And in that moment, I thought he wasn’t as self-centered as he appeared.
Flying Too High,
Melting the Wax on My Wings
It was a very busy pastry shop. Because of its location and the quality of the breads and cakes, there was a constant stream of customers, both locals and tourists. One thing my uncle Alain had told me long ago was that the difference between the French and the Americans when they entered a shop was that the French spent more time. There was that “How are you?” exchange, sometimes becoming more than a few words, and then the ordering. The tourists who came in demanded items immediately and seemed in a rush. I watched and smiled to myself as this proved true.
Vincent put on his apron to go into the kitchen. “Here, try this,” he said, offering me a chocolate cookie with nuts.
I did. “Delicious,” I said. “Sinfully so.”
“Only a health-minded American girl would say that,” he replied.
His father broke free from his work and approached us. Vincent quickly introduced me.
“Enchanté,” I said. “You have a beautiful shop,” I told him in French.
“Merci,” he said, but it sounded more like a grunt.
He looked at Vincent and then at Denise, who stood by watching us. He asked me where I was from. I complimented him again on his shop, and he nodded without any modesty and returned to his work. I noticed he didn’t acknowledge Denise at all. Her mother was busy at the counter. When she glanced our way, I thought she looked quite unhappy. She rarely smiled at anyone she served, and when she could pause to speak to Denise, she had only some criticism of Denise’s hair and the wrinkles in her dress. Between customers, they spoke a little more. Whatever Denise was saying wasn’t making her mother happy, however.
While they spoke, Vincent returned to me. “Are you busy tonight?” he asked.
“Busy? No. When?”
“I don’t get out until eight,” he said.
I looked at Denise, who was just standing there with her head down while her mother lectured her about something.
“I thought I might have dinner with Denise, but . . .”
“Did you tell her so?”
“No.”
“Then you’re not busy,” he said. “Meet me here.” He slipped a business card into my hand.
Denise turned toward us, and I quickly put the card away. We left the shop and continued on a slow walk following the river.
“Isn’t your mother feeling well?” I asked her.
“No. She never feels well these days.”
“Does she see a doctor?”
“She doesn’t want to see anyone. So what did you think of my cousin?” she asked, anxious to change the subject as we walked farther away from the shop.
“He’s very nice, and you’re right, he’s very intelligent, well read. I hope he does get to pursue his education.”
“And good-looking.”
“Oh. Yes, very. What a busy pastry shop, too. Everything looked delicious.”
“I didn’t know he was going to New York. I should go along. I should see New York, right?”
“D’accord. You should see New York, but he might want to go alone or maybe . . . with someone else.”
“You think so?”
“It’s possible. You shouldn’t feel bad if so.”
She didn’t reply. “You probably have had lots of boyfriends,” she said after a while.
“No, not really. No one serious, if that’s what you mean?”
“Yes. I haven’t had a serious boyfriend, either. I don’t even think about it anymore.”
“You should. Look, Denise, you could be a very attractive woman,” I said. We paused. “You have to think about yourself a lot more. You should lose weight,” I said finally, and firmly. “People do, and they’re happier and healthier.”
“I’ve tried.”
“Try harder. I’ll help you. We’ll figure out a diet for you, and whenever you’re not working, we’ll exercise, take long walks. I’ll be like your trainer. My sister taught me a great deal about makeup and hair, too. We’ll work on all that. Then when you want, we’ll go out together and flirt. But you have to get yourself ready for it . . . like a prizefight or a big game or something. You have beautiful eyes, and your hair could be very attractive, too.”
“Do you think so?” she asked, obviously encouraged by my enthusiasm.
“Absolument. C’mon,” I said, hooking my arm into hers. “Let’s begin. We’ll walk faster, and when you have dinner tonight, avoid fattening foods. I’ll work up a daily menu for you from what I remember my sister ate and taught me about food.”
“Your sister sounds like a wonderful person.”
“She knows who she is now,” I said.
“What does that mean? Don’t we all know who we are?”
“No. We know who others think we are, and more times than not, it’s not who we are. You’re not who others think you are. You’ll see.”
“Even my mother?”
“Especially her,” I replied, and she smiled.
“How do you say, lead on,” she declared, and we continued marching like two young women who had had far too much rosé to drink. Our laughter trailed behind us like cans tied to the bumper of a car for newlyweds.
Nearly two hours later, we worked our way back to her apartment. She wanted me to come up and have dinner with her, but I was intrigued with Vincent now.
“My mother wants me to clean the apartment,” she said. “But we can still have dinner.”
“I think I’d better get back to have dinner with my uncle.” Instinctively, I knew she would be very upset if she knew I was meeting Vincent. “I haven’t had dinner with him for more than a week because I’ve been at the restaurant. But we’ll start the new regime for you tomorrow. Once a week is weigh-in.”
“Weigh-in?”
“To see how many pounds you’ve lost.”
“Oh. Oui.”
“Thanks for a wonderful day, Denise. I enjoyed being with you,” I said, then kissed her good-bye and started away.
“Emmie!” she called.
I turned. “Yes?”
“Welcome to Paris!”
“Ah, oui. Merci. À bientôt.”
I walked off feeling very good about it all and not thinking about my little white lie. Maybe I could help someone else and not wallow in my own self-pity after all.
Uncle Alain wasn’t at home when I arrived. I showered and redid my hair. Then I played with a little makeup and chose something new to wear, an outfit Roxy had bought me before she left Paris, a pair of skinny-fit rust-colored trousers and a white lace top. She had also bought me a light black leather jacket, and I had a pair of black cutout lace-up wedges. Just before I left, Uncle Alain appeared. He nearly gasped when he saw me.
“You look beautiful,” he said. “And a little sexy. What’s up, Emmie?”
“A sort of date with Denise’s cousin,” I said.
“Oh. Who is he? How did you meet him?”
“His name is Vincent. We met him for lunch. He works in his father’s pastry shop, but he wants to do more with his life. He’s well read, and he writes poetry, and—”
“Things going a little fast?” he asked. “You sound quite taken. How old is he?”
“I’m not sure, exactly.”
“But older than you by what? Two years, three?”
“Maybe three,” I said. “It’s not unusual for a girl my age in America to go out with a boy three years older than she is, Uncle Alain.”
“Where are you going?”
I showed him the card.
“I know this place. Good pizza. Not very formal,” he said. “Will you promise to be home by twelve?”
“You’ll make me Cinder
ella.”
“Never mind. Twelve,” he said firmly.
“I promise,” I said. I kissed him on the cheek and started out.
“Emmie.”
“Yes?”
“Be careful. Life moves fast when you think you’re standing still.”
I laughed, threw him another kiss, and hurried out.
I was proud of how well I could navigate Paris streets now. I had spent time studying a street map. I walked quickly and tried not to pay attention to the whistles and comments I heard men shout out at me. Would Roxy be proud of me or upset? Was I going too far too quickly, flying too high? My heart sank a little when I arrived at the restaurant and didn’t see Vincent there. I knew I was attracting attention standing outside the front entrance and hovering near the patio outside, almost filled by now. Had something prevented him from coming? Just as I started to consider going home, I heard him call my name and saw him pull up on a scooter. He was in the same clothes he had worn at lunch, but he had on a dark brown leather pilot’s jacket. He removed his helmet and settled his scooter.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “My father always has one more thing for me to do. Hungry? They have great pizza here.”
“Yes, my uncle told me.”
He smiled, took my hand, and led me to the hostess, who, like the one at the lunch café, obviously knew him. From the way he greeted this one, I thought he knew her a little better. Where did Denise get the idea that Vincent was like a monk? People see and believe what they want, no matter what, I thought. The hostess led us out to a free table on the patio. Vincent ordered some wine immediately and sat back.
“May I get something out of the way immediately?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“You are a very beautiful young woman.”
I nearly laughed, having expected him to say something like that he had a girlfriend but just wanted to be more of a host and a friend, or that he was doing this to keep me befriending Denise, who obviously needed a friend.
“Merci. Is that it?”
“For now,” he said. “I’m starving.”
We ordered salads and a large pizza with chicken. The wine came, and he proposed another toast.
“To discoveries,” he said.
“What kind of discoveries?”
“Good discoveries about each other,” he replied.
My mind raced. He wasn’t that much older than most senior boys in high school in America, but to me, he seemed more like one of the young men Roxy might have escorted, suave, confident, and dazzling. How would she handle him? I wondered. More and more, I was finding myself thinking, What would Roxy do? How would Roxy act? What would Roxy say?
I have to be myself, I thought.
“Well, discoveries are made by explorers,” I said, and he looked as if he had just heard he won the lottery. He laughed, tapped my glass again, and began asking me more questions about New York. Naturally, he wanted to know more details about my life and what really had brought me to Paris. If there was one thing I didn’t want to do, however, it was to put any heavy darkness on our date. He seemed to understand and shifted the topic to more suggestions about how I should enjoy Paris, what I should expect. He sounded very brotherly at times, and I found myself resenting it. If there was one thing I didn’t want to be, it was some young girl who needed more guidance.
After our pizza, he asked me if I would like to hear some of the new French jazz.
“Where?” I asked.
“I have a friend who plays in a band, but we won’t go to his club. It’s too far. He has great recordings in his apartment, which is very nearby. We share a lot of things—music, clothes. He’s my best friend,” he continued when I just stared. “He won’t mind.”
My silence made him a little uncomfortable. Maybe the wine had gotten to me, but I felt as if I was floating above it all, the conversations around us, the sounds of the street and the restaurant, even him.
“Okay? Should we go there?”
“Sure,” I said, and he paid our bill and led me out to his scooter. He handed me his helmet.
“I must take care of my precious cargo,” he said.
I got on behind him, wrapped my arms around him, and screamed with delight when we started away quickly. I was in Paris, and I was flying high. If only Roxy could see me now, I thought. She would lose her fear of my wallowing in self-pity.
Rainbows and Promises
Vincent’s friend’s apartment was really only minutes away. A more skeptical girl would think he had chosen the restaurant for that reason. It was always his intention to bring me here. Was that so wrong? Unexpected? I wasn’t in France to visit Disneyland, I told myself. If you want boys to think of you as older, be older.
He pulled into a small parking lot in front of the building and took the helmet off me, running his fingers through my hair.
“Très bien?”
“Oui. I’m fine.” Was that his way of asking if I still wanted to go to his friend’s apartment? Asking if I still wanted to be with him? He wasn’t thinking of playing Scrabble. It would be easy to look at my watch and say, “Well, maybe I should head back. I promised my uncle . . .”
“I’ll take this with us,” he said, indicating the helmet. “Paris is still a city. People find their things disappearing.”
He locked his scooter and then took my hand and led me to the front entrance. He knew the code that opened the front door. When he opened it, he looked at me. There was that slight hesitation again, but I said nothing, so we headed for the elevator.
“How long have you known your friend?”
“Oh, more than ten years,” he said. “He was working in a jazz band while he was still in school. They travel, too, go to festivals in the summer all over Europe. They dream of going to the United States. They’re very good. You’ll see. Do you like jazz?”
“I like everything,” I said.
“Tous?”
“When it’s good,” I said, and he laughed.
The elevator stopped at the fifth floor, and we went all the way down the hallway to the last door on the right. He pulled out a key, opened the door, and stepped back for me to enter. It was a small apartment and not, I thought, kept too neatly. The small entryway opened to the living room. He rushed about, scooping up empty wine bottles, a box of takeout food, and some newspapers. There were glasses on the floor, a bowl of something days old, and cigarette butts in every available ashtray. But he was right about the music equipment set up against the right wall. It was obvious his friend had put all his money into that. I knew enough about it to know that the speakers and the tuner were expensive. There was a music stand on the side, with sheets of music over it.
I continued into the room while he cleaned it up. The windows looked down at the street, but other buildings blocked any real view of Paris. I was happy they were opened, imagining what the odors might be if they weren’t. I recalled Roxy describing the roach hotel she had stayed in the nights after our father threw her out and before she was brought to Mrs. Brittany. From her description of what she tolerated, I understood how important it had become to her not to come running back to our home. I couldn’t imagine having that sort of grit and stubbornness. Just the thought of being where she had been turned my stomach.
Vincent returned from the kitchen with another bottle of wine and two glasses. He had obviously just rinsed them out. He brushed down the sofa and put the glasses and the bottle on the coffee table, pushing aside a pile of magazines and two full ashtrays and small change.
“Maid’s on vacation,” he joked, and opened the bottle with a corkscrew that was on the table. He poured a glass for each of us and went to the stereo. “Ah, here’s the CD I want you to hear,” he said, and inserted it. I sat on the sofa and sipped my wine. It was heavier-bodied but not as good as the wine we had with our pi
zza.
“More back bite than usual for a French Burgundy,” I said.
He sipped it and nodded. “Beggars can’t be choosers, right?”
“Except I’m not begging,” I said, putting the glass down. “My sister always says it’s better to drink water than bad wine, especially with dinner. It can ruin your food.”
“I have to meet this fantastic sister.”
He sat beside me as the music began.
“Listen to that saxophone. That’s Nikki.”
“Your friend?”
“Oui.” He sat back and closed his eyes. “I like writing lyrics,” he said. “Poetry to music. His music inspires me.”
“Have you written songs, then?”
“Absolument.” He sat forward. “I’ll play some of that for you next time. I’ll bring along my own discs. I have this friend with a great voice. She’s not pursuing a career as a singer, but she should.”
“Denise says you want to continue your education, but your father wants you to remain with the pastry shop.”
“He’s an old-fashioned guy. I’m working on him. He’ll come around. Denise worries about me too much. She should worry more about herself.” He smiled and took my hand in his. “It’s good what you’re doing with her. She’s had a very difficult time of it. She needs someone like you. I could see immediately that you’re a very caring person,” he said. Then he kissed me softly on the lips and moved closer. “I love that saxophone,” he whispered. “Don’t you? Sexy.”
His lips were tracing along my cheek and then onto my neck. I leaned back, and he kissed me again, only this time longer, his arm sliding under my lower back to lift me gently as he moved me under him. I was getting lower against the back of the sofa. The music continued and seemed to get louder. He kissed me again and again and now whispered mainly in French. I caught a few words—“sweet taste, beautiful, soft, loving.” I felt his hand move under my blouse and, in what I thought was a very dexterous motion, unbutton it from the inside. It was as though he had done it hundreds of times.
“You’re a very sophisticated girl,” he said. “You could teach Denise a lot about life, I’m sure.”