What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1) (7 page)

Lena laughed and caught Rob staring at her.

He didn’t look away. “You have the sweetest smile, Lena. And those
dimples of yours . . . they’re to die for.” He suddenly stood
and pointed at his cup. “Can’t drink this. I’ll have to make a new one. More
tea for you?”

“No thanks. I’m going to turn in.”

Lena dug into her purse for her wallet. She kept her head low until Rob
was sufficiently far, hoping he hadn’t noticed her fierce blush. How debutante
and embarrassing to blush like that from a casual remark! But there was nothing
she could do about it. She was extremely pleased—no, scratch that—she
was over the moon. And it wasn’t just because of what Rob said. It was also
because someone else had said the exact same thing before he did, a long time
ago.

Her mom.

She used to say Lena had a sweet smile and adorable dimples. Then she
left—and no one else ever told her that. Lena began to think she had lost
the smile. The dimples were still there, but when she tried to grin in front of
the mirror, all she saw was a smirk, strained and lopsided. Not sweet. Lena
finally settled on the theory that the smile had been an invention of her mom’s
to cheer up her plain daughter and boost her own maternal pride.

A little defeatist voice inside her head told her Rob’s remark was just
an old pick-up line. But she hushed that voice, because she wanted—she
needed—to believe that he’d really seen her famous smile. That it wasn’t
a chimera. That there was something special about her, after all.

* * *

Lena ran the tips of her fingers across the leather-bound cover, as if to
say good-bye, and placed the volume back on the stall. The book was
romantically old but it was about bugs. She didn’t care for bugs.

Last night, she had mentioned to Rob her plan to pay a visit to the
bouquinistes
,
the used booksellers whose landmark green metal boxes lined the banks of the
Seine. She wanted to look for original editions of Tsvetaeva’s poems translated
into French.

“I’m not working tomorrow, and I need a break from my thesis. May I come
along?” Rob asked.

This was how they ended up walking by the Seine and browsing through the
bookstalls together.

“Your first love, right?” she asked pointing at a tattered
electromechanics textbook. “Didn’t you say your BA was in engineering?”

“First and only. I’m doing an MBA, so I’m better prepared to start my own
manufacturing company one day. I’ve got lots of ideas.”

“Like what?”

He sighed. “Where to start? Like developing a new technology for
recycling methane into consumer goods like furniture, for instance.”

“Is that possible?”

“It’s been done. But the process is still too costly and inefficient.” He
put the primer back and resumed the walk. “I can spend hours talking about
this, which I do with Grand-papa, but I don’t want to bore you.”

“Just because I study literature doesn’t mean I’m not fascinated by
technology,” she said. “Is your Grand-papa an engineer, too?”

“He’s a bit of everything,” he said and went on to tell her about his
grandfather and then about his mom.

Lena found it endearing how his love for them shone through his droll
observations.

And then he asked her about her mom, and she didn’t know what to say. She
didn’t feel like revealing the truth about why her mother had left. It would be
too personal. Nor did she want to confess that she missed her, because she didn’t
really, not anymore. But she wanted to say something about her, share a tidbit
that wouldn’t mean much but would still define her.

“My mother was beautiful. Well, she still is, unless she’s been doctoring
her photos.”

“Does she look like you?”

“No, not at all. She’s tall, racy, and has the highest cheekbones. She
used to wear such beautiful clothes. And expensive French perfume at all times,
reapplied throughout the day. It made me nauseous.”

Rob raised an eyebrow. “Impossible. Must have been a Chinese copy.”

“I doubt it. In any event, it really made me sick. But Dad loved it and
Mom loved it, so I learned to breathe through the mouth around Mom.”

She fell silent. The little tidbit was turning too intimate. Worse still,
she was tempted to continue and spill the whole story to Rob. But she couldn’t.
Things were so complicated and twisted between her parents compared to normal
ones. Including the ‘normally’ divorced ones. She hadn’t allowed herself any
indiscretions in her seven years in Switzerland, not even with Gerhard. She had
no reason to open up to Rob. If only he cracked a joke now and made light of
her words! But he didn’t. He just gave her a funny look and smiled.

They continued their walk in companionable silence, and Lena couldn’t
stop thinking about her mom. She had a mane of shiny golden locks that cost her
biweekly salon visits to maintain. With hindsight, Lena figured those visits
had been Mom’s pretext to be with her lover, the man Dad later caught her with.
Which meant Mom’s hair must have been naturally gorgeous, just like the rest of
her. What a shame that the only thing Lena had inherited from Mom was her
vulnerability.

Rob interrupted Lena’s self-deprecating musings. “Look! Isn’t this your
poet’s book? Marina something?”

Lena focused on the stall before them and gasped. It was a Tsvetaeva book
all right. Better still, it turned out to be an early French translation of her
poems. Thrilled, she bought it without the slightest attempt at negotiating.
She rushed to the nearest bench and began to examine her acquisition. Rob sat
next to her, watching her with a smile.

“Oh my God,” she gushed. “This is the first French translation of
Tsvetaeva’s poems by Elsa Triolet, published by Gallimard in 1952. Rob, this is
a treasure!”

Rob grinned, pleased about his discovery.

“Triolet has the merit of being the first to introduce the French reader
to Tsvetaeva’s poetry. Though I must admit, I’m not a huge fan of hers.”

“Why don’t you like her?”

“She dropped the rhyme and changed the rhythm of the poems like practically
all of Tsvetaeva’s other translators.” Lena frowned disapprovingly.

“And that’s
very bad
because . . .” Rob drew out
the last word.

“Because those are essential to her poetry. She has only a handful of
poems without a strong rhyme and none without a strict meter.”

“I don’t know much about poetry. But aren’t rhyme and meter things of the
past?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, yes, and for some time now. But that’s the thing.
Tsvetaeva insisted on rhyme and meter in an age when most poets wrote in free
verse. She produced such delightful trochees and iambs. I wish you spoke
Russian to appreciate their beauty! They are so musical; it’s almost easier to
sing them than to recite them.”

“Will you sing one for me?”

“Believe me, you don’t want to hear me sing. It may traumatize you for
the rest of your life.”

“I’m tone deaf, which gives me natural protection against bad singing.”

She shook her head. “I have a rule. Never sing in front of another
sentient being.”

“OK. Then read me one.”

Lena leafed through the book, hesitating on some pages, and then closed
it. “They are just all so . . . ornate. This is my other problem
with the French translations of Tsvetaeva. They are too decorative, too
elaborate. Her poetry—like all good poetry—is neither. It’s bare
human soul.”

She reopened the book, traced her finger along the table of contents, and
then turned the yellowed pages until she found what she was looking for.

She held the book out to Rob, pointing to a poem. “I finished translating
this one last week. It’s addressed to Tsvetaeva’s daughter Ariadna. I’d like
you to read the first verse of Triolet’s translation, and then I’ll read you
mine. And promise you’ll give me your honest opinion as to which one you like
better.”

“Cross my heart,” Rob said and took the book from Lena. He read the poem
silently, then turned to her. “OK. Let’s hear yours now.”

Lena closed her eyes to shut out the world and
recited from memory.

Don’t forget: tomorrow you’ll
be ancient.

Drive the troika, sing, defy
conventions,

Be a blue-eyed gypsy, brightly
dressed.

Don’t forget: no man’s worth
your attentions—

And bestow
them upon every chest.

Lena opened her eyes. Rob was looking at her in a funny way. His gaze was
fixed on her lips, his eyes dark with something primal, fierce, and unbearably
intense. Lena’s heart quickened in response—and then in panic.

She made herself smile cheerfully. “So. Your honest opinion, please.”

He blinked, then a sly grin spread on his face. “Here’s my honest
opinion: What kind of mother advises her daughter to sleep with every stupid
dude who happens to be around?”

“A crazy, wild, passionate Russian poet mother?” Lena wrinkled her nose. “Anyway,
I’m not sure she meant it quite so literally. It’s poetry, you know. Hyperbole
is its second nature.”

“Oh. Why didn’t I think of that? So, perhaps, what she really meant was: My
daughter, you should always be polite to men? After all, it
is
terribly
rude when women tell us things like ‘not a chance in hell’ or ‘in your wildest
dreams, loser’.”

“I think what she meant was that she wanted her daughter to give her body
freely—and to take pleasure in it—but to withhold her heart.” Lena’s
eyes darkened. “Because she herself suffered too much from rejection and
heartbreak.”

Rob grew serious, too. “I like your translation better. And that’s my
honest opinion.”

As she lay in bed that night, unable to fall
asleep, Lena thought of how easy it had been to read her translation to Rob.
She didn’t hesitate for a second before sharing something she had kept from
everyone else. Well, not exactly everyone—she did show her translated
poems to Professor Rouvier. But that was different. It was a clinical
experience, like baring your chest in front of your cardiologist. Reading her
translation to Rob was nowhere near a clinical experience. It was electrifying.
It was thrilling. It was sensual.

And therein lay the trouble.

Bittersweet—the taste of passion

On your lips. A siren’s call,

Bittersweet—oh, the temptation

To precipitate my fall!

Marina Tsvetaeva

The next day, after Lena was politely kicked out of the public library
that had to close for the day, she went to the
cinémathèque
and watched
an old movie. Then she walked all the way back to rue Cadet, her stomach
knotted with anxiety. What if Rob looked at her again like he did yesterday?
What if he didn’t look at her like that anymore? Good Lord, what a mess.

When she reached
La Bohème,
the dinner service was over and the
bistro was relatively empty—not unusual for a Tuesday night. Rob and Pepe
were discussing something by the counter. As Lena approached, she heard Pepe
say, “Rrrrrrrrr.”

“No,” Rob said.

“Rrrrrrrrrr,” Pepe said again.

Rob shook his head.

Pepe gave Lena a pleading look. “Rrrrrrr?”

“Are you rehearsing for a baby tiger role?” she asked.

“Now that you mention it, he does sound like an angry cat,” Rob said,
smiling at Lena.

 Pepe blew out his cheeks. “Come on, guys—you’ve got to help
me. Rrrrrrrrrr. Did that sound French enough?”

“Nope,” Rob said, putting his elbow on the counter and leaning his head
into his hand.

“Couldn’t it pass for a
Midi
accent?” Lena asked Rob. “They roll
their r’s down in Marseille, don’t they?”

“Absolutely. Only Pepe isn’t rolling. He’s growling.”

“Anyway, I don’t want a
Midi
accent,” Pepe said. “I need those
Nordic blondes from the hotel down the street to think I’m a Parisian. You
know, a real one.
Authentic
.”

Rob rubbed his chin. “It’s hopeless, buddy, even if you manage to get
your
r
’s right. Even if you learn to say ‘mademoiselle’ instead of ‘mad-e-muethel’.”

Pepe’s face fell.

“Forget the
r
’s,” Rob said. “What you really need to pass for a
true Parisian is scorn.”

“Scorn?” Pepe’s furrowed his brow. “Like in ‘humor’?”

“Like in ‘contempt’.” Rob went behind the counter to make Lena tea. “Look
at Didier over there.” He nodded discretely with his head.

Lena and Pepe turned to look at the bistro’s headwaiter.

“Observe him in action. Notice how he’s telling that American couple they’re
total losers without actually saying it.”

The three of them fell silent and watched Didier. The distance was too
big for them to make out his words, but his condescending smiles, discrete eye
rolls, and impatient finger taps said it all.

“He’s good,” Pepe said, turning back to Rob.

“Can you do the same?”

Pepe shook his head. “No. And I don’t want to, either. I like people.
Even the ones who aren’t Nordic blondes in minishorts. All customers deserve to
be treated nicely.”

“That’s my boy.” Rob patted him on the shoulder. “But you’ll never pass
for an authentic Parisian waiter.”

“So be it,” Pepe declared, his expression grave and determined.

“You could find another—” Lena began.

“My
r
’s are definitely getting better, though, I can feel it!”
Pepe’s face lit up with a grin. “This means I may have a chance with one of
those blond angels, God bless their minishorts.”

Rob clapped his hand to his forehead. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. I was just
about to abandon my murderous plans for you, and you have to go and ruin
everything.”

Pepe snarled at him, then turned to Lena. “You know what I like most
about blondes? Their napes.”

“You mean the backs of their necks?” she asked.