The Blue Bath (3 page)

“I guess the moment is gone.”

He held her gaze and then shrugged.

“If you say so.”

He turned away from her and walked out from under the tree, hands tucked back into his pockets. His steps left faint traces in the thin layer of rainwater that hadn’t yet drained into the ground. Suddenly feeling the weight of her camera in her hand, she brought it to her eye, found his receding shape through the lens, and snapped one photo before lowering the camera and watching him until he was out of the garden and lost to the city streets.

And then she was alone under the tree. Rain had soaked through her clothes and found its way onto her skin and the air was cold. Her hand holding the camera was shaking. She walked home quickly, treading lightly on the new world beneath her feet.

chapter two

The party had started late, but was definitely still going when Kat had arrived. The face in front of her leaned in close. Too close. The room was very loud, but she wasn’t entirely sure that was the reason. It was becoming increasingly obvious to her that the French had different ideas about personal space than Americans had. The double cheek kissing was unnerving enough, but was it possible that three inches between faces was the norm for polite social conversation?

The flat belonged to Jean-Paul, a popular Parisian in the program who had quickly established himself as the epicenter of the social scene. With its tall shuttered windows and smooth herringbone floors, it was almost a caricature of classic Paris chic. The furniture was certainly not what would be expected in a student flat. An elegant, eclectic mix of contemporary and antique. Kat remembered her roommate, Elizabeth, telling her that Jean-Paul’s mother was an interior designer.

The face belonged to another student. It was particularly angular in that specific European way. All jutting cheekbones and chin and an aquiline nose that shone with a faint sheen clearly visible at such close proximity. Since hearing her American accent, it had regarded her with an oddly impatient hostility, as if merely waiting for her to demonstrate all that it already knew to be true about her.

A clutch of young women stood on the threshold of the dining room. Their backs to her, they seemed to be waiting for something as well. Peering between them, she could make out Jean-Paul and Christopher Hastings in conversation within the room. Christopher was tall and handsome with manners that could charm snakes. A Fulbright scholar from a prominent East Coast family, he was in Paris studying international relations. His political ambitions were already widely known.

Her companion turned and followed her gaze. Catching sight of Christopher, he pulled back from her for the first time since they had begun talking, and regarded her triumphantly.

“I think I know him,” she explained. “He’s…”

Her companion made a small dismissive noise. “A puppet,” he said dryly.

“Excuse me?”

“He is a puppet. He has no thoughts of his own.”

“You know him?”

“There is nothing to know. What can it mean? To have your life placed in your hands? To do something simply because you have the capacity to do it. Because it is expected.” He sniffed loudly, accusingly. “Do you do everything you have the capacity to do? I think you do not.”

As her companion leaned in closer, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she saw Christopher, smiling at her warmly from a suitable distance. He must have overheard the conversation, but he gave no indication.

“Katherine? I thought that was you. Chris Hastings. We met at the Brewsters’ Fourth of July party last summer.”

“Chris. Of course, I remember.”

She did not have to struggle to recall the occasion. She had a very clear image of that particular evening. It had been one of those incandescent summer nights that seemed to go on forever, when the sun itself seemed to hesitate at the edge of the horizon, waiting to see what would happen next. She could hear the crickets and taste the sea air on her lips as she moved across the lawn, feeling the heels of her shoes sinking into the soft, damp grass. She had been wearing a long backless dress with ropes of pearls down her back that brushed against her skin as she moved. She remembered the way the men had looked at her as she crossed the lawn that night. She could feel their gazes on her skin just as surely as she had felt the pearls.

As he inclined his face imperceptibly toward her, the other face melted back into the crowd. “I had no idea you were in Paris.”

As they talked, she became aware of a decidedly different type of gaze. Several of the women at the party were stealing glances at them. Kat guessed that this time it had little to do with her. Chris was witty and charming and had the singular ability to make her believe this even more when he listened to her than when he spoke. He never once mentioned his uncle who was a senator. He never once mentioned his grandfather who had been secretary of state. And it was only when she looked away that he discreetly scanned the room.

Kat listened to him talk, alternating between his English and the French that surrounded them, amused by the patchwork of conversation that her efforts yielded. She was bored. The ease with which they had slipped into conversation. The solicitous way he asked all the right questions. They discussed all the things they had in common. Life back home, life in Paris, college, acquaintances. Shared history and perspective. It was all so easy and so familiar that here in this most Parisian of Parisian places, within stone walls that had felt the breath of history for centuries, she felt Paris begin to fade. Leaving her sitting at a party, one foot halfway out of her shoe, talking about home with a companion who was half listening.

“I head back to Boston in a few months. I have a position lined up with Poole and Poole in their corporate practice. I start in September.” He took a small sip of what she had first assumed to be white wine, but now realized was water; and smiled in a way that was warm and yet clearly signaled the end of the conversation.

“But you are going to run for office?”

“That’s the plan.” He stood up.

Kat was suddenly curious and followed him up from the couch.

“Why?”

He laughed. He seemed amused and slightly surprised by the question. For the first time that evening, she felt she had his full attention.

“I mean, is it because of your family? Or is it something you want to do?”

Christopher didn’t need time to consider this. He answered immediately. “I believe in free will, so I don’t think the decision was beyond my control, but it is based on some things that are—the feeling that I can make a difference, the sense of responsibility to do so. I know that there are sacrifices.” Here his face clouded momentarily. “But it’s about having the courage of your convictions. Once you decide what it is you believe in, everything becomes very clear.”

He fell into it without thinking, she thought. The reverent tone. The rhythm of persuasion. She considered this beautiful, fully formed explanation that had sprung so effortlessly and so immediately from him.

“Is that true?”

“Mostly.”

He smiled at her. He was shaking her hand now. The final gesture in the separation pantomime. He paused momentarily and leaned forward, looking out at her from under earnest eyebrows. When he spoke his voice was softer than it had been.

“Sometimes I worry that it will never mean as much to me as it did to the people who came before me, simply because I won’t have had to sacrifice what they had to sacrifice for it.”

Here he stopped speaking suddenly and shook his head.

“I don’t know why I am telling you all this.”

“I have that kind of face.”

“You absolutely do not have that kind of face.”

*   *   *

K
AT FINISHED THE
wine in her glass. The noise level at the party was reaching dangerous heights. She had already stopped trying to translate the speed-of-light French being spoken at increasingly higher volumes around her. The wine seemed to speed up the rate of speech while simultaneously slowing down her rate of translation. Following Christopher’s departure, a dour young man had positioned himself in front of her and was currently lecturing her about French politics. She nodded at regular intervals.

To their immediate left a heated argument was unfolding between a tall, lanky expat and a shorter French student with wild corkscrew curls. She was not sure what the quarrel was about, but it seemed to involve a gaunt blond girl who stood smoking nearby, apparently utterly unaffected by the disagreement. They were almost shouting by now, which might otherwise have alarmed her, but, again, she was still not clear what passed for normal in terms of social interaction in this country. None of the other guests appeared to be concerned.

Looking around the crowded room, she located Elizabeth, her blond hair swirled into a loose chignon, standing by the front door along with Jean-Paul. She didn’t know her new roommate well. They had been put in touch by mutual friends. A pretty girl from South Carolina, she possessed just the right amount of plump so as not to be perceived as threatening by other females. This was her first time out of the country and she seemed fiercely determined to get it right. In the brief time Kat had known her, Elizabeth seemed to be in a constant state of self-examination and grooming. Her hands always in motion in what looked like a singular, precisely choreographed dance of touching, smoothing, and rearranging herself.

Before Kat could make her way over to them, she was startled to see a familiar figure come through the door. He entered the flat purposefully and was immediately intercepted by their stylish French host and Elizabeth, who directed him down the hallway leading away from the main rooms. Kat leaned forward, craning her neck to watch them as Elizabeth pushed at the edges of her upswept hair with nervous fingertips. They entered a room off the hall and shut the door abruptly behind them. Luckily, her companion was now on about the Parti Socialiste, while his eyes periodically ran up and down her body, and her active participation did not seem to be essential to the conversation. She kept one eye on the door.

After only several minutes filled by a less than concise condemnation of the provincial nature of American politicians, the door in the hallway reopened and he emerged alone, pulling the door shut carefully behind him before making his way back down the hall. He looked different in the posh flat. Less at ease than he had appeared in the Tuileries, his shoulders rigidly hunched, as if in anticipation of a blow. Reaching the main room, he stopped dead when he saw her and smiled slowly, his cheeks crenellating into something new and unexpected. She smiled back—not entirely sure if it was because she was happy to see him again or if she was simply reacting to seeing him smile for the first time.

It was at that exact moment that the first punch was thrown in the dispute over the hungry blonde. Fortunately, it was slowed by the amount of wine that had been consumed and the intended target was able to duck and avoid being hit. Unfortunately, in doing so he bumped into the Socialist, who in turn fell forward into Kat, who found herself suddenly on the floor.

A hand reached down through the crowd to her and she took it reluctantly, presuming it to belong to the Socialist—as much as anything can belong to a Socialist. She was up off the floor before she saw that it did not. They stood toe-to-toe. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Instead he looked at her intently, as if trying to memorize her face. It might have been a long moment, but the party was disintegrating around them as the combatants wrestled on the floor and their host protested loudly, while attempting to gather the more breakable objects from their path.

He was saying something, but it was hard to hear over the noise. He leaned in closer, bringing his face to hers, his eyes fixed on her mouth. She caught her breath, but did not move as he came closer. In the last moment before his lips touched hers, he turned, and brought his mouth to her ear.

“Come with me.” She felt his warm breath in her ear.

Kat exhaled against his neck before he withdrew. She saw surprise manifest itself in the form of a raised eyebrow on the face of her Socialist comrade, who was now pressed up against the wall in a defensive posture, as he watched her moving with him across the room to the door.

Outside, the night air was warm and still. They walked in silence through the small, close streets of Saint-Germain, allowing the noise of the party to fall away from them. She could see small, oddly shaped patches of sky, like puzzle pieces, in the gaps between buildings. Eventually they emerged onto the Quai de Conti. They crossed the four lanes easily only to be halted by the Seine. It was only then that he let go of her hand, depositing it safely on the stone wall. She had not realized that he was still holding it. As they leaned on the low wall just next to the bridge, only the silence and two feet of stone separated them. She felt the cool breath of the river on the side of her face.

Looking out over the water, he spoke.

“I once saw a couple arguing on this bridge. Really going at it. I was fairly sure one of them was going to end up in the water. At the time I thought, how can you fight here? But now I understand. It’s so beautiful that it reminds you of all that is possible, and all that you may have settled for.”

His voice was low and moved through the words as though he was realizing them that very moment. She felt his gaze on her as she looked out into the darkness that pressed down on the river. Silence returned around them and her hand felt cold where he had left it on the smooth stone. They stood for a long time until he spoke again, pulling her gaze away from the black water.

“No camera tonight?”

“No camera tonight.”

“Why do you hide behind it?”

“I’m not hiding.” She examined his face in the dim light, trying to focus on his eyes and not on the bruising, which had turned a shadowy purple in the reflected glow of the streetlights. “What exactly is your problem with photography?”

“It’s lazy. There’s no art to it, just a finger on a button. But that’s not the worst of it.” He seemed to shudder, but moved quickly to cover it, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “All those things that the camera captures. Things that move too fast or too slow to be seen by the naked eye. That isn’t truth.”