people drank champagne from sparkling glass flutes, laughing and chatting, underlining their remarks with the typical Gallic hand gestures and shrugs.
We stopped on the rue des Saints-Pères, in front of a gallery that featured a huge, ancient-looking urn in its window.
“Shall we go in?” I asked. “It seems to be open to everyone.”
Naohiro nodded. We walked in. Immediately someone handed each of us a glass of champagne. Naohiro turned to me and raised his glass: “To the future.”
I was about to return the toast when a Japanese couple approached us. The woman was quite striking. Dressed in a tailored, ivory silk suit, her dark hair held back by two carved ivory combs, she presented an interesting combination of modern western couture and ancient eastern allure. The man, bowing slightly to both of us, turned to Naohiro and began speaking in Japanese. The two conversed for a few minutes—occasionally, the woman would join in—and as they spoke, I studied Naohiro. His presence here in the real world—as opposed to the one he and I had created for just the two of us—only confirmed my estimation of his grace and intelligence, of his desirability. He dazzled me.
Of course, I knew what lay beneath the dazzlement. Or at least the sensible, no-nonsense, feet-planted-firmly-on-the-ground partof me was wise to what was going on.
It’s all romantic idealization and adolescent infatuation
, this part of me said.
Yes, yes, I know. Now go away
, I replied, eager to be reunited with my dazzlement.
Naohiro turned and introduced me to the Japanese couple. They had been explaining to him, he said, the significance of
Les cinq jours de l’Objet Extraordinaire.
Every year, apparently, the art and antiques dealers of the area—known as the
Carré Rive Gauche
—hold a celebration for five days and nights, during which time they place in their windows one rare item relating to a chosen theme.
“This year, the theme is ‘Extraordinary Gardens,’ ” said the woman. She explained that this was the third time she and her husband had been in Paris during this festive, open-house event. “It is one time when everyone feels free to walk into the galleries, even when you cannot afford to collect such beautiful pieces.” Her English was close to perfect and her voice charming: soft and sibilant, it reminded me of water splashing across pebbles.
We accepted an invitation from the Japanese couple to join them in visiting other galleries along the neighboring streets that formed the
Carré Rive Gauche.
Passing La Villa, I suggested we stop in to listen to some jazz and have a drink. Immediately, everyone agreed. Later, sitting at a table, I couldn’t help but think about my visit here with Liliane and Justin. Being with a man, I decided,
did
change a woman’s responses to the world. Sometimes it just made life more fun.
When the four of us exchanged good-byes, it was close to midnight. I could see an indigo sky spilling down into the spaces betweenbuildings at the end of each long narrow street. Naohiro and I walked slowly along the rue Jacob. At this time of night, men and women were returning to their apartments from an evening out, from a good day or a bad one, from whatever routine guided their daily lives. As lamps were lit, small halos of light appeared on the sidewalks, guiding us like stepping stones to some unknown destination.
As it turned out, our destination was a café on the boulevard Saint-Germain, where we sat on the terrace watching Paris go by. Happy and relaxed in a way I hadn’t experienced for a long time, I thought again of how fortunate I was to have this chance to take a detour from my normal life.
I blurted out my thoughts to Naohiro. “I feel so lucky to be here. It’s like a fairy tale.”
His response was immediate. And once again to the point. “No,” he said, “it’s not a fairy tale. This is real.”
In the days that followed I had a mantra: “Let tomorrow come tomorrow.” It was
We stopped on the rue des Saints-Pères, in front of a gallery that featured a huge, ancient-looking urn in its window.
“Shall we go in?” I asked. “It seems to be open to everyone.”
Naohiro nodded. We walked in. Immediately someone handed each of us a glass of champagne. Naohiro turned to me and raised his glass: “To the future.”
I was about to return the toast when a Japanese couple approached us. The woman was quite striking. Dressed in a tailored, ivory silk suit, her dark hair held back by two carved ivory combs, she presented an interesting combination of modern western couture and ancient eastern allure. The man, bowing slightly to both of us, turned to Naohiro and began speaking in Japanese. The two conversed for a few minutes—occasionally, the woman would join in—and as they spoke, I studied Naohiro. His presence here in the real world—as opposed to the one he and I had created for just the two of us—only confirmed my estimation of his grace and intelligence, of his desirability. He dazzled me.
Of course, I knew what lay beneath the dazzlement. Or at least the sensible, no-nonsense, feet-planted-firmly-on-the-ground partof me was wise to what was going on.
It’s all romantic idealization and adolescent infatuation
, this part of me said.
Yes, yes, I know. Now go away
, I replied, eager to be reunited with my dazzlement.
Naohiro turned and introduced me to the Japanese couple. They had been explaining to him, he said, the significance of
Les cinq jours de l’Objet Extraordinaire.
Every year, apparently, the art and antiques dealers of the area—known as the
Carré Rive Gauche
—hold a celebration for five days and nights, during which time they place in their windows one rare item relating to a chosen theme.
“This year, the theme is ‘Extraordinary Gardens,’ ” said the woman. She explained that this was the third time she and her husband had been in Paris during this festive, open-house event. “It is one time when everyone feels free to walk into the galleries, even when you cannot afford to collect such beautiful pieces.” Her English was close to perfect and her voice charming: soft and sibilant, it reminded me of water splashing across pebbles.
We accepted an invitation from the Japanese couple to join them in visiting other galleries along the neighboring streets that formed the
Carré Rive Gauche.
Passing La Villa, I suggested we stop in to listen to some jazz and have a drink. Immediately, everyone agreed. Later, sitting at a table, I couldn’t help but think about my visit here with Liliane and Justin. Being with a man, I decided,
did
change a woman’s responses to the world. Sometimes it just made life more fun.
When the four of us exchanged good-byes, it was close to midnight. I could see an indigo sky spilling down into the spaces betweenbuildings at the end of each long narrow street. Naohiro and I walked slowly along the rue Jacob. At this time of night, men and women were returning to their apartments from an evening out, from a good day or a bad one, from whatever routine guided their daily lives. As lamps were lit, small halos of light appeared on the sidewalks, guiding us like stepping stones to some unknown destination.
As it turned out, our destination was a café on the boulevard Saint-Germain, where we sat on the terrace watching Paris go by. Happy and relaxed in a way I hadn’t experienced for a long time, I thought again of how fortunate I was to have this chance to take a detour from my normal life.
I blurted out my thoughts to Naohiro. “I feel so lucky to be here. It’s like a fairy tale.”
His response was immediate. And once again to the point. “No,” he said, “it’s not a fairy tale. This is real.”
In the days that followed I had a mantra: “Let tomorrow come tomorrow.” It was
Similar Books
