Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) (4 page)

Trudel’s
stare stopped him mid-sentence. It was the first time that she’d actually
turned her head to look at him. He slowly swiveled back toward the bar. We rested
in silence for a moment, and I again tried to get Janie and me off to dinner.

“Well,
it has been nice meeting you both,” I started.

Janie
was barely listening. She raised her glass to the couple. “Sounds like we need
a toast. To Victor, whoever and wherever he may be. I don’t know him, but it
sounds like he meant a lot to you both. May he come back soon!”

“Here,
here,” Trudel warbled and took a sip.

Fleuse
just sighed. He looked to Janie. “Victor isn’t coming back.”

Janie
looked at me. I shrugged. We both looked back at Fleuse.

“He’s
dead,” he continued.

“I
don’t believe that!” Trudel exploded. “He is off. Probably with another woman!”

“How
could you say that?” Fleuse responded.

“Nothing
could kill Victor,” she answered wistfully.

“Either
way,” Fleuse tried again. “Let me take you to dinner!”

“Don’t
be an idiot!” she exclaimed. “It’s over!”

Fleuse
retreated to his drink.

Janie
looked at me with amusement yet again. As the four of us sipped in silence, it was
obvious that we would not be leaving for dinner as soon as I’d hoped.

A recording of
orchestra music sounded its last note in a cramped, dark theatre in the Latin Quarter.
A small audience of twenty or so stood and politely clapped in the hot
blackness. Trudel von Hugelstein bowed, holding her fellow cast members’ sweaty
hands.

Trudel
knew that this small stage might be the only one she ever would see. Her
ambitions included stardom, but she’d been at it her entire life. Fame and
fortune would have been a long shot even ten years earlier.

The
heavy, rusty stage door creaked as it opened. Blinding daylight in the narrow
streets greeted her. Throngs of tourists bustled, searching for cafés and bars,
smiling and pointing at awnings further down the way. Trudel pushed herself
into the flow of pedestrian traffic.

The
seven o’clock performance hadn’t opened its doors to an audience yet. She
noticed a small line of operagoers as she shuffled passed.

“Excuse
me,” one woman from the line said as she reached out to her.

“Yes?”
Trudel smiled pleasantly, if not genuinely.

“I
saw you in this production about a month ago. I loved it.”

“Thank
you.”

“Are
you performing this evening?”

“No,
no. I just played the matinée today,” she answered, reminded that she had
failed to win the role for prime showings.

“Aw,”
the woman uttered sympathetically. “Well, I’m a fan. I wish you were singing
tonight.”

“Well
thank you, dear,” Trudel said, forcing a smile.

“When
are you singing next? I’m still in town until …” the woman’s voice trailed off.

Trudel
was already walking away. Forgetting the woman’s slight, the opera singer had
begun reminiscing       about that day’s
performance. It was a good show with a nice audience. A small celebration was
in order.

She
lived just far enough across the river that she never wanted to walk. Yet, it
seemed silly to take a taxi such a short distance. This evening, she was happy
to stroll. To break the walk into two manageable stretches, she promised
herself that she would stop in for a drink at a café.

The
area surrounding Place Saint-Michel was crowded. People overran the sidewalks.
Even the edges of the fountain were covered with seated youths, flirting and
laughing. Trudel couldn’t stand youths. She navigated her way to the Quai des
Grands-Augustins and set out for her side of the river.

The
opera singer knew that most establishments along her way would be swollen with patrons
on an early Saturday evening. The pleasant mild air of the summer would turn
humid and hot inside a crowded bar. At sidewalk tables, empty glasses and
bottles littered white tablecloths, stained with spilled wine. Places like
these were not her style.

She
wanted quiet. Trudel was hoping to hear the music in her memory. Even as she
walked, she was imagining the bright lights that heated her forehead and tore
through the blackness above the stage. Before she knew it, she’d lumbered halfway
across the river.

Trudel
focused her energies toward finding a place to celebrate. She’d recently dated
a man who spoke highly of a bar that was near her current path. On the
street-level floor of a hotel, this place was unassuming and almost never
crowded. While accepting the risk of running into an old flame, she decided to
give the Bon Parisien a try.

Slowly
striding across the Pont des Arts with her purse swinging majestically at her
side, the opera singer could hear the river gently flow beneath her. After a
few more turns through the Louvre and a walk down the Avenue de l’Opéra, she
finally approached the Hôtel des Bretons. The Bon Parisien’s sign beckoned over
the corner entrance, warmly lit by a soft buzz. She went inside.

The
room itself looked perfect. Not a single item was out of place. She immediately
smelled the richness of tobacco and wine vapors sitting heavily in the air. The
late afternoon sun warmed the space comfortably like a toaster oven on the
lowest setting.

Behind
the bar stood a man in his fifties. A little shorter than she, he was grizzled
and greyed. Beneath a slightly wrinkled white button up, he was wiry.

The
man was alone in the place, and he leaned casually reading a newspaper that
he’d laid out on the bar. Nearby, a lone glass of beer rested untouched. He was
scowling at whatever it was that he was reading, but the expression quickly
disappeared when he looked up to see Trudel walk through the door.

“Good
evening,
madame
,” he said, beginning to fold his paper.

“Good
evening,” Trudel answered as she headed for a table near the bar, exhausted by
the walk.

“Please
have a seat. What may I serve you?” the man asked, hurrying out to meet her. He
pulled a chair out from an empty table for her.

“Not
too busy tonight, no?” she asked as she took the seat, failing to thank the man.

“There
have been a few to come and go.”

“Is
someone waiting for that drink?” she asked, nodding to the glass on the bar.

“No,
it’s mine. I’m celebrating.”

“Oh,
congratulations. What are you celebrating?”

“Well,
it’s a long story, but
this,
” the man said with a grand gesture around
the Bon Parisien.

“I
don’t understand.”

“It’s
my one week anniversary working here.”

“Oh.
Good for you,” she answered. “What luck. I’ve found a bartender in training.”

“Don’t
worry,
madame
,” he responded, smiling. He spoke plainly and softly. “I
think you’ll find that I can get you anything you need. I’ll be your personal
barkeep.”

Trudel
found the man charming. The opera singer felt slightly disarmed.

“Oh
well, congratulations indeed,” she answered pleasantly, regretting her earlier
sarcasm.

“And
what may I get you tonight? We do have some nice wines just in.”

“Let’s
see, I guess that I could drink a glass of wine. I too am celebrating.”

“Excellent!
Do you have a favorite?”

“Red.
A Medoc if you have it.”

“I
do,” he answered, scurrying back to the bar. “What is your occasion this
evening?”

“I
have just finished a grand performance this afternoon. I sing. I am in an
opera.”

“How
interesting.” He painstakingly uncorked the bottle of Medoc. “Where is your
production?”

“On
the left bank. We have a nice little cast. They do well, but I have had to
guide them through some of the harder times in rehearsals. They are not as
experienced as I am.”

“Very
good,” he said. “My name is Victor. Victor Lacquer.”

“Trudel
von Hugelstein.”

“Trudel
von Hugelstein,” he repeated, smiling pleasantly. “The opera star.”

She
blushed and smiled coyly.

“May
I sit with you while no one’s here?” he asked, arriving with her drink.

*        *        *

“…
So, just one second before I hit the final, climactic note,” Trudel said, several
drinks later, “the power goes out.”

“Oh
no,” Victor answered.

She
had been recounting one of her favorite experiences, and Victor seemed to be
enjoying it. A quiet couple whispered a few tables away and a group of four men
laughed and drank near the front door. Victor had been pulled away more than
once but stayed with the opera singer otherwise.

“Truly,”
the opera singer added, “it was total darkness. Plus, the music had stopped.”

“So
what did you do?”

“Well,
I almost panicked.”

“I
would guess!”

“But,
I’m a professional. I didn’t let it get the best of me. I took a big deep
breath, and I hit that last note like it was the last note I’d ever sing.”

“In
the dark? Brilliant!” Victor said, smiling.

“It
was,” she laughed as she sipped her drink. “The audience loved it. They thought
it was on purpose.”

“Really?”

“Yes.
They thought the lights went out for dramatic effect.”

“That’s
incredible,” the bartender marveled.

“It
was great,” Trudel said still chuckling, almost hearing the applause.

“You
must be quite an entertainer.”

“Sadly,”
she conceded, “the ushers had to escort everyone out of the theater with
flashlights. I thought that undermined the effect.”

They
each took a drink. Another patron entered from the street, and Victor rose to
greet him. Trudel watched Victor prepare a drink for him, chatting pleasantly
as he worked. For a brief moment, Victor put on a set of wire-rimmed glasses to
read the label of a wine bottle. Trudel found him attractive. He looked almost
academic for a moment.

After
serving the man, Victor returned to their table.

“Sorry
for the distraction,” he said to Trudel, folding his glasses and placing them
in the breast pocket of his shirt.

“I
like those,” the opera singer said, nodding to the eyewear.

“Well,
I don’t,” he answered, smiling. “I used them more often at my former job.”

“You
seem like an excellent bartender. What did you do before this?”

“I
was an accountant until recently.”

“Really?
Numbers?”

“Yes,”
Victor nodded. “I’ve worked for many firms in my career.”

“Interesting,”
Trudel said. “So what brings you here? Are you retired?”

Victor
shifted in his seat. “No, not exactly. I was recently let go.”

“Oh,
I’m sorry to hear that.”

“We
don’t have to get into it,” the bartender answered. For the first time in the
evening, he wasn’t smiling or flirting. “The partners at the firm were
terrible. They never listened to me. I’m sure they’ll run themselves out of
business any day now.”

He
frowned into his drink as he took another sip.

“So,
how about you?” he asked, returning to his cordial tone. “I was an accountant,
now a bartender. You are an opera singer and a …?” His voice trailed off,
leading her.

“That’s
it.”

“That’s
it?” he asked as he raised his eyebrows.

“Yes.”

“You
must be quite good, then.”

“Well
yes, I’ve been doing this a long time.”

“You
are in high demand then, no? How often do you perform?”

“Sometimes
up to six nights a week,” she lied, liking Victor’s opinion of her so far. It
had been years since she’d actually worked that often.

“That’s
fantastic.”

“Well,”
she conceded. “I do have a little family money.”

“That
always helps. It must have been substantial.”

“Why
would you guess that?”

“Well,
as a former accountant, I know money. I’m guessing that you’ve never been
married then?”

“I
have not been. How did you know?”

“I
assume you are a little younger than I am,” he said.

She
blushed.

He
continued, “Most people in our generation don’t refer to it as ‘family money’
anymore if they have shared it with a husband, had to split it in a divorce,
funded a child’s education, etc.”

“You
are correct. I have never been married.”

“Are
you from Paris originally?” he continued.

“I
am. I was born here.”

“I
could tell.”

“Really?!”
She blushed again. “How can you tell?”

“I
don’t know,” he shrugged, smiling.

“My
mother was French. She met my father in Paris. He was a German soldier,
unfortunately stationed here during the occupation.”

“Goodness,”
Victor said almost absent-mindedly. The table of men in the room was starting
to get a little loud. They were beginning to distract Victor, annoying him. He
made sure to keep listening to Trudel despite the noise.

“My
father,” Trudel continued without noticing, “managed to escape prosecution
after the liberation. My mother instinctively hated the Nazis, but she could
not help herself with my father. She was in love.”

“My,
that is compelling. It’s a classic example of love conquering all,” Victor
added, spying the rowdy table out of the corner of his eye.

“I
was born during the war, but their story is sad beyond that. As a child, I lived
publicly as the daughter of the enemy. Luckily, I had a beautiful voice and a
sweet personality. I was able to win over my educators, neighbors, and
friends.”

“Well,
you are innately French. I don’t think you feel like an enemy.”

“That’s
good,” she chuckled.

“So
what happened to your father? How did he escape prosecution? That would have
been a feat, no?”