Delphine drew the ecru lace curtain away from the
window, so she could watch him as he strode down the boulevard. He had a spring
in his step and wore his hat at the jaunty angle she loved so much. It was four
o’clock in the afternoon and she accepted he had to leave. She accepted many
things. She knew he lived in the better part of the city, in an elegant
apartment with a wrought iron balcony and heavy draped curtains overlooking the
Champs Elysées. She knew because she had followed him. She closed her eyes to shut
out the memory of him strolling in the park with his beautiful wife Lisette and
two charming children. She dropped the curtain and sighed, pulling the rose
silk peignoir he had bought for her across her body.
She had met Jean-Paul one stormy November evening in her brother’s restaurant where she was a cashier. He had doffed his elegant hat and then handed it to her to place in the cloakroom along with his cashmere overcoat. His smile lit his deep brown eyes from within. She smiled as she remembered stroking the soft material as she hung his coat carefully on a hanger. He was with a group of male friends and as they ate and drank, he kept looking over at her and smiling. She had blushed at the time and cast her eyes down to her ledger. When the party left, as he collected his coat and hat from the waitress, he had made a bow to her where she sat behind the office window. The window was mullioned and distorted his features making his smile crooked. She saw the men gathered outside the restaurant shouting their goodbyes, but his face was obscured by the misted gold script on the window advertising Le Pichet d’Or.
Roland, her brother, had left her to close that night, as her sister-in-law was unwell. The rain was lashing down, and the street was awash. She thought she detected one or two early snowflakes in the light of the streetlamp. Struggling with her umbrella, she pulled down the blinds and locked the door. She looked over her shoulder, eyes sharp, on the lookout for danger. A figure stepped out of the shadows. Delphine flattened herself against the damp wall and froze. It was midnight, not the time or place for a woman to be out on her own in this quarter of Paris.
‘What do you want? She cried. ‘I have no money. Go away before I call for the gendarme.’
He stepped out of the alley and placed himself under the gas lamp, so she could see his face. She breathed a tentative sigh of relief but still dug her fingernails into the brickwork. She was aware that she could be in danger. He tipped his homburg, and as he did so, she recognised the customer who had smiled at her throughout the evening.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted to talk to you.’
Delphine wiped her hands on her serviceable navy winter coat then pulled her worn-out hat over her ears against the cold and wet. She caught their reflection in the window of the boulangerie across the road. A drab young woman in an old-fashioned hat standing next to a tall exquisitely dressed man with dark wet hair curling over his collar. She turned away, unable to acknowledge the picture they made.
‘I’m sorry but I must go home, it’s getting late,’ she whispered. He caught her hand as she began to walk down the wet pavement. She tried to twist from his grip.
Liz writes short stories and poetry and is just finishing her first novel. She lives in North Yorkshire and at the time of writing is looking out at the sheep and their new lambs in the field behind her house.‘Let go! I tell you, let go!’ She scoured the street hoping to see a gendarme or at least another human being as she tried to shake herself free.
He dropped his hand and stood there meekly before her in the street, as the rain soaked into his overcoat and down his neck.
‘Don’t go. Please come and have a drink with me,’ he pleaded. ‘Come out of this weather, I know a small bar around the corner which will still be open.’ He gently took her elbow.
Delphine did not know why she was allowing this man to propel her along against her wishes. She dragged her feet along the pavement. She had encountered countless men like this one, young, wealthy, out for a good time in her poor arrondissement before going back to their wealthy families. Men who picked up women and discarded them on a whim. But something about this man was compelling.
She hesitated, as he pushed open the door. People knew her in this area, what would her brother think? She had a reputation to uphold. She was known for her morality in this part of the city where women would do anything to survive.
‘No, I cannot,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m sorry but I must go home.’
He released her arm and bowed.
‘I really would like to get to know you. Can we meet somewhere in the daylight? Tomorrow perhaps? I don’t want to cause you any harm.’
The soft golden light through the window of the bar illuminated his features. Delphine thought him handsome in a coarse kind of way which belied his obvious wealth. His eyes smiled down at her as they stood under a streetlight, a beam fractured into a million shards by the persistent rain.
‘I will meet you tomorrow morning at 10 by the Notre Dame. I will wait for you there. I will be at the market.’ Delphine turned and hurried away leaving the young man standing in the street.
When she reached the safety of her apartment, she leaned against the door, shutting out the night. What had she done? Secretly, she realised that something was carrying her along a trajectory out of her control. She could just not go tomorrow, but she knew she would. She went to her window and looked out at the dark and dismal night. Had he followed her? There was a movement on the corner of the street, and she craned her neck to see what it was. She even opened the window. It was only two tom cats fighting over the overflowing rubbish bin from the nearby café.
Next morning when she rose, the sun was streaming through the tiny square windowpanes making fleeting patterns around her room. It was sunny. She would go to the market. Or would she? As if in a dream, she washed, splashing the chilly water from the jug to the basin. She pulled on her clothes, trying to rub a dirty mark off her best dress. It was already 9.30, if she were going, she would have to leave now.
He was there when she arrived, examining the caged birds in the market. Hiding behind a stall so he wouldn’t see her, she watched him. He was looking at his watch, raising it on its ornate gold chain every few seconds, then dropping it back into his waistcoat pocket. She checked her appearance in the bright café window opposite, smoothing down her skirt and tucking a stray curl under her hat. He had discarded the coat from last night and was wearing a smart check suit and carried a cane with what looked like a silver hound’s head on the top. She looked again at her own reflection. Now was the time to turn back.
He turned around and saw her. A huge smile broke out on his face, and he hurried towards her.
‘You came,’ he said, catching her hands in his.
She freed her hands and stepped back from him.
‘I’m sorry. I’m too eager to see you.’ He fell in beside her as she began to walk towards the cathedral.
‘My name is Jean-Paul,’ he said, ‘Will you tell me yours? I already know your brother is Roland.’
‘I’m Delphine,’ she replied.
They walked along in silence through the heavy oak door and into the cool interior of the church. Delphine looked up at the magnificent Rose window just as the sun streamed through illuminating them in a strange blue glow. She genuflected to the altar and slipped into a pew at the back of the building. Jean-Paul followed her.
They sat gazing at the beautiful displays of white lilies illuminated by the soft candlelight of the wall sconces. This time when Jean-Paul reached for her hand she did not withdraw it. She had made her decision for good or ill.
She dropped the curtain across the window and turned back into the room. The fire still glowed softly in the grate and as she cleared away the wine glasses from the table the cutglass sparkled like diamonds, but with a red stain. She loved her Jean-Paul and although difficult, she would never regret her decision.
No comments:
Post a Comment