being patronized. “How old are
you?
”
“Thirty-nine.”
“You look younger.”
She grimaced. “Is Michel the first man you’ve ever … loved?” She pronounced the word at last.
I found myself wanting to be candid. “Yes and no,” I said. “No, he’s not the first man I’ve been involved with and thought I loved, but yes, I suppose, to this degree.”
A look of sympathy telegraphed itself across her face and then she shook her head and suggested, “Why don’t you come in for a bit.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Either that or leave.” She swiveled around and began walking back into the apartment.
Here I was now, breaking my sacred promise to Michel and following his wife into their apartment. And thinking: No wonder Michel’s English was decent, his
frigging
wife is an
American
. Why hadn’t he told me, dammit? But then, noticing that her baggy jeans and white chenille T-shirt were the spousal equivalent of his very understated daily uniform of faded jeans, scuffed boots, white T-shirts, and a cheapo diver’s watch, I realized precisely why. In carrying on his affair with me, Michel had probably felt a chivalric duty to give his lover scant information about his wife and children. He knew me well enough to realize that I’d be dangerously intrigued by the fact that his wife was another American.
Now, during daytime, I could see a wider range of furnishings, how there were many more antiques, including an extensive collection of overly gilded Venetian furniture: several pieces including a highboy and an armoire painted a bright robin’s-egg blue. The polished mahogany floorswere covered with Aubusson rugs, overlooked by the unsettling gazes of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century portraiture: Michel’s male ancestors, many of whom reminded me of stern magistrates. I still found the apartment to be somewhat fusty.
Madame Soyer led me into Michel’s library, where I’d once feasted on his collection of Pléiade with the green and gold-leaf spines in a heady aroma of leather, where I’d rifled through his Baudelaire and Zola and Gide and with great delight discovered many writers of other nationalities : Goethe, George Eliot, Halldór Laxness, and Cervantes. As I sat down opposite her I remembered Michel telling me he had begun collecting Pleiéde editions when he’d received a gift from his mother of
Les Misérables
. It was this very Pléiade that he’d actually insisted on giving me, against my protest of it having been the first volume of his collection and therefore commanding sentimental value. I remember how he frowned and nervously ran his fingers through his coarse brown curls, how the cleft in his chin pinched with what I hoped was fondness, even love. How he’d explained, “Mother gave it to me because I asked for it, not because she thought I would want it. That’s a big difference. Besides, you love these books,” he’d gone on. “And it would give me a lot of pleasure knowing you will have one.”
“But Laurence might notice it missing.”
Michel had smiled at some private recognition. “More important, do you think you can read it?”
I never got a chance to tell him how my Italian helped me with the French.
Now I tried to avoid glancing at the Pléiade but couldn’t help noticing them, at least peripherally. I took a deep breath. Being in Michel’s study when he was at such a remove from my life was upsetting.
“You’ve been in this room before,” said Madame Soyer.
“He told you.”
“He told me enough. Obviously, I don’t want to know everything,” she said meekly but with pain in her voice.
“I’m sure he explained the only reason why I came to the apartment was to see these.” I pointed to the Pléiade on the bookshelf. “Nothing else went on.”
“Yes, that’s what he said.”
Laurence had assumed what I felt was an interrogative pose with her legs crossed and a slim elbow resting on one of her knees. She had a wayof maneuvering
you?
”
“Thirty-nine.”
“You look younger.”
She grimaced. “Is Michel the first man you’ve ever … loved?” She pronounced the word at last.
I found myself wanting to be candid. “Yes and no,” I said. “No, he’s not the first man I’ve been involved with and thought I loved, but yes, I suppose, to this degree.”
A look of sympathy telegraphed itself across her face and then she shook her head and suggested, “Why don’t you come in for a bit.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Either that or leave.” She swiveled around and began walking back into the apartment.
Here I was now, breaking my sacred promise to Michel and following his wife into their apartment. And thinking: No wonder Michel’s English was decent, his
frigging
wife is an
American
. Why hadn’t he told me, dammit? But then, noticing that her baggy jeans and white chenille T-shirt were the spousal equivalent of his very understated daily uniform of faded jeans, scuffed boots, white T-shirts, and a cheapo diver’s watch, I realized precisely why. In carrying on his affair with me, Michel had probably felt a chivalric duty to give his lover scant information about his wife and children. He knew me well enough to realize that I’d be dangerously intrigued by the fact that his wife was another American.
Now, during daytime, I could see a wider range of furnishings, how there were many more antiques, including an extensive collection of overly gilded Venetian furniture: several pieces including a highboy and an armoire painted a bright robin’s-egg blue. The polished mahogany floorswere covered with Aubusson rugs, overlooked by the unsettling gazes of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century portraiture: Michel’s male ancestors, many of whom reminded me of stern magistrates. I still found the apartment to be somewhat fusty.
Madame Soyer led me into Michel’s library, where I’d once feasted on his collection of Pléiade with the green and gold-leaf spines in a heady aroma of leather, where I’d rifled through his Baudelaire and Zola and Gide and with great delight discovered many writers of other nationalities : Goethe, George Eliot, Halldór Laxness, and Cervantes. As I sat down opposite her I remembered Michel telling me he had begun collecting Pleiéde editions when he’d received a gift from his mother of
Les Misérables
. It was this very Pléiade that he’d actually insisted on giving me, against my protest of it having been the first volume of his collection and therefore commanding sentimental value. I remember how he frowned and nervously ran his fingers through his coarse brown curls, how the cleft in his chin pinched with what I hoped was fondness, even love. How he’d explained, “Mother gave it to me because I asked for it, not because she thought I would want it. That’s a big difference. Besides, you love these books,” he’d gone on. “And it would give me a lot of pleasure knowing you will have one.”
“But Laurence might notice it missing.”
Michel had smiled at some private recognition. “More important, do you think you can read it?”
I never got a chance to tell him how my Italian helped me with the French.
Now I tried to avoid glancing at the Pléiade but couldn’t help noticing them, at least peripherally. I took a deep breath. Being in Michel’s study when he was at such a remove from my life was upsetting.
“You’ve been in this room before,” said Madame Soyer.
“He told you.”
“He told me enough. Obviously, I don’t want to know everything,” she said meekly but with pain in her voice.
“I’m sure he explained the only reason why I came to the apartment was to see these.” I pointed to the Pléiade on the bookshelf. “Nothing else went on.”
“Yes, that’s what he said.”
Laurence had assumed what I felt was an interrogative pose with her legs crossed and a slim elbow resting on one of her knees. She had a wayof maneuvering
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