The Ingredients of Love (18 page)

“There you are,” she said. “Oh, let's forget the stupid watering can. It leaked anyway. Isn't it lovely that the sun is shining after all that rain?”

I nodded. Yes, it was lovely. The sun was shining, and life was full of surprises.

*   *   *

And that's how it came about that on that Thursday I was standing in the Père Lachaise with a bizarre old lady who seemed to have sprung straight out of a Fellini film, puffing a cigarette. We were surrounded by serene silence, and I felt as if we were the only people in the whole gigantic cemetery.

In the distance towered the Muse Euterpe, symbol of jollity, who has been watching over Frédéric Chopin's grave for a long time now. At the foot of the stone tomb there were a lot of vases full of flowers, and bunches of roses had been stuck in the iron railings. I looked around. Some graves still had the flowers that had been put there on All Saints' Day. Some had been ravaged by time: Nature had reconquered her territory and weeds and wild plants were growing in profusion over the stone monuments. These dead had been forgotten. And there were more than a few of them.

“I've been watching you,” said the old lady, and twinkled at me out of her knowing brown eyes, which were surrounded by hundreds of tiny wrinkles. “You looked as if you were thinking about something very beautiful.”

I took a pull at the cigarette. “I was, actually,” I replied. “I was thinking about tomorrow. Tomorrow evening I'm going to La Coupole, you know.”

“What a coincidence,” said the old lady, and shook her head delightedly. “I'll be in La Coupole tomorrow as well. I'm celebrating my eighty-fifth birthday, my child. I
love
La Coupole—I go there every year on my birthday. I always have the oysters, they're very good.”

I suddenly imagined the Fellini lady, surrounded by her children and grandchildren, sitting at a long table in the brasserie, celebrating.

“Then I wish you a pleasant celebration in advance,” I said.

She shook her head regretfully. “No, it will only be a very small party this time,” she said. “Very small
indeed,
to be honest. Just me and the waiters, but they are always lovely.” She smiled happily. “My goodness, what parties we've had in La Coupole. Wild parties. Henry, my husband, was a conductor at the opera, you know. And after premieres the champagne flowed: By the end we were all so gloriously drunk.” She giggled. “Well, that was long ago … And George only comes to Paris with the children at Christmas. He lives in South America…” I assumed that George was her son. “
Eh bien,
and since my old friend Auguste went”—she paused for a moment and looked over at the gravestone where the watering can should have been—“there's unfortunately no one left to celebrate with me.”

“Oh,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

“No need for you to be sorry, my child, that's life. Everything to its own time. Sometimes I lie in bed at night and count all my dear departed ones.”

She gave me a conspiratorial look and lowered her voice. “There are
thirty-seven
already.” She took a last puff of her cigarette and threw the butt carelessly to the ground. “Well, I'm still here, what do you say to that? And let me tell you something, my child. I enjoy every goddamn day. My mother lived to be a hundred and two and was cheerful to the end.”

“Impressive,” I said.

She stretched her little hand, clothed in a black leather glove, forcefully toward me. “Elisabeth Dinsmore,” she said. “But you're welcome to call me Liz.”

I dropped my cigarette end and shook her hand.

“Aurélie Bredin,” I introduced myself. “Do you know what, Liz? You're the first person whose acquaintance I've ever made in a cemetery.”

“Oh, I've got to know a lot of people in the cemetery,” Mrs. Dinsmore said, smiling broadly with her red lips. “They certainly weren't the worst.”

“Dinsmore … that doesn't sound very French,” I said. I had noticed before that the old lady's pronunciation had a slight accent to it, but had put it down to her age.

“That's because it isn't,” Mrs. Dinsmore replied. “I'm American. But I've lived in Paris for ages. And you, my child? What will you be doing in La Coupole?” she asked without any transition.

“Oh, I…” I responded, noticing how I was blushing. “I'm going there to meet … someone.”

“Aaaah,” she said. “And … is he nice?” One of the advantages of age was obviously that you could get down to essentials without wasting any time.

I laughed and bit my lower lip. “Yes … I think so. He's a writer.”

“My goodness, a writer!” cried Elisabeth Dinsmore. “How
exciting
!”

“Yes,” I said, without going into any more detail. “I
am
quite excited.”

After I had taken my leave of Mrs. Dinsmore—Liz—who had invited me to join her for a glass of champagne at her table the following evening (“But you'll probably have better things to do than quaff champagne with an old biddy, my child,” she had added with a twinkle), I stood beside the white boulder for a moment longer.

“
Au revoir,
Papa,” I said quietly. “Somehow I have the feeling that tomorrow's going to be a quite unusual day.”

And—in some ways—I turned out to be right.

*   *   *

I was standing in a line that reached right up to the big glass door. Even if La Coupole wasn't exactly my favorite restaurant, it was still a favorite meeting place for both young and old. It wasn't only tourists who streamed into the legendary brasserie on the busy Boulevard Montparnasse with its red canopy—and, so it was said, the largest dining room in Paris. Businessmen and people who live in Paris also liked to come here to eat and to celebrate. A few years before they had held salsa evenings every Wednesday in the dance hall beneath the brasserie, but since then the salsa craze had probably calmed down; at least, I couldn't see any posters advertising such a spectacle.

I moved forward a bit with the line and went inside La Coupole. I was immediately engulfed by a lively buzz of conversation. Waiters carrying silver trays hurried between the long rows of white-covered tables under the vast arch of the great hall. Even if you would search in vain for a real cupola, the hall with its green pillars and the art deco lamps under the ceiling was nevertheless most impressive. The restaurant vibrated with life—the motto of the place was
se donner en spectacle
and the guests here seemed to be heeding it. I hadn't been here for a long time and observed the lively activity with amusement.

A friendly maître d' was distributing little red cards to the people who didn't have reservations and sending them to the bar to wait. On the cards were the names of famous composers, and every few minutes you would hear a young waiter, who obviously found it extremely amusing, walking around in the bar shouting at the top of his voice like a circus ringmaster:
“Bach, deux personnes, s'il vous plait”
or
“Tchaikovsky, quatre personnes, s'il vous plait”
or
“Debussy, six personnes, s'il vous plait.”
At that, some of those who were waiting would get up to be led to their tables.

“
Bonsoir, mademoiselle, vous avez une réservation?
Do you have a reservation?” the maître d' asked me briskly when it was my turn, and a young woman took my coat and pressed a cloakroom ticket into my hand.

I nodded.
“J'ai un rendez-vous avec Monsieur André Chabanais,”
I said.

The maître d' glanced at his long list. “
Ah, oui,
here it is,” he said. “A table for three. One moment, please!” He waved a waiter over. The waiter, an elderly man with short gray hair, smiled at me agreeably.

“Follow me, please, mademoiselle.”

I nodded, and could feel my heart beginning to pound. In half an hour I would finally be meeting Robert Miller, who was, as his letter had said, so looking forward to seeing me “in the flesh.”

I smoothed down my dress. It was the green silk dress, the dress in the book, the dress I was wearing in the photo I'd sent to Robert Miller. I'd left nothing to chance.

The friendly waiter stopped suddenly in front of one of the wood-paneled niches.
“Et voilà,”
he said. “Here you are.”

André Chabanais jumped up from the bench immediately to welcome me. He was wearing a suit and a white shirt with an elegant dark blue tie. “Mademoiselle Bredin,” he said. “How lovely to see you … please take a seat.” He pointed to his place on the bench and went to stand by one of the chairs on the opposite side of the table.

“Thank you.” The waiter moved the table with its white cloth set with glasses a little and I went past him and sat down on the leather-upholstered seat.

André Chabanais sat down too.

“What would you like to drink? Champagne—to celebrate the
great
day?” He grinned at me.

I could feel myself turning red and was annoyed with myself because I could see that he noticed it too. “Don't be impertinent,” I replied, and held my purse tight in my lap. “But yes, champagne would be very nice.”

His gaze slid over my bare arms, then he looked up at me again. “My compliments,” he said. “You look enchanting, if I may be so bold as to say so. The dress suits you superbly. It emphasizes the color of your eyes.”

“Thank you,” I said, and smiled. “You don't look too bad yourself this evening.”

“Oh…” André Chabanais waved to the waiter. “I'm only playing a very small bit part this evening, you know.” He turned round. “Champagne for two, please!”

“I thought I was the bit player this evening,” I retorted. “After all, I was only passing here by chance.”

“Well, we'll see,” declared Monsieur Chabanais. “And anyway, you might as well put down your purse. Your author won't be here for a quarter of an hour at least.”

“Your author, you mean,” I said, and put my purse down beside me.

Monsieur Chabanais smiled. “Let's just say
our
author.”

The waiter came and served the champagne. Then he handed us the menus. “Thanks, but we're waiting for someone else,” said Monsieur Chabanais, and put the menus aside.

He took his glass and toasted me, and we briefly clinked glasses. The champagne was ice cold. I took three great gulps and could feel my nervousness giving way to relaxed anticipation.

“Thanks once again for arranging things,” I said. “To be honest, I'm as tense as a bowstring.” I put the champagne flute down.

André Chabanais nodded. “I can understand that very well.” He leaned back in his seat. “For example, I'm a great Woody Allen fan. I even began to learn the clarinet once, just because he plays clarinet.” He laughed. “Unfortunately my new passion was not born under a lucky star. The neighbors kept banging on the ceiling whenever I practiced.”

He took a sip and stroked the white tablecloth. “Well, anyway, then Woody Allen came to Paris and gave a concert with his funny old-time jazz band. The hall, which was normally used for classical concerts by great orchestras, was sold out, and I'd managed to get hold of a seat in the fifth row. Like everyone else, I wasn't really there for the music. I mean, to be honest, Woody Allen played no better than any old jazz musician in any old bar in Montmartre. But to see this old guy that I knew from so many films close up, to hear him speaking in person—that was something incredibly special and very exciting.”

He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. “There's one thing that annoys me to this very day.”

He paused for a moment, and I emptied my glass and leaned forward too. Chabanais was a good storyteller. But he was also very attentive. When he saw that my glass was empty, he made a sign to the waiter, who immediately brought two more glasses of champagne.
“À la vôtre,”
said André Chabanais, and I raised my glass without protest.

“So there's something that annoys you to this very day,” I repeated eagerly.

“Yes,” he said, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. “This is what happened: When the concert was over, there was a massive burst of applause. People stood up or stamped their feet to honor that slight old man who was standing there in his sweater and corduroys looking as unassuming and confused as he does in his films. He'd already left the stage five times, returning to his fans' thunderous applause, when all of a sudden a great hulk of a guy in a black suit leapt onto the stage. He had slicked-down, gelled hair and looked at first glance like a theater official or a tenor. Anyway, he shook the startled Allen's hand and then gave him a pen and a ticket to get him to sign his autograph. And Woody did it, too, and then finally vanished from the stage.”

Monsieur Chabanais downed his champagne. “I wish I'd had the chutzpah to simply jump onto the stage like that. Just imagine: I could have shown that autograph to my children later on.” He sighed. “Now good old Woody is back in America, I rush to see all his films, and it's hardly likely that I'll ever come face-to-face with him again in this life.”

He looked at me, and this time I could discern no trace of mockery in his brown eyes.

“You know, Mademoiselle Bredin, when all is said and done I admire your determination. If you want something, you really have to
want
it.”

A quiet ringtone interrupted his tribute to my willpower.

“Excuse me, please. That's mine.” André Chabanais took his cell phone from his jacket and turned to one side.
“Oui?”

I glanced at my watch and was astonished to see that it was already a quarter past eight. Time had flown, and Robert Miller would appear any minute.

“Oh dear, how silly, I'm so sorry,” I heard Monsieur Chabanais say. “No, no. No problem at all. I'm sitting here quite comfortably. Don't let it stress you.” He laughed. “Good. See you later, then.
Salut.
” He put the phone back in his pocket.