The Last Time I Saw Paris (11 page)

As the plane flew steadily on toward Frankfurt, Lara recalled her and Bill's arrival at the Paris Ritz. She remembered how excited she had been to stay at the famous hotel where Ernest Hemingway had drunk martinis in the bar on the rue Cambon, and where he had “liberated” Paris after the war. And where Chanel had lived in a grand suite with a sweeping staircase. Chanel had shown her collections there, sitting half hidden on the stairs, smoking furiously as she spied on the reaction her new fashions were getting. Crowned heads and courtesans and movie stars had stayed at the luxurious hotel and, years later, the beautiful Princess Diana had eaten her last meal there. The Ritz was steeped in history and Lara had wallowed in its luxury like a happy seal.

Or had she?

Somewhere from the back of her mind, hidden for
years, she dredged up a memory of overwhelming fatigue. She had been only twenty and had never traveled farther afield from her California home than Chicago. Bill was twenty-eight and had spent most of his life in school, or as a hospital intern. They were a couple of immature young hicks in a foreign country, unsure of themselves and unsure of each other. She was irritable, he was moody. And their room had surely been the smallest in the grand hotel, looking out onto rooftops.

“Les toits de Paris,”
Bill had said, flaunting his knowledge of French and for some reason irritating the hell out of her, Why did he always have to be so pompous, so factual? She had stared at him as though she were seeing an alien from another planet.

That night they slept at opposite sides of the
lit matrimonial,
the double bed that Bill had specifically requested; angry, stiff, blaming each other, their marriage still unconsummated. And Lara had wanted to go home so bad she had cried.

Then how had she remembered it all these years as perfection? In her memory were only the facts that there had been flowers in the room, a brass bed, beautiful gold brocade curtains and gilded furnishings, and that the tiny balcony had looked out onto the stars.

The next day Bill had walked her everywhere, guidebook in hand. She thought they might as well have had placards on their backs announcing they were American tourists. She had wanted to browse in every little boutique, sit and people-watch in small cafes sipping glamorous French drinks like Ricard or Pastis, which were the names she saw on those huge yellow ashtrays that graced every outdoor table. She had wanted
to feel
French, and Bill had wanted to
look at
France. That was the difference between them. But,
typically, Bill had planned his schedule and he intended to get through it.

By day three, Lara's feet were killing her. She had huge blisters on every toe, and that night they were going to what was then Paris's grandest restaurant. It was to be the highlight of their stay.

She spent hours soaking her swollen feet in ice water, until she feared frostbite, trying to force them into the black suede heels that went with the smart little black dress she had bought specially. It was no good; the only shoes she could get on her feet were sneakers. She longed to stay in bed and just send for room service, but Bill wouldn't hear of it.

“Put the sneakers on, Lara,” he ordered impatiently. “We're going to the Tour d'Argent.”

Heads had turned her way as she limped, mortified, into the elegant restaurant on the quai de la Tournelle, and she could see people smiling, commenting behind their hands. But the maître d' was full of Gallic charm, sympathetic to her youth.

“Blisters,” she explained in a whisper, agonized with embarrassment.

“Ah, madame, Paris can be very hard on the feet,” he murmured, understandingly, as he showed them to a table near the window with a stupendous view of Notre Dame.

Food was different all those years ago, especially French food, still all butter and cream and smoothly rich. She had been a student until she married, living as cheaply as possible, eating pizza and burgers, and Bill was an impecunious intern, existing on whatever the hospital cafeteria offered. Now Bill ordered lavishly.

“We'll start with the foie gras,” he decided without consulting her. “And with it, a glass of the sauternes.”

Young Lara stared at him, all wide smudgy eyes and soft open mouth, impressed by his sudden knowledge of French food. He even knew the right wine to order.

“Then what?” Bill glanced inquiringly at her. Pushing her long dark hair out of her eyes, she hastily studied the menu, all of it written in French.

“Monsieur should, of course, try the duck,” the waiter said helpfully. “The Tour d'Argent is famous for it. After that, perhaps a green salad, a little cheese. And then dessert.”

The sommelier was their next hurdle as Bill frantically scanned the wine list, hot under the collar at the prices, searching for a bottle to suit their budget.

“Monsieur and madame are perhaps on their honeymoon?” The sommelier had them pegged perfectly. “Then, of course, you must have champagne.” So, of course, Bill ordered champagne, grandly refusing even to look at the cost.

They toasted each other, sipping the delicious bubbles, and Lara remembered thinking how handsome and distinguished Bill looked. Her husband, the doctor. And she could taste, even now, the silky-smooth foie gras as it slid down her throat, followed by the sumptuous sweetness of the golden sauternes.

By the time they had eaten their salad they had also finished the champagne, so Bill had thrown all caution to the wind and ordered a bottle of red wine, Château something or other. It was dark and heavy and expensive and she remembered it had to be decanted over a candle flame by the sommelier.

She could still recall the aroma of the roast duck when they brought it, intact, to their table for them to admire, with its crackling bronze skin and the little numbered tag on its leg to show that it was specially
bred and only in limited quantities, like the fine wine.

Somehow that number made Lara remember that this duck had been a live creature. She pictured it waddling around a country pond, its leg already tagged, not knowing that its fate was already sealed. She took a quick gulp of the wine, trying not to look as the waiter carved the duck. But she couldn't help but see as he put parts of it, along with the carcass, into a huge silver press and squeezed out the bloody juices. Lara swallowed hard as he presented the platter triumphantly.

She could not eat the duck; it just stuck in her throat. Bill, in his new role as Man of the World, was icy with disdain at her gaucheness. The silence between them deepened and the waiter refilled their glasses.

She had forced herself to eat the pungent cheeses, washing them down with the wine, afraid to say no. And they both devoured the chocolate confection that was dessert.

Lara spent that night on the marble floor of their bathroom at the Ritz, throwing up. Bill slept, fully clothed, drunk as a lord and snoring loudly, in the
lit matrimonial.

How Lara had hated him that night, miserable and alone in that chilly bathroom. Her husband,
the doctor,
didn't even know she was ill. She wished she had never married him. Throwing up again, she wished, tearfully, she were dead.

The next morning, Bill was up bright and early. Lara was lying in bed feeling like hell.

“Car's waiting, honey,” he called cheerfully from the shower. “Better get your act together; we're off to the Loire today to take a look at some of those châteaux.”

Groaning, Lara heaved herself out of bed, still jetlagged, still sick, her head still spinning from all that wine. If she knew Bill, they would have to personally inspect every inch of those damned châteaux. “Can't we just stay here another day? Just you and me? Send down for coffee, take it easy?”

He stuck his head around the bathroom door, toweling his wet hair. “Are you crazy, Lara? We're in France. There's no time to take it easy. And who needs room service anyhow?”

I do, she thought miserably, inspecting her blistered toes and thinking that at least she would get to sit down for a few hours in the car. She was to be the navigator and Bill would do the driving. And he was a fast and impatient driver.

It was hell just getting out of Paris; the highways were clogged with traffic. The map was in French, the names confusing, and she lost their way six times that morning, following the
Toutes Directions
signs that always seemed to lead them nowhere. Their destination was Tours but they ended up somewhere near Le Mans without having seen a single château. Bill was furious and Lara sulked, insisting that it wasn't her fault and how could he be this mean to her? And instead of just living with it and finding a little hotel and spending time in the place they were in, Bill insisted on sticking with his schedule and driving all the way back to Tours.

Darkness had fallen, and naturally they got lost again and ended up almost back where they came from. The night had been saved by a stay at Laurent, a family-owned hotel in Loué near Le Mans that they practically fell over. It was pretty and bourgeois and it had a restaurant. They were starving by then and the food had been simple in that wonderful French
way; the
Bresse
chicken mouthwatering, the
tarte tatin
sublime, and the featherbed welcoming to a pair of exhausted honeymooners.

 

The truth was, Lara now realized, amazed, she and Bill had fought all the time in Paris. That she had got drunk, that the staff at the hotel were snooty to a couple of immature young hicks from America, and that mostly they had been too exhausted to make love.

Then how had she remembered Paris as the perfect happy idyll all these years? She shook her head, bewildered at the tricks the mind can play, when you wanted it to.

At least this time around, she thought, it can't get any worse.

D
an opened his eyes. He turned his head and studied Lara's profile, taut as a cameo in the dimmed interior of the plane. She was lost in her thoughts and there was such an air of sadness about her it made him wonder if he had done the right thing, going to France with her. Was she already regretting it? Was she embarrassed by their age difference? Or was she merely upset over the endless delays and blaming herself? If he knew her well enough, and he believed by now he did, he would bet on a mixture of all three.

He took her chin in his hand, turned her face toward him. “Love,” he told her solemnly, “can survive anything that Delta airlines can hand out to it.”

Lara laughed, snapping suddenly out of her somber mood, and he grabbed her firmly in his arms and planted a kiss on her soft mouth. “It's been too long since I did that.” He smoothed his palm across her cheek, tracing the outline of her lips with a finger.

The overhead lights snapped on and they moved reluctantly apart.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant intoned in that special automaton airline voice, “we shall shortly be serving breakfast, prior to landing at Frankfurt.”

Stiff with fatigue Lara said, “I don't think I could handle one more cup of coffee.”

“Or even one more dry-as-dust bread roll …”

“To say nothing of another ice cream sundae.” She remembered, guiltily, that she had consumed two: one on the flight to Cincinnati and one on this flight, and she prayed they would not offer her a third on the Paris flight because somehow, with the stress, all her willpower had disappeared. She was a prisoner to the airlines, a slave who obediently ate what they gave her despite the calories, or even whether she liked it. At least it was something to do. Besides, the wine had given her a headache.

Breakfast was served and rapidly cleared away. They were straightening their seat backs, making sure they were buckled in, and then they were landing in Frankfurt.

“For those passengers with connecting flights, a member of our staff, identified by his red jacket, will be waiting at the gate to assist you. Thank you for flying with Delta.” The flight attendant sounded weary.

Lara glanced at her watch; it was now twenty-two hours since they had left San Francisco and they were still only in Frankfurt. She thought wistfully she should have been in that wonderful room in the Ritz by now.

There was no red-coated staff member to assist them in the terminal. In fact, there was no one. Frankfurt airport was as deserted as a school cafeteria after lunch, and as sterile-clean and shiny as an operating room.

Dan took out the piece of paper the airline clerk had given him in Cincinnati with the number of the Lufthansa flight to Paris. He checked it against the Departures monitor. “We've got fifteen minutes,” he said, grabbing Lara's hand again. They ran past endless window displays of sleek Escada dresses and
leather jackets and Longchamps bags and empty cafes, and of course their gate was at the opposite end of the terminal. They made it with only minutes to spare.

The blond woman in the red glasses at the Lufthansa desk glanced disapprovingly at them, as though there were no excuse for them being this late. Still catching his breath, Dan handed her the piece of paper with their flight reservations. She studied it, frowning, clicking away on her computer keyboard while Lara shifted anxiously from foot to foot. They would be closing the aircraft doors if she didn't hurry up.

The clerk handed the paper back. “You are not booked on this flight,” she said.

To her surprise, Lara giggled. It was the final straw. Dan grinned at her, then they both began to laugh. The clerk stared, astonished at them, as Lara leaned against the desk, weak with laughter and fatigue. “It's too much,” she hiccuped.
“Just too much.”

“Look,” Dan explained as reasonably as he could manage. “We've had a long flight—
two
long flights. We should have been in Paris
yesterday.
Can't you get us onto this flight?” He gave the blonde his biggest smile. “Please,” he said. “I'd really appreciate it.”

She permitted him a reluctant smile, then turned back to her computer. “You might just be lucky. There seem to be a couple of no-shows.” She glanced at her watch. “It's too late for them now,” she admitted, briskly issuing boarding passes.