33 WHITE KEY, BLACK KEY
33
W HITE K EY , B LACK K EY
Barbara opened the window and stuck her head out to see the highway. It had been dark for hours. And it had been days since they’d stepped out onto the street.
“Tomorrow, they’ll let us go out.” She closed the window of the top floor and rubbed her cold hands together. “Mayor Delano? says to be careful with the slippery ice.”
“Buzz off, Mayor. We’re going out now, Barbara. Paris to ourselves.”
“Now?” She looked at herself and her lazy outfit. She was so comfortable in her long pajama pants and worn-out Cirque du Soleil T-shirt.
“Tomorrow, Montmartre will be infested with tourists again. They’ve been locked up for a week in their hotels. Once they let them out, it’ll be a plague.”
“The crowd will be small.”
“But we’d be alone now.”
“Because it’s not allowed, Roger ... We can’t do it.”
“But there’s not much snow left, if you know what I mean.” He was looking for any reason to exit through the window.
Making sure Roger couldn’t see, Barbara lifted her shirt to look at her belly button. It looked like there was a cotton ball sticking out.
“No matter what, tomorrow I have to go see my grandmother.”
She sneakily removed the tuft by brushing it off with a finger. “Mamie Margaux must be up the wall with all these days locked inside.”
“That’s for tomorrow. I’m talking about now, come on.” He grabbed her by the waist, a subtle way of asking, “Why don’t we bundle up and go out?”
“Will you come with me?”
“Where?”
“Tomorrow, to see my grandmother. Aren’t you dying to meet her?”
“Of course I am. Actually,” Roger said, cheekily, “I already know her.”
Barbara looked like she needed more explanation.
Roger went on: “On a bike, in black and white, when she was a girl. The allure of the photo ...”
“Come to the home tomorrow and ask her all about it.”
“Now, put on your Nikes and let’s go out for a walk.”
Roger winked. In exchange, Barbara kissed him on the tip of his nose.
“Do you always get what you want?”
It sufficed for her to put on some thick socks, soft corduroy pants, and a polar lining. She didn’t bother changing her shirt or her bra. “‘Georgettes’ were out to play,” as her grandmother, who named everything, would say. They didn’t have to run into anyone, she’d be wearing a jacket on top, and what the hell? For forty-one years old, she felt like her breasts were still enviably perky and firm; if she put a pencil under them, it would still fall out. Barbara gave Roger one condition.
“Don’t bring the camera.”
“But—”
“It’ll just be me and you today. Today, you’re looking at the city. Or you’re looking at me, but without the viewfinder.”
They playfully began their forbidden walk. They’d yet to reach Clichy Boulevard when Barbara had a vivid memory of Anne Delacourt and the piano. She was Giresse & Trésor’s star author, whom Barbara had sold worldwide rights for. The day they met at an editorial dinner in a private room at Le Procope, Paris’s oldest brewery, Anne Delacourt had revealed an intimate secret about her creative process.
“Writing is like a piano concert,” she said. “The beautiful sound of the piano lives behind the keys. A straight back, forward gaze, and some flowing parts and some lulling. The letters and verbs emerge little by little. Peaceful sounds, fragile words. The right hand converses with the left hand. The cadences of the sentences dance slowly across the computer’s keyboard. But there are other moments when the hands argue, the fingers race, they pick up speed and accelerate, and they become virtuosos, playing the notes—white key, black key—with an insatiable impulse to fill pages and pages with burning emotion. The body of the pianist links with the keys. The writer helps breathe life. They close their eyes, and the story flows without the need for a score. Suddenly, passion sprouts. Ideas, expressions, trips. High and deep, to here and there. The writer chases down paragraphs, carried along by the music of the tireless drumming of fingers. Action, dear Barbara, action. Gushing out.”
That description stayed with Barbara. It’s how she was feeling on this strange walk she’d never planned on taking. Action gushing out. Adventure. The solitary escape through Paris, the empty city, the door to happiness. Her feet rushed. The pure air, the cold on her face. Risk and happiness. And a man she could trust at her side. Ever since she’d said goodbye to Maurice, slamming the door shut on seven years of infidelity, she hadn’t yet walked next to anyone else. Much less held someone’s hand. She was disoriented. The feeling was as strange as it was new. First, she felt embarrassment, then comfort. Two arrondissements later, with her insecurities now gone, Barbara walked happily in lockstep. That stubborn home settler, Roger. That cheeky guy who’d come to Paris to take pictures, perhaps because he didn’t have anything better to do. That young man, who was wounded by the death of his father, who’d softened slowly, who’d made conversation, who’d confessed to her at midnight, who’d cooked—with too much salt—during the days after a historic snowfall they’d never forget. Roger Narbona, who made her see, without saying it, that being surly was a waste of time, and that she was actually punishing herself. That robust and strong Roger, lively as his eyes, who she’d heard moan pleasurably when they made love.
But they weren’t the only ones who’d escaped the curfew with just a few hours remaining. They silently smiled when crossing paths on the street with another couple who’d gone out to exclaim their joie de vivre. The mischief of good faith united them. The French: a rebellious spirit. Near the Gare Saint-Lazare, they were approached by a man who’d gone out for a run to get his blood pumping. The peace was so absolute they could hear three men breathing from far away before the breathing—like a hastening waltz—stopped as they lost sight of them. Behind l’Opéra, some teenagers were causing a ruckus. They smoked, laughed, drank, and made up for all the days they’d had to stay inside. Beyond, at rue Saint-Honoré, it seemed like they’d granted special permission to go outside to walk their dogs. Barbara and Roger spotted the light of a police car from far away, so they turned and found another path. Every shortcut felt like a game, a world to discover. Paris was still, for a couple of hours, a silent city.
The fence of the Madeleine was closed. Les Deux Magots in the dark, with its chairs tied on top of the tables. The terraces, deserted. Not a single soul at the pont des Arts. The Latin Quarter was silent, a welcome irony. In place Saint-Michel, in a square where a mass of snow had accumulated, a rat ran in front of them as if they’d been hunting it. The Louvre pyramid, all for themselves, emitted a bluish light. Surely they were hard at work inside preparing for the next morning’s reopening. In a few hours, the lines, tourists, and pickpockets would return. This was always the way things were. The imperfection of big cities.
“Maybe we should start heading back. We’ve wandered far from home.”
Barbara’s suggestion produced a new idea for an adventure. Roger made her walk down a couple of stairs next to the river. “No one will see us here.”
The darker, the more mysterious. The cold had penetrated the rocks. Water trickled down the walls. Thawing was a constant occurrence in the city. The dribbling sound accompanied them through their shortcut. The river snored with the buzz of the city, constant and pacifying. Suddenly, Roger stopped.
“Do you see it?” He pointed to the moon.
“It’s splendid.”
“There are two types of people. People who think man went to the moon and people who are convinced that Apollo 11 was staged. Which side are you on?”
“You tell me, since you’re the photographer. Could they take those pictures of Armstrong and the other guy up there? How were they able to stream the images live throughout the whole world? What kind of cameras? Could they broadcast from the moon?”
“I see which side you’re on.”
“Which?”
He surprised her with a cheeky smile. “Your most beautiful side.”
Roger gave her a long kiss on the cheek. Immediately, their lips found each other’s. Hugging, they melted into each other, swept by a new passion. It was a strange feeling. Until then, they’d tasted each other only from within the walls of the apartment. In Barbara’s room, or on Roger’s bed.
“Hello, couple.” Someone they hadn’t heard approached and coughed at their side. “Everything okay?”
Barbara and Roger pulled apart. Frightened, she reacted first.
“Yes, all good, thanks. Good night.”
“Good night,” the man responded politely, not wanting to scare them. He was a strong man who seemed like he could have been the physiotherapist for a professional cycling team. In a familiar gesture, he took his wallet out from inside his down coat. With a flick of his wrist, he showed them a badge and then stowed it away. “Don’t you know there’s a curfew?”
“Get out of my face,” Roger jumped in.
“Excuse me?”
“This badge is good for nothing,” Roger said to Barbara, ignoring the undercover cop. “Are we really supposed to believe this dude is the fuzz? Look, I can go like this, chip-chop with my wallet, and this guy would think I’m part of the FBI.”
“Roger, please.”
“Please show me your IDs.”
The man, standing with his two feet on the ground, spoke without losing his cool. Roger, however, was momentarily offended.
“ We show you ? You want us to show you what? Désolé .”
Barbara felt around the pockets of her coat.
“I’m not carrying anything. We came out for a walk, and ... I just grabbed my jacket, and that’s it.”
“Don’t apologize, hell. I’m carrying mine, but I’m not going to show anything to this kid until he proves he’s the police.”
The man, in his eternal patience, took out his wallet and placed his badge in front of Roger’s face. He left it there for a while so Roger could read his credentials.
“Okay. Sorry. There are so many scams these days ...”
Barbara took a couple of steps back. The last thing she wanted was problems. The second-to-last thing she wanted was to be embarrassed. Roger took out his ID and gave it to the policeman.
“Spanish?”
“From Girona. Well ... do you know Barcelona? Near there.”
“You speak French well.”
“It’s not hard.”
“His mother is from here,” Barbara added from afar.
“Well. Not from Paris. From Besancon,” he specified.
The man didn’t hear him. Barbara worried Roger would start acting even more ridiculous. She hated that feeling. Another time, she might have found it fun. But he broke the rules, and, as a well-behaved woman, she felt very uncomfortable. If, on top of it all, Roger tried to be funny, that would make her mad. She’d discovered a new side of him she didn’t recognize. Now that experience—which was another way of saying age—had led her to settle down, she simply wanted someone to be by her side. Not someone who’d later reveal himself to be someone he wasn’t. What did she want? A man without baggage, who listened well, who didn’t create big scenes, who was detailed, who knew when to act and when to be quiet. And who never made her blush in front of others. “You mean guys like that still exist?” a coworker at the press had asked her.
The policeman walked away with Roger’s ID in hand, took out a phone from his pocket and made a call. He started slowly relaying the information to someone who was hard of hearing on the other end.
“Roger. Narbona. Bazin. B-A-Z-I-N. The number? 46-230-015. With a P for Peter at the end, yes.”
While they waited for a response, Barbara approached Roger and whispered in his ear.
“They won’t find anything, right?”
“Of mine?” He took too long to respond. He whispered back, as well. “Of mine, no. But with all of my father’s gambling debts, you never know when you’ll be surprised.”
The unperturbed physiotherapist policeman returned with Roger’s ID. His eyes were glued to the papers.
“You don’t look the same ...”
“I cut my hair for the picture. Better now, huh?”
“What are you doing in Paris?”
Roger was silent. He looked at Barbara. “That’s a good question.”
Before his silence could create more tension, she cut in. “He’s my boyfriend. He came to visit. He’s staying at my house for a few days.”
“A few days?” He turned over the ID. “Until when?”
For Roger, it was better that Barbara answer for him. He was curious to know what she’d say. And, next to the river, in a compromising situation, caught violating curfew by the police and not knowing how the situation would end, Barbara took the opportunity of being stuck in a jam to express her true feelings.
“Maybe he’ll stay with me. Here in Paris.”
“Are you sure?” the officer replied.
“Hey, don’t you get involved in this,” Roger jumped in. “Do your job, but get out of my—”
“My love, please!”
“Okay, okay.” Roger raised his hands like he had a gun pointed at him.
The officer gave him a disapproving look.
“Look,” he huffed, “I should fine you two right now. You’ve violated the lock-in. Tomorrow morning, everyone will be able to leave the house, but not tonight, as you should know. If everyone had made the same—”
“If you have to fine us, fine us. But save the sermons for church.”
“Roger, please.”
The policeman ignored him. He looked at Barbara. “I don’t want problems. Let’s not fight, okay?”
“Okay,” she said hurriedly, in a small voice.
“Go home, and I’ll pretend I didn’t see you.”
“Thank you, officer.”
The man disappeared just as he’d arrived, without saying goodbye. And with the takeaway that women in the city had a bad habit of falling in love with the wrong person. He held himself back from saying it. Soon, they’ll figure it out, he thought.
The walk back was quick and mediated through bickering. They cut through lonely streets in search of shorter ways to Montmartre. Barbara took advantage of the time to say, “That’s enough, Roger. I don’t remember you being an insolent teenager.”
He withstood Barbara’s complaints and laughed, disarming her. She went back at him, imitating him when he hadn’t believed the officer was a real policeman. “‘This badge is good for nothing,’” said Barbara, parodying the voice of a full-grown man. He argued, acting like he was in the right, that if you give in to the fuzz, you’re dead. The weaker you look, the harder they squeeze. And she insisted it was just the opposite. If they think you’re a rooster, they’ll shave off your comb. They poked and prodded, without annoying each other, like lovers in the early months of dating, until they arrived near the corner of Chappe and Tardieu.
Roger, thinking seriously about what she’d said, couldn’t help himself from asking, “What you said to the policeman ... that perhaps I’d stay here with you. Are you serious?”
“What do you think?”
“Me?”
“Are you the type that thinks man made it to the moon or not?”
“Not even in paintings, Barbara. All of that was a show.”
“You see? I couldn’t live with someone who wasn’t as romantic, who always wants to be logical. Hope, man. Imagination. Women like men to sweep them off their feet.”
“That must be a thing for women—” He stopped in his tracks. He’d learned to hold back a joke following a series of blows.
“What? Say it.”
“That must be for women ... your age.” Roger started laughing.
“You’re a dumbass.” Barbara couldn’t hold back her laughter and tried to pinch his balls with each hand while laughing and repeating he’d pay for saying that.
She inserted her key into the lock, and they entered the building. Before climbing up the stairs, and out of breath from laughing, Barbara stopped and surprised him with a question.
“Do you know the Tibetan secret to a better life?”
“Is it a saying?”
“Yes.”
“Save it for yourself. I hate sayings.”
“Well, now I won’t tell you.”
“Better. Thanks.”
“You have to listen, honey. The secret to living longer and better is,” she declared with the voice of an afternoon program for children, “eat half, walk double, laugh triple, and love without measure. What?”
“I can’t stand sayings. Plus, being locked up here these days, we haven’t been able to walk much.”
“That’s why we have to laugh triple.”
“And fuck without measure.”
“They don’t say it that way in Tibet. ‘Love,’ I said.”
“It’s not the same?”
“In France, no.”
“At our house, yes.”
“What does ‘our house’ mean?” Standing in the vestibule, Barbara pointed upward with her pinky finger. “This is my apartment, boy.”
“And this possessiveness? It doesn’t look good on you, my love. You just told the police you want to live with me, and now—”
“You’re a rascal.” She got on her tiptoes to give him a kiss and climbed up the stairs.
“The day I got here ... Do you remember? I thought you were renting your room like my brother was.”
“You think I could ever forget?”
“I didn’t understand the apartment was yours. I had no idea, come on.”
“Such nerve. I was surprised.”
“What’d you think about me? Tell me. Your first impression.”
“The truth? That you were a cretin from head to toe. That’s easy.”
“Oh yeah?” He stopped in the first-floor hallway and unzipped her jacket. “And now what do you think?”
“On nights like these? That you’re a cretin. A nice cretin.”
Hulshoff started barking before they got to the second floor. The closer they got, the more he yelled, in his language.
“Is this where the Dutch man lives?”
“How strange ... Hulshoff’s never done that. The dog can’t even hold in his farts.”
Now he wasn’t only barking. Once he heard them pass by, he started desperately scratching the door, like he did on nights with fireworks.
“Let me call Jasper to see if he’s fine ...”
“Don’t bother him now, woman. It’s too late. Let’s watch you give the grandpa a heart attack.”
“But if the dog is making this much noise—”
“Look at the time, Barbara.”
“That’s why. If Jasper isn’t shushing him, there must be a reason.”
“Because he’s sleeping, you’ll see.”
“Jasper is old. He lives alone. He’s my grandmother’s friend.”
“Walk up, woman. Tomorrow morning, you can come down and ask what’s going on. Don’t worry.”
The Labrador continued to bark without end. He filed his nails against the door with a worrying obsession. Once Barbara and Roger were on the third floor, she decided to turn around.
“Look. I’ll go down and ask Jasper if he’s okay.”
“You can’t just send him a text? That’ll scare him less.”
Before she could respond, she was at his apartment door. She rang the doorbell. With every ring, the dog went crazier and crazier.
“It’s me, Hulshoff. It’s okay. It’s Barbara ... Calm down, baby.”
There was no reciprocation from the other side. Little by little, it seemed like Hulshoff might be walking away, but then he’d immediately speed back up until he knocked into the door. And then he’d start scratching again.
“Those barks aren’t normal. I’m sorry.”
“Ring again,” Roger suggested.
“Knock on the door, and I’ll call the phone directly.”
“When did you last see Jasper?”
“Yesterday ... the day before yesterday. The day before yesterday, yes. I came down to see if he needed anything. It was the day of the blackout?”
Roger had enough with the doorbell. With his hand flat against the door, he began to knock. Every time, he shouted his name louder and louder. “Jasper! Jasper!” He waited a couple of seconds, then again. “Jasper!!!”
“He isn’t answering the phone either. Shit.”
“Jaspeeeer!”
“You know what?” said Barbara, with nervous sweat dripping down her back. “I’ll call the emergency line. This is enough. Someone should come and knock down the door.”