24 DESIRE, REALITY
24
D ESIRE , R EALITY
Whenever Margaux left the house, her father always said, “Be careful.” Her mother used to say, “Be smart.” One appealed to fear, the other to responsibility. It seemed like they had divided the roles, but it had never been that way. They were two spontaneous sentences that, slowly as Margaux grew older, had become familiar crutches without the three of them realizing it. “Be careful” and “be smart” were, in the end, the subtle formula each of them found to say “I love you” without it being too apparent. When Margaux walked down the street by herself, it was always with her mother or father’s permission. Oftentimes with permission from both. If she had plans to do something during the day that went beyond her routine of coming and going to school, she’d have to notify them of it in the morning. There was no way to notify them later, when Michelle was behind the store windows of the Lafayette or Ferdinand was fixing the electricity at the theater. One Saturday morning, while Michelle was in the bathroom, Margaux entered and closed the door so her father wouldn’t hear them. The conversation wasn’t going to be easy. She’d turned it over in her head so many times she didn’t know how to bring it up. She took advantage of her mother putting on her eye makeup inches away from the mirror to let it fly.
“Tomorrow afternoon ... First of all, tomorrow I’m seeing Damien.”
“I didn’t know you had class tomorrow.”
“No, no ...”
“On a Sunday? He must have a concert.”
“Not in the afternoon. If they’re playing, it’ll be in the morning.”
“Your father would know.”
“Of course.” She didn’t know how to say it. Margaux was slightly taller than her mother when she was barefoot, and she had to look down at her a bit. “We’re not doing a lesson tomorrow, Mama. Actually, Damien ... he asked me if I could go to the movies with him.”
“To the movies?” She looked at her daughter, confused. “In Paris? At your age? You and the oboe teacher?”
“Oh, Mama, he’s not just any teacher ... It’s Damien. He’s been coming for more than a year.”
“But you’re going to the movies? I don’t understand.”
“He said he’d pay. Don’t worry about the money.”
Michelle stopped doing her makeup, stepped back from the mirror, and looked into her daughter’s eyes.
“I don’t like it. It doesn’t look good to me. It’s not about the money, which is also a factor. You haven’t missed out on a thing from not going to the movies. I don’t have anything against the boy, but ... Why do you have to go to the theater by yourselves?” She turned back to line her eyes. “I don’t like it.”
“Mama, please. I never ask for anything.”
“I don’t like the idea of you going. I already said it.”
“We’ve spent the last two years locked up at home. I’m seventeen, and we’re going to the boulevard des Italiens ... We’ll meet at Le Camèo. I’ll get there on my bike. We’ll see the movie, and I’ll come straight back.”
“So, you already know what you were going to see.”
“We agreed on it yesterday, yes. I wouldn’t have any way to tell him ... You already know.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know at all.”
“Please, Mama. I’m asking you, please ... Come on. Just once.”
“Exactly, because it’s the first time you’ve ever asked me something like this.”
“You said it yourself. I’m asking, not telling you.”
“I should hope so.”
“I could have done it without letting you find out. On another day, while you and Father are at work.”
“Don’t break our trust.”
“I won’t break it, geez. That’s why I’m telling you.”
“I ... I don’t know what to say right now.”
Michelle breathed in deeply. All this was new, and she had to tread carefully. Maybe it was time to trust Margaux. Even if her daughter was taller than her, she was still her little girl. There was no reason something should happen to her. The city had been quiet for months. There hadn’t been any cases of girls going out by themselves, and ... Either way, the theaters were open and had become a great distraction for the conquered. It was a new way of trying to forget their circumstances. It wouldn’t be for very long either ...
“Mama.” Margaux kissed her sweetly on her cheek. “I’m asking for what I want most in the world.”
“Be careful, young lady,” Michelle said, without softening. “Don’t step out of line on me.”
She had to stick to her principles. She didn’t know if Margaux was ready to go out with someone, but, as her mother, she sure wasn’t. Her legs suddenly started to tremble. She knew she should stand her ground in saying no but was starting to waver. At the same time, she hadn’t communicated that in specific words. Giving in didn’t have to look like surrender.
“What would you go see?”
“Damien suggested The Wrong Man . The orchestra conductor recommended it to them.”
“ The Wrong Man ? I haven’t heard anyone talk about it.” She looked at herself in the mirror and saw her mother thirty years younger. “I hope you both like it.”
“Does that mean it’s a yes?” She was happy. “Mama, you’re letting me go?”
Her mother closed her eyes to express reluctant permission.
“What will you wear?”
“I was thinking ... I’ll show you right now.”
She ran off to her closet and came back with a checkered skirt and two blouses, one with a high neck and another one without lapels. Her mother had seen enough with a quick glance.
“You should dress up more. Just a bit dressier, Margaux. Tomorrow is Sunday. And it’s got to make the Germans itch to see that, despite everything, we’re still the most elegant in the world. Fancy, fun hats, the latest shoes. They must be dying of envy. They should know they haven’t totally conquered us. That’s the motto.”
“What motto?”
“The secret of all Parisian women.”
“Do women talk about this with each other? I don’t believe it for a second!”
“It’s true. But we don’t need to talk about it. We look at each other on the street, and we all agree. We wink at each other. It’s the secret password to communicate that they’ll never be able to take our glamour. It’s a way of rubbing it in their faces. So, they realize they’ll never be able to have it all.”
“Mama, the stories you come up with. They’re soldiers. Who believes they care about all that?”
“I’m telling you I see it every day at the store. It affects them more than you think. They wish their women had our style, the way we wear things here.” She murmured something Margaux didn’t understand. “I think that ...”
“What’d you say, Mama?”
“Nothing. It gets so hot when both of us are in this small bathroom.”
“That wasn’t it.”
“I was thinking you can grab something from my closet if you want. We’ll take a look tomorrow, if you’d like. Let’s see, I don’t want you to look too grown-up, though ...”
“We don’t want Damien to get scared, Mama.”
“Or for him not to recognize you.”
“Can you imagine? That would be awful.”
“That’s impossible. Oh, lady.” She grabbed Margaux by the waist and shook her little girl. “You’ve gotten so big!”
They laughed together.
“What’s going on in there?” asked her father from the winged armchair, as he moved the dial on the radio.
“Nothing. Your daughter’s just gotten so big.”
That Sunday, as she helped her daughter dress, Michelle became an accomplice in the teenager’s anxieties. There was a war outside, Europe was an immense battlefield, but that afternoon, Margaux’s world didn’t encompass that. It was all Damien, the theater, and The Wrong Man . In fact, the movie was the least important detail of them all. She didn’t want to say it out loud—all three of them knew it already—but it was the first time she was going to the movies without her parents. She also didn’t say that, for the very first time, she wouldn’t be sitting in the middle seat. It was—and this was a big deal for her—her first date with a boy. But she didn’t want to repeat it to herself because just the thought of the word “date” surprised and disturbed her. A mix of fear, hope, and butterflies wriggled in her stomach. She became even more anxious when she wondered whether she’d know how to act at every point of the date. What are you supposed to say? How are you supposed to behave? Where did you learn all of this, and how come no one had told her about it? She was so anxious she wasn’t even hungry at lunch.
She tied her hair in a high bun so her face could be seen. She curled her eyelashes to highlight her big eyes. She’d slipped on a dress she borrowed from her mother, who’d convinced her it was the one that complemented her complexion the most. It was a springtime, knee-length, green dress with a moon pattern. When she looked in the mirror, she knew it had to be that dress. None of the others she’d tried on looked as good on her. She put on a maroon coat that resembled a cape over the dress along with a small matching hat she wore aslant to keep from crushing her bun. Everything was well thought out. Everything had a reason. The heels too. It’d be more comfortable to pedal with laces.
At the door of the apartment, her mother looked her over one more time. Then, she grabbed her by her shoulders and gave her a kiss, the kind for special occasions.
“Be smart,” she said in a trusting voice.
The click-clack of her heels on every step, going five floors down, was the echo of rushing to make it on time. The Dutroncs stored their bikes behind the building’s entrance. It didn’t bother anyone, and they trusted no one would take them. There was only one woman left in the whole building, and she lived on the third floor; she’d become a widow after the event at Tours. Since the start of the exodus that first June, it was very quiet in the stairwell. Too much so, her father said sometimes.
Margaux stretched her dress out under her jacket, got up on the bicycle seat, put her feet on the pedals, and let the wheels glide down the stone streets of Montmartre without pedaling. The clattering was quieter from Clichy to the boulevard des Italiens. The path was instantly level. She had to apply more force, but the stones weren’t as uncomfortable and her breasts didn’t bounce as much. Her desire to see Damien was greater than anything else, but she didn’t want to go so fast as to catch the attention of some corner patrolman thinking she was fleeing a scene. She didn’t want to go faster than necessary, more than anything, because the last thing she wanted was to arrive to her first date sweaty. At three on the dot. At the door of the movie theater.
Damien—dressed in gray with a vest and a skinny tie—was already waiting for her under the sign of Le Camèo. There were the gigantic, vertical red letters, and there he was underneath them. Like the movie theater was pointing at him.
“I think this is the first time I’m seeing you without your oboe case.”
“I think it’s because it’s maybe the first time I’ve left the house without my oboe in years.” He extended his hand to help her dismount the bike. “Two kisses, right?”
“Three. It’s still France.”
She secured her bike to a streetlamp. Damien had already bought the tickets and was carrying them in the pocket of his sport coat. While they waited for the doors of the theater to open, they distracted themselves by looking at the movie posters hanging in the window. They more or less killed time like the dressy people around them were doing. Some men stuck out their cigarettes and neared the sidewalk to ash it with a flick of their fingers.
“Did you know the movie was German?” Damien asked.
“Me? How could I ... We’ll still watch it, right?”
“Whatever you want.”
“If you’ve already bought the tickets, we should use them.”
“Can I say something?” He thought about saying it either way. “You look very beautiful, Margaux.”
“Oh, really?” She laughed sincerely. “That’s so nice.”
“I’ve never seen you look so elegant.”
“Did you see?” she said, turning on one foot.
They were the third in line to enter the theater. It was dark and smelled like dry velvet, a projector ventilator, and patchouli water.
“You choose. Where do you want to sit?”
Margaux contemplated the sea of empty chairs. There were three whole rows in the middle of the floor reserved for the Germans. The sight of them was enough of a reminder of who had the power in there as well.
“Better to be behind them than in front, don’t you think, Damien?”
“Yes, wherever you want. But hurry, people are coming in and ...”
“Oh.” Why couldn’t he choose? “Well, these two are fine, I guess.”
“Here in the corner?”
“You don’t think so?”
“Anything is fine with me.”
“Too far back?”
“Behind everything, you mean?”
“Calm down,” said Margaux, sitting next to the wall. “You don’t have to watch the orchestra conductor today. Are you nearsighted or something?”
“Me?” He felt attacked.
“Are you nearsighted and didn’t tell me?”
When they turned out the lights—oh, the most holy feeling—she inched closer to his seat and whispered a confession into his ear.
“I won’t have to take off my hat sitting in the last row.”
This ensured she wouldn’t block anyone. Only she knew how many pins held the hat to her head and how impossible it would be to put it back on again. A woman sitting two rows ahead, the type of person who loved to shush, turned and silenced them.
“Shhh!” Her threatening finger, perpendicular on her lips.
For a while, they were as quiet as death. When she was with her parents at the theater, no one ever had to scold her. Maybe that’s what growing up was. Challenging, bothering, testing the limits, sitting next to the boy you liked, feeling a new feeling, and then, all of a sudden, a grumbling lady turns around to ruin your mood.
The Wrong Man was the story of a boring couple. Margaux and Damien were so preoccupied with watching each other from the corners of their eyes that it was hard for them to follow the couple’s misadventures. Attention was at an all-time peak in that theater. If there had been a fly, everyone would have heard it. For their part, they lived on the sidelines of the screen.
That Sunday afternoon, they were on the verge of writing the first page of their own screenplay. Both of them noticed it—in their breathing, in the silence, in the latent tension—but neither of them dared move history forward. Until. Until. There’s always a moment in which a single gesture leaves an impression on an entire life. Magic.
In the middle of the movie, Margaux took her right hand off her lap and let it fall, lifelessly, in the space between the seats. She wasn’t looking for anything. She just hoped. Damien, who’d spent some time with his arms folded across his chest, took a while to unwrap them. He didn’t want to make a false move. But his heart accelerated the way it did right before the start of a concert. He moved his toes around inside his shoes as a trick to distract himself and prevent his mouth from drying up. A friend from his orchestra had given him this advice to combat nerves some time back, and once the moment had come, he put it into practice. Slowly, he let his left hand fall into neutral territory. Without turning away from the screen, they found each other. Margaux let her ring finger run twice over one of his to greet him. He thought carefully before reacting. He returned the gesture with the same light touch. One finger, gingerly, over another finger. It was a way of saying, “Yes, it’s me. I’m here.” Margaux, catching on quickly, knew it was her turn in that game. She next touched Damien’s warm hand with all her fingers just as subtly and respectfully. Suddenly, with their gazes forward and their arms down, hidden under the chairs, their hands found each other. First, they interlaced their fingers and were motionless in their secret. They made it last so as to enjoy the moment, to still their emotions, and to make sure what was happening was real. Desire, reality. After a while, once they actually clasped their hands, placing their palms together, they finally looked at each other. Illuminated by the light of the screen, they communicated with their eyes. Their looks said the same thing. Happiness, satisfaction, fear. Complicity for the first time. The effervescence of love, absolute and surrendered. There didn’t exist two happier people in Paris in that moment. They didn’t let go of each other’s hands until a second before the lights switched on.
They remained in their seats as the audience, comprising some seventy people, filtered out through the center aisle of the theater, and they discussed the movie, the wait to exit feeling eternal in their excitement. Damien didn’t stop moving his toes so his mouth wouldn’t dry. Absorbed, Margaux looked straight ahead as though the movie was still playing. She wasn’t too sure why she had to put on a front.
“Are we the ones who are in the wrong?” he asked, as the two last audience members passed by them.
“Wrong about what?”
He inched close to her slowly, certain they were both dying with yearning.
“About this.”
Their first kiss was short. Short but sweet. The second was more intentional. Seeing that Damien had closed his eyes, Margaux copied him. It must work that way, she thought. She discovered that, in the dark, she was more aware of his tender and extremely fine lips. She realized what an interesting and pleasant feeling it was to have a tongue play with your own. They were like a cat and a mouse in there, and eventually they found each other to make peace. They closed their eyes—now she understood—to savor the world that instantly opened up before them. They kissed each other wholeheartedly and lost track of time. He put his hand on the back of her neck, and she did the same, searching for symmetry. Give and take. The charm of doing things evenly.
“Let’s go.”
“One second,” Margaux said, looking for his lips again.
“I’m scared they’ll lock us in here.” He took a moment to stand up, as the erection under his pants would be visible to everyone. “Come on, let’s go.”
“You’re like my father, man. Always rushing to leave everywhere.”
They breathed deeply and stood up. Before reaching the lobby, they hugged. She stood up on her tiptoes for their first standing kiss.
At the exit, they were blinded by the afternoon sun. On the street, the Germans were making a racket and greeting each other with the sounds of their boots, that obsession of theirs. People walked in all directions, and another line had formed down the boulevard for the six o’clock showing, soon to begin. The Dutronc bike had gotten lost within the line, and they had to ask permission to move through and unlock it.
“So now what, Margaux?”
“What do you mean?” As mixed up as she was, she didn’t understand if the question referred to the next few minutes of that singular Sunday or if he was waiting for a response about how those kisses had changed her life.
“Do you want to do something?”
She liked seeing how, in the light of the street, Damien’s eyes shined just the way hers must have been.
“I promised my mother I would come back while it was still light out.”
“It’s early, Margaux.”
“But it’s the first time I’ve ever asked to go to a movie, and ...” She ran her hand over his shaved chin. “It’s a good idea for me to return home if we ever want to do anything again, don’t you think? I’d rather go home.”
“I’ll accompany you some of the way back, if you don’t mind.”
“Why would I?” She playfully poked at his belly. “What are you saying? Why would I mind?”
They walked up the boulevard without touching. They let their hands touch only accidentally. Holding on to the handlebars, he walked her bike, and she walked happily at his side. The nerves of the journey there were forgotten. Now there was just complicity and jokes on the walk and in their spirits. The infinite winding staircase of first love. Always up, always turning around the same axis without there ever being a hint of an end.
“Don’t accompany me any farther, Damien. You’re walking too far from your neighborhood. I’d spend the evening with you, but ...”
“When will we see each other again?”
“When’s our next lesson? You are my oboe teacher, remember?”
“Teacher of what?” he teased. “And to think it’s all thanks to Peter and the Wolf .”
“Can I kiss you, Dami?”
“Here? On the street?”
They looked around. Spotting only an old woman sitting in a doorway, they didn’t stop themselves from doing what they desired.
“See you Tuesday, then.”
“I really, really, really can’t wait to see you at my house, Damien.”
Letting go of each other’s hands was like climbing a mountain. Margaux put on her coat, stretched the dress over herself, and mounted the bike. The breeze grazed her face. She pedaled happily, with the sensation of remembering every touch and movement before her first kiss. And the feeling of those lips and his tongue inside her mouth. She never would have thought she’d be so good at it without asking anyone for tips. And on her first try. She should have opened her eyes to see his face. That way, she would remember how Damien looked in that exact moment. She pedaled and felt radiant. Her fresh face, the new vibrations, her heart pumping.
She slowed down as she reached Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. An old barricade forced her to move in zigzags to avoid the sandbags and stones. She dismounted to move slower. A man wearing an armband she couldn’t identify raised his hand to stop her.
“Ma’am. Just one moment.”
Margaux hesitated to stop walking. The man had a nice face, spoke French, and had a camera hanging from his neck.
“What a beautiful Sunday afternoon,” the man said. “The sky, the sun ... You’re so pretty with your hat and bike. Would you let me photograph you? The light is so perfect right now. You just have to make the most of it.”
“A picture? Of me?”
“If it’s okay with you.”
If only it were all that easy, she thought.
“Here?”
“Here, you’re slightly backlit. Let’s switch places. You go over there.”
Margaux turned around.
“There you go.”
“It would be perfect if ... I don’t want to bother you, sorry.”
“What? Say it.”
“If you got up on the bike, it’d look so pretty.”
He didn’t have to say it twice. She mounted the bike, placing one foot on the sidewalk to hold herself up and the other on the pedal.
“Where should I look?”
He put his eye to the viewfinder of the Leica.
“Tilt your head slightly to the left. As if I weren’t here.”
“Like this?”
“Exactly. Smile a little, girl, it’s a wonderful day.”
Of course, that street photographer didn’t know the half of it. Margaux didn’t have to force her smile.
“Now?”
“Ecco qua.”
He had it. The photographic composition dreams were made of. Frontal, looking at the camera, with the lower perspective that made the front wheel look bigger than it was. The wicker basket, so nicely braided, in front of the handlebars. In the background, the lights and shadows on the building facade. At the forefront, a girl of categorical beauty. Paris, elegance, despite everything. One more for the collection.