stopped, leaned down and wrapped my arms around him suddenly, a sadness I thought I’d left behind gripping my heart for an instant.
“What if I lose you?” I asked, holding onto him.
“Well, then you’ll find me by the mountains or water.” He kissed me and said, “Hurry back, buddy, I’m so hungry I could eat concrete… or weird French food!”
When I got back he was asleep on the bench, he looked like a huge golden retriever, stretched out without a care in the world. I shook him and hurried him to his feet before we were thrown out. We rushed through the myriad rooms and corridors past the world’s most impressive collection of art and out into the early evening. On the Champs Elysses the daylight had faded and the street lights were just blinking on. It was mid-August but already there was a chill in the night air. The wind whipped down between the centuries old buildings and with the sun gone the cold was a shock.
At the hotel we were hungry and exhausted, but we couldn’t resist stopping in the Bar Hemmingway for a drink. We made ourselves at home in its oaken coziness and ordered vodka martinis. I should have thought twice about drinking on an empty stomach, but I was chilled to the bone so I drained my glass. Two more appeared as if by magic and we laughed and made a toast and finished them, as well.
I loved the history of the tiny bar, how Hemmingway held court there in his early days as a writer living in Paris. Always a true lover of his work, I was besotted just being where he had been. I was already tipsy and I’m sure I romanticized the author as I told John all about him as a young man in the city he’d adored. I said he had to read A Moveable Feast , my favorite book of all time, with its beautiful language. Especially the part I adored about eating the oysters and losing the empty feeling.
I rambled on about how happy Hemmingway was living in a garret in those innocent years, struggling to write words that were true, that being the most important thing in the world. How he was content at first with his wife, Hadley, which was what I would have named Brooks if he had been a girl, and joyful over his baby son, Bumby. I went on drunkenly about all the great people he’d met in Paris, Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound, James Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald. Finally, I said, when he was done with the grand adventure of living, he’d simply chosen to end his own life. I began to cry, John was leaning against the bar and he straightened and wrapped his arms around me.
“Come on, buddy, it’s been a long day and your pretty drunk. We’ll order some room service and then you’ll feel better.”
I buried my head in his neck and sobbed, “He couldn’t lose the empty feeling.”
I was crying hard as he led me out of the bar, he turned to the bartender, who, thankfully, spoke English. He asked him to have dinner sent to our room, anything filling and plenty of it.
The bed had been turned down and looked like a miracle in the middle of the room. I wanted to climb right in and get lost in the duvet and pillows. John lowered me to the cold floor in the bathroom and I lay on my side, the coolness of the marble wonderful against my burning face. My tears had stopped and my head was beginning to clear, I watched as my husband fill the bathtub, carefully pouring in several fragrant potions from crystal decanters that sat on an antique credenza. He hummed as he prepared my bath, unaware that I watched as he gather soap and sponges and towels. I was witnessing a moment in time, and I knew I would remember it as long as I lived.
He undressed me quickly, not letting his hands linger on my fevered body and then he helped me into the tub. He placed a bath pillow behind my head and went to answer the door when our food arrived. He fed me lamb and roasted potatoes and pieces of a warm baguette while I soaked, up to my chin in bubbles. He sat cross legged on the floor and we ate from the same plate.
“I don’t want
“What if I lose you?” I asked, holding onto him.
“Well, then you’ll find me by the mountains or water.” He kissed me and said, “Hurry back, buddy, I’m so hungry I could eat concrete… or weird French food!”
When I got back he was asleep on the bench, he looked like a huge golden retriever, stretched out without a care in the world. I shook him and hurried him to his feet before we were thrown out. We rushed through the myriad rooms and corridors past the world’s most impressive collection of art and out into the early evening. On the Champs Elysses the daylight had faded and the street lights were just blinking on. It was mid-August but already there was a chill in the night air. The wind whipped down between the centuries old buildings and with the sun gone the cold was a shock.
At the hotel we were hungry and exhausted, but we couldn’t resist stopping in the Bar Hemmingway for a drink. We made ourselves at home in its oaken coziness and ordered vodka martinis. I should have thought twice about drinking on an empty stomach, but I was chilled to the bone so I drained my glass. Two more appeared as if by magic and we laughed and made a toast and finished them, as well.
I loved the history of the tiny bar, how Hemmingway held court there in his early days as a writer living in Paris. Always a true lover of his work, I was besotted just being where he had been. I was already tipsy and I’m sure I romanticized the author as I told John all about him as a young man in the city he’d adored. I said he had to read A Moveable Feast , my favorite book of all time, with its beautiful language. Especially the part I adored about eating the oysters and losing the empty feeling.
I rambled on about how happy Hemmingway was living in a garret in those innocent years, struggling to write words that were true, that being the most important thing in the world. How he was content at first with his wife, Hadley, which was what I would have named Brooks if he had been a girl, and joyful over his baby son, Bumby. I went on drunkenly about all the great people he’d met in Paris, Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound, James Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald. Finally, I said, when he was done with the grand adventure of living, he’d simply chosen to end his own life. I began to cry, John was leaning against the bar and he straightened and wrapped his arms around me.
“Come on, buddy, it’s been a long day and your pretty drunk. We’ll order some room service and then you’ll feel better.”
I buried my head in his neck and sobbed, “He couldn’t lose the empty feeling.”
I was crying hard as he led me out of the bar, he turned to the bartender, who, thankfully, spoke English. He asked him to have dinner sent to our room, anything filling and plenty of it.
The bed had been turned down and looked like a miracle in the middle of the room. I wanted to climb right in and get lost in the duvet and pillows. John lowered me to the cold floor in the bathroom and I lay on my side, the coolness of the marble wonderful against my burning face. My tears had stopped and my head was beginning to clear, I watched as my husband fill the bathtub, carefully pouring in several fragrant potions from crystal decanters that sat on an antique credenza. He hummed as he prepared my bath, unaware that I watched as he gather soap and sponges and towels. I was witnessing a moment in time, and I knew I would remember it as long as I lived.
He undressed me quickly, not letting his hands linger on my fevered body and then he helped me into the tub. He placed a bath pillow behind my head and went to answer the door when our food arrived. He fed me lamb and roasted potatoes and pieces of a warm baguette while I soaked, up to my chin in bubbles. He sat cross legged on the floor and we ate from the same plate.
“I don’t want
Similar Books
