coffee and a brandy. Her gay mood had passed and she was subdued, tired.
“Modeling got me out of P’oke,” she said finally. “And it still pays the rent,” she said in answer to a question I hadn’t asked. “So, what do you do, my friend, when we are all so earnestly earning a living? Are you dancing the tango in some café, praying at Notre-Dame?” She learned forward and smiled mischievously at me. “Tell me, what is your favorite place in Paris?”
“If you have time, I’ll show you.” I had been startlingly moved by that photo shoot. I had assumed that Lee was taking me there to show off. Just the opposite. She had wanted me to see her powerless, objectified, not Lee the woman but just a woman with no identity of her own. I wanted to give her something back.
“I’m all yours for the rest of the afternoon,” she said. “I’ll justtell Man the shoot took longer than I had thought.” We finished our brandy and headed to the Left Bank to the Jardin des Plantes, which was both a garden—rather, a series of gardens of all types—and a zoo. During the French Revolution, just about the time my ancestor the perfumer Thouars was packing his bags for the New World, some softhearted revolutionary took pity on all the animals being abandoned by the aristocratic houses, many of whom had private menageries of tigers, elephants, and monkeys. And so the zoo had been created to rescue and house the animals.
“Clever,” Lee said when she saw our destination. “The zoo. Free, and open all year.”
I took her on a roundabout tour of the places I had discovered, the alpine garden filled with small hills and gravel paths where tiny-leaved plants clung close to the wintry ground, waiting for spring, when they burst into brilliant carpets of red and yellow; the neoclassical elephant house; the ornate aviary for pheasants.
When we arrived at the long line of cages holding the big cats, I led Lee right up to the panther’s cage. Our shoes crunched over the frosted gravel and we could hear children shouting from a merry-go-round, yet in front of these cages it seemed still, silent, as if all the wildness of the world had been captured and rendered mute in those cages.
He was there, long and sleek and black as a midnight shadow, lying on his belly, paws stretched out, amber eyes staring out of that perfectly black, shining face. His eyes caught mine and I felt the pull of his majesty.
The panther, my father had told me, was the only animal that was said to have a sweet scent of its own. It killed and ate, and then slept for three days, like Christ in the tomb, and when it wakened, it yawned and its breath gave off such a sweet odor that any fawn orantelope nearby followed that scented trail to its source. Then the panther killed and ate, and the cycle began all over again.
“Rilke’s poem about the panther was one of my father’s favorites,” I told Lee. “About an animal caged so long it moves in circles and doesn’t remember the world before it was seen through bars.”
“I know how it feels,” Lee said.
The panther slowly, with mesmerizing grace, stood and began to pace, back and forth, back and forth, its eyes now on Lee.
She had stepped nearer to the cage, so near she could press her face to the bars if she leaned forward another inch or two. The panther stopped pacing directly in front of Lee, and they stared at each other, both panting, waiting.
“You’re standing too close,” I warned her.
“Look at the flesh on my arms,” Lee whispered. Between her gloves and coat I could see the gooseflesh rising. “So thrilling,” she breathed. “How do you know you’re alive if there is absolutely no danger?”
I had a quick, terrifying image of the panther’s claw slashing through the bars and into Lee’s beautiful face. Just as I thought it, the panther crouched and showed its teeth in a snarl.
“I promised my father that if I came to Paris, I would come and see the panther. Step back a
“Modeling got me out of P’oke,” she said finally. “And it still pays the rent,” she said in answer to a question I hadn’t asked. “So, what do you do, my friend, when we are all so earnestly earning a living? Are you dancing the tango in some café, praying at Notre-Dame?” She learned forward and smiled mischievously at me. “Tell me, what is your favorite place in Paris?”
“If you have time, I’ll show you.” I had been startlingly moved by that photo shoot. I had assumed that Lee was taking me there to show off. Just the opposite. She had wanted me to see her powerless, objectified, not Lee the woman but just a woman with no identity of her own. I wanted to give her something back.
“I’m all yours for the rest of the afternoon,” she said. “I’ll justtell Man the shoot took longer than I had thought.” We finished our brandy and headed to the Left Bank to the Jardin des Plantes, which was both a garden—rather, a series of gardens of all types—and a zoo. During the French Revolution, just about the time my ancestor the perfumer Thouars was packing his bags for the New World, some softhearted revolutionary took pity on all the animals being abandoned by the aristocratic houses, many of whom had private menageries of tigers, elephants, and monkeys. And so the zoo had been created to rescue and house the animals.
“Clever,” Lee said when she saw our destination. “The zoo. Free, and open all year.”
I took her on a roundabout tour of the places I had discovered, the alpine garden filled with small hills and gravel paths where tiny-leaved plants clung close to the wintry ground, waiting for spring, when they burst into brilliant carpets of red and yellow; the neoclassical elephant house; the ornate aviary for pheasants.
When we arrived at the long line of cages holding the big cats, I led Lee right up to the panther’s cage. Our shoes crunched over the frosted gravel and we could hear children shouting from a merry-go-round, yet in front of these cages it seemed still, silent, as if all the wildness of the world had been captured and rendered mute in those cages.
He was there, long and sleek and black as a midnight shadow, lying on his belly, paws stretched out, amber eyes staring out of that perfectly black, shining face. His eyes caught mine and I felt the pull of his majesty.
The panther, my father had told me, was the only animal that was said to have a sweet scent of its own. It killed and ate, and then slept for three days, like Christ in the tomb, and when it wakened, it yawned and its breath gave off such a sweet odor that any fawn orantelope nearby followed that scented trail to its source. Then the panther killed and ate, and the cycle began all over again.
“Rilke’s poem about the panther was one of my father’s favorites,” I told Lee. “About an animal caged so long it moves in circles and doesn’t remember the world before it was seen through bars.”
“I know how it feels,” Lee said.
The panther slowly, with mesmerizing grace, stood and began to pace, back and forth, back and forth, its eyes now on Lee.
She had stepped nearer to the cage, so near she could press her face to the bars if she leaned forward another inch or two. The panther stopped pacing directly in front of Lee, and they stared at each other, both panting, waiting.
“You’re standing too close,” I warned her.
“Look at the flesh on my arms,” Lee whispered. Between her gloves and coat I could see the gooseflesh rising. “So thrilling,” she breathed. “How do you know you’re alive if there is absolutely no danger?”
I had a quick, terrifying image of the panther’s claw slashing through the bars and into Lee’s beautiful face. Just as I thought it, the panther crouched and showed its teeth in a snarl.
“I promised my father that if I came to Paris, I would come and see the panther. Step back a
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