I’d been watching the entrance past her shoulder for at least thirty minutes when I decided to see the inside. We’d been nudged and hinted toward for a while as the waiter tried to clear his tables and close his station, but the tables inside were still open and the maître d’ refused to let him go. As a result he was quite attentive. 
She’d suggested this cafe because of it’s view; “the most Parisienne look in all Paris,” she called it. It sits at the Seine in the Latin Quarter, where St. Michel crosses an intersection of several small streets and alleyways. The star-like intersection forms a small park where the sidewalks are filled with tiny two-seat cafe tables. Shaded by tall birches and separated with dainty planters of spring-ish blooms, the tables are peaceful and cool places where quiet reflection is unavoidable. During the day the tables are calm havens from the workday madness which surrounds them, insulated by the swaying birches and the pigeons that swirl all around like leaves.
At night Cluny becomes surreal. Alleyways that seemed quiet and quaint in the sunshine burst forth with neon and nightlife. Beside the comfortable and inviting five-star hotels appear pubs and restaurants and art galleries and bookstores. Storefronts which appeared abandoned in the daylight take on a new life, winking neon and signs that beg one’s patronage. The alleys seem more narrow than before – like you could touch both sides of the street, the falafel man here and the book man there. Taxis make their way slowly through the figures teetering in the street, the sidewalks being to narrow for three or even two to walk abreast.
This night was sticky but clear. A thin haze hung in the air and obscured the outline of Notre Dame, which was surrounded by scaffolding and construction equipment. Its tall straight lines hidden and its windows boarded up, it resembled itself like a movie model. She smiled quietly while I stared at it, then she pulled me toward a cafe across the street saying, “Time is the enemy of all things new.”
Man, that’s cryptic, I thought.
She was not new. I could tell that much about her at least. She showed the quiet peace of a cat in familiar surroundings. I watched her survey the scene as we walked into the italian cafe. There was a sureness about her manner as she told the manager where we’d be sitting – on the patio, by the street. He nodded suggesting a wine, she approved and off we went to sit by the street.
As we sat at the table the waiter arrived, not with wine but espresso. He started to ask her something when she stopped him and said, “Stephan, c’est une amie de Xavier.”
He snapped to and extended his hand with a big, twisted smile. “Mon plaisir.”
“Merci, Stephan, bonsoir” I said. It was the only french I could remember.
They both laughed and smiled at each other.
“Stephan,” she said, “un magaurite, s’il vous plaît.”
He smiled. “”Oui, madamoiselle.”
She must’ve seen me watching the doorway. “We can go to the disco if you’d like. It is rather plain, but it is popular.”
“Yes,” I said, “it must be. What is it called?”
“Called?”
“Yes, “appeller, uh I think…”
“Oh. Name? I don’t know.” She shrugged, “Just le disco.”
Stephan arrived with our pizza, popped out two wine glasses and filled them up with a cheap bordeaux.
“She will be there,” she said.
“Who?”
“Valaire.”
“But I thought you were – wait, wait, wait. I thought you were Valaire.”
“Me?” she laughed, ” I am most definitely not Valaire.”
My mind swung back to the hotel where we’d met.
—
As I opened the door which I’d thought was the stairs I was struck squarely in the forehead by a broom handle. This I thought was unfair. It was not by a person however that I was struck, rather it was my good luck. The hallway was still dark, and as I groped at the wound I was sure must be gushing blood I fell backwards over a planter in the hallway, and bounced on the floor with a loud gong as my head dented one of what had heretofore been a matched set of brass planters. Cursing and holding both sides of my head I wallowed on the floor a bit whilst describing my impression of the hotel’s decorator’s heritage. The doorway across from my room opened and in it appeared the silhouette of the girl who sat across the table from me.
“Do you need assistance?” she asked with her thick Parisian accent.
“Yes,” I said, “Perhaps you could grab that broom handle and smack the sides of my skull. I seem to have missed the sides.”
“Well…” she said thoughtfully as she opened the door to her chambre wide to let more light into the hall, “I could call the concierge, but,” she reached for my hand, “I don’t think he’s awake. He is not sleeping on this floor.”
“My apologies, Madamoiselle. I only wanted some food.”
“I would go to a shop if I were you, the broom closet has a limited selection.”
I smiled sarcastically. “Thanks, I’ll try that,” I said. As I maneuvered to see her face I found a striking dark-haired young woman with green eyes and pale soft features. She was nearly as tall as I, and she smiled brightly.
“You must be Xavier’s friend,” she said.
“Of course,” I said. I thought everybody here knew far too much about me already. “How would you know that?”
“Henri called me when you arrived. He said you would be coming up.”
“He called you? Who are you?”
“It is my floor.”
“Your floor?”
“Oui, it is my floor.” She straightened up and threw her shoulders back indignantly.
“Well, la-tee-da,” I said. “Besides, that’s not what I asked.”
“La-tee-da?”
“Yeah, la-tee-da.”
“What is la-tee-da?” She had backed into her room, and I suddenly noticed I was being rude and sarcastic to the first beautiful half-naked french woman I’d met. I smiled and my thoughts changed to asking her out, or actually in. She stepped back like she was ready to slam the door, but was making no attempt to hide the shapely silhouette she made with the light behind her. I started to ask her again who she was when she turned and walked across her room.
“Just a minute,” she said as the door swung shut, leaving me again in total darkness. I was about to begin groping for the door again when her door opened and she stepped into the hall, fully dressed. “I am still awake, I will take you to food,” she said.
Yes, I thought, I may be on to something.
“Did you have anything particular in mind?” she asked.
“What?”
She smiled, “To eat, did you want something special?”
“I don’t know. It’s my first night in Paris.”
She stuck her room key into the elevator slot and the hallway lit up like noon in New Mexico. Her eyes lit and she jumped into the elevator.
“I know just the place.” she said.
Apparently pizza is a popular french food. At least in Cluny. There were other options of course, greek gyro-type falafel stands, sandwich shops and italian restaurants ( with pizza ), a couple of small quiet-looking pubs (no pizza) and the occasional tobacco shop, though it seemed one could get nearly anything by asking. I saw more than one waiter heading out the backdoor and crossing the street to fill an order.
And honestly I’d had no idea how perfectly a simple merlot or bordeaux can compliment a cheese pizza. The fact is I’d never known why anyone drank wine. I always thought it far too funky for getting drunk, especially when there were so many more potent ways to deliver alcohol. The idea of getting drunk during a meal had actually never occurred to me.
So drunk I did get. The relative alcohol content of wine being completely outside my comprehension, I found it necessary to consume at least three bottles of Stephan’s merlot. When we did finally decide to go to “le disco” it was nearly three o’clock. I know this because I spent at least five minutes attempting to convince the doorman that indeed the girl beside me was my daughter (for reasons which evade me still) while he kept suggesting I should go inside before he changed his mind about letting me enter, since they were closed at two, and it was only by virtue of my “daughter’s” good standing I was going in at all.
” Identification, síl vous plait….”
Actually I was quiet enthralled with this Valaire, who everyone seemed to know. The men smiled at the mention of her name and the women looked at one another. “Comment connaissez-vous Valaire?“ they asked, studying me closely, “Elle vous espère?” I heard the bartender ask my ‘daughter’ if I was one of Valaire’s friends from Toronto. She put a finger to her lips and nodded toward me as if she wasn’t certain of the extent of my french. Apparently she didn’t see me watching her reflection in the mirror. Suddenly she spun about.
“Marie!” came the call again. She threw her arms in the air gleefully and ran toward the tall shadow-like man calling her, leaving me at the bar. He was wearing a dark-looking jade colored cape that reflected what little light there was quite elegantly. He was hanging with a gaggle of people who were laughing and leaning against one another. They held their glasses high in the air and greeted her in unison.
“Nice meeting you too, Marie,” I muttered to myself. I turned to the bartender and asked for his most popular imbibition.
“Ah!” he smiled mischievously. “A young Americain, of course.”
He reached for a green goblet hanging over my drunken head and produced a dark bottle from beneath the bar. He poured it into the glass very carefully and sat it gingerly in front of me. It was thick and warm, but had an aroma of roses or something; sweet but not easily identified. And it was particularly satisfying. I lost that heavy-headed drunken feeling almost instantly, and found myself suddenly interested in my surroundings.
The disco was not like any I’d been in before. Aside from the lack of music, which I attributed to the fact that they were legally closed, there was a marked absence of any sort of silly gratuitous flashing lights or mirrored balls. The only light at all was from the candles which flickered all over the room. Every table, every shelf, even the bar had candles burning. Some were short without stands, while others were varying remnants of tall white stick candles. As I searched around more my head became clearer still. I noticed there was in fact no electricity in the room at all. I swirled the viscous fluid in the goblet and watched the candles reflecting on its surface. I have no idea how long I stared into the glass, but I was completely startled when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Easy, Trouble,” she said, ” I think you’ve had enough of this.” She reached for the goblet and softly pulled it from my fingers. She was not tall, perhaps five and a half feet, but she was wearing a tall black top hat, folded and cocked to one side near the top. She was armed with sharp eyes and a devastating smile and her skin was pale, almost transparent, but it glowed like she was wet even though the room was cool and dry.
“A touch tannic,” I said. (I have no idea what tannic is, or what one would do with it…. ) I was transfixed on her eyes. They were un-earthly blue, nearly white, a black dot with a ring of white and a ring of black about it. She extracted a pack of american Marlboros (I could make out the New York tax stamp) from under her vest and looked away toward the bartender smiling.
“Xavier was right. You are Trouble,” she said. She reached for one of the candles on the bar and touched it to the cigarette she’d pulled from the pack, then lifted it to her mouth to start it burning. She took a long patient pull off it and blew it upwards, pursing her lips while she thought. “Why are you here though?” she asked.
I felt very uneven at this point and wanted very much to sit down.
“I’m not sure really. I came with, uh, Marie over there.” I gestured toward where they were standing hip-to-hip, silhouetted in the corner and said, “but I suppose I am looking for you.” I smiled and extended a shaky hand. “Xavier said I should find someone. You must be Valaire.”
“”Enchante,” she said, placing her hand in mine. I tried to look practiced as I gave that funky knuckle-kiss thing my best shot.
“”Enchante,” I mimicked, hoping it was the proper thing to say.
“”Mais oui,” she laughed lightly. It was one of those ‘ah, I see’ laughs.
“No,” I replied.
“That is all-right. There will be time.” She turned and looked down the hallway behind her, then she asked, “Will you sit with me?”
“Lead on, madamoiselle,” I said following her into the tunnel. It actually seemed to be a wine cellar or something, but it was a very large one if it was. It was an arched hallway, about 60 feet long, with short nooks spaced irregularly along each side. Each nook was another arched hall, only five feet tall, with a long table crammed in it.
The entire place was a fire marshall’s nightmare. There was no electricity, and though the air seemed crisp and fresh, there was no apparent air-conditioning. Each table/nook had one or two candles burning on it, and each one seemed to be crammed with all the insect-like murmuring shadows it could hold.
We stopped at a table halfway down the hall. There were two figures seated close together on one side of the table, Valaire slipped onto the smooth wooden bench across from them and pulled me in behind her. The couple smiled politely, then the taller of the two sat upright suddenly, recognizing my friend.
“”Bonsoir, Valaire. You are quite lovely this evening.”
“Thank you, Andrew,” she smiled and raised the goblet she’d taken from me at the bar. Their glasses clinked together politely as she nodded her head toward his companion. “You and… is it Courtney?”
The blonde girl with Andrew smiled and nodded. She was ruddy and wore her make-up recklessly – smeared colors and caked powder; a perfect compliment to her companion. His craggy nose and sneering smile seemed appropriate with her unkempt look. They were both adorned in various forms of self-mutilation, he with a teardrop shaped tattoo at one corner of his mouth and she with piercings in all the popular places- nipples, navel, and nostril.
“Yes, you are a lovely couple.” She smiled at the girl, “And I am so sorry about your husband. I had no knowledge of your tragedy.”
She had a disgusted look for a second before the tall man elbowed her sharply in the ribs. “Thank you, Valaire,” she said, “you are very kind. I’m really glad to meet you. I’ve heard–”
“Yes,” Andrew interrupted, “and please excuse us. We were just leaving.”
The girl looked distinctly irritated, like she wasn’t accustomed to being cut-off.
“Mais oui,” Valaire smiled.
They slid out from the table but turned before they left.
“Bonsoir, Valaire. ” he said with a little head nod. His eyes met mine and he said, “et au revoir.”
“”Au revoir Andrew,” said Valaire. She followed them with her eyes as they left.
“Friends of yours?” I asked.
“I have known Andrew a very long time,” she said watching them fade into the crowd, “but she is new. She is American, of course.” She was staring across the table, as if she could see something on the wall, speaking absent-mindedly. “You have traveled much, yes?”
“I’ve been here and there.”
“Have you seen the nights of Paris?”
Yeah, I’ve got a live one here. I’m playing it cool. “I’ve been here and there,” I say.
“I have seen fifty-thousand nights in Paris.”
I did some quick math. “That’s like a hundred and fifty years, right?” A sly smirk swept her face.
“One-hundred-thirty-seven, actually.”
“But it’s only, like, twenty years if you’re a dog.”
“What?”
“Never mind, obscure americana reference.”
“Ah, from television.”
“Yeah.”
There was this strange gleam in her expression. She seemed to be thinking of something far away.
“I would like to see America again,” she said. She was staring again, this time past my shoulder. She rolled the cigarette in her fingers pensively before crushing it on the table. No ashtray or anything, just a little hiss and that wet ash smell. “I traveled there much when it was young,” she said.
“You mean you…”
“What?”
“When you were young. You said, ‘…it was young.'”
Again came the sly smile. “You really have no idea do you?” she asked.
“About what?”
She suddenly grabbed my hand and pulled me to the lone candle burning on the table. I tried to wrest it away from her grip, but she held tight and stuck my fingers in the flickering flame. As I struggled, she peered into my face.
“Do you feel that, Trouble? Do you feel your flesh burning?” I nodded violently and began trying in earnest to break her hold. She was much stronger than she looked. “Do you hear your heart race?” Just as I was about to scream she let go, and I snatched my hand back, instinctively cramming the scorched digits into my mouth.
“Wha da ‘uck is wong wi’choo?” I blurted. I wanted ice water. “God-damn, that fucking hurt!”
She grinned wider. “Yes, but you are alive. You are so alive,” she said, “And you will be fine. Come on.” Before I knew she was standing at the table’s end, pulling me out of the bench. She began dragging me down the hall, past the grinning waiter who was just walking to our table.
“”Bonsoir, Valaire,” he yelled as we disappeared into the crowd. I heard him say, “Save some for me!” and we slipped into the night