Читать книгу Lessons in French - Hilary Reyl - Страница 19

After Kirs with Clarence and Lydia, and her joking assurance that he and she were going out in the neighborhood tonight for a proper bourgeois grande bouffe to celebrate her arrival, pity I couldn’t join them, I went to dress for my final date with Olivier.

I showered and primped. I even dabbed perfume from my free sample collection. Chanel No. 5. Then, after two applications of lotion, I dressed. Black leggings and an off-the-shoulder gray dress in softest sweatshirt material. I put on mascara. I pulled on heels.

I slipped a fresh pair of underwear and some flats into my bag, locked my door, unlocked it to get a lipstick and a book to stare at on the Métro. Then I headed down flight after flight, my heart skipping to the music of the unaccustomed heels.

As I hit the bottom stair and faced the marvelous prospect of the courtyard, the door to Lydia’s apartment swung open. It was as though my first step into the night air had triggered a spring. Out popped Lydia in a silk paisley bathrobe.

“Christ, it’s freezing,” she said. “Come in! Come in! Hurry! The heating bills on this place are killing us.”

“I was just heading out actually.”

“Yes, I can tell. Nice shoes,” she added, ushering me into the foyer. “But you might want to take them off. We have a long night ahead of us, my dear. You have to understand that you did not sign on for a nine-to-five job. No time clocks here. No punching in and out.” She gave my face a look that managed to be both cursory and searching. “Of course, if that’s not what you want …”

“No, no, no. I mean yes.”

Although I had no idea what I meant, she took my words as a declaration of my readiness to get down to business. We had to transcribe those German interviews right now. History was marching forward and we couldn’t afford not to meet it head-on.

Steadying a tremor as I hung my coat, I asked if I could have a couple of minutes to call and leave a message for the cousin I was supposed to meet. I didn’t want him to worry.

This was not, I assured myself, a total lie, as this was the night I had promised Étienne to go to his dinner party. I was breaking two dates.

She said fine, showing no interest. But I felt compelled to add, as we walked down the hallway right past Portia’s room, all lavender and perfume bottles, that Étienne had invited me to his apartment near the Bastille tonight, that he was the one whose family I’d lived with as a kid, whose parents had retired back to Orléans, and that he was in Paris now, doing some kind of art.

“Oh, well that makes me feel a hell of a lot less guilty. You can see your cousin anytime if he’s local, can’t you? Tell him you are standing him up in the name of truth and beauty.” She laughed, closing her office door behind us.

I went to the phone book beside the Rolodex to look up the Fer à Cheval, wondering if Portia would be waiting for Olivier tomorrow at the airport in New York, ditching school, holding some expensive bottle of champagne.

There was a knock at the door. Clarence.

“Lydia,” he said. “This is ridiculous. This can wait until tomorrow and you know it. The poor girl has plans of her own. She’s been working all day.”

“Clarence, you have no idea what you’re talking about. If you did, you would eat your words. Things are happening too fast in this world for us to pause now. There will be time later. Now leave us be.”

“But I thought you and I were going out to dinner. I thought you wanted a grande bouffe tonight. What happened to the bouffe?”

“Look at me, Clarence.”

“You look fine.”

“I’m wearing my bathrobe. I am obviously not going anywhere, not with you or anyone else. We have plenty of roast chicken left over if we get hungry. The Berlin Wall could come down tonight. Now get out.”

I managed to find the number for the bar while, just feet away, Lydia busied herself with contact sheets and notebook pages.

I remained remarkably steady.

“Fer à Cheval, bonsoir!” Background jazz felted over a hum of voices. I wondered if one of them was Olivier’s, if he had shown up early to meet me. I looked at my watch. I was supposed to be there in half an hour.

I tried to sound casual. “Bonsoir, Michel, this is Kate, the American girl you met on Wednesday night.”

“La copine d’Olivier?”

“Yes.” A copine could either be a girlfriend or friend who was a girl. There was no way to tell. “He’s my cousin,” I said meaningfully.

Had Lydia heard Olivier’s name through the receiver? If she had, she gave no indication, and I had to assume that she was too consumed with her place in history to bother about my social life.

“Ah, bon? Your cousin?” Michel laughed.

“Yes, just please tell him that Kate cannot make it to the dinner party tonight. I have to stay at work. Something important has come up.”

Would I like to speak to him, Michel asked? He was right here.