Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) (5 page)

“He
remained in Paris with my mother and me for a few years. He wasn’t able to stay
long. Our community knew who he was. He wasn’t embraced. I’d say he was more
tolerated. But, they knew that we were a family, and the authorities never came
looking for him. He was just a private in the German army.”

“If
you don’t mind me asking, do you know where he went? You don’t have to answer
if you wouldn’t like to.”

“No
it’s fine. I have no idea where he went. For all I know, he was thrown in jail
after he left. Who knows?”

“Did
you get a chance to say goodbye?”

“Truthfully,
I don’t remember him saying goodbye. I don’t really remember too much at all
anyway. Everything I know is from what my mother has told me.”

Suddenly,
a glass shattered in the bar. Victor’s head snapped up in time to see the loud
table of men in the bar erupt with laughter. One of the patrons had dropped his
drink, and there were shards of glass everywhere in the vicinity of the table. Trudel
saw Victor turn red.

“Excuse
me,” he said through his teeth. Victor jumped up with an impressive speed and
purpose. “Gentlemen!” he shouted.

They
immediately were silenced.

“I
will not tolerate such behavior in this bar!” he thundered as he approached the
table.

Trudel
was silently impressed with him.

“Sorry,
monsieur
!” one of the men began.

Not
listening, Victor snagged a fistful of one of the men’s sweaters and pulled him
toward the door, his fingernails raking the skin beneath. Pulling the man clear
out of his chair, Victor yelled, “This is a place of class!”

The
unruly patron stumbled behind him, knocking over a chair in the process. The
rest of the men at the table leapt after their friend, drunkenly whooping and
laughing. Upon reaching the door, Victor heaved the man on to the sidewalk
outside. The other three ran past the bartender to join their friend. One
turned as the door was closing.

“So
sorry for him!” he yelled. “We haven’t paid yet!”

Victor
had already turned back for the bar but wheeled upon hearing the man’s voice.
Still red-faced and huffing from the one-sided skirmish, he yelled, “It’s on
the house! You can repay me by never coming back in here again!”

The
group helped their friend off the sidewalk and disappeared into the soft
evening light. Victor returned to Trudel’s table.

“I’m
sorry about that,” he said to Trudel without sitting. “Another drink?”

“Yes,
thank you.”

He
went to work opening another bottle of wine.

“My,
that was something,” she marveled as the bartender worked. “You are a bruiser!”

Victor
smiled.

“Does
that happen often?” she continued.

“I
don’t know,” he said from behind the bar. “Still my first week.”

The
opera singer lifted her eyebrows. “Rough for an accountant.”

He
smirked and nodded toward the wine. “Well, I hope you’ll let me buy this one
for you.”

“I
won’t say no.”

A
moment passed as Trudel continued to ruminate on the events of the last few
moments. She heard Victor exhale, suggesting he was shaking off the encounter.

“Well,
we were speaking about family,” he said, returning to the table. “Are you close
with yours? Or I should ask, do you have any anymore?”

“No,
I am all alone.” In truth, she didn’t feel at all alone in that moment.

*        *        *

The
couple had been through better than two bottles of wine. Once again alone,
their tabletop was littered with stained coasters and small drops of spilled
wine. With complete darkness having overtaken the windows, Trudel was out later
than she’d been in a long time. Remarkably, she hadn’t even thought about the
performance earlier in the day.

“I,
too, am Parisian,” Victor started in. “I have been an accountant all my life.”

“Are
those related to one another?”

He
laughed. “I guess not. I don’t know why I said it like that.”

“So,
how did you get this job?” Trudel asked.

“I’ve
been in here a few times. I live a few neighborhoods away. After I lost my job,
I inquired for a few days at other accounting firms. Without luck there, I came
in here. I figured it might be a nice change of pace, and they hired me on the
spot.”

Trudel
looked around the room. “It seems like a comfortable place.”

“It
is. Now I just need traffic to pick up a little,” he said as he tidied up his
side of the table.

“Does
the hotel have many guests?”

“If
they do, I haven’t seen a lot of them over the last week.”

“Do
you ever go out to listen to music?” she asked.

“I
have not done too much of that. Is that something I should be embarrassed to admit
to a fine musician such as yourself?”

“Well,
we can change that. Would you be interested in seeing an opera?”

Victor
temporarily re-corked their third wine bottle and set it aside. “I would,” he
said simply.

She
took a sip and enjoyed the moment but wasn’t courageous enough to let it sit
too long. “I really like this place.”

“How
did you wind up here today?”

“I
just decided to pop in somewhere on my way home.”

“So
you must live close?”

“I
do, just on Rue Thérèse.”

“Oh,
that’s not far,” he said, sipping wine through purple lips. “So, you just
looked in and decided this was the spot?”

“No.
It came recommended.”

“Oh!
Well, that’s great. By whom?”

“By
a man. He was a man I used to date.”

“He
recommended the place but never brought you here?”

“We
weren’t together long.”

“I
see. Well, what’s his name? Maybe I met him this week.”

“We
didn’t hit it off. He was much more interested in me than I was in him.”

“Don’t
you just hate that? Happens to me too all the time,” Victor joked.

“Yes?”
Trudel answered smiling.

“Oh
yes, I’ve been hit on all week. I just say, ‘Listen, I work here. What you see
is not for sale.’”

Trudel
laughed.

“So,
who is it?” Victor persisted.

“His
name is Fleuse Newman.”

“Really?
Fleuse?” he asked with surprise.

“Yes,
do you know him?”

“Well,
I do.”

“He
is a regular in here?”

“Well,
I don’t know about that, but he says he drops in every now and then. We have
known each other for many years. I have handled the finances for his clock
business for some time now.”

“He
does make beautiful pieces.”

“Yes
he does,” Victor said with a smile. “Small world.”

“But,
we were not right for each other. It was good that it ended.”

“I’ll
have to tell him that I ran into you the next time I see him.”

“Don’t
go out of your way. Truly, it’s better this way.”

“I
see.”

“Anyway,
I’m glad he didn’t bring me here,” Trudel said, smiling. “Now it is mine.”

I sipped whiskey.
Oaky vapors stung my nose inside the glass. Fleuse and Trudel sat at a table,
speaking quietly. He leaned in and trained his gaze on her. She sat facing away
from him, making a point not to look him in the eye.

I
was still standing behind the bar, feeling good. The coolness of a damp bar rag
numbed my shoulder. Keeping meticulous track of our expenses on the job, Janie
and I had just finished stuffing the money for another round into the envelope.
She sat on one of the bar stools facing me and was trying her best to make it
appear as if she were not listening to the two at a table behind her.

“I
guess dinner’s off for a while,” I shrugged, tucking the envelope alongside the
register.

“Are
you kidding?” she whispered. “We’re right in the middle of high drama over
here. I’m not even thinking about dinner anymore.”

“I
was really looking forward to a little something to eat.”

“Me
too, honey. We’ll go in a bit, but think about the story that this will make
later on. You can’t make this stuff up.”

“You
have a point.”

“Damn
straight, muffin,” she jabbed with a smile. “I always have a point.”

I
tilted my head back and exhaled. Twenties-era parlor tiles covered the ceiling.

“God,
this place is beautiful. I still can’t believe they even let us come in here,”
I mused.

“I
know.”

“I
mean, how often is it that you get to come to Paris and actually run a bar?”

“Shhh.
Focus. I’m trying to listen here,” she whispered, taking another sip. Nodding
toward Fleuse and Trudel, she added, “Do you think she’s going to give him
another shot?”

“I
don’t know. Probably not.”

“You
can tell he wants it really badly.”

“She’s
too in love with the old bartender,” I said doubtfully.

“Victor?”

“That’s
him.”

We
both took a drink.

“So
what do you think?” I continued. “Is the old guy dead or has he run off with
another woman?”

“Who
knows?”

“What
does this guy here see in her, anyway?” I asked Janie.

“I
don’t know. I think she’s kind of cool.”

“Are
you serious?”

“Yeah.
She’s in an opera. A bona fide diva.”

“I
think she’s just bossy.”

“That’s
because she doesn’t really like you. She’s a grand dame of France,” Janie said,
smiling.

“Well,
what makes you think she likes you any better? You’re an American, too.”

“Nah.
We’re friends.”

I
scoffed quietly. “What makes you think that?”

“We
got each others’ backs,” Janie said with a look over toward Trudel. “I can just
tell.”

“Please,”
I winced.

As
I took another sip of my drink, I noticed Fleuse place his hand on Trudel’s as
they were talking. She ripped it away from him rapidly and chirped harshly
under her breath. He immediately diverted his gaze in submission.

“Classic
case of boy meets girl, girl doesn’t care,” Janie mused softly.

“Kind
of reminds me of us in the beginning,” I suggested.

“What?
No. I never treated you like this,” Janie protested.

“Well,
true. But you made me work for it a little, you have to admit.”

“I
did not.”

I
made a face. “You backed away the first time I tried to kiss you.”

“All
part of my master plan,” she said with a sip.

“C’mon.
You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“If
we’d kissed on the first night we met, we would have ruined it all” she said,
still trying to listen to our guests at the table. “You should be glad I backed
away. You weren’t ready for me. We never would have found ourselves here.”

“Please.”

“Don’t
stare,” she warned. “They are going to think you’re super creepy.”

“They
haven’t seen me.”

“Are
you kidding? You couldn’t be more obvious.”

“I
just don’t get it,” I said as I drained my drink. “How is he attracted to her?
She isn’t exactly pretty.”

“Hey
take it easy. Don’t be a jerk,” she snapped quietly.

“I
just don’t see it, that’s all.”

“Look
at him too, honey,” Janie rationalized. “That guy isn’t exactly a model himself
or anything.”

“True.”

“He’s
like a turtle-man,” she said as she tilted her head.

“Well,
she’s kind of a hippo in a fur coat. Maybe they were good for each other.”

“We’re
mean,” she said, laughing quietly.

“I
wasn’t like this before I met you. What did you do to me?” I mused.

“Sure
you weren’t,” she snickered.

Once
again, the curtain whipped to one side. All the heads in the room turned. A
short, thin man stepped proudly through the opening. He wore a ratty tweed
suit, and his straight hair was parted inexactly across his head. Still expecting
to leave soon to make a night of dinner and exploring the streets of Paris, I
felt something inside me sink as the man entered.

“
Mes
amis
!” he exclaimed as he looked at the four of us.

Fleuse
righted in his seat. I thought I could detect a mild eye-roll, but it wasn’t
obvious. He likely didn’t appreciate any interruption to his alone time with Trudel.

“I
am sorry, sir,” I greeted him, hoping to squash any conversation or bar request
before it happened. “We are not open tonight. All of us were just getting ready
to shut down …”

“Fleuse,
my dear. How are you?” the short man ignored me as he advanced into the room.
“Why does it always smell like a library in here?”

Fleuse
stood up part way. “Jacques, hello. Just happened to be in the neighborhood,
eh?” he asked unenthusiastically.

“As
a matter of fact, yes. What are the chances I’d run into you?”

Fleuse
didn’t smile. “Pretty good, I’m guessing.”

“I
see you’ve brought a lady!”

“He
didn’t bring me,” Trudel snapped.

“Have
you ever met Trudel von Hugelstein?” Fleuse asked.

“Madame
von Hugelstein!” Jacques sung. “I am Jacques Pistache, the renowned and
celebrated street performer.”

“Hello,”
she said cautiously. I could see her sizing him up.

“Nice
try, honey,” Janie whispered to me with a smile. She swayed slightly as she
leaned toward me across the bar. “Looks like we’ll be good-timing here a little
while longer.”

“And,”
Pistache said, turning in our direction, “who do we have here?”

“A
couple of Americans,” Trudel announced.

“Hello,”
I began. “My name is Peter. This is my wife, Janie. We are on holiday.”

“My,
my, my. Hello Janie,
ma cherie
,” the renowned and celebrated street
performer replied with wide eyes.

“Nice
to meet you,” Janie said somewhat amused. “You said it was Jacques …
Peest-ahsh
?”

“You
are a beautiful creature,” the man pushed forward without confirming Janie’s
pronunciation.

“Ok,
ok,” I jumped in, unable to suppress my smirk. “Take it easy.”

“I
rarely have an occasion to see real beauty up close,” he said, never taking his
eyes off Janie.

“Stop
it,” she said as she lifted a hand in his direction.

“May
I get you a drink?” I asked, trying my best to appear cool with someone so
blatantly hitting on my wife.

“A
beer, young man,” he said.

“Easy.
I can get a quick one for you.” I turned for a glass. I was still hoping to
find a way to rush him out without being rude. “So what brings you in tonight?”

“Oh,
I was in the neighborhood,” he confirmed again as he pulled a stool up next to Janie.

“Give
it up, honey,” Janie softly whispered. “We might be in for a while longer.”

I
nodded, feeling the tenor of the evening moving in that direction. She wasn’t
suggesting we stay because she liked him. In fact, she scooted her chair a
little farther from him when he made the move to sit down. Nonetheless, Janie
was being entertained. Like me, she wanted dinner. But clearly, she was enjoying
the bar experience at the Bon Parisien too much to want to leave.

 “You
said you’re a street performer?” I asked Pistache as I poured his beer. “What
do you do?”

“Well,
I’m glad you asked,” he replied happily. “I have been known to do a little
dancing and a little magic.” With this, he did a little tap dance on the crossbar
of the stool and produced a single playing card from behind Janie’s ear.

“Look
at this card, my dear, and don’t tell me what it is,” he crowed.

“Okay.
Um … why? I don’t see the rest of the deck anywhere,” she responded.

“Because
it’s the ace of spades!” he exclaimed and waited for applause. No one reacted. Janie
just looked at the card.

 “Did
I get it right?” he asked.

“Yeah,”
she answered, unable to take him seriously.

“Of
course you did,” I interrupted and smiled.

“Well,
how was I supposed to know what card she had hidden behind her ear?!” Pistache
exclaimed.

“It
was in your hand the whole time!” I replied humorlessly.

“Relax.
Don’t take it too seriously. That’s the point of the joke,” he softly clarified.

“Ah
I see,” I said.

“I
get it now. You do comedy too,” Janie said.

“That
I do. What did the snail say to the snake?”

“I
don’t know,” she answered.

“For
a slitherer, you’re so slow that I can sew a boa in the time it takes you to say
‘ssssss.’”

No
one laughed. I scratched my head as I tried to work out the French to English
translation in my head.

“I
think I get it,” Janie said, as she looked at me and shrugged.

“It
wasn’t that funny,” I heard Fleuse mutter.

“Not
at all,” Trudel snorted into her drink.

“No,
it is funny!” Pistache explained. “Because snails can’t sew. And they’re slow.
And he’s sewing a boa. Which is a snake.”

I
smiled more
at
him than
with
him. At least he was entertaining.

“It’s
poetic. Wordplay. I get it,” Janie said.

“You’re
into that sort of thing?!” Pistache exclaimed.

“She
studies poetry, and writes it,” I stated. “Really good, too.”

Janie
smiled modestly. “Okay, that’s enough.”

“Excellent!
So you do get it!” Pistache said confidently. “The rest of you are crazy if you
don’t think that’s pure comedy gold.”

“Okay,
we’re crazy,” Trudel declared.

He
ignored her. “Also, I can sing a little, and execute perfect impressions of the
stars!”

“Huh,”
I mulled it over. “Who can you impersonate?”

“Well,
an impression is not the same as an impersonation.”

“Oh,
okay. What is the difference?”

“In
an impersonation, you act like someone else. You try to get their mannerisms
down.”

“Got
it, yes.”

“A
impression is a vocal imprint.”

“What’s
that mean?” I asked.

“You
take a mold in your mind of their vocal patterns: the tones, the inflection,
the pitch. Then, you form your vocal chords in a way to replicate the sound of
their voice.”

“Isn’t
an impression part of an impersonation?” I asked as I made another drink for
myself.

“Don’t
be stupid, American,” Pistache snapped.

“Huh,”
Trudel grunted. “That sounds like nothing to me.”

“Nothing?
I have entertained audiences here and in Italy and Spain!”

“On
the street?” Trudel jabbed.

“That
is
my best medium!” Jacques exclaimed with a swig and a wink at Janie. If
Trudel’s tone was wearing thin on him, it didn’t seem to register.

“Well,
let’s see it,” I urged. “Do you do anyone I know?”

“Of
course! Are you familiar with legendary French royal Marie Antoinette?”

“Yes.
You can do an impersonation of her?” I asked.

“Impression,”
he corrected me.

“How
do you even know what her voice sounded like?” Trudel challenged.

“I’ve
heard of her, but I’m not very familiar with her,” I added.

“I
can see that you are going to need an American celebrity, aren’t you?” Pistache
continued, ignoring the opera singer.