The Unforgiving Minute (23 page)

of Paris and our discomfort would soon be over. Insult was added

to injury when we stopped just outside of Paris for over an hour

with no explanation. The four of us engaged in pleasantries

until the train pulled into the station. At that point, we all

wrestled our luggage on to the platform and looked for a porter.

The young Frenchman took his one bag and left us on the platform.

Finally, a porter arrived with a cart and took our luggage

out to the taxicab rank. Don and Marie explained that they were

staying with friends in the suburbs. Before entering their cab,

they shook hands with me warmly. No addresses were exchanged.

No plans were made to meet again. They stepped into the cab and

suddenly were out of my life. As the cab left I looked at the

back of her head, expecting her to turn around for a last wistful

look. All I saw, however, was her chatting animatedly with her

husband. The cab turned a corner and she was just another

fantasy, forever etched in my mind.

Chapter 9

I opened my eyes, blurred with sleep, not quite knowing

where I was. The room was dark as night and I had slept the

sleep of the dead. I lay there, my senses slowly returning, and

remembered taking a taxi to Charles DeGaulle Airport with the

full intent of getting on an airplane and flying anywhere, just

to get out of France. During the heavily trafficked trip, I

found myself dozing off in the cab and decided to check into an

airport motel and get some sleep. I looked at my watch and saw

that I had slept for fourteen hours. It was four o’clock in the

morning and I didn’t dare sleep another moment for fear of really

screwing up my body clock.

After a marvelous shower, I made myself a cup of coffee in

a coffee maker supplied in the room and sat at the desk

contemplating my next adventure. A map of Europe, taken from my

suitcase, was spread out before me. The weather here in Paris

was quite chilly. I couldn’t believe that it was already the

twentieth of December. I searched for someplace warm and almost

decided on Greece or Spain, when my eyes focused on Rome. The

weather in Rome is never really too cold, and I had always loved

to travel in Italy. I was about to call Alitalia and book a

flight, when an idea came to me. I would rent a comfortable car

and drive from Paris to Rome. When I pursued the map, I noted

that there were spots on the trip where I might encounter snow,

but being an inveterate skier, I had plenty of experience driving

in snow. I decided to wait for morning and make my arrangements

then. A new excitement came over me.

I decided that I would drive in comfort and rented a

Mercedes sedan, gasoline powered. I would turn it in when I

arrived in Rome.

Looking at my map supplied by the rental company, I noted

that Rome was about a thousand miles from Paris. I decided that

I would travel on a route taking me through Geneva, Switzerland,

then back through part of France, continuing through the Mont

Blanc tunnel into Italy. I would stop and do some skiing on the

way and take my time getting to Rome. I would probably spend

Christmas at a ski resort. I decided to take my chances on

lodgings, even though it would be a crowded time of the year,

since I didn’t want to be locked into any specific time or place.

The weather in Paris in December is decidedly raw but the

car had an excellent heater and I was looking forward to

leisurely cruising the French, Swiss, and Italian countryside. I

made my way from the airport to the A6 Autoroute and comfortably

settled behind the wheel. The five-liter engine purred its way

up to about one hundred forty kilometers per hour, which is

approximately eighty miles per hour. The road hummed under my

tires and the radio was tuned to a station playing lyrics in the

French language. The Paris suburbs whizzed by and in about

twenty minutes, I passed Fontainebleau. My thoughts went back to

a time, many years ago, when Julie and I took our first trip to

Europe. I could vividly remember walking through Fontainebleau,

arm in arm, stopping to kiss and feeling like we had been

transported to heaven. I tried to conjure up the feeling of

loving her so much. So many years had gone by, so many women had

been in my life. Was it possible that I could regain these

feelings and be happy with just Julie? It was so confusing to

me. Ann Marie had entered my life so early in my marriage that I

couldn’t really think of a time when there was just Julie, unless

it was my honeymoon. I knew there was still a deep love for

Julie in my heart. We had shared so many things. Our children

were forever a bond between us. We had shared many homes

together. We shared some great vacations, some of which ran

through my mind as I rolled along the Autoroute. I tried to

imagine Julie being with me but whenever I could successfully do

so it was a twenty-five-year-old Julie, filled with love and

laughter, and not the Julie of today, so demanding and angry.

I decided to drive one hundred fifty miles to Dijon and

stop for the night. When I thought of Dijon, only one thing came

to my mind … mustard. I expected to smell mustard in the air

when I reached the city.

When I got off the Autoroute, I saw a typical small city

in France. Many of the buildings had a medieval quality and were

obviously hundreds of years old. I pulled over and took out my

maps, looking for a venerable hotel I had read about, which was a

stone-walled medieval building. Like most European cities, the

maze of one-way streets and dead-end alleys confused me to no

end. It took a good forty minutes to finally find my hotel. I

was shown to a room which was out of a picture book. It had a

Louis XIV flavor and would have made a hell of a romantic

setting. It was two o’clock in the afternoon and my mood was,

“Now what?” I really had nothing to do. One of the reasons I

had stopped in Dijon was to eat at a restaurant called Jean

Pierre Billoux. It had been recommended to me for years as one

of the finest in France. I decided to see the concierge and make

reservations for the evening. I would also try to make ski

reservations for the Christmas holiday which was now three days

away. I felt that Chamonix in France or Cormayeur in Italy, just

the other side of the Mont Blanc tunnel, were my best bets.

The concierge was an affable young man, quite outgoing and

gregarious for a Frenchman. The restaurant reservation was easy

but both Chamonix and Cormayeur were full in every hotel he

tried. The dollar was very favorable in 1985 and many Americans

were coming over for the holidays in addition to the usual spate

of Europeans. He suggested that I go sightseeing while he tried

to find an opening in any ski resort that was on my route. We

decided that anything within two hours of Geneva would be fine.

As I walked through the city, I was surprised at the great

number of pedestrian streets. These are streets which are barred

to vehicular traffic during normal hours and are popping up more

and more in European cities. Shopping as we know it was very

low-key here. However, food and wine shops abounded. Burgundy,

where Dijon is located, is famous for its wine and Dijon itself

is of course the mustard capital of the world. The stalls were

filled with candy, mustard and thousands of snails for escargot.

I even saw chocolate snails in the confectionery shops. The

mandatory sidewalk caf´es were everywhere. Eating and drinking

seemed to be the main occupation of the populace.

The weather was cold, raw and grey. I stopped for a cup

of coffee at a sidewalk cafe and sat indoors. The ever-present,

acrid smell of Gauloise and Gitane cigarettes permeated the air.

There were a few dour-looking Frenchmen at the bar and the

people-watching that made outdoor caf´es so charming was non-existent indoors. Instead of a leisurely cup of coffee, I gulped

it down and headed back to the hotel. Loneliness and depression

were getting to me again and I was in a terrible mood. I was

doubly depressed that I might not be able to ski during the

Christmas holiday, as that was already etched into my agenda.

When I arrived at the hotel, the concierge had good news

for me. He was able to book me into an area called Flaine, which

was an hour and a half out of Geneva and almost directly on my

route. While not a major European area, it was more than

adequate and its hotels were right at the bottom of the slopes.

This meant you could literally ski directly to your hotel,

without the benefit of shuttle buses or long walks with your skis

on your shoulder. I was booked from the twenty-fourth to the

twenty-eighth, due to the fact that the New Year’s weekend was

totally booked. This was fine with me. Christmas on the slopes

and New Year’s Eve in Rome suited me fine. The only thing

missing was someone to share it with.

I went to my room to await the evening. My mood was

growing increasingly blacker. In spite of my hours on the road

and my walk around town, I wasn’t sleepy. I sat in a chair and

tried to read, but my mind wandered. I paced the small room back

and forth, trying hard to think happy thoughts. I needed

someone, something to occupy my time. Loneliness was enveloping

me like a noxious cloud. I turned on the television and tried to

watch some programs in French. Although I speak and read the

language quite well, I am always behind in comprehension when I

listen to a Frenchman speak or especially a radio or television

program where I can’t tell them to speak more slowly. I turned

the set off in disgust and took out a bottle of Scotch whiskey

which I had been carrying for weeks. I took the glass from the

bathroom and poured myself a healthy glass of the single malt

whiskey. The Scotch felt warm and smooth as it went down and it

felt good on this raw and grey winter day. I quickly followed it

with another good belt and had soon imbibed half the bottle. I

turned on the radio and soft classical music wafted through the

room. I lay down on the bed and could feel the room reeling.

The music permeated my alcohol-fogged mind and somehow made me

feel euphoric. I must have drifted off and awakened with a start

and a major-league headache. I saw by the digital clock that it

was five o’clock. I thought that I had drifted off for about an

hour and peeled off my clothes to step into a hot shower. The

water cascaded on my head and was a blessing for my hangover. I

dried my hair and carefully shaved, getting ready for my gourmet

dining evening. I decided to get dressed and take another walk

through town to clear my head. I looked out the window for a

weather check and thought that there must be a power failure and

that the hotel was operating on its own generator. There seemed

to be no light anywhere else in town. I started to get dressed

when suddenly I realized that it must be five-thirty in the

morning! I had slept through the night in my drunken stupor. I

felt like a world-class degenerate idiot. I realized that in the

months since the spa, I had turned regularly again to alcohol for

both entertainment and therapy. My depression instantly

returned. At that moment I had every intention of flying home

from Geneva and surprising everyone for Christmas. I re-packed

my dress clothes and changed into a pair of corduroy slacks and a

flannel shirt. I was definitely going home. I almost picked up

the phone and called Ann Marie but I didn’t want to wake her at a

little after midnight, New York time.

I called for a bellhop, checked out, and warmed up the car

until the heater made it comfortable. It was only about thirty

degrees but the weather in this part of Europe always felt colder

because of the incessant dampness. Dawn was barely breaking and

a light snow fell from a grey sky in which the sun had not made

an appearance for days.

I settled behind the wheel and headed toward Geneva. It

was six o’clock in the morning. I hadn’t had coffee yet; I

hadn’t, come to think of it, had my dinner of the night before

yet. My mouth felt like a bale of cotton and my head felt like

an inflated balloon. I was, in plain words, a mess.

It was only one hundred miles to Geneva on the N5, which

was a major artery. I’d probably be there in less than two

hours. The ski resort was only thirty-five miles from Geneva but

my reservations were for tomorrow night, not tonight. I was

becoming more the lost soul. Earlier in my trip, I realized, I

had gotten lucky and latched on to two relationships which seemed

to make it a wonderful trip. A few adventures thrown in added

some spice but now the trip seemed to mire down in a swamp of

loneliness. I felt as if I were going crazy.

I crossed the border from France to Switzerland in no time

and arrived at Cointrin Airport in Geneva. I parked my car and

had every intention of turning it in after I bought my ticket. I

was ravenously hungry and decided to get some breakfast before my

trip to the Swissair counter.

I piled a sumptuous breakfast of juice, eggs, bacon,

croissants and caf´e au lait on my tray and settled down with a

Herald Tribune to enjoy my breakfast. By the time I finished two

cups of the strong coffee and had filled my belly, I felt much

better and much less depressed. I sat with the paper for a long

time and even did the crossword. I got up and, surprising even

myself, did not go to the ticket counter but got into my car and

slowly pulled out of the airport. It never occurred to me that I

would enhance everyone’s Christmas by returning home. Instead, I

felt that I would disrupt and ruin the holidays and that I was

better off laying low for at least a few more weeks.

Flaine was actually forty-one miles from the Geneva

Airport but the mountain roads would make it about an hour-and-a-half trip. In about three miles, I re-entered France and