The Train to Paris Page 14

  Selvin checked his watch once he had finished his coffee.

  ‘I’m sorry to abandon you, Élodie,’ he said. ‘But we must be going. Where are the taxis around here?’

  I had been expecting him to stay longer, and it was a relief to think that I would have Élodie to myself again. I directed him to the nearest rank on the boulevard. He shook my hand. ‘I’m sure we’ll see each other again sometime,’ he said. ‘And remember what I said—find something to do. There aren’t enough years in a lifetime to be studying art history.’

  ‘Do call me, or something,’ Élodie said. ‘Before you leave tomorrow.’

  He kissed her on both cheeks, and then he led Isabelle away by pushing his hand to her back. He waved from the corner. I was not sad to see him go.

  18

  We stayed on the café terrace while Élodie finished her cigar. The chaotic comings and goings of the Carrefour played out before us. The passing traffic swerved drunkenly away from the boulevard and up the narrow side streets. Paris somehow made beauty out of this chaos. My coffee was murky and cold, but I finished it nonetheless.

  ‘That was a coincidence,’ I said, ‘seeing Ed like that.’

  ‘It was,’ she said. ‘I am sorry that you don’t like him.’

  ‘He’s grown on me a little.’

  ‘You are holding yourself better. But don’t take it too far. I don’t want you to lose your charm.’

  ‘So you want me to be both charming and assertive. What makes you think I can do that?’

  ‘Just a hunch. Lawrence, I’m afraid I have to ask you about the girlfriend again.’

  ‘She has a name, you know.’

  ‘Yes, Sophie. Where are you going with her? What happens when you return to New Zealand? Will you spend the rest of your life with her? Pop out a few children and buy a house in the suburbs? Will she sacrifice her career for your sake? What future can there be in a relationship with somebody so dull?’

  ‘She isn’t dull. And people don’t have to consign themselves to a future like that anymore. It is possible to be happy without knowing where we’re going.’

  ‘But she will want to know, darling. And you will have to tell her something.’

  ‘Perhaps I won’t return to New Zealand.’

  ‘Then do something about it. Don’t lead her on. I won’t let you waste your energy on something that will never happen. You have left it too long to be her first, you know. Fireworks never go off twice.’

  She put out the cigar in the ashtray, crushing it into flakes with her fingers, and started to pick up the various shopping bags.

  ‘Let’s go, darling, it is getting on. And I will catch a frightful cold if I stay out here any longer.’

  I was upset from the talk about Sophie. Nobody had ever told me how to deal with relationships. People only told you to have the relationship in the first place. It was seen as no more than a good thing. Where to from there? The bad inevitably followed the good. It made me sad to think that the holiday in Madrid could have been my happiest time with Sophie, and that from here things would get worse.

  The sky had gone pearly, and I hoped that it might snow again. I made sure to pay for the coffees and we ambled around the corner to the boulevard, gliding through the streets while everybody else walked fast. Time no longer mattered. The taxi took us from the Boulevard Saint-Michel across Châtelet and up the Rue de Rivoli. The city looked different from inside a car, but not necessarily better. The architecture was already close enough to a museum display without an added pane of glass.

  ‘This man is cheating us,’ Élodie said, bending in so close that I could smell her perfume. ‘He is taking the long way, with more traffic, so that we will have to pay more. He must think we are tourists.’

  ‘Trust me, nobody could mistake you for a tourist.’

  ‘Such a cheap thing to say, Lawrence. But I do appreciate it. You look…transitional is the word, I think. Somewhere in the middle.’

  ‘Between what and what?’

  ‘Ah, that is the question. Between impoverished student and impoverished fashion model, perhaps.’

  ‘Is that an improvement?’

  ‘An improvement. You really are funny, Lawrence. Don’t ever change that. I will be disappointed if you become a bore. There are too many of them in the world.’

  ‘So I’m not a bore, but I am a wet blanket.’

  ‘Oh darling. Please never pull that passive-aggressive act on me; it really is off-putting. I said that for Ed’s benefit, you know.’

  ‘You say a lot of things for Ed’s benefit.’

  And she knew it. She bowed her head. I was defeated. I wanted to argue with her. But that would make me the wet blanket again.

  Her street was close to the Arc de Triomphe. It was narrow, residential, with no pedestrians. The apartment building was strikingly modern, with Haussmann-style blocks on either side. Its plate-glass windows and clean sandstone were somehow improper.

  ‘This is different,’ I said as we trudged through to the lobby, which was tiled with a slippery marble.

  ‘Marcel prefers not to live in any of those old apartments,’ she said. She had removed her sunglasses. Her eyes showed none of the glimmer that I remembered, even under such harsh lighting.

  ‘So this is your husband’s apartment?’

  ‘Of course it is. But he is no longer my husband.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘It is hardly your business, Lawrence. In any case, he is out of town right now, so I can do whatever I wish.’

  ‘He’s given you permission to live here when he’s not around, then?’

  ‘Lawrence, you never cease to amaze me.’

  ‘All right,’ I said, after a few false starts. ‘So you’ve taken over your ex-husband’s apartment to throw a party. You never cease to amaze me, Élodie. Isn’t that illegal?’

  ‘If he finds out. But he won’t.’ She was both casual and defiant, but I could sense that there was something more intense lurking behind this. I felt a strong urge to provoke it out.

  ‘This is wrong on all sorts of levels,’ I said.

  ‘Isn’t it just? Don’t worry. He won’t know a thing, and we will have a fabulous time.’

  I faced her with my sternest of stares, hoping that she might melt beneath it. She showed no signs of discomfort.

  ‘Why did you divorce him?’ I said. ‘Did he find out about me?’

  She snorted. ‘You do flatter yourself.’

  ‘Tell me why. I deserve to know.’

  ‘Please, Lawrence, don’t do this to me,’ she said in a voice that was somehow both aggressive and childish. ‘You don’t understand these things. It is unfair to make judgements when you have barely seen a fraction of the evidence. Trust that I know what I am doing, because you most certainly do not. No matter how you see me.’

  The elevator stopped on the sixth floor. Élodie walked out. I had the familiar urge to escape. But again I defied it. This time it was out of sheer curiosity that I followed her.

  ‘Why should I trust you?’ I asked.

  Her hands shook as she tried to find the keys in her handbag. ‘Because you know no better. Can you deny it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then trust me.’ Her smile was deranged. ‘We need to have some real fun. I can’t have any fun on my own. Come inside, you silly boy.’

  The apartment was not Élodie’s. It was austere, lacking personality. The art on the walls had no feeling in its choice, and none of it was compelling. Everything was laid out perfectly, much like a hotel suite. A grand piano stood in the middle of the room, but unlike other pianos I had seen it was not decorated with family photographs or knitted throws. The furniture ran through the hue of glass, metal and suede with minimal patterning. It was all surface and no substance.

  ‘I do like this place,’ Élodie said, ‘because there is no view of that damned hideous Eiffel Tower. But it still gets enough light.’

  Her tone was curiously self-
aggrandising, as though she had won some sort of an argument.

  ‘Do you play the piano?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t have the time for such nonsense.’

  She started to unpack her purchases, pausing on the champagne bottles. The shopkeeper had wrapped them first in white paper, then in a black package with gold print.

  ‘We must drink a toast to your birthday,’ she said. ‘Just the one. We can save the rest for later.’

  ‘I don’t want to be fussed over, you know.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve never enjoyed it.’

  ‘What nonsense, Lawrence. You adore it. In any case, we shall fix that tonight.’

  She chilled the champagne in a silver ice bucket. The kitchen was predictably done out in burnished steel, and it might never have been used. There was a single scratch on the otherwise clean stovetop. I wondered how many hours the poor cleaning staff had spent trying to remove it.

  ‘There is nothing wrong with a little celebration,’ Élodie said as she collected together a linen napkin and two tulip-shaped champagne flutes that had diamonds set into their stems. She presented me with the bottle to uncork. I spent a long time unwinding the foil cap. ‘Don’t be intimidated by it. Ease it off, gently and carefully. You don’t want to rush it.’

  ‘You’re the expert,’ I said, flustered. ‘Why don’t you do it?’

  I seemed to have committed the greatest offence. ‘Oh really, Lawrence. Must I spell it out to you?’

  ‘No, I understand.’

  But I did not. It was easier to pretend. The cork was lodged tight, and I had difficulty lifting it. But then it came alive, as though I had awakened it, and it shot off of its own accord. It hit me on the forehead, and Élodie laughed.

  ‘Bravo,’ she said. ‘It has to happen once. Refine your technique, boy. It gets easier each time.’

  I could hardly hold the bottle steady as I poured it. Élodie went over to the record player and flicked through the collection of vinyls. She finally settled on a familiar tune. I tried to remember where I had heard it before. It was a light and airy bossa nova that did not suit the cool weather.

  ‘Isn’t this the record they played in Biarritz?’ I said, transferring the champagne to a silver tray and carrying them over to the sofa.

  ‘Possibly,’ Élodie said. ‘You have a good memory.’

  ‘How could I forget? You danced to it on the terrace.’

  ‘Ah, yes. You wouldn’t join me.’

  ‘I can’t dance, remember?’

  ‘I will never hear you say such a silly thing again. Anyone can dance. It is a case of being foolish enough to do so.’

  She reclined on the sofa, and through the gap in her fur coat I could see her thigh. It really was as white as the Olympia’s. Her stockings were designed with a pattern of black flames that spread up from her shoes. I imagined the garters, binding them to the black lace of her lingerie, and in my imagination I undressed her and left her as naked as Manet’s painting.

  ‘You know,’ I said. ‘You look like Olympia when you sit like that.’

  ‘Do I indeed? Well, Lawrence, how could I possibly take that the wrong way?’

  ‘You shouldn’t. I meant to say that you look beautiful.’

  The telephone rang, and Élodie pulled her coat down to mask her leg.

  ‘Of course this happens as soon as we have sat down to a nice glass of champagne.’

  ‘Won’t it be for your husband?’

  ‘Maybe. But it wouldn’t make any difference. You are the only one who knows of our separation.’

  She picked up the telephone in the reception area. I could not help but swell with pride. She had told me something that nobody else knew.

  The record sleeve was lying on the shelf. The front cover showed a woman with a toothy smile and flowing black hair. She could have been Élodie, if not for the eyes. They were filled with joy. The track that was playing was called ‘Menina Flor’, and the singer’s name was María Toledo. I thought back to how Élodie had danced on the terrace, how she had become one with the music. I wished that I could lose myself in such a natural dance.

  ‘That was Bertrand,’ she said, having put the receiver down. ‘Your shirt is ready, and he says it is the best thing he has ever made. I would believe him, too, if he didn’t say that about everything. Come, we must pick it up.’ She strode through to the living area, and she judged my appearance. ‘You need a haircut, too.’

  ‘I might have to draw the line there.’

  ‘No, I insist. I won’t butcher it, but it does need to be neat.’

  She headed for the door.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said, pursuing her. ‘You won’t butcher it?’

  ‘I know how to cut hair, darling. Don’t worry. It’s better than giving the task to some stranger. You have to know somebody before you can know their haircut.’

  I put on my overcoat and scarf. Élodie stopped as she was about to open the door, and she drew up close to me. She took the scarf and reformed the fold, so it pulled in tight against my neck and billowed out like a cravat. Her glassy hand touched my skin. I flinched. It was impossibly cold. We were closer than we had been since that night in Biarritz. She ran the same hand down my back, starting at the shoulder blade. I could hardly feel it through the overcoat, but its presence was enough.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ she said. We simply haven’t the time for any nonsense.’

  I was dazed from the thrill of this contact. At least I could survive on the hope that it might happen again. Her touch was still magnetic, whether I wanted to be attracted to it or not.

  19

  The low cloud was clearing. A strip of the setting sun was visible as we passed Avenue Montaigne, with its uninterrupted view down to the river. The shoppers on the Champs-Élysées were thinning, and the whole city was entering the mid-afternoon transitional period between work and play. The bars were filling, the wine was flowing, and I was excited to think that I was joining them, that I was going to a real party, and that the night would go on. It would not be lonely, and it would not be spent with a textbook and a cup of tea.

  When we arrived, Bertrand came out of his workshop grinning all his mismatched teeth. He shook my hand. This excitement made his body quiver, as though it was going to collapse.

  ‘You, young sir, are my muse,’ he said. I wondered if I had misunderstood. ‘Come, come through and see it.’

  The shirt was draped on a mannequin. Thin stripes alternated between different shades of blue, tapering off into a floral design around the hem. But it was the stippled lining that Bertrand had added to the collar and the cuffs that truly set the piece off. I felt the linen, and concluded that it was neither too soft nor too coarse. Unlike the salmon pink shirt, which hung loose and shapeless, its collar was firm and it was long and slim. It wouldn’t hang over my belt or bunch up around my shoulders; I could tell that it would accentuate the muscles in my arms.

  ‘It’s fantastic,’ I said. ‘Absolutely beautiful.’

  ‘It will do wonders for your frame. You see, it is the best cut I have made because it is so slender. Your torso was designed by angels.’

  I excused this as a very French thing to say. He insisted that I try it on, and he even went as far as to take pictures of it from different angles. It was a superb cut. It held itself against my body like a second skin. I stood before the mirror, intoxicated by the figure staring back at me. Suddenly the shop assistant’s opinion that I could have been a model was not so unbelievable. Élodie came to stand beside me. We were almost on the same plane, despite our variation in height. She held my tie, and she reached around my shoulder to hang it against the shirt, pressing the collar together. She touched my neck and felt my stubble.

  ‘How sublime that is,’ she said. ‘You have outdone yourself, Monsieur Bertrand.’

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ he said. ‘Thank God for giving that boy his body.’

  I wore the shirt out of the shop and we wandered down the Rue du Faubourg Sai
nt-Honoré. Élodie removed the sunglasses at last. Her eyes had recovered some of their old glow. I made the mistake of becoming too conscious of how happy I was. I had wanted to remember this afternoon, to be able to replay it in my imagination—and this made it difficult to enjoy now. I tried to see Élodie’s gestures and mannerisms as a photographer would. She lived in the half-light, where she was neither luminous nor invisible.

  ‘He is a dear man,’ she said. ‘Are you happy?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Good.’ She stopped on the corner. ‘What say we take a stroll through the Tuileries? We have enough time.’

  We crossed the Concorde towards the Jeu de Paume. The crêpe vendors were doing good business despite the encroaching dark, and the tourists lined up to ride the Ferris wheel and photograph the city. The buildings across the river were starting to light up, standing out against a velvety backdrop. Not a breath of wind disturbed the delicate air, though it remained cold. I tried to repeat Élodie’s work by pulling the scarf tighter around my neck, but only she knew how to fold it properly.

  ‘I’m glad I came today,’ I said. ‘It’s been fun, you know.’

  ‘Days with me aren’t always fun. They can be damned unpleasant, too. You should count yourself lucky.’

  ‘I do. And it’s easy to imagine. You’re happier when I’m around.’

  ‘Do stop it. What did I tell you about saying cheap things? I don’t need other people to be content. Nobody does. You, on the other hand, need all the help that you can get.’

  ‘At least I’m not pretending to be someone else.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I was about to explain myself, but Élodie had gone rigid. I had never seen her so angry with me.

  ‘Nothing,’ I spluttered. ‘I’m sorry, Élodie. You’re right. But I’m worried about you.’

  ‘How very noble of you.’ She returned to her old self at once. ‘Don’t ask me silly things like that until I am drunk. And please don’t worry about me. You should be worrying about one person right now, because you won’t be able to get away with egocentrism when you are older.’

  ‘You pull it off.’