Douglas Kennedy - Woman in the Fifth

Afterward I lay sprawled across her, half-clothed, completely spent. Beneath me, Margit also looked shellshocked and depleted, her eyes closed, her arms loosely around me. Several silent minutes went by. Then she opened one eye and looked at me and said, ‘Not bad.’

We eventually staggered up from the sofa, and she suggested we take the champagne and get into bed. So I picked up the bottle and the two glasses and followed her to the bedroom. As we took off our clothes I said, ‘Now this is a first for me: taking off my clothes after sex.’

‘Who says the sex is finished for the afternoon?’

‘I’m certainly not proposing that,’ I said, sliding between the stiff white sheets.

‘Good,’ she said.

I watched her finish undressing. She said, ‘Please don’t stare at me like that.’

‘But why? You’re beautiful.’

‘Oh, please. My hips are too wide, my thighs are now fatty, and …’

‘You’re beautiful.’

‘And you are in a post-coital stupor, where all aesthetic discernment goes out the window.’

‘I’ll say it again: you’re beautiful.’

She smiled and crawled in beside me.

‘I appreciate your myopia.’

‘And you say I’m hard on myself.’

‘After fifty, all women think: C’est foutu . It’s finished.’

‘You barely look forty.’

‘You know exactly how old I am.’

‘Yes, I know your deep, dark secret.’

‘That is not my deep, dark secret,’ she said.

‘Then what is?’

‘If it’s a deep, dark secret …’

‘Point taken.’

Pause. I ran my fingers up and down her back, then kissed the nape of her neck.

‘Do you really have a deep, dark secret?’ I asked.

She laughed. And said, ‘My God, you are terribly literal.’

‘All right, I’ll shut up.’

‘And kiss me while you’re at it.’

We made love again. Slowly, without rush at first … but eventually it built up into the same crazed zeal that marked our first encounter on the sofa. She was still remarkably passionate, and threw herself into lovemaking with ravenous intemperance. I had never been with anyone like her — and could only hope that my own ardor came close to the level that she reached.

When we were finished, there was another long span of silence. Then she got up and returned a few moments later with her cigarettes and an ashtray. I refilled our glasses of champagne. As she lit up her cigarette, she said, ‘Living in Paris must have corrupted you.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because you don’t criticize me for smoking. I mean, what sort of American are you, not playing the Health Fascist and telling me how passive smoking is rotting your lungs?’

‘Not all of us are that anal.’

‘Well, any of the Americans I have met …’

‘Have you ever been to the States?’

‘No, but …’

‘Let me guess. You’ve met the occasional anally retentive American at Madame’s salon?’

‘I go there very infrequently.’

‘So it was my lucky night then.’

‘You could say that.’

‘Why do you go there if you so dislike it?’

‘I don’t dislike it. Madame is absurd — and someone who thinks that her life is her ongoing work of art … whereas the truth is that she is a dilettante who had five minutes of fame back in the sixties as an artist’s muse, and briefly married a rich man …’

‘Does that explain the big apartment?’

‘Of course. The husband’s name was Jacques Javelle. He was a big-deal film producer back then — largely soft-porn junk, but it made him briefly rich. He married Lorraine when she was this sexy, flower-girl mannequin , and continued seeing his two long-standing mistresses. But Madame’s strange American morality wouldn’t put up with such sexual compartmentalization and she exploded the marriage. She came out of the divorce with the apartment and nothing more. Her looks began to diminish and she did not adapt well to the changing times. So what did she do? Reinvent herself as a curator of people. She found her little niche in Paris, the salon brings in an income, and for a few hours every Sunday night, she can pretend she is important. Et voila — the story of Madame L’Herbert and her salon. Twice a year I find it amusing, nothing more. Occasionally it is good to go out and meet people.’

‘You don’t have a lot of friends in Paris?’

‘Not really … and no, that doesn’t bother me. Since I lost my daughter and husband …’

‘You lost your husband as well?’

A nod. Then: ‘Since then I have largely kept to myself. I like it that way. There is much to be said for solitude.’

‘It has its virtues, sure.’

‘If you are a novelist, you must appreciate it.’

‘I have no choice but to deal with being alone. Anyway, writing fills the hours when I do my job.’

‘So what — besides writing — do you do all night?’

‘I sit in a room, and make certain that no one is trying to break into the place, and also let in the staff who do all the shipping of furs.’

‘I never knew that furriers ran a twenty-four-hour operation.’

‘This one does.’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘And how did you get the job?’

I told her a bit about arriving in Paris, and the horrendous experience in the hotel, and the day clerk who was such a bastard, and Adnan’s kindness, and him getting controlled, and all the other strange happenstantial events that led me to rent his chambre de bonne and find my current employment.

‘It’s all rather picaresque,’ she said. ‘A run-in with a classic Parisian connard — Monsieur … what was his name again?’

‘Monsieur Brasseur at the Hotel Select on rue Francois Millet in the Sixteenth. If you know anyone you hate, send them there.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind. But you do have fantastic material, n’est-ce pas ? Getting milked by a horrid hotel desk clerk and then ending up in a chambre in le quartier turc . I’m certain, during all those years that you were practicing your French in … where was it that you lived … ?’

‘Eaton, Ohio.’

‘Never heard of it. Then again, never having set foot in your country …’

‘Even if you’re an American, you’ve probably never heard of Eaton, Ohio … unless you happen to have heard of Crewe College, which is the sole reason to know about Eaton, Ohio, though it’s not exactly a big-deal college to begin with.’

‘But it’s where everything went wrong in your life, yes?’

I nodded.

‘But that’s another conversation, isn’t it?’ she asked.

‘Maybe not. It’s something I’d rather not talk about.’

‘Then don’t,’ she said and leaned forward and kissed me deeply.

Then she stubbed out her cigarette and drained her glass and said, ‘And now, I must ask you to leave.’

‘What?’ I said.

‘I have things I must do.’

‘But it’s not even …’ I checked my watch. ‘… eight o’clock.’

‘And we’ve had a lovely cinq-a-sept … which was so lovely that it nearly became a cinq-a-huit .’

‘But I thought we’d spend the evening together.’

‘That cannot be.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because, as I said, I have things to do.’

‘I see.’

‘You sound like a little boy who’s just been told that he has to leave his tree house.’

‘Thanks for that,’ I said, sounding hurt.

She took my face in her hands.

‘Harry, do not take this badly. You simply have to accept that I am busy now. But I do want us to have another afternoon together.’

‘When?’

‘Say three days.’

‘That long?’