The Train to Paris (17 page)

‘How are the studies in art history, kid?' Selvin asked when the menus had been cleared and our glasses set. ‘Have you figured out what to do with them yet?'

‘No,' I said. ‘I don't have much of a vocation.'

‘Who needs a vocation? The point is, are you enjoying them, or wasting time and money while pretending to enjoy them? There's a difference.'

‘I suppose I am enjoying them, yes.'

‘You
suppose
. I should have guessed it.'

‘I think that any experience is worth it, so long as you learn something about yourself in the process.'

‘Oh Lawrence,' Élodie said, as if reprimanding a schoolboy. ‘None of that philosophical nonsense is welcome at this table. Go to your tutorial at the Sorbonne if you want to be taken seriously.'

‘Hear, hear,' Selvin said. ‘University can't teach you about life. Life itself is the only thing that can. How's that for a philosophy?'

He said this with an exaggerated accent and touched his finger to his chin. I hoped that I didn't look or sound like that when I talked, but I could never be sure.

‘Seriously, Larry, why are you wasting your time at that place? From what I hear, the Sorbonne is so outdated they don't even use computers to run the place.'

This was true. My file was kept in a dusty ledger in some attic, handwritten with a fountain pen.

‘So what alternative would you propose?' I asked.

‘How about
anything
? You could always stop studying like your life depends upon it, and start living a life.'

‘I am missing a lecture right now. So it isn't as though my life depends on it.'

‘Seriously? You're missing a whole lecture? Larry, all I can suggest is that you quit waiting around at university for something to fall into your lap.'

‘I'm not,' I said. ‘Things are happening.'

I was sure that this was true. I just didn't know what they were.

17

The lunch was interminable,
with neither Élodie nor Selvin wanting it to end. The girl responded to one of Selvin's jokes but otherwise remained silent. The food took forever to arrive, and when it did I had no appetite.

‘Lawrence, darling,' Élodie said as I set my cutlery down. ‘Whatever is the matter? Are you the same young man who practically wolfed a bouillabaisse in Hendaye?'

‘Maybe not.'

‘But you are such a twig. I hate to think what you have been eating in your squalid existence. If anything at all.'

‘I don't have much choice. I've gone off meat because it is too expensive.'

‘How sad. I hope you haven't turned into one of those silly vegetarians.'

This had to be for the girl's benefit.

‘Not really,' I said. ‘More out of necessity. But I have to say that none of the food around here does much for anybody. The women eat pastries, and it doesn't change anything.'

‘It is called the French Paradox,' Élodie said. ‘And I wish it were true. Unfortunately, what it boils down to is that the girls here spend their days finding new and obsessive ways to stay svelte.'

‘Do you?'

‘Oh, such impertinence. I don't need to. I can go a whole day with nothing but a cup of coffee, if I so desire.'

There was something that I admired about this declaration, though it made Selvin wince. I could remember how Élodie's body had felt under my hands, and my memory was of a defined skeleton with little between the bones. But I also remembered the teardrop shape of her backside, and how our legs had touched together and played beneath the bedsheets. Her body was strong—not malnourished. Our eyes made contact for the briefest second, and it felt as though she was reading my mind.

Selvin took out his pocket humidor once he had finished his meal, and the unfortunate waiter asked him to smoke it outside.

‘So this place has a bit of a misnomer?' he said in response. I suspected that, like Élodie, he was unaccustomed to denial. The waiter tried to explain that it was a new legal requirement and that the restaurant could be fined. Selvin agreed reluctantly and picked up his overcoat.

‘I'll come with you,' Élodie said. ‘I could do with a cigar.'

I was not invited this time, and I was left with the girl, who was restless. Beneath her coat she wore a little black dress, and around her wrist was a charm bracelet. It was the one detail that made her as young as me.

‘Sorry, I didn't catch your name,' I said in French, once the two grown-ups had left.

‘My name is Isabelle.' Her voice was delicate and husky.

‘Pleasure to meet you, Isabelle. And what do you do?'

‘I accompany Monsieur Selvin, if you must know,' she said, affronted. I had forgotten that the French never asked one another what they did—it was considered impolite. ‘He has promised to start my acting career.'

I could imagine what such accompaniment would involve. ‘How nice,' I said. ‘And how much do you know about Monsieur Selvin's work in film?'

‘Not much. He has promised to tell me all about it when I come to live in America, though.' She blushed at this. ‘My English is not so good. He says he will pay for classes.'

I considered telling her what I knew of Selvin's business, not to mention his romantic history, and insisting that she run while she had the chance.

‘How long have you known him for?' I asked.

‘A few weeks. We met at an industry party. I wanted to…how do you say?…
Get my foot in the door
.' She said this in English. ‘Anyway, I told him that I had always wanted to see America. New York, in particular. Paris is such a dull city these days. Everything happens in America. And he promised to make my dream come true.'

She was so young, and so assured of this mythology, that I couldn't help but pity her. But then I wondered if her actions really were that passive. She might have known what she was doing, and perhaps Selvin was about to get a shock.

Out the window I could see the Place du Louvre, and the end of the old grey palace that tried to be beautiful. It was a desolate scene. The cobblestones were layered with cigarette ends and dead leaves. Élodie and Selvin were smoking their cigars on the corner of the Place. He was bent over her figure, presumably to protect her from the wind. I would never have thought to do something like that.

Watching them through the glass felt like an intrusion. I called the waiter over to order more wine, and asked Isabelle if she was sure that she did not want any.

‘It stains my teeth,' she said. ‘And Monsieur Selvin wouldn't want me to add to the bill.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘That I don't want to be in his debt.'

‘Is that not a good place to be?'

‘No. He doesn't like it. It makes him anxious.'

Was I indebted to him? I tried to remember if he had paid for anything in Biarritz. I was only really indebted to Élodie's husband. If he was still her husband.

‘Do you know anything about her?' I asked.

‘Who?'

‘Élodie. Has he talked of her?'

‘Not much. But Monsieur Selvin told me that we might run into her today.'

‘Oh. How did he know about that?'

‘About what?'

‘Élodie didn't know that Ed was in town today.'

Isabelle's expression suggested that I was the thickest man she had ever encountered, and I supposed that this in itself was an achievement.

‘Of course she did. She talked to him yesterday.'

Élodie and Selvin were coming inside. Isabelle was sublimely detached from the situation and I wanted to tell her that she was mad to trust such a dishonest man. But I wanted to know more. I was about to ask her what else she knew of Élodie when the waiter came over with my wine. He spent a while pouring it and waited for me to taste it.

‘My, that was refreshing,' Élodie said, sitting back at the table. ‘You should try an afternoon smoke at least once, Lawrence. It clears the mind.'

Selvin kept his coat on and remained standing. ‘We should go somewhere else for a coffee,' he said. ‘That's the etiquette here, isn't it?'

‘It might as well be,' Élodie said. ‘Don't worry, Ed, I will get this.'

It occurred to me that I should do the gentlemanly thing. ‘I'll get it,' I said. ‘It must be my turn.'

Élodie was incredulous. ‘Don't be silly, Lawrence. Save your money to buy new light bulbs, or to hire a cleaning service.'

‘No, I'm getting it,' I said with the sort of vehemence that I could not usually keep up. ‘I owe you at least this much.'

‘Hey, if the kid wants to pay, let him pay,' Selvin said. ‘I'm not complaining.'

‘All right,' she said. ‘If you insist.'

The waiter delivered the bill, which I took without allowing anybody else to see. The sum was substantial, and I questioned my decision. But I gave the waiter my credit card, with what I hoped was the right degree of nonchalance.

‘I know a good place for coffee on the Rive Gauche,' I said, continuing to masquerade as a seasoned local. ‘Not too far. Unless you had other plans.'

Élodie did, but Selvin cut across before she could protest.

‘We're in your hands, Larry,' he said. ‘I'm interested to see what you come up with.'

The challenge was set. Although I could tell that Selvin would have a problem with whatever venue I chose, he could not have predicted my encyclopaedic knowledge of cafés in the Sixth. I had made a point of studying them on my endless walks, including the famous ones where Hemingway and Camus may or may not have drunk absinthe. They were not the best cafés. The best ones had opened recently and had no history.

I led the way across the Place du Louvre. From here one could see the spires of both Saint-Sulpice and the Église Saint-Germain, standing alongside the twin monoliths, Montparnasse and Eiffel. These four towers dominated the skyline, separate but strangely unified. Élodie made the same objections to the Pont des Arts as I walked towards it, but this time I forged my own path through the tourists and the street artists. No matter what Élodie thought, I liked this busy bridge more than the other crossings. With such an eclectic mix of people moving over the one set of boards, something was always happening. A spaniel barked and bounded towards us from the other side, its ears flapping in the breeze.

‘How can you not like this?' I asked Élodie, once the dog had sniffed our trouser cuffs and returned to its master.

‘You will understand why when you have seen more of the world.' Her face was framed by the postcard view towards the Île de la Cité, and it fitted rather well. ‘Don't forget how young you are, Lawrence.'

‘I thought that you wanted me to seem older than I really am.'

‘You can take these things too far. Nothing ever comes of trying to show off.' She said this in a low voice, so that Selvin would not hear. He was walking at a distance from Isabelle, checking the messages on his phone. Élodie was wearing the same jewellery that she had in Biarritz, except the ring with the strange inscription was missing. Had she and Marcel separated? If that was the case, whose apartment had she been talking about? Perhaps she owned one. What would an apartment of hers be like? I imagined art objects and half-unpacked suitcases and dresses strewn everywhere. She would have an eccentric cellar of wine and grainy old photographs of distant relatives on the walls, with a story for each of them.

The café was on the Carrefour de l'Odéon, near my apartment. I took a table on the terrace, so that we could enjoy the view. I had grown a habit of sitting on this terrace and reading for a whole afternoon. I would make a single coffee last for hours, which annoyed the waiters. This time they were more attentive. They could see Élodie and Selvin's wealth, and they paid more attention to it. I ordered coffee and Calvados. Élodie noticed but said nothing.

‘This sure is nice,' Selvin said, folding his hands across his lap. It was an unattractive pose. He might not have been conscious of his mannerisms. He might not have thought about himself in any such detail.

‘It is,' I said. ‘And you can smoke if you like.'

‘You can? They haven't banned smoking outdoors, too?' He produced the humidor and offered me a cigar.

‘Come on, Lawrence,' Élodie said. ‘I will not stand for this. Have a smoke.'

They had orchestrated things so that it would be rude to refuse. I took the cigar and the cutter, and set about performing the ritual. I got it right this time, and hardly spluttered when the first cloud of smoke billowed into my mouth. I was glad when the coffee arrived to wash the overpowering flavour away.

‘That tie of yours is intimidating me,' Selvin said. ‘Do you always go around dressed like a prep?'

‘It depends on the occasion.'

‘Great, so now I feel underdressed.' His own collar was loose.

‘Don't listen to him,' Élodie said. ‘You look absolutely striking. Ed is jealous because he can't wear a tie these days.'

This made me more self-conscious. It occurred to me that I might look a little odd, and—worst of all—that I might stand out. I took another puff of the cigar. It was bearable this time. The flavour reminded me of Biarritz.

‘So what are you doing this evening that is so much more important than my party?' Élodie said. Perhaps the switch in conversation was for my benefit. ‘I feel betrayed.'

‘I wish I could come to your party. It's a meeting with this French director. I owe him dinner at the Ritz. And this little lady needs to accompany me.' It was his first reference to Isabelle, and it might as well have been her only role in the proceedings.

‘How terrifically boring that sounds,' Élodie said. ‘I wish that you could duck out of it. We are bound to have a good time, and even more so if you are there to help out.'

‘What is it in aid of?'

‘Do I need an excuse? I haven't seen these people in ages. And for once I want to be the centre of attention.'