Capturing Paris (16 page)

Now, entering the outskirts of Paris, they were entangled in a web of traffic as far as they could see. Taillights pulsed on and off as the masses of vehicles pushed forward. Strains of jazz from the car radio sounded above the engine and the roar of traffic around them. Annie ignored it. She wasn't in the mood for jazz; in the bold clarity of midday, it only added to the traffic-induced tension. Wesley had selected the station, and she refrained from showing her displeasure in his choice. With the car in first gear, he eased his foot on and off the clutch as they crept along toward the center of Paris.

Annie leaned back against the headrest and looked out at the row of cheap shops and the grimy windows of ordinary cafés and restaurants. Not far from their car, an old woman shuffled along the sidewalk toting a plastic bag in one hand. She wore a thin raincoat pulled tightly over bulging sweaters, and the hem of her skirt drooped below her coat and fluttered in the winter air. Her bag looked ready to split and spill its contents onto the hard pavement. She would have been a pathetic sight but for the fat little dog she held by a leash in her other hand. Annie could imagine the dreary
little flat the two would call home, but she was comforted that the old lady would not be alone and that whatever sad meager supper awaited her, some of her scraps would end up in her dog's bowl. The woman reminded her of François's photograph of the old lady in the park.

“There's something we need to talk about,” Wesley said.

Annie turned toward him. She didn't think she could muster the energy to talk about anything serious just now, but she could see from the set of his jaw that his mind was made up. At least she would have a reprieve from all their weighty discussions when he left for Washington. With him away, she would have more time to write, and time to think. “I'm listening,” she said.

“It's about money,” he said. The light changed but they moved forward only a few car lengths.

She sat up a little straighter. They never had had reason to argue about money. She and Wesley both spent sensibly and agreed on the same luxuries—meals out from time to time, nice trips once or twice a year—and they took pleasure in splurging on special gifts to mark momentous occasions. He gave her a cashmere coat one Christmas; she gave him a set of gold cuff links from a fine jeweler in the Place Vendôme for his fiftieth birthday. Wesley's salary at Wilson & James had afforded them a comfortable life, and the money she earned at Liberal Arts Abroad gave them even greater financial ease.

“The checking account is getting low and I didn't have any billings in December. I'm going to arrange for a monthly transfer from our investment account. We need to be careful for a while.”

“But that's the money from your parents' estate. You said it was for our retirement. Couldn't we manage on my salary for the next few months?”

“It's not enough.” Wesley looked unhappy. He'd never liked talking about money.

“I'm sure if we were careful—”

“If you want me to go through it in detail when we get home, I will.” He slammed on the brakes, nearly hitting a motorbike that cut abruptly in front of them. The driver looked like a young boy. “Damn.” The car nearly stalled, then lurched forward. “Annie, we live in one of
the most expensive cities in the world, and we choose to live very nicely. This will help us for a while. It's just temporary.”

He shifted into second gear. The traffic was starting to move again. The shops and restaurants in this neighborhood looked more prosperous and attractive. The city became more beautiful the closer you came to its center. They passed a flower shop, a bakery with an elegant display of pastries in the window, and a hotel whose striped awning flapped in the breeze; here they slowed to a stop.

“We seem to get every light. I appreciate your driving.” She tried to restore some small measure of goodwill. “I'll be careful with our money.”

“I know you will.” The light changed to green. Wesley accelerated and Annie spotted a familiar man coming out of a hotel. Annie recognized the athletic swagger, the broad shoulders of a former football player, the well-cut slicked-back hair. He wore a double-breasted topcoat, gray flannel pants, and a plaid Burberry scarf—a well-heeled American businessman abroad.

“Wesley, look! There, in front of that hotel. It's Tom Sanders.”

Wesley glanced quickly in the direction of the hotel. It was indeed Tom; the same man who only a few weeks before had sat at their table for the solstice dinner now stood in front of a hotel with his arm around a young woman with short curly hennaed hair, wearing a leather jacket with a fur collar. A young woman, not his wife.

Annie sat at a table upstairs at Ladurée, the lovely pastry shop near the Madeleine. Hélène Rocher had invited her to tea. Annie had arrived a few minutes before they were scheduled to meet, happy to escape the bustling sidewalk of late-afternoon shoppers. The charming, old-fashioned tearoom, filled with the rush of female voices, decorated with apple-green walls, pink tablecloths, and tufted velvet chairs, was known for its heavenly macaroons, layered with creamy fillings in soft pastel shades: raspberry, peach, pistachio. The pastries, displayed in glass cases just inside the entrance, were elaborate and fanciful, much like the ladies who dined there with their poufed hair and artfully made-up faces.

She and Céleste had come here several times, once years ago with their daughters, who were then ten and twelve. Annie smiled. She could still see Sophie in her neat blond braids consuming every bite of an enormous chocolate éclair, working hard not to spill any on her best party dress. She tried to picture her now, in some office building in L.A., the land of freeways, fit bodies, and perpetual sunshine. That all-revealing, brilliant light would be the antithesis of Paris on a winter afternoon, one shade of gray blending into the next. Yet Annie would pick Paris any day, with its sophisticated subtlety and rich history.

She was glad to sit down. She'd been shopping on the rue Saint-Honoré, enjoying the upscale shops and plush boutiques. It was the glorious allotted two-week period in January when merchants were allowed to put merchandise on sale. French law allowed only two sale periods a year. There were incredible bargains, especially in the higher-priced shops. She had wanted to find a present for Sophie; she knew Wesley would understand that expenditure, but when the sales clerk had seen the black sweater she picked out she'd said, “But Madame, it would be lovely on you.” She tried it on. It was amazing how something so soft, so beautifully cut, could make you feel like an entirely different person. She bought it for herself. It was the kind of thing that Daphne would wear, and she knew she had to have it. There would be other ways to cut corners.

Wesley had been gone for two days. Annie had mailed Paul her completed poems, and now she would just have to wait. It had all seemed so improbable when Daphne first mentioned Paul and his book project, but strangely, Annie felt more confident since the weekend at God House. Maybe some of Daphne's commanding presence had worn off on her.

Since Wesley's departure Annie had tried to put her marital worries aside. He'd been in a positive mood the day he left, making Annie feel hopeful that their marriage might recover its sweetness. But she knew that the slightest movement could also throw them back into misery. They had both been saddened to have their suspicions about Tom played out in the broad light of day. Annie wondered what still held Mary and Tom together. How long could a marriage survive the strain of infidelity?

“Ah, there you are.
Bonjour. Ça va?
” Hélène greeted Annie and sat down, pushing her coat onto the back of the chair. Hélène did look well. Her nails and lips glowed in the same riveting shade of red that Annie remembered from their last meeting, and she smelled of gardenias, the lush scent of a winter hothouse flower. She kept her heavy silk scarf around her shoulders while she studied the long list of teas on the menu through gold-rimmed half-glasses. Annie followed her lead, also choosing Earl Grey and an apricot tart.

They spent a few minutes exchanging news. Hélène told Annie about her Christmas visit with her son, Alexis, his wife and children. She'd loved every minute but was happy to come home to her peaceful apartment. Annie explained that Wesley had just left for the United States to interview for a new job and that the law firm would most likely extend an offer. “It's good for him, but sadly, it would mean we'd have to move,” Annie said.

“I can see from your face that you do not wish that.”

“I'm still hopeful that he'll find something here.” She took a sip of tea, savoring the smoky warmth on her tongue. “In the meantime I'm enjoying being on my own.”

“It is nice being by oneself,” Hélène said. “I miss Bertrand. I still find it hard to call myself a widow.
Hélas,
such a dreadful word. But there are some little pleasures.” She smiled and cut neatly into her pastry. “Tonight, for example, I will have just cheese and fruit for dinner.”

“Me too. I love not having to cook dinner. I always felt that Wesley expected a nice hot meal, especially after a trying day at work. Funny, how you get into habits like that.”

“I often wonder, looking back, if Bertrand expected what I thought he expected.” Helene looked into the distance for a moment. “We don't always know the real person even if we think that we do.”

Annie imagined that Hélène thought often about her husband. So many shared years. How could she not? “You are so right,” she agreed. Twenty-four years with Wesley. Did she truly know him? For the moment, she was enjoying this time without him, a reprieve. She didn't want to think about him for a while.

“But tell me, did you finish your poems?”

Annie had told Hélène about the possible book project when she had phoned to make the date for tea. She nodded. “I've never felt so good about any of my work.” She told Hélène about the weekend at God House and how easy it had been to write there. “Even since I've been home, I feel like I'm under a kind of spell. Everything I see is feeding my writing. Sometimes I feel like I'm capturing the very pulse of this city and getting it on the page.”

“I am so happy for you.” Helene reached across the table and patted Annie's arm. “Do you know the expression ‘
Être bien dans sa peau?'
”

“To feel good in one's skin?”

“This is how I see you now. Exactly.” She poured them both some more tea. “Now, tell me more about this man. He is French,
non?
” Hélène raised her eyebrows and waited eagerly for Annie's response.

Annie leaned forward. She found it easy in this happy female place to forget about her office job and the stack of boring documents that awaited her. All the reports from the French universities had arrived and needed to be translated and reformatted for the transcripts going to the colleges in the United States. It was tedious work, what she hated most about her job, but she knew it had to be done. Mary wanted it completed by the end of January.

“His name is Paul,” she said. The rest of her life would have to wait.

His call had come at the end of the week. Annie had just come in the door, carrying a bag of groceries and her dry cleaning. She thought it might be Wesley with news about the job in Washington. He'd called only once, to let her know that he'd arrived safely and to give her the number of his hotel.

“Yes,” she'd answered, breathless from rushing to get to the phone.

“This is Paul.” The French voice had sounded serious.

“Oh, hello,” she'd said, surprised to hear from him so promptly.

He'd wasted no time. “I met with François last night. We both agree. We hope you will write the rest of the poems.”

“Of course,” she'd said. “I'd love to. I'm so glad you like them …” She'd watched as her dry-cleaning bags fell from her hand and slith
ered to the floor. She forgot what else she'd said in the excitement of the moment.

Now, on this darkening January afternoon in his office, she could hardly believe this turn of events. “But you must have dinner with me,” Paul said at the end of this first meeting.

“Well, I …” Annie didn't know how to answer. They'd spent hours looking over François's photographs, each one seductive, revealing Paris in her many guises. How to decide? Paul insisted that he didn't want a book that showed only the predictable story, the café scenes, the churches, the parks. Yet the book required a certain degree of familiarity.

“I want the reader to recognize a place, or the feel of a place,” he said, “and then the poem will bring them back to that place. The reader will feel like he has been there or that he wants to be there still.” He was decisive when he talked about the book. He looked happier that day, seeming to enjoy himself.

Annie had a sudden urge to reach out and run her finger along the crease of his deeply set eyes or to brush his hair back from his forehead the way she used to with Wesley. She imagined that intimate gesture and wondered if his skin would be warm to her touch, if his hair, dark and coarse, would feel strange compared with Wesley's. She sandwiched her hands between her knees and tried to focus on the black-and-white images. She was thinking like a schoolgirl with a crush. He simply wanted to continue their meeting over dinner. He was waiting for an answer.

“There is a good place
en face
”—he had spoken to her in French all afternoon—“I go there often.” He knew that Wesley was away, that she was on her own, and it seemed logical to finish their work over dinner. Annie wanted to talk more about the book. She also wanted to continue to watch his lips as they moved in his native tongue.

“I must confess to being hungry,” she said.

He laughed. “It is also time for a glass of wine, and I would love to hear you read your poems
à haute voix
, out loud. I want to hear them in order.”