"I'm Ava Fodor. I met Larry in New York a few months ago and ..."
"Ava from New York, eh?" he announced loudly to the surrounding male masses. "I'm Sam. Come on in and get yourself something to drink." He took the patisserie box from me and motioned to an adjoining room. "Make way for the lady, mates. We've got a live one here from New York. Shape up boys," he boomed out as he led me to the kitchen, elbowing bodies out of the way.
My nose pointing to the ceiling, it was all I could do to keep my composure or sangfroid. But that was the whole point of being back in Paris again, or one of the main ones. Maintaining sangfroid counted for a lot. Another thing I was determined to learn how to do well and then take home with me.
"Some white wine, please," I told a middle-aged man in the tiny kitchen. He wore a cravat tucked into a pristine, white-collared shirt. His well-manicured eyebrows suggested he might be gay.
He handed me a delicately-stemmed glass, and I quaffed. It was good to be at a rollicking, roaring, Anglo-Saxon party; even better to have a few gay men in attendance just to keep the heterosexual males in check. I steeled myself to enter the main room, drawing on my performer's skills to maintain composure. A ship in full sail, I sallied into the salon, drink in hand.
After a minute, a few females became apparent, all with male escorts. They looked mousy, timid – unlike me. I would be queen bee of this crowd. Perusing the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, I ignored the myriad male eyes upon me.
"Hi, I'm Scott from Omaha. Have you come to one of Larry's parties before?" a blond, corn-fed Midwestern guy asked.
"No." Not my type.
"Are you here with someone then?" he followed up.
"Yes," as far as you're concerned.
Over the din of the crowd, a sharp voice stood out. "The wisdom of life, my friend?" The accent was cultured, more Continental than French, although it was that, too. It belonged to someone well-traveled. "The wisdom of life consists in the elimination of nonessentials. For example – speaking with you now." A raucous laugh ensued.
Now that was rude. I swiveled my head to scan over Scott's shoulder in search of the voice's owner. What kind of brazen boor would say such a thing? He had to be drunk, completely ill-mannered, or talking to his younger brother.
After a moment I located him – tall and brash, a man with a high forehead and golden skin tossed back longish, auburn hair. Dashing but raffish, I imagined he would take no prisoners in a battle of wits.
I willed him to look my way.
The face turned, and a mobile, full mouth rearranged itself the second he saw me.
I pretended to look beyond him. Fortunately, the man who'd greeted me at the door stood behind him, chatting with a group of bookish types.
"Sa-a-a-a-m," I called out, in my best Audrey Hepburn impression. I might not look like her, but I'd watched Breakfast at Tiffany's so many times I was confident I could channel her when the occasion arose. Pointing my small, slightly upturned nose toward the ceiling, I moved in Sam's direction, brushing past the reddish-haired barbarian as I passed. I made sure not to give him the tiniest glance.
He took the bait.
A low growl followed as I swished past. It was as if the air rumbled between us, making the hair stand up on my arms.
The man called Sam looked pleased but slightly baffled as I approached.
"What a delightful party," I sang out as I broke into his circle of friends, all with manicured hands and eyebrows to match carefully mannered expressions. Gay, the lot of them, I'd surmise. Unlike the uncaged lion a few paces behind me.
"Thank you. Let me introduce you to Trevor, Henry, and Jean-Paul," he offered graciously, clearly unsure of my name.
"How darling to meet you. I'm Ava from New York," I said, loud enough for anyone in the general area to hear.
"And what brings Ava from New York to Paris?" a voice that was all angles rang out behind me. Sharp as a knife, it crackled with testosterone.
I turned slowly. No need to hurry. Something told me that whatever I was about to face would be part of my very near future.
"And what brings you to Paris?" I asked back. He was way too uncivilized to be a Parisian.
"I live here." he answered, in a voice that sounded like a challenge.
I shivered, then braced myself.
"But you're not from here, are you?" It was a presumptuous guess – as presumptuous as his greenish-blue eyes, now roving over me, insolent and unapologetic.
The floor cleared on both sides, as if a duel were about to take place.
At Parisian parties, strangers didn't introduce themselves by immediately asking personal questions such as 'where are you from?' or even worse, 'what do you do?' These were private matters to be uncovered slowly, perhaps through discreet inquiry of a third party. At most Parisian parties I'd attended, small clusters of French people stood in separate corners, eyeballing the crowd, whispering amongst their own group and disdaining to interact with anyone outside their own circle. When I'd made attempts to infiltrate a cluster of unknown Parisians by introducing myself and saying where I was from, the response would usually be polite, but not forthcoming. "Hello" might be followed up with "Hello, I'm Anne-Marie," but it was never followed up with "Hi, I'm Anne-Marie from blah blah blah. So, how do you know so-and-so?," whose party it was, or "what brings you to Paris?" Less drinking, less noise, and less interaction all added up to a lot less fun from what I'd observed.
"Entirely correct. I'm from somewhere else," he answered maddeningly.
"And where would that be?" I insisted. This was a party thrown by Larry for the Anglo-Saxon ex-pat crowd. Different rules applied.
"Where would you like me to be from? Take your pick. I'm yours to serve." He bowed, but not before raking me again with twinkling blue-green eyes that reminded me of my father's. Nothing else about him did.
"You mean you're at my service?" I corrected him. He must have misspoke.
"No. You're at mine." His eyes gleamed.
What cheek.
"Well thanks, but no thanks." Feeling my face flame, I turned back to speak with the gay contingent but they had already faded into another group. I searched for Sam or anyone else who looked safe. Where was Scott from Omaha when I needed him?
"Thanks, but thanks, you mean," he corrected.
"I didn't say that." This time, I bared my teeth as I looked at him.
"No, but that's what you meant." His laughing eyes continued their sweep over my form.
"I think I know what I meant," I hissed.
"I think I know what you meant, too," he hissed back. His English was accented but perfect.
This time, I couldn't control the color that shot into my face and neck.
"You look nice in red," he whispered.
"I'm wearing blue," I looked down just to make sure. Whatever self-possession I'd faked from the moment I'd walked into the party was now in a puddle on the floor in front of me.
"I meant your blush," he replied maddeningly.
"I think I know what you meant," I countered, wondering how long I could keep this up. Conversations with him would be exhausting. We'd need to find something else to do. My racing blood told me that wouldn't be a problem.
"Blue suits you, too," he continued, not missing a beat.
"Do you think so?"
"I do."
"Well – I'd better get back to my friend," I ad-libbed. "Nice sparring with you." I turned to go back to the kitchen. After that encounter, I needed another glass of white wine.
"When's the rematch?" he asked, blocking my way.
"The what?"
"Part two."
"Was this part one?" There was no doubt it was.
"Wasn't it?"
He had me there.
"Do you want it to be?" We'd turned into characters from Waiting for Godot.
"Do I?" I threw the ball back into his court.
"Do you?"
"You tell me."
"You do." His tone was clear, manly.
"Do I?"
"Yes, you do."
"Well then – make me an offer." With this man, I'd never be in the driver's seat. But I couldn't help wanting to take the ride.
"Dinner next week?'
"Call me." I needed to be sure this wasn't just party talk.
"Give me your number, and I will." His voice softened, taking on intimacy.
"Get me a glass of white wine, and I will." I lowered my own to match his.
"Your wish is my command," he replied, taking the glass gently from my hands, his fingers brushing mine.
"It's about time," I replied, not too sharply.
His lean, muscular back flexed as he searched carefully among the already opened bottles, then looked in the refrigerator. After a minute, he took out a green wine bottle labeled in medieval German script.
"Here's something worthy of a Rhine maiden," he said as he handed me my filled glass.
"Do I remind you of one?"
He nodded, saying nothing, his compliment more effective by not following it up with yet another clever comment.
The wine was dry but sweet. It tasted crisp, like the barbarian's conversation. I didn't even know his name.
"I like it. It's crisp and snappy," I commented.
"Like me?" The man didn't lack confidence.
"Do I like you? Or do I think you're crisp and snappy?"
"Both."
I took another sip, looking at him over the rim of my glass.
"Perhaps one out of two."
"So we need to get to Part Two to establish the other." He took out a pen and pocket datebook. "Number?"
"I don't give my number out to strangers."
"Am I a stranger?"
"Do I know your name?"
"Ahh. Allow me to introduce myself. Arnaud de Saint Cyr." He took my free hand in his, bent down, and kissed it. "At your service."
His touch was warm and dry.
I smiled at the way he'd said his name. It had come out like 'Ar-know the Sincere', Ar-know the Insolent was more like it. Nevertheless, I was hooked.
He clinked his glass with mine. Then, I gave him my number, and we talked long into the night.
* * *
Two days later, he called. Henri and Marceline were out. The voice speaking into their answering machine crackled with energy.
"Arnaud de Saint Cyr here calling for Ava about the rematch. When, where, yours to decide. You can reach me at...."
"It's me. I'm here." I cut in, finally locating the phone receiver on the kitchen counter.
"Ahhh. Felt safe to pick up, finally?" Wit, intelligence, and audacity all flew through the air to my heart and brain, jabbing me with electric jolts.
"I – just heard your voice and realized it's you."
"So, what about our rematch?"
"When, where, yours to decide," I parroted back, eager to hear what he might propose.
"Where do you live?"
"I'm staying with friends near Place de la Bastille." Why was I giving him information about myself? He didn't need to know anything more about me than how to see me again.
"Do you know Café de la Bastille right above the exit to the metro there?
"Sure." It was un-missable, the largest café on Bastille's enormous traffic circle.
"Let's meet there tomorrow evening at seven. We can go to dinner from there."
"Um – tomorrow's not good, I've got a rehearsal." With myself of course, but no need to seem ridiculously available. The russet-haired barbarian needed to work hard to see me. I couldn't just fall into his lap. Although I wanted to.
"Hmmm. Thursday's out, I've got a meeting. What about Friday?"
"Sounds fine." Friday had always been my favorite day of the week – the threshold of the weekend.
"Any type of food out for you?"
"None. Well, perhaps head cheese or horsemeat."
"Favorite drink?"
"Excuse me?" That was a broad subject. Where might I begin, especially in France?
"Favorite summertime drink?"
"Umm, let's see – " A good question, showing attention to details. The barbarian had a civilized side. "I like sangria."
The following three days passed in a flurry. Now that I knew the full scope of Henri's interests, I was sure I didn't want him to act as my manager. But anticipation had replaced the fear I'd felt in the pit of my stomach the day I stumbled on the drawing in his office. Henri's interest in my career had gotten me to Paris. Marceline's interest in reeling in her husband would get me out of their apartment. And whatever interest Arnaud de Saint Cyr and I had in each other would set the stage for the next chapter of my new life in Europe. In the meantime, I had to figure out what I would wear to my meeting with Arnaud less than forty-eight hours away.
* * *
On Thursday, Henri and I went over to The Blue Cactus. Henri introduced me to the owner, a Monsieur Thibault who sported a handlebar moustache and whose first name I didn't catch. He spent less than five minutes with us, then had the bartender set us up with drinks while we caught the evening's performance.
It was less than stellar. A male guitarist played unmemorable background music while diners ate, chatted, and paid him no attention whatsoever. No sound equipment was in sight. Concerned, I asked Henri if there was indeed a house P.A. system with microphone, reverb, and sound mixing board available for the night of my performance.
"It will all be taken care of, Ava. N'inquiète pas, don't worry," he reassured me.
Back in New York, it hadn't taken me long to figure out the waiters and waitresses at the trendy Village restaurant where I played piano and sang, made more money than me. It was due to tips. Customers felt obligated to give a fifteen to twenty per cent tip in New York for standard service, but the tip jar on the piano didn't beckon to them as an obligatory stop on the way out the door. Still, I had big ambitions for a career as a recording artist and songwriter, so what did I care if playing piano in a restaurant was a dead end? I wasn't planning on doing it for too much longer.
"Do you want another cocktail?" Henri asked pointing at the tiny glass I'd emptied in four sips. Mixed drinks in Europe were both miniscule and expensive. I'd stick with wine the next time I went out – perhaps sangria with Arnaud the following evening. My stomach warmed at the thought.
"No thanks. I'm done," I said politely. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the evening drinking with Henri. He'd probably confess something to me I wouldn't want to hear, and then it would be even more uncomfortable returning to the accusatory eyes of his wife back home. I'd be an accessory to crime by providing him with the object of his fantasies. Against my will, no less. That's how the world worked for attractive, unattached young women.
I wanted to leave as soon as possible to get away from Henri. "Shall we go?"
"If you like." he shrugged, clearly open to further suggestion.
I'd offer him some food for thought. "You and Marceline have the flat to yourselves tomorrow evening. I'm meeting a friend."
His eyebrows went up. "Another musician?"
"No. He's a- a- a..." I had no idea what Arnaud did for a living. Who cared? No one talked about that kind of thing at parties in Paris. But it had been a literary gathering, ostensibly. "He's a writer," I finally said.
"Oh." One eyebrow lowered, the other remaining up, in a speculative expression. "I see."
I ignored him, as I got off my barstool and headed to the door. He didn't see anything. Even I didn't see clearly what the following evening would offer. The thought of it made me feel like a newly-sharpened knife, except for some part deep inside that went all quivery and mushy at the thought of spending time alone with Arnaud de Saint Cyr.
For a split second, I felt the tiniest bit sorry for Henri, about to go home to his grumpy wife. She was right to be suspicious. Irritable, uncomfortable, swollen, and exhausted, she had every reason to be. But that didn't stop her husband's eye from roving. I made a mental note to take extra care to keep any future partner well away from single, attractive females if I one day found myself in a heavily pregnant state.
The next morning, Marceline left early for work. Then Henri finally went out on an appointment. At the sound of his Citroën accelerating down the boulevard outside my window, I pulled out a black and white dress I'd brought from New York. It needed ironing. In the kitchen, I found the ironing board and iron, being careful not to set the iron on any surface that would burn. Marceline had already dropped several comments about minor infractions I'd committed around the flat, which Henri had relayed to me apologetically. The dollop of skin moisturizer for babies I'd used from a jar in her bathroom hadn't gone unnoticed. She'd been saving it for the baby and I'd inadvertently opened it for the first time. I needed to get out of there as soon as possible, to save myself as well as their marriage.
The form-fitting cotton/linen dress ironed, I tried it on. Everything about it screamed Audrey Hepburn, except the figure of the person inside. That was probably for the best. In my experience, skinny men liked women who weren't skinny. Arnaud de Saint Cyr was slim as a weasel, but with broad shoulders. I didn't yet know how much I wanted him to like me, but if it turned out I did, this dress would do the trick. Taking it off, I hung it on a hanger, admiring the way it retained an hour-glass shape without me in it. There was something to be said for good tailoring.
That afternoon, I rehearsed well. My mind focused, I was able to master some country western/pop crossover tunes I knew would appeal to a French audience for their exoticism alone. No one would know if I forgot a word or phrase here or there.
At half past six, the key turned in the door. Marceline and Henri came in together, their arms full of shopping bags.
"Want some help?" I called from my room.
"No, we're fine," Marceline called back, sounding cheerier than she had in days.
I continued drawing the finest of dark brown eyeliner lines above my upper lashes. Done, I admired my handiwork in the mirror on the bureau.
"Getting ready for your date?" Marceline stood in the doorway, a sly smile on her face.
I turned. She looked like the old Marceline I'd met in New York the year before – foxy and full of spice. For the first time since I'd arrived, I relaxed in her presence.
"What do you think?" I asked, genuinely seeking her opinion, woman to woman.
Henri must have told her I had a date that evening, although I'd simply said I was meeting a friend.
"I think he's going to like it."
"Thank you." I winked to cover my blush. What if it turned out I didn't want Arnaud de Saint Cyr to like me? What if he was a highly intelligent, raving lunatic? I was nuts to put this much preparation into a first date.
Marceline turned, humming a tune as she went to the kitchen. She was a regular wellspring of good cheer this evening.
Catching her mood, I continued preparations, putting on a subtle rose-colored lipstick that wouldn't look too obvious if it got rubbed off. There was a chance it would, non?
I sprayed Paloma Picasso on my neck, one wrist, and between my breasts. The black and white dress was so form-fitting that it created the tiniest hint of cleavage, even though it wasn't especially low cut. Mentally, I thanked its designer, vowing to make him famous when I became a smash-hit pop star, picking up my first Grammy Award wearing his design.
Henri had gone downstairs to park the car by the time I headed out the door. I waved goodbye to Marceline. No doubt, she would light a candle that evening to the patron saint of good dates in hopes this one would hasten my departure.
On the sidewalk, I turned down the first side street to escape Henri's notice. If he saw me in my black and white dress, I could only guess there'd be a new sketch of me forthcoming in his private collection. Despite being a performing artist, I wasn't entirely comfortable with putting my charms on display for the general public. The New England side of me bristled at such a thing. But making an impression on a private audience I found interesting was another thing. I looked forward to seeing Arnaud de Saint Cyr's jaw drop when we met. Or would he play it cool? Who was I kidding? There was no way that man was capable of playing anything cool. He'd probably say something outrageous, throwing me off guard. I vowed I'd get back on guard quickly, if he did.
Never had I dated anyone with a wit like the blade of a sword. As much as the thought of sparring again with the man unsettled me, it excited me even more. My stomach tightened as I hastened my step.
In fifteen minutes, I was at Place de la Bastille, one of Paris's many large, round traffic circles. Four years earlier, I had read a book on the unusually high number of fatal traffic accidents that happened at Place de la Bastille. The author hypothesized that due to the location of the Bastille, Paris's most terrifying prison during the French Revolution, the souls of thousands of enemies of the revolution who had died violently within its thick walls were trapped in limbo in the area, leaving a collective psychic agitation, which led to a higher than usual number of traffic accidents. It made sense to me.
I slowed my gait, running a hand through my hair to smooth it behind my ears. Crossing the street carefully, I reached our meeting place.
It was show time. Arnaud would be inside the café at a window seat, on the lookout for me. Sauntering past the length of the café front, chin held high, I'd let him find me.
At the end of the terrace of the café, I turned and made my way back, this time even more slowly. I was ten minutes late, in other words – right on time. Where was he?