Secrets of Paris (21 page)

She didn’t kiss him good-bye. “We should talk,” she thought, walking past the armed police. It sounded like something he would say to an insurance agent. It sounded earnest and casual. Lydie had intended to walk home, but her feet hurt and she felt tired. She changed her mind, headed toward the taxi stand in front of the Crillon. She stood alone for a few minutes before anyone else came.

“Hello there,” said Dot Graulty, leaning against a man who appeared as drunk as she did.

“Hello,” Lydie said, wondering if the man was her husband. It had to be; how could a lover be enticed by her? She was so tipsy, what could there be to look forward to?

“Lost your fellow?” she asked.

“He’s staying late. I’m a little tired.” Lydie scanned the Place de la Concorde for a cab. She saw one coming and planned to let Dot take it, even though Lydie had been there first. Suddenly she thought of Kelly. “Do you handle visas at the embassy?” she asked Dot.

“I’m not in the visa section, no, but after twenty-five years I know a thing or two about visas,” Dot said.

“Because I might want to take my assistant to the United States
when I go back,” Lydie said. The cab drew to the curb; the passenger inside was arguing about the fare. “And she’ll need a visa.”

“She’s French?” Dot asked.

“Filipino.”

“Oh, the U.S.A. is tough on them. Call what’s-his-name. The one from Baltimore … Bruce Morrison.”

“Thanks, Dot,” Lydie said. “Why don’t you take this cab?”

“No, honey, you take it,” Dot said, leaning against the man with her eyes closed. “We’ll get the next one. We’re enjoying the air.”

Lydie said good-bye and climbed in. She gave the driver her address, then removed a notepad from her purse and wrote down the name “Bruce Morrison.” By the time she glanced up they had already driven out of the Place de la Concorde, one of her favorite night sights: she loved the fountains, the obelisk, the way the spotlights made all the stately buildings look gold. Driving along the dark, tree-lined Cours Albert Premier, she was picturing the Place, festive even tonight. It wasn’t until the car stopped in front of her building that she realized that she was coming home alone after dark. It was the first time. As she paid the driver, she wondered whether Michael would have preferred to invite that other girl to the party. The one he did or didn’t love. The one Lydie hated. She wondered whether he was on his way to her now.

It felt bizarre to waken in Anne’s canopied bed. Light barely filtered through the heavy silk draperies, which, Michael saw that morning, were deep green. He felt swamped by the heat, the closeness. It was the first time he had spent an entire night there. Anne lay beside him, already alert, smiling.

“
Tu as dormi bien?
” she asked, one hand lazily mussing her own hair.

“
C’était un peu trop chaud
,” Michael said, rolling onto his back.

“It’s hot, yes,” she said. She laughed at her double meaning. “And we’d better make love now, because I don’t know when I’ll have this chance again, to have you in my bed in the morning.”

He had not told her that he was living in a hotel. That was something between himself and Lydie; he wanted time to consider the state of his marriage. Telling Anne would proclaim something to the world, to himself, which he wasn’t ready for. Yet here he was in bed with Anne; he felt he had spent half the night with an erection. He had called to invite her to dinner after Lydie had gone home from the embassy. As soon as Anne accepted, Michael had known how the night would go.

She lay on her back, pulling him close, directing his fingers to her
doudounes
, her
zizi
. She wanted him to call their genitals by name, something Lydie had hated. Saying the words in French made it at once easier and more forbidden.

“
Je suis bien obsédé de ta verge
,” she said, regarding his erect penis as if she were, in fact, obsessed with it. She produced a condom, part of their ritual, and rolled it on. She treated his penis a little strangely, as though it had its own life, separate from Michael. Lying back, watching her pay attention to it, Michael figured she considered it a third party. When she left it to kiss his lips, she was giving him equal time, ignoring it, but surreptitiously reaching down every so often to stroke it, to reassure it. Just a little secret between her and it.

He could not be sure, but last night he thought she had whispered “Louis” at the moment of orgasm. He knew she had fantasies of herself as Madame de Sévigné; perhaps, making love in this antique bed, she could pretend Michael was the Sun King. She did research the way other women conducted friendships,
love affairs: with passion and intimacy. This was obvious to Michael when he watched her at the Louvre. She blocked out everything but herself and the person she was studying. Her fantasy world carried into real life, and that was strange. Now, entering her, he wondered whether she was making love to him, Michael McBride, or to his penis. Or to Louis XIV. But the thought was brief and faded soon enough.

An hour later, sipping coffee in her living room, all was proper, even demure. She wore a yellow dress with matching yellow sandals. Her hair, lighter than ever, looked curly and full. He had watched her after their shower, stiffening her wet hair with white foam, blowing it dry until it looked the way she wanted. The process was ritualistic, so feminine. He had never seen a woman pay that sort of attention to her appearance. In his mother’s case it was unfortunate, because she hadn’t much natural beauty to start with. Lydie looked beautiful, in spite of what she did not do; she washed her hair with shampoo thriftily bought by the gallon, then let it air-dry. He had never seen her wear lipstick or nail polish. She disliked any perfume except something called “Water of Struan” that smelled like hay. Thinking of Lydie, he had to look away from Anne.

“There’s the doctor,” he said, gazing across the street. A tall, stooped old man deposited a dripping tea bag in the garbage can on his balcony. A mangy German shepherd stood at his heels.

“What a pig,” Anne said. “Why can’t he keep his garbage out of my sight?”

“How do you know he’s a doctor?”

“Because he has doctor plates on his car. It’s that little red Mini down there. Also, he used to see patients. I’d watch him examining
them in his library, which was then a consulting room. They had the most terrible ailments! Shingles, liver tumors, hemorrhoids.”

“What did you do? Watch with binoculars?”

Anne’s mouth thinned. Michael’s joke did not amuse her. “No. It was obvious from their spots, and from the way he palpated their bodies. Sometimes I would see the patients in the rue Jacob, and I could tell what was wrong by the way they walked.”

“Don’t get mad,” Michael said, “but you do have an active imagination.”

“I know you intend that as a compliment,” Anne said, beaming.

“I do.” Just then he remembered George Reed predicting that Michael would find a mistress in Paris. “All men do it,” George, who knew Lydie well, had said. “It’s the national pastime.” The memory was unpleasant.

“I don’t like to ask this,” Anne said. “But what will your wife think about last night? Did she not expect you to come home?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Michael said, feeling protective of Lydie. He would never discuss her with Anne.

“I liked her,” Anne said. “That time I met her. And I feel funny telling you this, but I have gotten several letters from that friend of hers. The wife of that friend you introduced me to at the Louvre.”

“Patrice?” Michael asked, hiding his shock.

“Patrice d’Origny. She has read
Three Women of the Marais.
”

“Have you written back?” Michael asked. This information made him dislike Patrice, instead of just feeling jealous of her. Patrice corresponding with Anne seemed disloyal to Lydie. He realized, of course, that he was being unreasonable; how could Patrice know about Anne and him, since even Lydie didn’t know Anne’s identity? And if Patrice didn’t know, why shouldn’t she write to Anne?

“Yes. I always answer my fan mail. And her letters were, I don’t
know … different. Sort of dreamy.” Anne looked dreamy herself, remembering Patrice’s letters. “She really lost herself in the material. I can well understand how that can happen, considering she lives on the Place des Vosges. You know that Marie de Sévigné was born in a house there, don’t you? Her grandfather made a fortune collecting the salt tax …”

“Patrice’s husband makes a fortune selling jewelry,” Michael said, wanting to bring Anne back to the present day.

“D’Origny Bijoutiers. I know it well. It is the house where my family has always bought commemorative jewelry. For example, my grandfather acquired a rough diamond in South Africa and had it cut and set by d’Origny—my grandmother’s engagement ring. Those particular grandparents were terribly Anglicized. All the silver timbales given by my family to newborn babies come from there. Also, the diamond earrings my father gave to me when I turned eighteen.”

Anne had never previously spoken of her family. In fact, Michael realized, she usually treated the people she researched with the familiarity accorded to one’s family. Now she was talking about her real family as if they were rich, somehow noble. He thought of applying words like “Anglicized” to his own family or Lydie’s: it didn’t work. “Immigrant Irish,” “middle class,” and “New Yorkers” came closer. The McBrides, like the Fallons, were a close Catholic family. The highest praise they could bestow was to call someone “down to earth.” He thought of their professions: firemen, police officers, small-business owners, plant managers, teachers, maids. He was the first architect in either family, and all four parents had been so proud. He knew that Julia, and Cornelius before his death, loved him like their own son, and that his parents loved Lydie like one of their daughters. What would the parents think if he left Lydie? If he came home with Anne?

Or if he never went home, lived in Paris for the rest of his life?

“Why do you look so grave?” Anne asked. “What are you thinking?”

“We’re going to be late for work,” Michael said.

“We are our own bosses,” Anne said. “That is what is so wonderful.”

“The builders expect me,” Michael said. “The table will be delivered today.”

“
C’est pas vrai!
” Anne said, sounding delighted. “I cannot wait to see it! You are terrible for not telling me sooner, but I forgive you.”

He had known she would love his idea for the information kiosk: a copy of one of Boulle’s tables from the King’s state chamber in the Palais du Louvre, the chamber planned by Lescot and Scibec de Carpi. In one of those perfect coincidences, that was the time of Madame de Sévigné. Although most of the plans had been formed before he knew her, lately she had been trying to influence him to fill the Salle with paintings and a tapestry actually purchased by Louis XIV.

Now that he had told her about the table, she insisted that he finish his coffee and prepare to leave right away. They walked to the Louvre in five minutes, when it usually took ten.

“It’s getting cooler. You can tell fall is coming,” Michael said as they crossed the Pont du Carrousel. He gazed upriver, at the great glass dome of the Grand Palais. He tried to pick his apartment house out of those that lined the banks, but it was around the bend.

“Hurry up,” Anne said, walking ahead of him.

Although the museum was an hour from opening, the first tourists trailed toward the glass pyramid, where they would enter. Michael and Anne used a more convenient, VIP entrance nearer the street.

“
Patron!
” called Gaston, the project foreman. He came toward Michael, shook his hand. He spoke to Anne. It didn’t exactly
bother Michael that the workers knew she was his lover, but it made him uncomfortable. Anne herself did not seem to mind.

“So, where is it?” she asked Gaston.

“Downstairs. We waited for Monsieur McBride before bringing it up. It is in four pieces, wrapped, in boxes. I saw them off the truck myself.”

“Big boxes!” called Prosper, a toothless Greek whose working papers had just come through.