“Sorry I brought it up,” I said in the face of his argument. “I didn’t mean to make anything of it. She is lovely.”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t want to know. Can I ask you something?” He scanned the room to see whether the women were in sight.
“Yes.”
“Would you date a poor girl?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I would not.”
“I thought you just said it did not matter.”
“That’s not what I said. I said, politics do not describe people. There is nothing the matter with poor girls, but one could never understand my worries.”
“What worries do you have, Davidson, other than the ones you invite?”
“You will find out one day. Before they make you a boss, you think how fine it would be to be top dog. You wait and wait your turn. You pine all night, and you pine all day. Until at last your day arrives, all gleaming and new. They pick you up by the scruff, and carry you along to the limousine, with all your anticipation, only to find it is for nothing more than to be thrown into the pit, where now, instead of pining, you get to fight. So you claw for the staff, and you bite for the crown, like you do not have good sense; or, if you do, you run from it all, until, exactly one day before you are ready, they catch up to you, or come pull you up from the pit. Next, the barber comes to you, and the tailor comes to you, and all the old king’s men, too, everybody come to you now. You are top dog in charge of it all. Boss bitch running the show. You do not sleep much anymore, but that is fine, because you might miss something if you did. So now they get you good and polished, and they put you up in front of whatever little tribe they give you for your own, where you see all your friends, who love you no matter what you do, and you see all your enemies, who hate you no matter what, and all the what-can-you-do-for-me-people, and the what-have-you-done-for-me-lately-folks. Behind them you see all the smile-in-your-face-people, and all the knife-in-your-back-kinds. Know-nothings and know-it-alls. Born-again-people and the won’t-never-be-saveds, plus all your good backsliding brothers and sisters in between. Them you beat for the crown. All who want it from you and, way in back, all them you never really saw before. Apart from that, you got all those dogs, and all those bitches who do not keep faith with you at all. You realize then they are all your people now. You own stock and title to a whole restless tribe’s worth of problems no one ever told you about, and you did not know before. It is then you figure out if you have it to be boss dog, or just sit in the chair until the king returns.”
“You are just seduced by her,” I said.
“We will see,” he retorted. “But I do not have any preconceived ideas about who it is who might wind me back up in line with time. People like us cannot afford to.”
I could tell he liked her, so I let it drop, as Genevieve and Elsa returned to the table. Genevieve looked piqued, dabbing at her eyes, and it was clear she had been crying. Elsa had a worried expression on her face, and looked to Davidson with distress.
“I think we should probably go home,” I apologized, bidding goodnight to Elsa and thanking Davidson for the meal.
“Call me tomorrow?” Davidson asked, with an expression of real concern.
“I’ll ring around ten o’clock.”
We left the restaurant, and I went to hail a taxi, but Genevieve wished to walk, because she did not think she could bear the motion and closed space.
It was the longest night of the year, and music poured from every block as far as the river. When we reached the center, the streets were still crowded with people, and the full moon behind the cathedral shone down silver on the white stone of Notre Dame, and pure and clear on the velvet blackness of the Seine. Below, on the sand, musicians played, and families strolled, and the tourists, and the lovers, and the hustlers; the beautiful in their prime, the powerful at their height, the babes at their mothers’ breasts, and the ancients on their canes, all promenaded, alive and pleased the earth was theirs that night.
“Are you pregnant?” I asked.
“No. I am just dizzy. But the fresh air is making it better.”
“It is okay if you are.”
“Oui,” she said. “I know. We are together.”
She took my hand as we crossed over the river.
“The princess and Davidson are perfect.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she is so boring, and he can be such a boor.”
“He’s bright.”
“It does not matter. The nice clothes do not matter. The money does not matter. Paris does not. New York does not. Hollywood especially is not important. Art is the only thing that matters, besides an incorruptible love.”
We were still holding hands, and in my hand she was the truest girl on the Left Bank, and, when we crossed over the bridge, the river and I had the truest girl in the city in our right hand. The two of us walked the remainder of the way to her house, listening to the music from each block as we passed. When we finally made our way up the cobbled lane again, the people in the same apartment were playing Nina Simone, and Genevieve brightened to the sound.
At her door, she told me she did not think it a good idea for me to stay the night. “I’ll be fine tomorrow,” she assured me, wiping her damp brow. “I just need to rest.”
“I’ll come by to check on you in the morning.”
“Oui, that would be good. We will take breakfast.”
“You’re okay?”
“Yes, but I want to work. I have not in days. And if I do not, I feel like I will go crazy.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, kissing her atop the head, where the walk and the heat had lifted her scent to the crown of her scalp. I inhaled her fragrance deep into my diaphragm, deep as memory, and if I had my way I would have never ceased.
12
I had left my room key at the front desk of the hotel, where I had not been for several days. When I returned that night and asked for it, the night clerk looked at me appraisingly, without recognition, and what felt like undue suspicion.
“Et, vous-êtes?”
“M. Roland.”
“Et, quel est votre numéro de chamber?”
“Au dernier étage.” It was the only room on the floor, and the only one in the hotel with a balcony.
“Et, que faites-vous, M. Roland?” he asked, attempting to seem nonchalant, but obviously wondering why I did not keep set hours.
“I’m a writer,” I said briskly.
“I see,” he nodded, still looking confused. “And how come you speak French, you are American?”
I had tried to humor him before, but was unamused by his insolence, and gave him a look to let him know what part of the desk I needed him to operate. His cheekiness may have been motivated by anything. It may have been something specific. I didn’t care as long as he got my key, and called me if there was a goddamned fire in the middle of the night.