The Woman in the Fifth (16 page)

'All Americans talk about themselves. It's how they give themselves an identity.'

'What an original thought.'

'I'm glad you think so.'

'So let me guess: you're a professor of semiotics at the Sorbonne who has written a doctoral thesis on Symbolic Nuance in American Cultural Life . . .'

'No,' she said, 'but I'm certain your doctoral thesis wasn't far off that title.'

'How did you know I was a professor?'

'Just a hunch. And your field is . . . ?'

'
Was
film studies. I no longer teach.'

'You lost your job?'

'Have we met before? Or do you have a file on me?'

Another smile.

'No to both questions. I'm just "bullshitting around", as they say in your country.'

'And what's the word for "bullshit" in your country?'

'Two words:
buta beszéd
.'

'You're Eastern European?'

'Bravo. Hungarian.'

'But your French . . . it is perfect.'

'If you have not been born French, your French is never perfect. But after fifty years in Paris, it is serviceable.'

'Fifty years? You must have been a baby when you arrived here.'

'Flattery is always pleasant . . . and utterly transparent. I was seven years old when I arrived here in 1957 . . . and now I have given away a vital piece of information: my age.'

'You look wonderful on it.'

'Now we move from flippant flattery to
absurd
flattery.'

'Do you have a problem with that?' I asked.

She let two of her fingers touch the top of my hand.

'Not at all,' she said.

'Do you have a name?'

'I do.'

'And it is . . . ?'

'Margit,' she said, pronouncing it
Mar-geet
.

'A last name?'

'Kadar.'

'Margit Kadar,' I said, trying it out. 'Wasn't there some Hungarian bigwig named Kadar?'

'Yes,' she said, 'the Communist stooge whom the Soviets put in place to control us. We are not related.'

'So Kadar is a pretty common name in Hungary?'

'Not particularly. Do you have a name?'

'You're still trying to change the subject.'

'We'll get back to me. But not until I know your name.'

I told her, then added, 'And the H in Harry is not dropped, as every French person does it here.'

'So you don't like being called "'
arry
". But you do speak very impressive French.'

'Impressive because I'm American . . . and everyone assumes that all Americans are ignorant and unworldly?'

'"All clichés are fundamentally true."'

'George Orwell?'

'Bravo. He was a very popular writer in Hungary, Mr Orwell.'

'You mean, during the Communist years?'

'Yes, that's what I mean.'

'But if you left in '57, you must have escaped all that Stalinist stuff.'

'Not exactly,' she said, drawing deeply on her cigarette.

'By which you mean . . . ?'

'Not exactly.'

Her tone was quiet, but sharp. A hint that she didn't want to continue this line of questioning. So I dropped it and said, 'The only Hungarian joke I know comes from Billy Wilder. He said, "A Hungarian is the only person in the world who can enter a revolving door behind you and come out first."'

'So you really are a professor of film studies.'

'
Was
.'

'And let me guess – you are trying to be a novelist . . .

like half the people at this absurd salon.'

'Yes, I'm a would-be writer.'

'Why call yourself that?'

'Because I haven't published anything yet.'

'Do you write most days of the week?'

'Every day.'

'Then you are a writer. Because you write. You actually do it. Which separates the true artist from the poseur.'

I put my hand on top of hers – briefly, but tellingly.

'Thank you for that.'

She shrugged.

'Now I'm certain you're no would-be artist,' I said, changing the subject.

'True. I'm not a would-be artist because I am
not
an artist. I am a translator.'

'French into Hungarian?'

'Yes, and Hungarian into French.'

'Does it keep you busy?'

'I get by. Back in the seventies and eighties, there was plenty of work . . . especially as the French couldn't get enough of modern Hungarian authors . . . and yes, that probably sounds comic . . . but one of the few things I have always respected about this society is their cultural curiosity.'

'"One of the
few
things" . . . ?'

'That's what I said.'

'So you don't like it here.'

'Now I didn't say that. I just said—'

'I know what you said. But that hints at a deep antipathy toward this place.'

'Not antipathy.
Ambivalence.
And what is wrong with feeling ambivalent toward a country, a spouse, your work, even a good friend?'

'Are you married?'

'Now, Harry – think carefully. If I was married, would I be wasting my time at this salon?'

'Well, if you were unhappily married . . .'

'I'd simply have a lover.'

'Do you have a lover?'

'I might . . . if he plays his cards right.'

I felt myself tighten. I met her smile and put my hand back on top of hers. She immediately pulled hers away.

'What makes you think I was talking about you?'

'Pure arrogance.'

'Nice reply,' she said, and now put her hand on top of mine.

'So you definitely don't have a husband?'

'Why do you need to know that?'

'Idle curiosity.'

'I
had
a husband.'

'What happened?'

'That's a somewhat involved story.'

'Children?'

'I had a daughter.'

'I see.'

'No,' she said. 'You don't see. No one can ever see
that
.'

Silence.

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I can't imagine what it must be like to . . .'

She put a finger to my lips. I kissed the finger. Several times. But when I started moving down her hand, she gently pushed me away.

'Not yet,' she whispered. 'Not yet.'

'OK,' I whispered back.

'So when did your wife divorce you?'

'Talk about a mood-breaking question . . .'

'You asked if I had a husband, a child. I think that gives me the right to ask you . . .'

'She left me a few months ago. The divorce is in the works.'

'And you have how many children?'

'How do you know that I have kids?'

'It's the way you looked at me when you found out that I had lost my daughter. I knew immediately that you were a father.'

'You never get over it, do you?' I asked.

'Never,' she whispered.

Then she turned and pulled me toward her. Within an instant, we were all over each other. I had my thigh between her legs, and my hand on one buttock as she unbuttoned my shirt and grabbed my chest. We fell up against the wall. Her free hand was now up against my crotch, my penis so hard it strained against the zip of my pants. But when I moved my hand up her dress, she suddenly disengaged, her hands dropping to one side as she sidestepped away from me.

'Not here,' she whispered.

I came close again and gently kissed her on the lips, my hands away from her, even though I so wanted to hold her again.

'Then where?' I asked.

'I live nearby . . . but not tonight.'

'Don't tell me you have another appointment?'

'Just things to do.'

I glanced at my watch. It was just nine thirty.

'I wouldn't have been able to do tonight anyway. I go to work at midnight.'

'Doing what?'

'I'm a night watchman.'

'I see,' she said, reaching into her purse for another cigarette.

'It's just to pay some bills.'

'Well, I didn't think you did it for intellectual stimulation. What exactly are you watching over?'

'A fur warehouse,' I said, knowing that there was one around the corner from me on the rue du Faubourg Poissionière.

'And how did you land such an unusual post?'

'That's a long story.'

'They always are,' she said, igniting the cigarette with a small, old-fashioned lighter. 'Where do you live?'

'The Tenth.'

'Some
bobo
loft on the canal Saint-Martin?'

'If I'm doing a night watchman's job . . .'

'And if you are guarding a furrier's, then it must be somewhere near the rue des Petites Écuries.'

'That's the rue running parallel to my own.'

'Rue de Paradis?'

'I'm impressed.'

'After forty-five years of non-stop residence in a city, you don't simply know . . . you start to haunt it.'

'Or it haunts you?'