“I met Philippe at the language school. Every spring there is a party to celebrate the director’s birthday. It’s a silly thing-the director is like a child in many ways. He would like all of us to teach our classes with games and prizes and songs. I’m not very good at that and so he uses me for the private lessons.”
Jeremy cannot imagine Chantal in front of a class of adults, singing a French ditty and tossing bonbons to the best student. And of course, he can’t imagine himself in such a class. How lucky, he thinks, that we found each other.
“Philippe was new to the school. He is very handsome-I am not usually drawn to men like him.”
Men like him. Jeremy has always been told that he is handsome. But because he is shy, or quiet, or less bold than most good-looking men, he has always felt that he has little in common with a ladies’ man, a Romeo.
“He spoke to me at the end of the party. I had been watching him, of course-every woman had her eyes on Philippe. And then his eyes were on me. He has that ability to make you feel that you’re the only one.”
She stops and her gaze drifts off-she follows the passing of a tugboat along the river. She looks sad, as if this isn’t a love story at all.
“I’m sorry,” she says, looking back at him. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have started this.”
“Go on,” Jeremy says.
“Enough new vocabulary,” she tells him. “It’s our last day together.”
She reaches for the wine and refills their glasses. Her story continues with a surer voice now.
“We left the party and went to a café, had another drink together. He’s a charming man, of course-he knows how to win a woman’s heart. And I suppose I was waiting to give mine away. Twenty-eight years old. I’m a little out of step with my generation.”
“Except for the hippie commune in the Indian Ocean,” Jeremy says.
“Oh, that. An aberration. A desperate attempt to be youthful and wild.”
“Look at you here,” Jeremy says. “This is wild.” He opens his arms to the jardin she has created on the Seine.
“This is just my refuge.”
“From what?”
“From the busyness of the world. I come here to hide.”
Jeremy thinks of himself in his workshop. He is happiest there, whether he is working on a project for a client or building a new armoire for their home. He likes the smell of sawdust, the sound of a plane trueing the edge of a plank, the steady focus of design. When Dana goes to work she is surrounded by people and words and passions so large that they move others to tears. So what happens at the end of the day? Does she really want what he offers? Why is he suddenly worried about this, after so many years of confident love?
“Philippe and I dated for a while and I enjoyed his attention. He’s a funny man-I think he truly believes he falls in love with every woman he dates. In fact, I think he’s merely in love with love. It fills him up for a while, makes him think life is grand. And it is grand. He’s very good at love.”
“But you-you said you fell in love.”
“One weekend we went to visit his parents in the Loire. They have a weekend home near a grand château, one of those the tourists like to visit. This one offers classical concerts in the summer. They’re lovely, really. Everyone sits on the great lawn under a canopy of stars and the air fills with the music of some wonderful symphony.
“Philippe took me to one of these concerts. We brought a picnic-not unlike the one we have here.”
Jeremy feels a pang of proprietary jealousy, as if this might be the only time Chantal had offered such a display of food. Idiot, he thinks.
“We ate and drank and listened to the music. At one point, in the middle of the concert, Philippe took my hand and gestured for me to follow him. We made our way through the crowds of people while the orchestra played. I started to ask him where we were going, but he put his finger to his lips. He looked positively delighted with himself, so I let him lead me away.
“We circled behind the château. The building was closed and only the dramatic outdoor lighting was in use-illuminating the turrets, the massive entrance, the balconies, the guard towers on each end. No one lives in the château anymore. It is used for tours and is rented out for weddings and business functions. Perhaps someone lives in the caretaker’s cottage at the entrance, but this evening there was no sign of anyone patrolling the place.
“Philippe knew of a door in the back-a part of the servants’ quarters-that had a broken padlock. I wondered if he had taken other women here before me, but I pushed the thought away. We sneaked into the château and climbed the many stairs to the master bedroom, guided by Philippe’s flashlight. We stepped over the rope that blocked the entrance to the room and Philippe took me to bed.”
Chantal is looking at her hands, which rest on the table in front of her. She has long, tapered fingers and pale skin. Jeremy imagines those hands on his face. And then Chantal looks at him, breaking her own trance. Her eyes are bright and wide.
“I had never done anything so daring in my life. I loved him that night.”
She stops speaking and shakes her head.
“Crazy. Imagine if we were caught.”
“Did you love him or did you love danger?” Jeremy asks.
Chantal looks puzzled.
“I’m sorry,” Jeremy says quickly. “It’s none of my business.”
“It’s a good question,” Chantal says. “I can answer it.” She pauses and sips her wine. “I loved him.”
“And you still love him?”
“I don’t know,” Chantal says.
“Does he make you a more daring person?” Jeremy asks.
“For one night,” Chantal says with a sly smile. “And for that I loved him.”
Jeremy doesn’t understand. He wants to ask questions but he feels that he has intruded enough.
And then, like a sudden storm, he feels irrationally angry: What does breaking into a château and making love in someone else’s bed have to do with love?
For a moment he confuses Chantal with his daughter. He wants to give her advice, tell her that she’s wrong, that Philippe is the wrong man, that love has nothing to do with danger. And then a loudspeaker breaks their uneasy silence and he hears a static-filled roar of words-something about Notre Dame and the Île Saint-Louis. It is the bateau-mouche again. And again, tourists are waving madly. Why? What would it matter if he waved back? He turns away from them and reaches for more cheese.
She places her hand on his. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It was an inappropriate story.”
“I remember what you said at the café earlier,” Jeremy says. “That sometimes we have to run away from ourselves to find ourselves. Maybe Philippe helped you do that.”
Chantal smiles. “I like that. And so I have learned once again that I am truly a good girl at heart. And I should find myself a better man.”
He looks at her hand and she takes it away.
Jeremy is not accustomed to so much talk. If he were younger, he would take her hand and lead her downstairs to her bedroom. No, it has nothing to do with age. He would do it now. This is the moment he has waited for since he arrived at the métro this morning.
He thinks about sex with Dana. In bed with her, he finds his truest self. Their lovemaking is deep and rich-they rarely speak in bed, and yet he feels he knows her best when they’ve made love. She gives herself to him, he gives himself to her. In ten years, their passion has not quieted.
“Let’s walk,” he says to Chantal.
She stands too quickly and knocks the table. Her glass of wine topples and Jeremy catches it before it falls to the deck. But wine spills on Chantal’s sandaled feet.
“Oh, how clumsy!” she says, and her face turns the same shade of pink as her blouse. She flees-Jeremy can hear her feet clattering down the stairs of the boat and into the space below.
Jeremy cleans up. Most of the wine landed on her feet, and he mops what landed on the deck with a napkin dipped in water.