Capturing Paris (24 page)

Annie was in no rush to return home. What would she say? She didn't want to go to Washington. She tried to picture herself there, writing, a blank notebook before her. What would it be like to see Paris from a distance? What would she remember? Perhaps the dark, winding cobbled streets, the wide boulevards, the grand vistas, and the monuments would come to mind. Maybe she would recall the Luxembourg Gardens, once her private paradise, flower-filled and lush with trees, its benches set in dappled shade. She might picture the small shops, the hand of the cheese vendor reaching for the perfect chèvre, selecting the one ready to eat that day. How soon would the memory of ordinary days in this extraordinary place fade and blur with time?

No, she couldn't imagine leaving Paris. Certainly not yet. The city, her poems, her life here, were so completely intertwined, she couldn't conceive of pulling them apart. It was as if the book project had cast a spell on her and she wanted to write her best poems ever. She needed to be in Paris for that. Maybe she'd be finished by the summer.

She had enjoyed her time alone. Taking a break from her marriage might not be such a bad thing. Wesley could get settled into his new job; she could finish her book. Once or twice, she allowed herself to think of what it would be like never to join him, to end the marriage entirely, and when she did, the word
divorce
had always felt like a lump of ice caught in her throat. She loved Wesley, despite his insistence on moving away. Part of her didn't want to hurt him.

But Daphne was right; something in her had changed. As a child, she remembered learning how snakes shed their skins at a certain stage in life. After the few quiet weeks when she was in Paris by herself working on her poems, she had been able to shed the skin of wife and mother.

Rather than descend into the Métro or take a bus home, Annie decided to walk for a while. She turned off the rue de Rennes onto the wide boulevard Saint-Germain. The shop windows didn't interest her that day, and after a few blocks she wandered into the quieter streets in the heart of the Latin Quarter. This was Paul Valmont's neighborhood. She'd sent Paul the poems she'd written at God House, but he hadn't called. Suddenly, she had to know what he thought.

His office, tucked back on the rue Clément, was not far away. She knew she was avoiding Wesley, but she wasn't ready to go home yet. She passed the Café de Flore and recalled her first lunch with Daphne. It now seemed so long ago. She turned onto the narrow side street, trying to avoid a cluster of pigeons waddling aimlessly in the gutter. It was a quiet street. The only shop was a bookstore specializing in medical texts. There was a lifelike poster of the internal organs, the heart with its ventricles and chambers colored in liverish shades of red and purple. She looked away. She arrived at number 20, pushed open the finely carved oak door, stepped in off the street, and took the stairs up to his office on the second floor. The walls were cracked and could have used a coat of fresh paint, but the brass nameplate by his door shone warmly in the dim light.

“I was in the
quartier
and thought I'd stop,” Annie, still out of breath, explained to his assistant who was typing on a computer. “I know I don't have an appointment.” The assistant shrugged and said she'd see if Monsieur Valmont was available. She was a tiny woman, more a girl really, in a black leather skirt and fuchsia sweater. She pushed a lock of dyed red hair behind a pale ear and, after one swift knock, stepped through the door behind her.

She didn't come out right away. Annie felt ridiculous and wished she hadn't acted so impulsively. She heard their voices through the closed door. She was considering slipping out when the girl reappeared carrying a stack of folders.

“Take a little time off and you pay the price,” she said in the fast-paced French of a Parisian, referring to the documents that she plunked down on her desk.

Annie, still in her coat and wishing she'd made her escape, got up.

“He said to go in.” The assistant gestured to the door behind her. Annie wondered if she ever smiled.

Paul sat bent over at his desk, reading glasses she hadn't seen before resting on the tip of his nose. He smoothed his hair back and came around the desk to greet her. “Annie, what a surprise.”Today he spoke to her in English. His dark hair looked like it needed a wash; there were circles under his eyes. He greeted her with the customary kisses on both cheeks, like an old friend, but he looked distracted.

“I enjoyed the dinner at God House,” he said, returning to his chair. “Please sit down.” He nodded toward the chair where she had sat the last time. “I am afraid I have been very busy. I am trying to finish a book on Napoleon. The writer, he is a renowned biographer but a difficult man—slow with revisions. We are coming soon to the deadline.”

“I'm so sorry to bother you.” She felt her heart sinking. She knew he worked with many other writers, and it was presumptuous on her part to show up unannounced in the middle of a busy day. “I'm sure you haven't had time to look at the last poems, but I thought I'd—”

“It is never a bother to see you,” he said.

She wished he would smile. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Then he reached for an envelope on the side of his desk. She recognized her own writing. He pulled out the pages and skimmed over the first one.

“Yes, I had a few thoughts on this.” He looked at the next page. He frowned. “I have not had time to look at the others.”

“That's all right. I was silly to have come.”

“No, no.” He looked concerned. “I wanted to get this off my desk first.” He patted a fat unruly pile of papers. “I am quite busy now, that's all. Coping with this book has put me in a bad temper. But how are you? You said the work was going well.”

“Not quite as well this week,” Annie said. “My husband and daughter have been home. I haven't had much time to myself. I'm finding it hard to get going again.”

“We all have slow days.” He waved his hands again across the papers on his desk. “I would not be concerned.” He looked at his watch and furrowed his brow. “I am sorry, but this is not a good day for me.”

“Of course. I'm sorry to have interrupted you. I need to get home anyway.”

“Please,” he said, starting to rise from his desk, “I do want to talk about this work, and we will find the time soon. We also need to meet to discuss the order of the photographs.”

“Certainly. Anytime. But please, don't get up. I can show myself out.”

“Alors, à bientôt.”

Annie said a quick good-bye and closed the door to his office. She had obviously made a mistake to stop in without an appointment. How could she have forgotten that the French were more formal? His pouting young assistant barely looked up as she made her way out. Now, thoroughly embarrassed that she had come, she hurried out to the street. She felt too tired to walk home and decided to wait for the next bus.

“So what's it going to be?”

They sat at the kitchen table that evening, the casserole of beef stew steaming on a trivet between them. Annie spooned a large serving onto the plate of noodles and passed it to Wesley. She filled her own plate, wondering if she would be able to swallow, if she would be able to eat anything at all.

“I'm not sure what you mean?”

“Annie, you've been avoiding me all week. We haven't had one decent conversation since I've been home.”

She could tell he was trying to be patient. “Sophie's been here. I didn't want to upset her.”

“Well, she's gone now.”

Annie put down her fork. She'd been pushing a piece of meat around the edge of her plate.

“I don't know what to talk about. What's for me to say? You've gone and accepted this job. You never really discussed it with me. You never
once asked how I would feel about moving.” She held her napkin tightly and began to twist it into a knot.

“Fine. Okay, fine. I've gone ahead with this. But I'm back, and we have to figure out the logistics. If you came over during your midwinter break, we could look for a house then.”

“That's next month. My poems for the book won't be finished by then.”

“For God's sake, just bring your computer.”

“I told you that won't work.” She tossed her wrinkled napkin onto the table. “Look, Wesley, my priorities have changed. The most important thing for me is finishing this book, writing my best poems ever. I've made a commitment to that. I'm not going to drop everything and jump on the next plane for Washington.”

“You know I never expected that. Take a little more time here if you need it, and then bring the photographs with you. You can write anywhere.” He set down his fork. “Did it ever get through your head that I can't do what I like to do just anywhere? I'm over fifty. Getting another job, another decent job that is, isn't easy. It's almost impossible, and I'm damn lucky to have this one.” His voice grew louder. “The thought might have occurred to you if you weren't so self-absorbed.”

“Self-absorbed.” Annie felt a surge of indignation sweep through her. “If anyone is self-absorbed, it's you. Since last spring, almost a year now, you've been totally consumed with the firm closing, not having enough work, not paying any attention to anything in my life.” She tried to keep her voice level. She knew that blaming him wouldn't help. “I tried to be understanding. I know it was hard, but you've been cold and impossible for months.”

“You're being unfair,” he said. “I've tried to spare you. I didn't want to dump all my troubles on you.” His face was white with anger.

“You spared me all right; you shut me out completely. You barely allowed me to touch you. We stopped making love. How do you think that made me feel?”

“I'm sorry, but I had other things on my mind.”

“So much so that you couldn't love your wife? You couldn't bring yourself to have sex with me?”
Sex
. The word exploded in her mouth,
and the image of Tom leaving the hotel with another woman came back to her. “Maybe there's someone else. Maybe you just didn't want to have sex with me?”

“Jesus, Annie. Now you're being ridiculous.” He pushed his chair back from the table and staggered to his feet. “There's never been anyone else. You know I love you. Things have changed. I have a job and I feel better—about everything. It will be different now.”

“I see. And you can just pick up where you left off and start loving me again.”

“I've always loved you.” He sat again and faced her across the table. The stew had grown cold on their plates, a brown, gelatinous pool. “Have you forgotten God House? New Year's Eve?”

“Wesley, that was sex, plain sex, after too much wine. I don't seem to remember any love involved.” She turned away from him. “You were just jealous of Tim that night. It was like you wanted to prove something.”

“Now you're the one totally off base. Your poetic imagination has carried you away and blown this all out of proportion.” He went over to the kitchen counter and picked up the bottle of wine. He poured himself another glass and put the bottle down with a bang on the counter. “Look, let's just get on with it. We need to make our plans.”

“That's the problem.”

“Now what problem?”

“I'm not sure about how we're going to ‘get on with it,' as you call it,” she said.

He stood across from her, gripping the edge of the table. “I don't think it's that complicated. I leave tomorrow. I can manage on my own for a while, and you can come over in another month or so. Maybe during your spring break.” He took a swallow of wine. “I just want to know when you're coming. I need you with me as soon as possible. I'm going to be really busy. I don't have time to figure out where we'll live. Besides, you'd want to look for yourself.”

“Wesley, I don't believe this. We're not even on the same wavelength.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I mean it's not the simple logistics of moving. We're talking about
leaving Paris. We're spent most of our married life here. You automatically assume that we can leave all this.”

“Annie, listen. We are leaving all this. We're moving to Washington. You've got plenty of time to settle things here, to finish your book.”

“I accept the fact that you're moving to Washington. I've come to grips with that. I just don't know if I can leave this place.” There. She'd said it, but telling him didn't make her feel any better.

“What do you mean? You won't come with me?” He shook his head. He leaned toward her, his elbows on the table, his hands clasped. “Okay. I know things have been rough. Maybe I haven't been considerate of you, of your feelings, but you must know I love you.” He reached across and took her hands in his. “Please, Annie. I love you. I want you with me.”

She pulled her hands away. She didn't know how to put into words what she didn't really understand herself. “Well,” she said softly, as if trying to find her voice, “I'm not sure what I want, except right now I want to stay here. I need to immerse myself in my writing. I need to be in Paris. This is the city that brought my poetry alive. You know that. This is where I'm supposed to be. Once I've finished the book, I'll think about Washington.”

“Annie, you haven't lived many places. Naturally Paris feels like where you're supposed to be after Sudbury, Vermont, or even Boston. Give me a break.” His words were clipped and cold. “Are you saying that Paris wins out over our marriage?”

“It's not just Paris. When you were away, I got so much done. I think I just need some time alone right now. While I was at God House—”

“God House. Maybe that's it? I bet it's Daphne who's putting these ideas into your head?”

“No one is putting ideas into my head.” She glared at him.