10 In the Shadow of Notre-Dame #4
“No, no,” answered her friend, who had overdrawn her eyeliner. “On the contrary, dear, I told you he was lighting a cigarette, but you said he wasn’t.”
“There you go again . . .”
“What now?”
“Saying that you said what I actually said . . .”
Jean-Pierre looked at Pauline complicitly.
In order to restore peace between the ladies, the waiter used the one tool that has prevented so many wars. Diplomacy.
“Just so you know, mesdames, the photo was taken at this very table. Number seven was Picasso’s favorite.”
“Oh, really?” the two old ladies replied, before turning to read the menu and never thinking of Guernica’s painter again.
The amused Paulina pointed out another detail she had noticed by chance in that image of Picasso smoking at Brasserie Lipp with his plastered bangs.
“Do you see how long his fingernails are? He almost looks like a woman . . .”
“Who?”
“The man in the photo.” She didn’t want to name him in case the old ladies overheard.
“I suppose they’re for opening paint jars.”
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m telling the truth. I don’t know if that was the case for him, but I know several painters who grow out their nails just to open jars.”
“They don’t own a screwdriver? Or a knife to pry open the lid?”
“I don’t know, Pauline.”
“Anyway, it’s enough just to have one long nail. No need for all of them to be sharp.”
“I see the subject really interests you,” he teased.
“It just grossed me out, what can I say . . .”
“Well then. Let Picasso’s market value drop. Madame Homs does not approve of the painter’s fingernails.”
“You’re such a . . .” She preferred not to finish the sentence, because she didn’t mean whatever it was.
Don’t poke the bear.
The waiter finally managed to hang the picture on his fifth attempt back on its nail near the foot of the stairs.
“Do you know what’s upstairs, Pauline?”
“The bathrooms?”
They laughed again.
“If you need those, they’re downstairs. Upstairs is hell.” He shrugged lightly as if to shake off the evil. “That’s what they call it here.”
“Like purgatory, you don’t ascend into hell. You descend.”
“They call it the ‘staircase to hell’ because upstairs is where they put three types of customers: American tourists, Japanese tour groups, and the undesirables.”
“We were lucky to get a table down here then.”
“Table eight. The corner table. What more can you want? The best vantage point for observing the whole restaurant. A little tip does miracles.”
“Is this where you bring your lady friends to impress them?”
“No. It’s the table the communists always requested, because they felt like their backs were covered at this angle, and they couldn’t be ambushed from any side.”
“Now I know it’s not your table.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked playfully. “Hey, girl, I have standards, and I smoke a pipe . . .”
“Also to impress women?”
“No, to scare away mosquitoes.”
The two ladies—one on the bench and the other with her back exposed, vulnerable to any attack—had ordered enough food for four and a bottle of champagne, which they received with applause before splitting it in half.
The widows’ celebration did not interrupt Jean-Pierre and Paulina’s romantic dinner.
They amused themselves with eavesdropping on the neighboring table’s conversations without having to strain their ears.
Paulina understood almost everything, and each time a comment made her laugh, she kicked Jean-Pierre’s knee under the table.
The ladies—Madame Rentz and Madame Bourvil—began competing to see who slept less at night.
After arguing up and down, the winner was apparently the one who proclaimed she slept barely an hour.
Paulina, appalled by Madame Bourvil’s exaggeration, nearly contested the result.
She wasn’t too successful when the check was to be paid either.
Despite her insistence, the waiter deferred to Jean-Pierre’s expression that clearly said If you don’t take my money, I will never set foot in Lipp again.
Pauline acted offended, because men paying for everything was a thing of the past. But Jean-Pierre’s linguistic advantage tipped the scales.
They moved the table aside, wished the ladies a courteous good night, warmly and earnestly congratulated Madame Rentz on her birthday, asked the waiter to take a photo of them at the foot of the stairs, and left Lipp.
In the front dining room, which was now the exit for the lovers, Paulina noticed one last sign. She found it funny.
Warning
For public health reasons, we request that customers
Do Not Feed Dogs
with food from the establishment
or let them jump onto the chairs.
“Since you’re a visionary, what do you think they’ll outlaw first in restaurants: smoking or dogs?”
“If it were up to me, both. Come on, silly. Don’t make fun of me, you hear?”
There was a lot of tenderness in that playful poking.
Once they left the brasserie, they wandered aimlessly toward the Sénat and the Luxembourg Gardens. They walked slowly, hand in hand or arm in arm, like they were afraid that one of them might slip away at any moment. That night, however, neither had the slightest intention of doing so.
“I’m not going to ask you again if you want to come up for a glass of wine at my place.”
“Right . . .”
“Right what?”
“It seems like you are . . .”
“No, no . . . On the contrary, I said I wouldn’t insist. I wouldn’t want to impose on you.”
“You sure are a gentleman.”
“We Zanardis are like that. Respectful and . . .”
Paulina didn’t let him finish. What she had to say was too important.
“Jean-Pierre, can I tell you something?” Her heart raced a million miles a minute before and after speaking. “I would really like to see your house.”
Jean-Pierre gave her a sweet, sugary kiss.
By the time Paulina opened her eyes again, he had already hailed a taxi and opened the door for her.
“Number 5, rue du Trésor, in Le Marais, please.”
They held hands in the taxi in silence. Was it nervousness or anticipation that kept them from speaking? Or both things, tightly entangled?
Because it was nighttime, Paulina didn’t notice he lived on a narrow, dead-end street that was landscaped with flower beds on each side.
She did notice, however, the solid wooden door that was varnished, with bronze handles that were easy to grip.
It struck her as noble, befitting him perfectly.
They took a stately elevator up to the fourth floor.
Jean-Pierre, just behind her, gently took her by the waist with both hands.
Their closeness sent a shiver through her spine.
He was whistling again. Paulina realized that this tic betrayed him.
It was something he did unconsciously when he was nervous or not fully in control of a situation.
She was glad to discover she wasn’t the only one navigating unknown waters.
She said nothing. She was sure that if she opened her mouth, her voice would tremble.
“This is my den.”
He suddenly switched on as many lights as he could.
“Wow. It looks like a continuation of the gallery. Everything is so . . . white, austere, neatly arranged. What’s the name?”
“What?” He was startled. “Whose name?”
“The designer.”
“No, no, I did it all myself.”
He approached her from close behind.
“I like simple things, refined things. I’m a man with taste.”
He kissed her neck.
“. . . And a touch.”
“If that’s what you say . . .” She turned around to bring her lips to his and look him in the eyes to make sure that they both really wanted the type of night that was accelerating toward them. “But it’s true. You have taste, and you have a touch. There’s no denying that.”
After the welcome kiss, Jean-Pierre grabbed her hand, and, quickly, they walked across the living room, they passed through the kitchen, he showed her the little office that looked out into the inner courtyard, and at the end of the hallway, they reached the bedroom.
It took up practically half the apartment between the walk-in closet, the bathroom with its sliding door, and the reading sofa.
Standing, they began kissing again. Since he had first tasted her, Jean-Pierre had been longing for Paulina’s thick lips.
Looking into her eyes, he skillfully unbuttoned her white blouse, one button at a time.
Paulina did the same with Jean-Pierre’s knit shirt, from top to bottom.
They let their shirts fall to the floor at the same time with a sort of reverence.
After gently biting her ear, he casually unfastened her bra with a precise snap of his fingers.
She lifted her shoulders so the straps would slide down on their own, letting the garment fall down the length of her torso.
They embraced, body to body. Both needed to feel the warmth of the other’s chest against their own.
The perfect fit. Soft, warm, welcoming. They stayed like that for a while, saying nothing. Thinking of nothing.
Then, without letting each other go, they slipped off their shoes, and, facing each other, they repeated the ritual.
Jean-Pierre unbuttoned her jeans while she unfastened his pants in the very same second.
Each stepped out of their own clothing, and they let themselves fall onto the bed before the impetuous dance they had been nurturing for hours.
Perhaps, without knowing it, for an entire lifetime.