Not once, though, did he see Joséphine Belliard on the rue de Lille, or walking along the Boulevard St.-Germain on her way to work, or walking past the Café de Flore or the Brasserie Lipp, where he'd had lunch with her only the week before and where the sole had been full of grit but he hadn't mentioned it.
Much of the time, on his walks along strange streets, he thought about Barbara; and not with a feeling of guilt or even of loss, but normally, habitually, involuntarily. He found himself shopping for her, noticing a blouse or a scarf or an antique pendant or a pair of emerald earrings he could buy and bring home. He found himself storing away things to tell her — for instance, that the Sorbonne was actually named after somebody named Sorbon, or that France was seventy percent nuclear, a headline he deciphered off the front page of L'express and that coursed around his mind like an electron with no polarity other than Barbara, who, as it happened, was a supporter of nuclear power. She occupied, he recognized, the place of final consequence — the destination for practically everything he cared about or noticed or imagined. But now, or at least for the present time, that situation was undergoing a change, since being in Paris and waiting his chance to see Joséphine lacked any customary destination, but simply started and stopped in himself. Though that was how he wanted it. And that was the explanation he had not exactly articulated in the last few days: he wanted things, whatever things there were, to be for him and only him.
On the third day, at four in the afternoon, he called Joséphine Belliard. He called her at home instead of her office, thinking she wouldn't be at home and that he could leave a brief, possibly inscrutable recorded message, and then not call her for a few more days, as though he was too busy to try again any sooner. But when her phone rang twice she answered.
“Hi,” Austin said, stunned at the suddenness of Joséphine being on the line and only a short distance from where he was standing, and sounding unquestionably like herself. It made him feel vaguely faint. “It's Martin Austin,” he managed to say feebly.
He heard a child scream in the background before Joséphine could say more than hello. “Nooooon!” the child, certainly Léo, screamed again.
“Where are you?” she said in a hectic voice. He heard something go crash in the room where she was. “Are you in Chicago now?”
“No, I'm in Paris,” Austin said, grappling with his composure and speaking very softly.
“Paris? What are you doing here?” Joséphine said, obviously surprised. “Are you on business again now?”
This, somehow, was an unsettling question. “No,” he said, still very faintly. “I'm not on business. I'm just here. I have an apartment.”
“Tu as un appartement!” Joséphine said in even greater surprise. “What for?” she said. “Why? Is your wife with you?”
“No,” Austin said. “I'm here alone. I'm planning on staying for a while.”
“Oooo-laaa,” Joséphine said. “Do you have a big fight at home? Is that the matter?”
“No,” Austin lied. “We didn't have a big fight at home. I decided to take some time away. That's not so unusual, is it?”
Léo screamed again savagely. “Ma-man!” Joséphine spoke to him patiently. “Doucement, doucement,” she said. “J'arrive. Une minute. Une minute.” One minute didn't seem like very much time, but Austin didn't want to stay on the phone long. Joséphine seemed much more French than he remembered. In his mind she had been almost an American, only with a French accent. “Okay. So,” she said, a little out of breath. “You are here now? In Paris?”
“I want to see you,” Austin said. It was the moment he'd been waiting for — more so even than the moment when he would finally see her. It was the moment when he would declare himself to be present. Unencumbered. Available. Willing. That mattered a great deal. He actually slipped his wedding ring off his finger and laid it on the table beside the phone.
“Yes?” Joséphine said. “What…” She paused, then resumed. “What do you like to do with me? When do you like? What?” She was impatient.
“Anything. Anytime,” Austin said, and suddenly felt the best he'd felt in days. “Tonight,” he said. “Or today. In twenty minutes.”
“In twenty minutes! Come on. No!” she said and laughed, but in an interested way, a pleased way — he could tell. “No, no, no,” she said. “I have to go to my lawyer in one hour. I have to find my neighbor now to stay with Léo. It is impossible now. I'm divorcing. You know this already. It's very upsetting. Anyway.”
“I'll stay with Léo,” Austin said rashly.
Joséphine laughed. “You'll stay with him! You don't have children, do you? You said this.” She laughed again.
“I'm not offering to adopt him,” Austin said. “But I'll stay with him for an hour. Then you can have your neighbor come, and I'll take you to dinner. How's that?”
“He doesn't like you,” Joséphine said. “He likes only his father best. He doesn't even like me.”
“I'll teach him some English,” Austin said. “I'll teach him to say ‘Chicago Cubs.’” He could feel enthusiasm already leaching off. “We'll be great friends.”
“What is Chicago Cubs?” Joséphine said.
“It's a baseball team.” And he felt, just for an instant, bleak. Not because he wished he was home, or wished Barbara was here, or wished really anything was different. Everything was how he'd hoped it would be. He simply wished he hadn't mentioned the Cubs. This was over-confident, he thought. It was the wrong thing to say. A mistake.
“So. Well,” Joséphine said, sounding businesslike. “You come here, then? I go to my lawyers to sign my papers. Then maybe we have a dinner together, yes?”
“Absolutely,” Austin said, bleakness vanished. “I'll come right away. I'll start in five minutes.” On the dark suede wall, under a little metal track light positioned to illuminate it, was a big oil painting of two men, naked and locked in a strenuous kiss and embrace. Neither man's face was visible, and their bodies were weight lifters’ muscular bodies, their genitals hidden by their embroiled pose. They were seated on a rock, which was very crudely painted in. It was like Laocoön, Austin thought, only corrupted. He'd wondered if one of the men was the one who owned the apartment, or possibly the owner was the painter or the painter's lover. He wondered if either one of them was alive this afternoon. He actually hated the painting and had already decided to take it down before he brought Joséphine here. Which was what he meant to do — bring her here, tonight if possible, and keep her with him until morning, when they could walk up and sit in the cool sun at the Deux Magots and drink coffee. Like Sartre.
“Martin?” Joséphine said. He was about to put down the phone and go move the smarmy Laocoön painting. He'd almost forgotten he was talking to her.
“What? I'm here,” Austin said. Though it might be fun to leave it up, he thought. It could be an ice-breaker, something to laugh about, like the mirrors on the ceiling, before things got more serious.
“Martin, what are you doing here?” Joséphine said oddly. “Are you okay?”