They walked down St. Germain and turned into a side street, walking then to a small garage, where he called for his car, a little Renault convertible.
They got in and he started to drive.
“Where are we going?”
“Strasbourg,” he said, “we’ve got dinner there tonight. The best cassoulet in all of France.”
“Can we talk for a minute…what you mean, Strasbourg?”
“I’ve got a dinner there and you’re going with me,” he said quietly.
“We need to talk.”
“Here’s the deal. I figure you’re here for one of two reasons, either to blow me off or to stay. In any event, we need to eat and we’ve got a dinner engagement in Strasbourg.”
“I didn’t come here to dump you,” she said, becoming increasing frustrated with this man who she knew loved her but was now driving her toward Lithium therapy.
“OK, I sorta figured that. How long are you here for?
“I’ve got a lot to do,” she said of the massive logistics that to her felt greater than the Marshall Plan.
“Nah, you don’t really. Did you quit your job?
“No.”
“You can cable them. They don’t give a damn about you anyway.”
“That’s not the way.”
“Sure it is, what’s next?”
“Let’s say it might be, I’ve got to sell the house.”
“We can handle that from here.”
“Come on, just take it easy for a moment. I’ve got to quit my job, the right way, pack the house and then sell it. We cannot do that from Paris, dammit. It can’t be done.”
“Sure we can,” Ben said, pulling the car over to the curb.
“I don’t want to go to Strasbourg now,” changing the subject with the kind of dispatch Ben so frequently used when he was thinking far ahead of what he was saying. “I’m so tired. I’m shaky and I’m feeling full of holes.”
She was quiet when she said it. But she wanted to scream it, because she knew he could see the fear and the fatigue.
Ben wheeled the car around and pulled back to the garage without saying a word.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said now, almost tearful, “I didn’t mean it. I’m just so damned tired and there’s so much…”
“I am truly everyman’s fool,” he said, moving quickly to park the car. It was a line he loved and repeated often, too much so and he knew it.
Opening her door and taking her hand, he helped out of the car. In the dim garage, he put his arms around her and just held her for a moment.
Then, taking her hand and walking toward the street, he asked, “Hungry?”
“Yes, and so tired.”
“I know we have to talk, but just trust me for a few more minutes and the world will change. It’ll be alright.”
Maggie didn’t reply, but held his hand tighter. For the first time she was not tentative in holding his hand, she thought. She also wondered if the pressure she was applying was in fact breaking his hand. It didn’t really matter, though, she could always type for him while it healed, she laughed to herself.
They walked over to Lipp and Ben called to a waiter to bring some rolls and cheese.
“I don’t live far from here, three or four blocks. Do you want a taxi?”
“Walking’s fine. And I know where you live,” Maggie said, that great smile returning.
By the time they arrived at L’Hôtel, Maggie was feeling better, still tired, but better. Ben opened the door to his suite and saw her suitcase. He knew that it was finally home for him.
“They all know you here,” he said.
“I know.”
He punched a button on the stereo, which spit out his favorite Miles Davis CD, reached into the Pullman fridge, pulled out some bottled water, spread the rolls and cheese out on a plate and brought it to her.
She had moved into the bedroom, taken off her shoes, pulled her blouse out of her unbuttoned jeans and sat cross legged on the bed.
“I need a shower.”
“Yeah, Alona said so,” Ben replied smiling.
“Will you tell me about Alona?”
“I’ll tell you about everything, after you shower, after you eat something and after you sleep .”
“We were talking about logistics earlier, too, you know. Never finished that one either.”
“Come on, you’re tired. Eat something and rest a little.”
She deferred to him. After showering, she ate some cheese and bread. They talked about little things, the cheese, the suite and, the sweet Paris weather.
Maggie knew it was odd that in the few hours they’d been together there had been little of the depth she had experienced in their conversations and less that she had found in his letters. But it was far to difficult to think about at this moment.
It was just after noon when she lay back and drifted off. The last thing she remembered was the kiss Ben gently placed on her lips, a soft, rather quick kiss that would have seemed perfunctory had it not been accompanied with “I love you and you’ve always been with me…you always will.”
It was dark in the room when Maggie awoke. She inched her way up against the pillows and looked around. For a moment, she thought it was late in the evening. Then she saw a some of light through the curtains. She opened them and saw the afternoon sun on Beaux-Arts, the shadows across lovely ancient buildings and people on the street.
She just stood there for a few moments in what seemed to be pure wonder. “My God, she thought, I’m in Paris. I am in Paris and a few hours ago I was in Oregon. Sartre wrote it, Ben quoted it and now I’ve done it. ‘Les juex son fait.’ My money’s down, my life’s down, I’ve shot crap.”
It was a pretty good feeling for her. It was a 20 year old feeling that was lost in the armor she’d build over those two decades and it was coming back. It was coming back fast. But not quite fast enough, as she noticed three or four strollers looking up at the window and realized she was naked.
She had once complained to Ben that she couldn’t sunbathe topless in her yard. “Why can’t it be like France,” she told him rhetorically, “they’re just breasts.” And now she’d dropped this bet on the table, she turned to dress, smiling.
