Capturing Paris (28 page)

“Un rouge à lèvres.”
Annie asked for her lipstick at the Lancôme counter, where she'd bought makeup before. This turned out to be more complicated than she had anticipated.

“Here is a lovely one, madame, very fresh. It will bring your color alive.” And then, “Madame is looking a little pale, may I suggest a new
fond de teint
, a makeup to give you more light, more radiance? Here, let me do your
maquillage
.”

Annie had started to protest, then decided it might be fun to freshen up her look. She'd gone to her hairdresser every month, and Raoul insisted her shorter hair had been his idea all along. She asked the saleswoman, Gabrielle, to keep the makeup natural.

A few minutes later she admired her reflection in the handheld mirror offered by Gabrielle and vowed to make more of an effort. Her face did indeed look brighter, her expression less worried. She felt pretty for the first time in weeks. She left the store with the distinctive Bon Marché orange bag filled with the new makeup, blush, eye shadow, and lipstick. This small ritualistic artifice made Annie feel in sync with the throngs of late-afternoon shoppers, true Parisians, who considered it their duty to make the most of their feminine attributes.

Annie climbed the stairs to Paul's office, quite pleased with herself for making the stop at Le Bon Marché. She drew her shoulders back and entered, feeling more confident than the time she had stopped to see
him without an appointment earlier that winter. His assistant, whom she now knew as Danielle, was wrapping a scarf around her neck, biting her lip in concentration, this activity as important as any other she'd performed that day. She'd already buttoned her coat, a cheap leather one with some kind of fur trim at the cuffs and hem that made Annie think of an animal she couldn't quite picture, a yak or a llama.

“Monsieur had to step out for a few minutes. He asks you to go in.” Danielle smiled. She had gradually warmed to Annie and liked having a chance to practice her English. “He leaves you the photos to study. They are on the desk. He be back very soon.”

Annie stepped into Paul's office and picked up the final envelope of photographs. They were nearing the end of the project. She took off her coat and left it on the sofa with her briefcase and shopping bag. She wore her black sweater, not new anymore but still capable of making her feel good, along with her skinniest black pants.

She'd thought carefully about her outfit that day, trying to find the right balance between literary and fashionable, feeling somewhat like an imposter in either category. She had embarrassed herself with her thoughtful preparations, but she told herself it was all right. She had no intention of flirting with Paul. She thought of her efforts more as trying on a new persona, part of getting used to living as a single person.

The envelope contained the last six pictures in the collection. Leafing through, Annie remembered her first meeting with Paul, months ago, when she'd seen the photographs of the nude torsos. That recollection, along with the sensual feeling it had provoked, was still vivid in her mind, and she wondered again if it had been Paul's wife. It was the kind of thing she thought a Frenchman might do, have photographs of his wife to look at when they were apart. She had never seen the pictures again.

François was a master at capturing Parisian life. There wasn't a photograph Annie didn't like. The gradations of light, the subtlety of the subjects, and the careful compositions were brilliant. She studied the final photograph in this series, entitled “Le Souvenir.” It portrayed a young couple kissing in the place de Furstenberg, a charming square not far from Paul's office. The woman's face reflected the pearly light, her cheek turned up to face her lover. The man's dark hair, his arms tight around
her waist, his complete infatuation, made Annie long for that kind of intensity. She knew that lovely square, surrounded by tall, elegant houses, and the four pawlonia empress trees that blossomed each spring.

Annie envied the couple's private embrace a few steps from the bustling Paris streets. “Le Souvenir.” She reflected on the meaning of that French word, understanding that François was referring not to the actual thing that you might take away to remember a place but to the elusive, intangible memory itself.

“I like that one too.” Paul's voice surprised her. He had a way of catching her unawares. He was wearing a dark suit, as if he had come from an appointment.

Annie felt color coming to her face and placed the photograph back with the others in the envelope. She smiled. “I hope I'm up to a poem that will capture that.”

He didn't comment, but raised his eyebrows before smiling back at her. “These are the final pictures. François and I are very pleased with your last poems. I ask myself if it is now the poems that carry the book even more than the pictures.”

“I'm glad you think that, but the photographs speak for themselves. It's the images that make the poems come alive.”

“You are too modest.” He paused and looked at her more carefully. “You are looking very well. Please forgive me for keeping you waiting this evening. I had a meeting with my lawyer. Tedious matters of my wife's estate.”

“That must be very difficult,” she said, pleased with his subtle compliment.

“It is becoming easier,” he said. “Life is change,
n'est-ce pas?”
He gave a quick Gallic shrug.

“Some changes are more difficult than others.”

“You are right, of course.” His voice sounded crisp and businesslike again. “How long will you need to write the last poems?”

“A month, maybe six weeks,” she said. “I have more time now. My husband has moved back to the States, so I'm on my own. I have more time for writing.” Annie felt the words gushing out. This was the first time she'd told him anything about Wesley's absence.

Paul didn't say anything right away, as if trying to comprehend what she said. “Does that mean you will be going there too? Are you leaving Paris?”

“I'm not sure. It's complicated. I'm not sure I can leave Paris.”

“How can he think of leaving you behind?”

“Well, he has. It's been a difficult time for me.” She looked away, immediately wishing she hadn't said all this. It felt ridiculous to be complaining when Paul had certainly suffered far more. Wesley had been unfaithful. That was nothing compared with having someone die. She turned and picked up her coat. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I'll take the photographs and be on my way.”

“Please.” A look of concern crossed his face. “Please, there is no hurry to go away. Perhaps a drink? Are you free for the evening?”

Now that he knew she was alone, Annie felt strangely exposed. He seemed to be studying her closely. “No, not tonight. But thank you. I really must be going.”

“We need to meet soon to talk about the final form of the book.”

“Don't you and François work that out?” she asked.

“The writing, the poems, are what bring the photographs together,” he explained, “and I wish to have you decide this with me.”

“Of course. I'd be happy to help.”

Annie felt shy and suddenly foolish in her newly made-up face. Paul appeared alarmingly handsome in the unfamiliar suit. She wished she hadn't told him about Wesley. She stood to put on her coat.

“Please. Let me help you.” Paul took her coat and she reached back and fumbled trying to put her hand in one sleeve. He stepped closer and her hand slid in easily on the second try. He smelled vaguely of eau de cologne and the hint of smoke from some earlier visit to a restaurant or café—the scent of a man not her husband.

Annie turned up her collar and pulled on her scarf, aware of his proximity, the fixity of his gaze. His eyes looked especially dark that day, almost navy, like his suit. “Another time, though, I would like it,” she said. “I mean a drink or something.”

What would she like? A drink with him, his hands lingering on her shoulders, his hands around her waist pulling her to him with the ur
gency in that final photograph? She liked imagining all of those things. She couldn't deny it.

“I will call you,” he said. Annie left the office and stepped into quiet rue Clément before joining the crush of pedestrians flowing along the rue Saint-Germain.

Annie picked up the telephone. It wasn't Paul.

“Do you have a moment?” Wesley asked.

She shouldn't have answered. She'd started the poem on the romantic photograph late that afternoon when she arrived home from work. Wesley's voice broke the spell. She hadn't noticed it was getting dark.

“I saw Sophie this weekend,” he said. “I thought you'd want to know.”

“Of course,” Annie said. “How is she?” She put down her pen, truly eager for news of her daughter. Sophie hadn't returned Annie's calls lately, and she feared that they were growing farther and farther apart.

“She looked great,” Wesley said. “You know that grin. In a split second she looks like she's seven again. I can't believe in May she'll be twenty-three.”

Annie pictured Sophie's endearing smile, and her face softened.

“You should see her, Annie. God, I keep forgetting how grown-up she is. So sweet, but sophisticated too.” His voice was loving, filled with pride. “She got a huge raise. They love her at work.”

“Were you in New York?”

“I met her there and we went to Madeleine's for the weekend.”

Annie pictured Wesley's sister's lovely house in Connecticut. It was in a beautiful spot nestled in the hills, a peaceful retreat. She could see the three of them gathered around the fire. Whenever Sophie came to visit, Madeleine made hot cider and her favorite ginger cookies, rich with molasses and raisins. For a moment, Annie felt like she was homesick, but Connecticut was not even her home.

“Did you talk at all about us?” For a moment there was silence. The vast Atlantic hung between them. “I know Sophie's worried. She's—”

“I tried to be honest,” he said. “I told her we'd had some unhappy times”—his voice faltered—“but I hoped we'd work it out soon. You know I want that, Annie.”

Her heart hardened. Of course he wouldn't tell her about Daphne, about what he'd done, how it had torn her apart. “So she thinks I'm the ogre. I'm the selfish one, the terrible mother who won't move back, who doesn't care—”

“No. God no. It's not like that. She misses you. I miss you.”

“Wesley. This isn't fair.” Anger, outrage, grief, all the feelings deep within her bones rose to the surface. The events of the stormy night at God House came into focus once again. If she could only forget, if the memory could only fade.

“I know you're suffering,” he said. “I know you don't believe it, but I'm suffering too. More than you can imagine.”

For a moment she believed him.

“Annie, there's something else.”

She waited.

“The office manager gave me the name of a terrific Realtor. I've set up some appointments at the end of the month, and I was hoping—”

“Wesley—”

“Annie, please.”

“It's over. I told you that.”

“Won't you ever forgive me?”

“Tell Sophie I'm coming over for spring break. Tell her I'll see her soon.” Her voice broke and she could no longer speak. She hung up the phone.

The living room had grown dark. Annie went from room to room turning on the lights and closing the shutters against the night.

Les Amies

The following morning Annie sat at the table in the living room looking at
several drafts of her poem to accompany the photograph of the two lovers embracing in the place de Furstenberg. The photograph had a compelling quality. She'd propped it up against two books, but she no longer needed to study it. Every detail was engraved in her memory: the pressure of the man's hands on the back of the woman, the plane of her face, the curve of her neck as she tipped her head up to meet her lover's lips, the angle of his jaw. She closed her eyes and could still see the façades of the elegant stone buildings gently blurred in the background, along with the baroque curls of the iron balconies above the street. The entire image was veiled in lambent moonlight.

Now, as she read through the drafts of her poem, the words glared back at her. The results were trite and flat, and each attempt looked more amateurish than the last. Paul wanted to meet with her that afternoon to work on ordering the photographs and poems. Annie worried that she wouldn't be ready. She felt it important to finish this poem. It brought closure to the collection.

Annie closed her notebook and went over to the sofa, stretched out and dangled her legs over the arm at the far end. Her legs felt leaden, as if they were pulling her down. Perhaps she was pushing too hard. She knew better than to force a poem. She had written more in the past four months than she usually wrote in two years. Many of the scenes in Paris had come, if not easily, at least willingly, as if they had been in her, part of her, for a long time. They were based more on images of place. Now she was trying to infuse a level of complexity that
had more to do with people, in this case the passionate relationships they make.

She drew her hand across her eyes. She had not slept well and had awakened abruptly from a dream about Wesley. It was so vivid. He was young in the dream, the same age as when she first knew him. She still remembered that night, a long-ago New England spring, during her junior year in college. Meeting Wesley had been like turning a corner, turning a corner onto new scenery, new people, new light. It must have been a month or more after her boyfriend Luke's departure for New York. She had been crushed when they broke up, and she had thrown herself into her studies, choosing to do a senior honors thesis in art history. She chose to write about Gustave Caillebotte, an accomplished painter, represented in few museum collections but held privately by collectors abroad. Her thesis adviser had recommended her for a research fellowship in Paris that summer.