Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (35 page)

No one would call her, of course. No one knew her here. People would call her aunt, but not her.

Maybe some day …

She went back to the salon.

“Is your room all right?” Louisa asked.

“It’s fantastic,” Iris said.

“That’s good,” her aunt said. “You’ll probably want to freshen up before we start out.”

“Start out?”

“Yes, of course. What else? I thought we’d have lunch at Yar’s, a Russian place Henry and I always liked. First have a look around, you know.”

“But don’t you want a nap or something? I mean, after that long plane ride?”

“Darling, I’m not exactly in my dotage! Henry and I, after settling in a bit, always started right out
doing
things. I thought, since you’re a stranger here, we’d walk up to the Rue de Rivoli, just a block and a half away, and look in some of the lovely shops there. Then head over to the Rue de l’Opéra and give you some Paris atmosphere.” She smiled fondly. “Are you happy to be here, Iris?”

“Oh, Auntie, I can’t tell you! I’m in seventh heaven.”

“Then shower and change, and I’ll give you an hour or so. Then come out again, all fresh and rosy, and we’ll go adventuring. And bring your camera, since you’ll certainly want to have snapshots of your first day here.”

The day passed in a kind of blur. A glorious blur, to be sure, but for a newcomer like Iris, impressions were necessarily jumbled and kaleidoscoped.

The main impact was of an incredibly beautiful city, a city that actually seemed to glitter. Iris was overwhelmed with its shimmer, with the breathtaking uniformity of its mansard-roofed skyline, the many lacy bridges over the Seine, and the river itself, flowing its timeless way below the embankments. The vast sky, blooming with fast-moving clouds, seemed different from other skies. Its color was paler, more diffuse, varying from an almost washed-out blue to a deeper cobalt, and the whole effect subtly elusive.

How to describe it?

Why try? she thought. This was the sky the Impressionists had painted … Corot, Monet, Vuillard, Seurat …

Her first day was wonderful … and exhausting. Emotion played its part. Tears, at unbidden moments, rose astonishingly. This was Paris … city of her dreams.

At six they returned to the hotel, weary from jet lag and a long day’s outing, and Louisa proposed a drink in the bar lounge on the second floor.

It was a pleasant room, with easy chairs and oak furniture. Not very large, but sizeable enough to accommodate about forty people. There was a mirrored bar at the rear and a man behind it who raised a hand in greeting as they walked toward a table.

He soon came over.

“Bon soir,”
he said warmly. “I am so happy to see you once again. I missed you very much last year.”

“You know that — ” Louisa started to say, and the man interrupted with a quiet, “Yes, I know, of course. I am so sorry.”

“Thank you, Marcel. I’d like to introduce my niece, Iris Easton, my sister’s daughter.”

“Enchanté,
Mademoiselle,” the man said. “Your first trip to Paris?”

“Yes.”

“You arrived only today. Have you formed any impressions?”

“Yes, I think it’s wonderful.”

“I am glad. A martini for you, Madame?”

“Your memory never fails you. Yes, Marcel, and for my niece too.
Très sec,
as usual.”

“I know,” he said, with a smile. “A mere whisper of the vermouth.”

They stayed for only half an hour in order to have some rest in their rooms before foraying out to dinner. Three tables had been occupied since they had come in, none with English-speaking persons. All were French except for two gentlemen who sounded Russian to Iris. She was almost sure she heard one of them say
“Nyet.”

“I’m glad we’re staying here,” she told her aunt. “And I’m mad about the Place Vendôme. It’s so historyish.”

“It used to be horribly disfigured by automobiles cluttering it up,” Louisa said. “It was, I assure you, one big parking lot. But then they built an enormous underground garage and now it’s the way it should be.”

She looked toward the bar and caught Marcel’s attention. He brought over the bill for their drinks, and Louisa signed for it.

“Have an enjoyable evening,” Marcel said cordially as they left. “And Mademoiselle, welcome to Paris. I wish you happiness here.”

They were no sooner in their quarters than the telephone rang in Louisa’s room.

“You go in and lie down for, say, half an hour,” she told Iris. “We should leave here at around seven-thirty or so for dinner. Excuse me, I must answer that.”

Iris, needing no coaxing, went right to her bedroom. She closed the door, stripped off her clothes and slipped into the comfort of the wide bed. She set her alarm for seven and fell instantly into a delicious slumber.

The next thing she knew there was a voice that seemed to come from very far away.

“Iris …”

Her eyes opened reluctantly. “What?” she mumbled.

“It’s twenty past seven.”

The voice was that of her Aunt Louisa, who was sitting on the edge of her bed and running a hand through her hair.

“Too tired for dinner?” Louisa asked.

“No. Gee. I’m sorry. I set the alarm, but I guess I didn’t hear it go off.” She leaned on an elbow. “Who was that on the phone?”

“A friend of mine. Sure you’re up to getting dressed and going out for a meal?”

“Yes, of course. I won’t be a minute.”

“Half an hour will do. The restaurant we’re going to is very near here.”

“Okay.”

She showered quickly and was dressed at a few minutes before eight. There was only a short walk to
Chez Tante Louise,
the place Louisa had in mind.

When they arrived, it was readily evident that it was a restaurant in which her aunt and uncle had dined frequently, judging from the cordial greetings that were extended.

Tante Louise,
which was almost the name of Iris’s aunt, might have been a pet haunt for obvious reasons, her niece decided. In any event, it was a delightful place, quietly comfortable and not overly formal.

The food was excellent and the wine, a light, buoyant Beaujolais, a perfect accompaniment.

“This is the kind of eating place Henry and I always liked,” Louisa said. “You know Henry was always averse to splash and we never went in for flamboyant restaurants or anything else showy. We were always partial to these quiet, relaxing atmospheres and mostly avoided spots like
Lasserve,
or
Véfour.
Maybe it’s an inverse snobbery, but it’s how we always felt.”

“It’s okay with me,” Iris said, “as I’m sure you must know. I’d just as soon eat in our rooms — a bottle of wine and some deli stuff.”

“We’ll probably resort to that too, if we should be too dragged out after a long and arduous day, to face dolling ourselves up and going out.

“And anyway,” she added, “I must watch my weight. You don’t have to worry, you gorgeous, skinny thing. But I do, and I must get on the scales tomorrow.”

“You don’t weigh any more than I do.”

“Maybe not, but it’s all in the wrong places.”

They were back at the Place Vendôme at a little after ten. The splendid square, now gloriously floodlit, was deserted. It looked noble, and somber, and magnificent. The warmth of the day had become a clear and still, faintly chilly night.

It seemed a pity to go in, and leave all that beauty.

“I had a wonderful day,” Iris said, when they were upstairs. “There will be other days, but this one, my very first, will never, ever be forgotten.”

“I’m so glad. Give us a kiss, and then beddy-bye.”

Aunt Louisa had said that when she was just a little kid.
Give us a kiss and then beddy-bye …

Then both of them closed their doors and Iris, dead for sleep, cleaned her teeth and climbed into the sack.

Those two fat pillows, linen-sheathed, were like heaven itself, and the window, opened almost all the way, brought in Parisian night breezes, foreign zephyrs that smelled, faintly, of hyacinth.

Or so Iris imagined.

She slept dreamlessly. Or, if there were dreams, they failed to surface when she awoke to a bright Paris sky and turned over, eagerly, to greet the morning sun that rayed over her bed and bathed her in its brilliance.

She remembered her Baudelaire, and said aloud,
“De tirer de mon soleil de mon coeur, et de faire des mes pensers brûlants une tiède atmosphère …”

So there, she thought triumphantly. Her French courses hadn’t been a total loss. Then, throwing back the covers, she got up and took a cold, bracing shower.

“I thought we’d go to Notre Dame today,” Louisa said, over café au lait and croissants in the sunny salon.

“Great, just what I’d like most to do.”

“Suppose we start at the Concorde, cross the river, walk up to the Quai des Grands Augustins, have a look in some of the antique shops there, and reach the cathedral by crossing back at the Pont St. Michel. There are many ways to get there on foot, but that way is one of my favorite walks.”

“Sounds lovely.”

It was. The sun blazed, though it was a bit on the coolish side, calling for sweaters. It was a long, leisurely trek, and riverside, with the Seine sparkling and clear. Boats glided on its surface, with the occasional white triangle of a sail limned enticingly.

When they came to the Quai des Grands Augustins, there were any number of shops that vended antiques, their gleaming plate-glass windows awninged against the sun. Louisa didn’t buy anything, though she looked into several of them, and in one saw a Boulle clock she told the owner she would “think about.”

Then they went on, and Louisa said that shortly they would come to the bookstalls. “If you’re lucky, Iris, you might find a rare first edition in all the welter. Though you’d have to be very lucky indeed.”

The bookstalls on the banks of the Seine … that, Iris thought eagerly, was something she had very much looked forward to. Someone had said that the bookseller on the quays represented one of the most authentic figures of everyday life in Paris. And very soon, there they were, lined up on the embankment, their lathed green over-covers shading books, prints and posters.

Iris lost herself completely, searching avidly for some bibliophilic find which would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. There were hundreds and hundreds of tomes, some deliciously musty with age, others modern fiction not worth glancing at.

It would take time and patience to sift through this mass of reading material. Yet it would be exciting to come across a real treasure.

“Find anything of interest?” her aunt finally asked.

Her niece looked slightly dazed. “Give me several months and maybe I can unearth something that will make my heart beat faster.”

“Or several years,” Louisa said sympathetically. She looked at her watch. “Give it up for now. I thought we’d have a coffee at that cafe over there.”

“All right, it would be nice to sit down for a bit.”

They walked across to an inviting plaza that was marked by one of the ubiquitous cobalt-blue signs. Place St. Michel, the sign said, and the cafe’s outdoor adjunct presented an attractive view of the surrounding area.

They chose a table on the outer circumference, where they could sit in the sun, rather than under the canopy. Iris shrugged out of her sweater.

Louisa looked at her watch again. Iris smiled. “Do you really care about time?” she asked. “I don’t. I’ve forgotten the meaning of it.”

“Time is relative,” Louisa replied. “It can be important or not, depending on circumstances.”

“That sounds profound.”

“Does it? How nice. Where are you going?”

“To find a john. Will you excuse me?”

“Can’t you wait until we order?”

“I won’t be long.
Café noir
for me, if the waiter comes over.”

She got up and weaved her way among tables and then went inside. It was a busy place and rather noisy, with a television going full blast over the bar. Looking about, Iris saw no helpful signs, so she asked a passing waiter.

“Ou est la lavabo, s’il vous plait?”

“Par là,”
he said, and pointed.

She found it, used it, and came out again.

It was only a little after eleven o’clock in the morning, but the place was lively. Waiters flitted about, their trays held high. Tables were occupied by beer-drinking and wine-tippling customers. There was also the smell of cooking, with the odor of onions prevalent. Even at this early hour, a few people had quantities of food on their plates, some of them mopping up a dark, thick gravy with bits of bread. Silverware clattered and glasses tinkled.

Iris skirted some people just entering, nearly collided with a harried looking waiter, and gained the doorway.

She was making her way between the outdoor tables again when a thought struck her. This was the Place St. Michel … so then the Boulevard St. Michel must begin at this point. Why, of course!

The famed “Boul’ Mich’,” which led to the Sorbonne and the student quarter.

The Sorbonne … where she had so wanted to spend one of her college years.

There was suddenly a hand on her arm.

“You have lost something,” a voice said and, turning, Iris found herself face to face with a dark-eyed man who was holding out a highly-colored pamphlet.

She recognized it as one of her own, and for a moment stared stupidly at it. Her handbag — a large, roomy tote — was hooked over her shoulder. There was an open pocket on one side, stuffed with her tourist paraphernalia.

She looked up quickly. That brochure couldn’t possibly have fallen out of her tote. The pocket was deep. There was no way she could have lost it.

Yes, one way … and the only way. This man had deliberately “lifted” it from the pocket in the bag in order to speak to her.

She gave him a rapid, comprehensive glance.

He was French: his accent testified to that. Besides, he
looked
French — slightly aquiline nose, very dark eyes that were nearly black, and the same dark, inky hair. Handsome … in a European way, and with a smile that was faintly amused.

Or insolent, she thought.