Capturing Paris (30 page)

Annie let go of her head and leaned back against the cushions.

“Are you listening?”

“I am,” Annie said, resigned.

“You must not throw everything away over one indiscretion.”

“Indiscretion? I think you might feel differently if it were Georges.”

“Annie, it is our duty to make the family, the home. Wesley had a long struggle to find the job. You told me he had not been himself. Men are sometimes, how do you say? Fragile. Yes, fragile. It is partly his age too.”

“Céleste, what are you saying? I'm to make allowances for his age?”

“Not only his age. You can change this. As women, it is up to us—”

“No, Céleste. It is not always up to us.” She was outraged by Céleste's reaction. “I'm sorry. It's hard to talk about this. It's upset me deeply.” She felt tears again and brought her hands to her face.

Céleste put her arms around her. “Annie,
chérie
, do not be foolish; at least think about what I said.”

The place Saint-Sulpice was one of Annie's favorite squares in Paris. It was indeed square, with the church on one side, perfectly balanced with the surrounding buildings. Sitting in the Café de la Mairie while waiting for Hélène late one Saturday afternoon, she listened to the rush of water from the large fountain, an anchor in the center of the square. Place Saint-Sulpice was so quintessentially Paris: stylish, elegant, urbane. The activity around her was essentially Parisian as well. A dark-haired young man ruffled the hair of the girl beside him and bestowed kisses regularly on her full lips. Mothers and fathers pushed baby carriages bearing stylishly dressed offspring out for a weekend stroll. The couple next to her paid their bill and took off on Rollerblades, joking and teasing as they glided in and out of traffic, unconcerned about their safety. An older woman hobbled by on perilously high-heeled shoes the same shade as her dove-colored suit. She looked determined
not to reveal the discomfort caused by her shoes or tightly fitted skirt.

Annie tried to imagine how François would photograph this late-afternoon scene. He might capture the gentle opalescent light on the lushly budding trees that lined the rue Saint-Sulpice. Or perhaps he would take a close-up of their trunks,
les platanes
, with their mottled bark that reminded her of sycamore trees. She recalled sitting at this same café with Wesley one summer evening when the leaves were fully open, large, fresh, and green, creating a rooflike canopy overhead.

Now, on this spring afternoon, Annie was one of the few people sitting by herself. Weekend afternoons were a particularly lonely time for her, and she liked having an excuse to escape the apartment. Céleste's advice had bothered her. Perhaps she shouldn't have told her as much as she had. She had confided in Mary but only in the vaguest of terms, having kept Wesley's affair to herself. How do you explain that you miss your husband and are angry with him at the same time? This winter she'd found herself questioning everything she'd once believed in: her marriage, her creative life, the meaning of friendship.

“Bonsoir, mon amie!”
Hélène slipped into the seat next to Annie. “How can you look so serious on this beautiful spring evening?”

Annie leaned over and kissed Hélène on both cheeks. “Just thinking. Sometimes I wish I could pull a switch and turn off all the thoughts in my head.” She smiled.

“Ça va mieux!
Yes, that is better. One should smile on an evening such as this.” Hélène untied the apple-green silk scarf from around her neck and unbuttoned her raincoat.

The waiter swooped in and they each ordered a kir. The city around them seemed to hum with pleasure. Free from schools and offices, the Parisians filling the sidewalks were in a celebratory mood, their faces hinting at a smug happiness in being alive in this magical place. Annie felt more relaxed, even secure, now that Hélène was by her side.

“And what are these thoughts you wish to turn off?” Hélène raised one eyebrow and tilted her head. She looked serene, beautifully groomed as usual, unflappable.

“I don't mean to be gloomy. Some of them are happy thoughts.”

“Such as?” Hélène asked.

“I've been having a wonderful time working on the book. I spent yesterday afternoon with Paul. It was so exciting to see it all come together. We figured out the order of the photographs. I loved being part of that.” She thought again of the pleasure she'd experienced working by his side. “He listened to what I had to say and he really loves the poems.” She leaned back in her chair and looked up at the powder-blue sky. “It was exhilarating, really.”

“So it's completed then?”

The waiter set down their drinks. Hélène raised her glass of wine, pink from the cassis, and offered a toast,
“À la fin!”

“We can't toast the end just yet,” Annie said, her glass raised. “I still have one more poem to write.”

“That's not much. Now you can plan your trip to America.”

“I'm afraid those are the thoughts I'd like to turn off,” Annie said ruefully.

“What do you mean?” Hélène took another sip of her kir.

“Did you ever think of leaving Bertrand?” Annie asked. Though Hélène had been widowed for many years, she spoke of her husband often.

“Ah, I see.” Hélène looked out across the square. She said nothing for a while. She seemed far away, no longer in the place Saint-Sulpice. “Well,
ma chère
, forty-five years is a long marriage, and yes, I must admit there was one time.” The line between her neatly arched brows deepened.

“I don't mean to pry. I know you miss him now. My question must seem unfair.”

“I don't mind.”

“Why did you stay with him?”

“There is no simple answer. We were apart for some time after living in Argentina. I had come back to find a home for us in France.” She turned toward Annie and gently shook her head. “You know, I have not thought of this in years.”

“I don't mean to upset you.” Annie wished she hadn't asked, but there was something in Hélène that inspired confidences.

“It no longer upsets me. Bertrand stayed behind to complete his assignment. He became involved with a woman who worked at the embassy. I found out quite by accident. That part is not important.”

The church bells of Saint-Sulpice rang six times. Hélène waited patiently until the last ring fell silent. “It was a strange time,” she continued. “Bertrand did not act like himself then. He was very distant. He no longer seemed like the man I had married.”

“You never confronted him?”

“It was odd how it resolved itself. Bertrand's mother died and he came back to France. We were together then. First the funeral, then a few weeks in the country with his family. Somehow, I knew that he'd decided to break it off.”

Annie listened carefully, trying to imagine what it must have been like for her friend. She pictured Hélène as a younger woman, her lovely face quietly masking the inevitable pain. She reached over and rested her hand on Hélène's arm, giving her an affectionate pat.

“Gradually, we grew closer.” She lowered her head. “I suppose, at the time, I asked myself if I truly wanted to give up all we had, the years together, our life with our son. Alexis was a teenager. I felt he needed his father. That's when we had the first student from the program come to live with us.” She looked up, her face clouded. “I think I must have considered our future and how it would be to grow old without Bertrand. And now, of course, here I am.” She smiled but her eyes were sad.

“I'm sorry, Hélène.”

“
C'est la vie, hein?
” She took in a big breath of air and lifted her glass one last time. “That is my story. I'm not sure it makes sense. Other women might not have made the same choice. In a way, starting over can be much the easier thing. It takes work to make the repair.”

“An awful lot of work for us, I fear.”

“Ah,
ma chérie
, often the things you work for have the greatest value.”

Annie wasn't sure this was advice she was ready to take. She finished her glass of wine and looked out at the square. The sun had gone down and the air had cooled. She pulled her coat around her knowing soon she would have to return to her empty apartment.

L'Amant

Annie was relieved to hear Paul's voice when the phone rang late the next
afternoon. She'd spent the entire day writing. She'd been tempted to go out, to join the thousands of Parisians walking in the parks or sprawled in cafés with their shirt collars unbuttoned and scarves and gloves cast aside, excited by the extraordinary burst of tropical air, but her poems had consumed all her attention. The place de Furstenberg poem remained unfinished. Instead, she'd focused on some new work. It was strange how the poems on Paris seemed to inspire her to take off in other directions. These first drafts were like sketches that might eventually work their way into full poems.

She'd opened the tall living room windows, and the warm air lifted her spirits. It was time to replant her window boxes, have the curtains cleaned, and trade her winter coat for her trench coat, all the rituals that marked the change of season. She'd been enjoying her freedom, writing until late at night, not bothering to cook, and leaving her bed unmade. It had become easier and easier to let things go, though now and then she spent a frenzied day paying bills, cleaning, and shopping to make up for it.

“I'm on your side of the river,” he had said. “I am glad you are at home, but you are working too much. Will you meet me for a drink on the terrace at Georges?
Il faut profiter
, the day is so beautiful,
non
?” He sounded lighthearted, like a younger Paul Valmont, one she had not met before.

Now she hurried to meet him. She normally avoided the Pompidou Center, named for the former French president, with its crowds of tourists and the often controversial exhibits. Annie had never liked the
enormous modern building that looked inside out to her, with its strange colorful ductwork and elaborate pipes that made her think of the anatomical workings of some machine. She was not drawn to the French attempts at modernism, but the restaurant on the top of the building had spectacular views of the city, and the sea of white tables set up outside, each decorated with a single rose, allowed the panorama to take precedence.

The evening was almost unbearably beautiful, and she was glad she didn't have to spend it alone. She glided through the streets, not bothered by the jostling crowds, absorbing the intoxicating air. She felt like she was swept up in a current, and she didn't mind the sensation of being carried away.

He had said he was in the neighborhood. She had turned down his previous invitations. Her thoughts tumbled out in a jumble. Would they talk about the book? Or was this purely a social occasion, a date? She was a married woman meeting a man. It was only for a drink. She'd been alone. When would another day like this come along?
“Il faut profiter.”
There was no exact equivalent in English for what he had said. Maybe “take advantage of,” or the overused expression “seize the day.”

She rode the escalator, a glass-enclosed tube that looked like a caterpillar on the outside of the building, to the rooftop terrace. With every level, her anxiety increased. Would something happen between them? She remembered the feeling of his hands clasping hers, his finger lightly brushing her cheek. Did she want more than that? The moving stairs hummed, carrying her higher and higher. She clutched the handrail and the city drew farther away at her feet. She looked over her shoulder at the Sacré-Coeur basilica, a white mirage floating in Montmartre. The pale blue evening sky was tinged with a pink blush.

She stepped off the escalator at the top of the Pompidou Center. The days were longer now, and though it was close to six in the evening, the sun still held its warmth. A soft breeze, perfumed with spring, gently lifted her hair. The vast view, diffused in a golden light, made her think of some idyllic warmer city like Marseilles or Nice, but she looked out on the glimmering monuments and tree-lined avenues of Paris. Days like this were rare in early April.

Annie saw Paul before he saw her. He stood silhouetted against the view of Notre-Dame and the majestic dome of the Panthéon above it on the hill. It was the perfect place to be, one of the finest views in the city. He wore dark pants, a blazer, no overcoat. He'd draped a scarf around his neck, that sure mark of a Frenchman.

She joined him at the rail, where he gazed out at the view. She wished that she could slow every gesture, to feel the brush of his lips on her face, his hands touching the sleeves of her coat, his fingers on her elbow guiding her to the table, perhaps a premonition that it would pass too quickly, perhaps fearful of what lay ahead.

“Une coupe de champagne?”
he suggested when they sat at their table.

She nodded and he ordered the champagne along with a plate of smoked salmon.

“
C'est un peu touristique
, but I cannot think of a better place to watch the sun go down,” he said.

He seemed different today, here on the crowded roof terrace, but no less engaging or attractive. She liked observing him. She was still not accustomed to his looks. Each time she saw him, there seemed to be more to discover. Annie could imagine him with a cigarette dangling between his parted lips, the typical guise of a Left Bank intellectual, but she knew that he didn't smoke. “You are very quiet,” he said.

“Sorry. Just busy watching everything. It feels wonderful to be out. I don't think I've ever experienced such a beautiful evening in Paris.” She hoped she wasn't gushing like an idiot. “I feel like I'm falling in love with this city all over again.”

“So, it was love at first sight when you came to Paris?”