A Small Indiscretion (18 page)

The building was completed in the middle of the nineteenth century, Malcolm said. During World War II it had been the headquarters for a Quaker mission, a safe house for wounded French civilians.

“La Place du Châtelet is the oldest square in Paris,” Louise added. “It’s the true center of the city. From the square, you can walk across the Pont au Change to the Île de la Cité and the Rive Gauche and the Quartier Latin. The Louvre is just a few blocks away, and Les Halles are not far beyond that.”

She pronounced all the proper nouns in this speech with a perfect accent, but there was something halting in her approach, a brief pause before she leapt forward, as if she had to take a moment to persuade herself that her command of the language was sufficient to
proceed, and that it was worth the trouble it cost her. It seemed to me this was the way she moved generally, in the world. She was so small and delicate, it did not seem it would take much to propel her along the street, but she walked as if she were bracing herself, pitching her body forward and keeping her arms tight at her sides. When she did swing her arms, it appeared to require both effort and resolve.

“Why don’t you drop us here, dear, then park the car?” she said to Malcolm when we had pulled up in front of the building. “I’m beginning to feel a headache coming on.”

“Right,” Malcolm said. “I’ll just pop in and find
‘le porter’
to take care of the bags.”

Malcolm’s French was abysmal, and his insistence on using it clearly pained Louise, but he didn’t seem to care. He was not cultured or stylish and he did not pretend to be. It was the thing about him I liked most and that had put me at ease all the months we worked together so closely. He was forthright and unpretentious. He was who he appeared to be.

The lobby of the hotel had dark, shining wood floors and heavy furniture and there were objects set tastefully on each surface—brass candlesticks and polished lamps, photographs of points of interest in silver frames, carved iron horses and antique telephones. There was a globe in one corner and a reproduction of an early map of modern Paris, circa 1860, above the fireplace, with the location of the hotel marked with a gold star. The Seine ran through the center of the painting, broken up by bridges and contained by stone walls that would be overrun by water in a matter of two days’ time.

The wine had worn off entirely, leaving me ill at ease. Malcolm’s murmured sentiment at the museum, and the corollary question of the sleeping arrangements, began to trouble me immensely. I longed to have my own room. I longed for Patrick to come to me in the
night when Louise and Malcolm were asleep, bringing with him the singular focus from our night in Canterbury. I could not allow Malcolm’s intentions to interfere with that possibility.

We took the ancient elevator up to the fifth floor and emerged directly into a bright, airy, comfortable room with windows all around. The kitchen was in one corner, and a nook they called the morning room was in another. The walls were painted a sunny yellow. The kitchen was filled with chunky wood hutches and baskets and vases. In the center of the room was a living space with many sofas and chairs in cheerful mismatched upholstery. There were tasseled pillows stacked one upon the other on the faded Oriental rug, making themselves into a kind of stool. It was a French country room, well worn and authentic, with an element of the flea market in it. I did not know whether this effect had been achieved intentionally or whether it had accumulated organically over the years. I did not know, either, whether I should like the room or not. But I did like it, especially the lights.

There were pendant lights made from recycled jam jars. There was a chandelier with a shade covered in ostrich feathers. There was an old birdcage in one corner in the shape of a woman’s body, painted robin’s-egg blue and converted into a lamp. Years later, when I first opened the Salvaged Light, I happened upon three birdcages in that same unusual shape at a flea market and picked them up for fifty dollars. I wired them and painted them by hand, and they sold in the store for four hundred dollars each.

When I asked Louise about the birdcage, she said, “Isn’t it awful? Really, I have to apologize for the state of this place. It used to be so elegant. But over time, with so many people inflicting their taste upon it—”

“I like it,” I said, cutting her off.

She looked at me curiously, wearing the same expression she’d
worn when I’d read from the plaque at the Arc de Triomphe. It was as if she were reconsidering her estimation of me. As if until that day, she had perceived me as an attractive but mostly empty vessel. And, really, who could blame her? It’s exactly the way I felt, Robbie, about the girlfriends you brought home over the years. All that smooth flesh and shiny hair. The high, bright cheeks. The push-up bras. The interests and intentions: a passion for journalism; a plan to join the Peace Corps; a love of writing, or painting, or drama; a major in business administration, perhaps with a minor in psychology. Beauty and ambition, the twin currencies with which those girls hoped to purchase a place for themselves in the world.

Emme was different, of course. Emme’s beauty was uncontested, but her faith in herself was tenuous, and her ambitions, to me, at least, were opaque. She wanted to be happy, I imagine, like any of us.

Louise announced she had a headache and was going to lie down. Would Malcolm mind bringing her things to the room? They disappeared down a hallway. I was not shown to a room, myself. The showing of guests to their rooms was presumably Louise’s job, but Louise was ill. Patrick took a bottle of wine from a rack in the kitchen and opened it. Malcolm returned and the three of us stood in the kitchen drinking. The storm had intensified.

“Sounds dodgy out there,” Patrick said. “I wonder about our river cruise tomorrow.”

“Never know,” Malcolm said. “Might clear up in the morning.”

Patrick and Malcolm became involved in a conversation about World War II, inspired by the visit to the Arc de Triomphe. They were going on about de Gaulle and the Irish Republican Army. I was surprised by Patrick’s command of history and the sharpness of his opinions, though I have no idea, now, what those opinions might have been. I was also impressed by how respectful he was of Malcolm, almost to the point of deference.

Malcolm went to check on Louise. When he returned he said she was still resting and that we might as well go downstairs and have a drink in the bar while we waited for her to join us for dinner. I wanted to change my clothes, but I did not want to force the question of where I was to sleep, so I remained as I was. My neck felt bare without a scarf.

In the restaurant, there were white tablecloths and bud vases, each with a single white rose, but we sat down at a plain table in the bar to wait for Louise. Wine came, and hors d’oeuvres. The lights flickered, then went out and came back on again, then went out for good. There was a collective catching of breath, followed by a flurry of activity among the waiters. Candles were set down at our table, along with another bottle of wine. The waiter told us the electricity was out across half the city and it was not known when service would be restored.

Patrick’s knee brushed mine beneath the table. His hand fell, once, against my forearm. Then his hand began to move up and down my thigh. Malcolm listened attentively to everything I said, and encouraged me to speak to the waiter in French, which I found easier to do as the evening wore on.

Malcolm wondered aloud about Louise, but he did not get up to find her. He slid his arm around the back of my chair. I found I did not mind Malcolm’s arm, and I did not mind Patrick’s hand on my thigh beneath the table. I did not mind the flush I could feel in my cheeks and the way the evening was changing, the way time was stretching out and slowing down and finally moving toward irrelevance.

Then the lights came back on, and there was a collective exhalation of breath, and after a few minutes Louise appeared a little distance from the table.

“I was alone in the dark,” she said to Malcolm. “You never came.
I’ve been waiting all this time. The storm was making terrible sounds.” She crossed her arms as if she were very cold. Malcolm stood up.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t … I thought you were sleeping. Let me get you a chair.”

“I don’t want a chair,” she said. “I need something for my head. I’ve got a migraine.”

Malcolm looked stricken. He tried to give Patrick money for the food and wine, but Patrick refused it, and Malcolm and Louise turned and left together.

Patrick kissed me once, then a second time, across the table. Quite suddenly, Malcolm was back.

“How is she?” Patrick asked.

“She’s in a bit of a state, I’m afraid.”

“That’s a shame,” Patrick said. “Anything I can do?”

Malcolm looked at Patrick. He stood beside the table and ran his hands through his hair and stroked nervously at his chin. “I wonder whether … I wonder if you wouldn’t mind sitting with her awhile.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Patrick said. He stood up and, with a small, chivalrous bow, turned to go. He left without a smile, but he placed something in my chest, a hollow thing that left no room for the hope and happiness that had been condensing there.

I did not have the will to allow the emptiness to remain, I suppose. And here was Malcolm, sitting down now in Patrick’s chair, ready to fill it.

“You’re so lovely,” he said. “I’m sorry to have abandoned you. Louise is never herself when these headaches come on.”

“It’s all right,” I said. I felt an impulse to tell him everything, if only to stop him from apologizing when I knew myself to be the one who was treacherous. But how could I tell him I was in love with Patrick, knowing he had persuaded himself he was in love with me?
He leaned toward me and lifted a strand of hair off my face. He touched the lobe of my ear, as if it were delicate and mysterious.

He said, “Shall we go upstairs?”

I remember wanting to object, but not finding the words, or the will, because I was drunk. I remember leaning on him as we left the restaurant, but I don’t remember what came after that. I don’t remember taking the elevator. I don’t remember entering the apartment. I don’t remember getting into bed. But all that must have happened, because when I woke up the next morning, I was under the covers, alone.

T
HE BEDROOM IN THE PENTHOUSE
was filled with gray morning light. I lay very still, not wanting anyone to know I was awake. I was fully dressed. My boots were placed neatly next to the bed with my socks hung over them. I would never have done that, hung one sock over each boot. Patrick would not have done that, either. Malcolm must have done it. Malcolm must have removed my boots, but not my clothes.

I could hear the storm still raging outside. I could also hear, breaking through the weather, muffled sounds through the wall behind the bed. Patrick’s low laugh. Louise’s higher one. Murmured conversation. I held my breath and listened, trying to decipher words, meaning, intent. Waiting for the mattress to squeak. For the headboard to slam against the wall.

There was a knock on my door.

“Come in,” I said. Malcolm opened the door and sat on the edge of the bed. Then he lay down on top of it, next to me, in his pajamas, which had the effect of pinning me beneath the sheets.

“Look. Here’s the thing,” he said, with an urgency that was unlike him. “Louise thinks I’ve misrepresented this. She thinks I made it out to be only a distraction. An interlude to shake us out of our
malaise. A strictly physical attraction. And maybe I did. Maybe I misled her. But my feelings for you snuck up on me. Of course she knows I would never abandon her. But that might not be the only possibility. I’ve been turning it over and over in my mind. I’ve been thinking all sorts of mad thoughts. Ways to keep you in Europe. I’m terrified you’ll leave. That’s it, at bottom. I cannot allow you to leave.”

He seemed to be speaking to himself as much as to me.

“In any event, she’s agreed to go through with the weekend, then it’s over as far as she’s concerned. She doesn’t want Patrick living in the cottage. She doesn’t want you working for me anymore, either. She says she and I are done with this; we’ve had our bit of fun, but enough is enough.”

He grew more animated. “Never mind that while she’s been … well, she’s been having her fun and I’ve been waiting … all this time I’ve been waiting for you, and trying, that once, anyway, and she’s been … but never mind. Patrick’s not as chivalrous as he appears, apparently. He blows a bit hot and cold. She’s never been one to allow herself to be taken advantage of.”

“Is he taking advantage of her?”

“I suppose she thinks he is. But it’s not just Patrick. She’s fed up with the whole situation. She’s fed up with me, really. But how could I have known I would fall in love? It was you speaking French, funnily enough. You reading that plaque yesterday at the Arc de Triomphe. My fault, I suppose. She’s quite fluent, you know, but she’s timid. She’s afraid her accent won’t measure up. So when you were so confident, funny little thing like that, you reading a bit of French, that’s when she saw it, I think. She saw the truth.”