Bonne Chance: Evening in Paris Wilde
fiction by J.Macon King
“I’d rather be strolling through the Montmartre Cemetery, pay my respects at Jim Morrison’s grave.”
“You’d never find it,” Mary says.
Sliding out of the cab at rue Foyatier, the couple pause at the foot of 270 steps to Montmartre. Jason frowns at the concrete stairs that keep going, up and up. A long way up.
Mary notices Jason’s his look. She’s not quite twenty-seven and looks much younger. “Just climb. It will be worth it when you see the view at the top and how old and artsy everything is.”
Having been in Paris several times prior and once an au pair in a nearby village, Mary is their tour guide and interpreter. Even though Jason has a lanky frame, Mary is in better shape. Athletic. And she is native San Franciscan, accustomed to climbing the hills of Pacific Heights, with strong legs to prove it. She charges up the first set. Curly-headed Jason, slightly older, follows. They are only six weeks into their “torrid romance,” as Jason terms it.
“So why do you think I couldn’t find Morrison’s grave?”
“He’s not there.”
“You mean you believe that old rumor? That he really isn’t dead?”
Mary laughs. “No. Jim’s grave is in a different cemetery—with the rest of the famous dead. The Père Lachaise Cemetery.”
“What? No wonder my friend couldn’t find his grave.”
Mary shakes her head, long straight blonde hair flipping in the breeze. “If we go there, I’d rather see Piaf’s grave. I love Piaf. Edith Piaf’s funeral drew half of Paris and brought the city to a complete standstill. Jim Morrison’s funeral service lasted only eight minutes.”
Jason snickers, but refrains from the setup for the jest. “To his credit, he wasn’t French.”
“If I’m not mistaken,” Mary uses a pedantic voice, “the main cemetery of Paris was Le Cimetière des Innocents, which is now the site of Center Pompidou.”
“What? What did Pompi-do-do do with all the bodies?”
“Oh, that was hundreds of years before it became the Center. The remains were moved near Montparnasse to…” she pauses for dramatic effect before intoning, “… The Catacombs.”
A younger American couple are playfully hopping and occasionally stepping backwards down the steps on the other side of the iron double-sided banisters. They reek of pot.
The couple stop, variously say, “Ooh, yes, the catacombs.” “They’re so awesome!” “You guys gotta’ go.” The guy proffers a joint.
“Oh, OK, can’t wait,” Jason answers. He takes a puff, hands it to Mary, who reaches, then declines. Jason passes it back with a thumbs up, while he holds his breath.
The stoned couple continue merrily down.
“Sure.” Mary says loudly, then quietly, “No way in hell.”
“What?” Jason expels the smoke. “Good shit.”
“Maybe next time. Weather’s too nice to go tomb raiding.”
“But I’m already visualizing you in a Lara Croft outfit.”
She scoffs. “I’ve never gone because it’s all very creepy, lots of scaly skulls and bleached bones in ghastly, ghoulish, grisly decorative displays.” Mary is a fan of alliteration. She shudders and takes some breaths. “Anyway, at Père Lachaise Cemetery this wild man is buried. Morrison would have liked him. Victor Noir, was a young anti-imperialist, outspoken journalist and notorious womanizer. He was killed dueling Napoleon the Third’s cousin, a prince. This made Noir a political hero. 100,000 people gathered for his funeral as well.”
“Victor Noir. Ha. Victor of the black night? You think Victor was victorious enough to have screwed all 100,000?”
“Maybe half. For Noir’s tomb, a sculptor created a bronze statue of Noir lying dead in the street where he fell, pants partially unbuttoned and his, his, well, manhood emphasized.”
“Ah, Paris!” Jason quips.
“Get this. The legend began if a woman lies down on Victor Noir’s statue and kiss him on the lips or rub his crotch, she will get pregnant within a year.”
“Um. People believe this? Mary, are you considering this necrophilia-once-removed?”
She’s silent for a sec, ignores his remark by saying, “Besides, the Montmartre cemetery is full of cats.”
Jason persists. “You would think a more popular trick would be laying on him to become un-pregnant.”
Mary remains silent, but shakes her head. So, Jason moves on. “As many as cats as Rome in the Forum ruins?”
“Not sure. But these have the Parisian charm. Meaning, like the locals, these cats have major attitude, a little extra sass. Like you.” Mary smiles, and keeps climbing. Jason lets her go ahead to enjoy the sass her short denim skirt provides.
“I know what you’re doing, Jason.”
“Oh… I was just wondering… why are we talking about dead and buried? It’s a beautiful day, we’re in Paree, we’re in love. Right?”
She stops to look at him. Enjoys his expression.
“Right??” he repeats.
Mary flutters her eyelashes. She kisses him. “Absolutemente.”
“And crème de menthe!” Jason is always joking. “I’d absolutmontly love you more if you tasted like crème de menthe.”
“Your French is getting so much…worse.” They laugh.
Jason is often clever, she thinks, but sometimes it’s just his schtick, and only borderline funny. She considers telling him, but if she tells him, even nicely, he’ll become moody.
The prior evening, at the opulent L’Hotel, Jason was anything but moody and mean. Au contraire. Jason had ensconced them in the Oscar Wilde Suite— decadent, of course, paneling, ostentatious
trappings, wallpaper coverings with a peacock, or is it a phoenix? “Wilde’s last residence,” the framed document boasts. Meaning he died there. Still, Mary loved the cozy bath, and Jason loved the writing desk. Jason fancied himself a writer, though all she’d seen was a few sweetly romantic poems he composed for her. Or at least said he did.
Last night Mary wore the red lacy lingerie Jason had bought her in a shop off Champs Elysee. After price haggling\flirting with the cute shop girl. They had drunk plenty of wine; this was France after all. About three A.M. he had her Playboy-posing on the upper balcony of the incredible oval staircase for his photos, as Jason sang, “A glass of wine… in her hand…” A guest opened his door to ogle, so they retired to their private terrace for more photos. At the climax of the evening, he blew her nose, then he blew her mind. Jason was very oral. Oo-la fuckin’ la, she thinks. She did wonder, during the wee morning hours, why would a hetero man pick that suite?
Mary breathes heavily on the steps, then wheezes and slows.
“Hey, you all right?” he asks.
“Just catching my breath.” She pulls something out of her bag. She tries to be covert, but Jason knows what she is doing. A couple of hisses and the thing goes back in the bag. “You know, after you wore me out last night.” She carries on as Jason smirks.
“You know what I read?” He is clandestinely giving her more time. “Get this: if a tourist dies in Paris, like from too much champagne and sex, they legally qualify to be buried in Paris? So here’s our chance to be buried next to Jim. Or Victor of the Noir, if you prefer.”
“I don’t mind the idea of being dead, considering all the metaphysical and spiritual possibilities.” Mary stops climbing for a second. “It’s the thought of dying that bothers me, and violently dying terrifies me.”
Almost ten minutes later, finally at the base of the enormous white basilica, the couple pause and look up. The white dome is almost the length of a football field up.
“Rather Taj-Mahal-like, right?” Jason asks. “Only elongated.”
“Um, kinda. The Sacré Coeur is the highest point in Paris after the Eiffel Tower,” Mary says.
“But no elevator.”
She neglects to mention that a funicular was available. “Let’s go sit on the steps at the entry.”
They pass by the lower bronze fountain of three cherubs. They chuckle as they see one is peeing water from his little exposed penis.
“Ah, Paris,” she intones.
At the top of the final steps, they sit in the shade of the overhang. There are very few people sitting in clumps or couples on the steps. Some are leaving, having apparently done possibly the last tour inside. The view is magnificent, overlooking the entire city of Paris and its suburbs.
“So lovely.” Jason states. “This is such a perfect day.” He kisses her. “Let’s get a picture of us.” He glances around for a likely candidate.
“Sir, would you mind? Thank you. it should auto focus. That button right there.”
“Qui,” answers the goateed middle-aged man, taking the Canon 35 mm. A French tourist.
The man walks down the steps. A little further than Jason likes. Then a little further.
“Hope he’s not a gypsy,” Jason whispers.
“He’s not.”
The man finally turns. “Did you see the heart?” he asks.
“No.” Mary translates for Jason.
“Heart?” Jason asks. “What heart?”
“Est magnifique. You must see the heart,” the man says.
“This cathedral is Sacre Couer, meaning ‘Sacred Heart.’ They claim Jesus’s actual heart is in a reliquary or little coffin here.”
“Ah, Paris,” Jason says. “The actual desiccated 2000-year old heart is in there? At least his heart didn’t get stuck inside a skull in the Catacombs.”
“C’est bon?” The man finally kneels. “Pret? Say froma-chi-chi-cheece.” He snaps a photo…
…precisely as two pigeons fly overhead, drop a bomb-load on top of the couple. The wet stench is revolting. Mary gags. Jason swears.
The man snaps a couple more shots. He is smiling. “Bonne chance!”
The couple are icking and ewing. Jason says, “What the fuck?”
“Bonne chance!” The man continues. Ça vous portera chance!”
Jason jumps up. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“That will bring you luck.”
“When? We needed luck before to not be pooped on.” The globs stick, the goo drips, worse, the odor is beyond disgusting. Mary stands, gags and almost retches.
The man calmly walks back to them holding the camera, but noting the mess, stops. He rubs one hand’s three fingers and thumb together.
“What, he wants to be paid for taking these shitty photos now?”
Even Mary doesn’t understand. She is concerned as she knows Jason has a temper and is not afraid to get physical. She’s seen him fight over a parking place in North Beach. And this man is giving what they understand to be the universal sign of getting money.
“No way, man,” Jason protests. “Give me the camera.” He reaches out with a soiled hand.
“No!” the man says emphatically holding his fingers out. “Fontaine. Oui, oui!”
“Now he wants my fountain pen. I don’t have a fountain pen. Give me my fucking camera.”
The man finally puts down the camera on the steps.. “Fontaine. Laver.” Hands free, he now rubs both hands together, then points way down the steps.
The couple look at each other. “Oh.”
“Oui. Merci. Merci Beaucoup,” Mary says.
Jason grabs the camera strap. Yells, “Mercy,” and the couple hurry down the steps.
Back at the bottom, they bee-line to the cherub fountain. Mary peels off her spotted white blouse, revealing her red tube top and Jason removes his shirt. They chuckle as they hold their hands under the peeing penis. Jason dips his shirt into the fountain, then hesitates.
“Forget it,” Jason says. “We should just throw them away. Buy new in the village. This water is just recycled through its pump.”
“OK. This is ridiculous.” Still they both try the best they can to cleanse.
“Let’s go find a real bathroom,” Mary says. “Buy you a tourist T-shirt, and get a drink.”
“I’m with you, kid.” He takes their wet tops and stuffs them down a trash bin.
Winding and finding their way down the lanes into the main part of the village they ignore the looks at Jason’s shirtless figure and Mary’s busty figure. At the first touristy shop she goes in alone and comes out with a Moulin Rouge emblazoned red tee for Jason.
“Now we match red,” she smiles.
A few more blocks, and they spy a second-floor café above a side lane. After washing up in the lavatories they are soon seated on a balcony sipping refreshing drinks at a little round table with a vase of fresh roses. Jason pours a tiny pitcher ice water over a sugar cube on a brass spoon, gleefully watching the white plume appear like a genie as it hits the pastis. Mary silently sips La Petit Fessardiere Muscadet.
“That was truly terrible,” she finally says. They laugh.
“Can’t wait to be disgusted again when I get the film developed.”
“Ha.” Mary says. “Should we go back to the hotel and change for dinner someplace, or stick it out here?”
“We’re here. I’m hungry. I’m sure were not the first dirty, disgusting people in Montmartre.”
“No, I’m sure Toulouse-Lautrec and his Rouged ladies were a bit stinky, but we may be the first dirty, disgusting sober people here.”
“We should fix that.” Jason signals the slim solemn waiter in black and tells Mary, “Race you.”
Mary sees he’s not kidding, and they raise their glasses, clink with a chin-chin, and chug.
Jason wins, saying, “Aww. Pastis is worse if not sipped. Might as well drink absinthe.”
“It’s still illegal here. Kind of. I think you can get it if you call it something else.”
“Like ‘worm-wood of madness.’”
“Maybe “Green Fairy.”
Jason soon is distracted into people watching. “It seems to me, the French are either drop-dead gorgeous, silly-looking like Inspector Clouseau, or peasant-looking like Madame LaFarge and George Depardiau.”
“Jason!” She pretends to be insulted, before she says, “Perhaps the latter are from Belgium.” They laugh easily together.
After their second round, Jason pays the tab and Mary inquires of the waiter a dinner suggestion. “Où manger un bon diner?”
“Le Progrès, Mademoiselle. Rue Norvins.”
Down the lane onto the street, they find the bustling, modern corner restaurant with the underlined neon sign. Through the windows
“Looks good. I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving.” Which is true.
The slim and solemn host in black manning the entry, looks very much like the previous waiter, expresses or feigns disappointment at Mary’s “no reservations” but then asks “in or out?”
The early evening is cooling, and slightly underdressed, Mary asks for “in overlooking out.”
The host having ignored Jason, had lost eye contact with her after noticing her tight red top. He nods and leads them inside to a smallish table crowded near the large opened windows.
Mary helps Jason decipher the menu, so when the scurrying waiter arrives, who seems unhappy to be bothered, so she can order everything at once.
“Green Fairy?” Jason blurts.
The waiter checks Jason out, and when there is no response, puts on a sour face. “Perhaps fine champagne for the lady? A bottle.” He snatches the drink menu from under Mary’s elbow, hands it to Jason, open to the drinks. He points to a fancy name with many numbers after.
“Good idea.” Mary reaches over to point at name further down the list—with less numbers. “We shall have, um, this one.”
The waiter doesn’t bother to hide his disappointment. “Very well.” He turns to go.
“Moment, si vous plait.” Mary says. “We have had some troubles and are very hungry and would like to place our food order now as well.”
The waiter looks as if she asked him if they could tour the kitchen and try free samples. He sighs.
She orders, “Escargot roasted with garlic butter, French onion soup, roasted bone marrow on toast and pickled red onions. May we order the main courses as well?”
He struts away without answering.
“Oh, my God,” Jason says, “if I wasn’t so hungry, I would just say we leave.”
“What’s wrong? That’s part of the charm of Paris, the classic waiter superiority. The next place would be about the same.”
The waiter continues his arrogant and lackadaisical attitude throughout their steak tartare, braised lamb shank, croquet monsieur and bottle of champagne. The food is fine, but unremarkable for the prices. They make the most of it. Mary says, “I’ve decided, in Paris, I should call you… D’Artagnan.” She giggles. “No, how about something else you can pronounce….Victor.”
“Victor of the Noir? Really? The Parisian Casanova. Then I shall call you, Mimi.”
“That’s a little close to the truth.” She looks down. “You know… the girl in La Boheme.”
“As unsophisticated as I might pretend to be, yes I do know that opera. I also know that Mimi is a nickname for Mary.”
“Very well, Victor.”
“Se bon, Mimi.”
“It’s settled then. I’m buying dinner, on my poor seamstress wages.”
“No.”
“But, my poor Victor, you’ve been paying for everything.”
“Don’t worry about filthy lucre, Mon cheri Mimi. I wanted to treat you on this trip.”
“But…” several drinks in, Mary almost blurts that she had seen Jason’s credit card bill before they left the states. It was nearly maxed out then. Instead, she blurts something more reckless.
“Jason, I want you to know something…”
“That, you love me desperately?”
“Um, almost. I missed my, my monthly.”
The silence she expected. The anger not so much.
“When?” he asks.
“A while back.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? And why the fuck you drinking so much?”
“Really? What does it fucking matter?’
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to have it taken care of.”
More silence. Jason looks away from her to the bustling room; chitchatting tourist diners, sharp sounds of cutlery, the omnipresent obnoxious-voiced loudmouth. He sips the last of the champagne slowly. Attempts the math of their days, nights together, only six weeks together. Seeking any missed signs of another boyfriend. Replays Mary’s comments and reaction to Victor Noir donating sperm from beyond the grave. He finally returns to Mary’s frightened eyes to speak.
“Listen carefully. Go to the restroom and then leave.”
Mary is stunned. “Wha…wha…?”
“I’ll pick up the check. Leave, go left, take the next lane left, enter the third café, bistro or bar down on that street.”
“Jason, are you ditching me?”
“I shall meet you there. There’s something I have to do.”
“All right. Jason, you worry me. Don’t hit anybody.”
“Only as a last resort.”
Mary does as Jason instructed and is out on the now darkened but still touristed cobblestone streets. She is racked with emotion. She doesn’t know Jason that well. Is he upset about the…or only suspicious, or angry for not telling him sooner? Seems capable of anything. Even ditching her. She has a coughing fit and once again must stop, pull out her inhaler.
When recovered, she presently enters, of all places, the “Bar San Francisco.” A mixed crowd. American rock play: The Who or Guess Who, or Grand Funk Railroad or one of those bands her older brothers liked. Barbary coast saloon/brothel décor replete with dark wood bar and requisite crimson wall covering. Crumpled American bills and other bank notes suspend from the high ceiling. Large framed paintings of the Golden Gate Bridge and North Beach’s Broadway decorate the walls.
An attractive blonde with cleavage entering a straight bar anywhere in the world elicits a similar reaction. Men notice, and if not gauche, eyes follow her peripherally, weighing their chances, smarter ones assuming she is not alone, more liquored ones not caring. She takes the solitary open barstool toward the back, catches the handsome smiley bartender’s eye.
Mary attempts to hide her mood, proclaiming, “I’m native San Franciscan,”
“Well, welcome. Visited but not lived.”
“This place is awesome. My friend is coming. Two brandies, oh, with crème, please.” She watches the door.
Mary keeps the extra drink near, but covers it with a napkin, to signify that she is waiting for her friend. She sips her drink wondering about that friend. She is concerned as this friend can be impulsive and unpredictable. She thinks back to how they met at that South of Market mostly gay club. And they danced. And danced. They really hit it off then, and after! She was smitten. Mary chuckled at this thought bubble word, smitten. Jason is just so unique and can be so caring and loving. He just can seem a little, what, not dangerous, but… intense… harboring some old resentment, like that old saying, “has a chip on his shoulder.” A girl…?
A hand slips around and cups her breast, making her start. She tries to turn but is wedged in. “Bonsoir,” a smooth voice says. “Combien?”
She hands the man the drink. “With that atrocious accent, it has to be you, Victor.”
Jason lean in to kiss her, instead whispers in her ear. “If anything happens regarding dinner, you act shocked and only say that I, meaning moi, paid the check. I’ll claim I was sure you paid.”
“You didn’t…of course you didn’t. What kept you then? I worried that you’re angry with me. We can talk about it all.”
“Darling! All right, a little. But, let’s not ruin the evening with… serious talk… after all this drinking. Let’s save that for tomorrow. What kept me? I made a few maneuvers to make sure no one followed. In and out of a couple of places. I also left a nice cash tip to throw the waiter off. And as a kind of bribe to not personally concern himself.”
“Ok. That place did deserve it. Yes. So, here’s to…” Mary thinks “us,” but considering the implication, gayly says, “Paris.” They toast. As she tips her glass she notices the dangling bills once more. “How in the world did they get those all up there?”
“Garcon,” Jason calls.
Mary winces and the bartender says, “Not really, but hello there.” He gazes steadily at Jason.
“He lives in San Francisco as well,” Mary offers, “but is from Midwest of nowhere.”
“Well, well, a farm boy in the big cities.”
“You’re close. Anyway, sorry, I meant Monsieur barkeep. A thumbtack please.” He indicates up with his head. The bartender returns with a shiny metal one.
“Watch carefully, my darling Mimi.” Jason pulls out a dollar bill, displays it back and forth to her like a magician, sticks the thumbtack through the top arrowhead in the eagle’s claw bundle, folds it carefully into a tight triangle. With a “Heads up” to the intrigued patrons he tosses the bill straight up at arm’s length to a relatively bare spot on the ceiling. It miraculously sticks, unfurls, and a coin tumbles down, which Jason catches. Impressed patrons “ooh” and cheer.
“Well, you are full of surprises.” She keeps looking up. “How?”
“A misspent youth. I palmed a quarter on the tack as I folded. The weight is enough to do the trick.”
“Impressive.”
“I can do a better one with a dollar bill and two beer bottles. Or a slick one with a cue and 8-ball. I could win us some bar bets, to prove I can support you in the style which I’m accustomed.”
“Ha ha. Great, I’m hangin’ with a carney. Some other time.” She takes Jason’s camera to snap a shot of his bill on the ceiling and him in front of a Bar San Francisco sign.
“Hey,” Jason says. “I passed an interesting Cabaret down the way. There’s a Piaf impersonator.”
“A drag queen? No thanks.”
“No, a female, I guess I mean a Piaf coverer, singerer…” The evening’s drinking is doing its work.
“Terrific, let’s go.”
“I hope it’s not too late. It’s past eleven already.”
“Let’s go now then. The rest of the night we are Mimi and Victor, all right””
“Oui.” They down their drinks as Victor asks, “How much we owe you?”
“On the house. You both are so very entertaining.” He winks at Victor.
“Thanks” and “Merci,” they alternately say. Mimi leaves a few francs and they leave.
***
TONIGHT: Martine Caron as Piaf with Roger Dangereux, the Chez ma Cousine colorful poster announces. Pleased-appearing people are exiting, chatting and laughing.
“Oh, no, we missed it,” Mimi says.
“There’s a small line waiting on the side. Maybe there’s a second show.” The pair merge with those folks as Jason waves and warmly greets strangers with hellos. Mimi starts chatting in French to a friendly face. Soon the group is waved in by a tall, large man and the group disperses to greet the remaining inside. The old club is a smallish cabaret restaurant with a small stage, classic wooden Parisian décor—round café tables, curve-back chairs and mis-matched artwork.
That tall, dark and handsome man, dressed in a fine black suit greets the couple. “Bonsoir, my lovelies,” he says in a sonorous voice. She introduces them as Mimi and Victor. Mimi engages him, speaking French of course, meaning Victor has no idea what he’s saying. And so it goes for most of the evening.
Victor distracted, looking about at the remaining stylish folks, inquires, “What’s happening?”
“He says the show is over but they are continuing with an afterparty for cast and friends. I told him we didn’t really know many people and he said we’re such an adorable couple we are welcome to stick around.”
Victor jokes, “He is, how you say, ze boun-cer?”
“No, silly, he is the Roger Dangereux.”
“Honored, sir,” Victor shakes Roger’s large hand.
“Perceptive you say that, Victor,” Roger says in English, “My start in show business was, as you say, ze boun-cer.”
The three laugh. Roger soon calls over a petite pretty lady, to introduce her as Martine, the Piaf performer. In her black dress, Martine does look remarkably like Piaf. Roger gives introductions, and a chatter of bird-like French cascades. Mimi gushes that she is a huge fan of Piaf’s and that she is so sad she missed the entertainment. Martine\Piaf motions to someone and robust wine glasses are offered to the new guests.
“Sit down at this table,” Martine says, “and I shall remedy this folly.”
The pair sit at the indicated table. Without preamble, Martine sings a cappella with a crystalline soprano, Piaf’s signature song, “La Vie en rose.”
“Des yeux qui font baisser les miens…”
Others gather around as Mimi is moved to tears. At the “lalalala, lalalala” finish, “Piaf” embraces Martine. Victor takes their photo.
“Piaf’s life was wonderful, but sad. Like the song,” Mimi says.
“Oui, the drink, the pain killers. Her lover, the boxer, his airplane crash death all too much for her.”
“So tragic,” Mimi concurred. “And even after she passes, her last husband is tué in a terrib-ble car-crash.”
Victor, embarrassed that he cannot understand anything that is being said, can only nod his head and smile. So, he does this frequently as if he is enjoying himself, which he mostly is. Hey, free drinks.
Roger Dangereux is the jovial life of the party, and calls come for Roger to sing. He performs a few Charles Trenet and Jacques Brel songs with musicians retaking the stage, providing piano and upright bass accompaniment. He autographs a postcard featuring him for Mimi.
The musicians join the group, someone puts on some French pop tunes and the party continues. Later, Martine gives her “au revoirs” and big hugs, and leaves with a girlfriend. Now there are mostly male musicians and guests remaining among few ladies. Standing admirers soon surround Mimi, this sleek bouncy blonde American, who has lived in France and speaks the language. Initially, Victor is impressed with her. Then proud of her. Soon he is proud of himself, seeing his, HIS, gorgeous girlfriend is so appealing to everyone.
The other shoe drops when he notes that Mimi’s tiny red top is in first place for the men’s attention, with her mini-skirted legs in second place. She is having a great time while Victor cannot really participate. A musician and another talk to him but the action is with the main group. Victor retires to hang back a bit on a barstool, drinking, where he continues to nod, looks thoughtful, smile pleasantly. His thoughts turn darker.
Perhaps she is punishing him for his mood this evening. Tonight, he did think of abandoning Mary. Go back to the hotel, grab his stuff and leave. Why would she not tell him? He made himself cool down before he met back up her. He couldn’t do it. He is too much in love with her. Pain-in-the-ass hot women. Gotta’ keep an eye on them. He didn’t with Ariel. The one that got away. With his friend.
Mimi begins to relate the adventure of the pigeons at Sacre Coeur, still in French, with exaggerated gesticulation so he will get it. Her audience loves the story, enhanced by her acting it out, sometimes awkwardly in mime. At the part after the bombing, waving arms in the air, she points at Victor, uttering an awkward phrase about him, to cause everyone looks at him and laugh and laugh. He’s bewildered and angered.
“Oh, Mimi means to say shit on head,” Roger says laughing, “but instead says, you are a shit head!”
Mimi, flirting as she may be, senses Victor’s dark cloud and softens to give him a reassuring sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, my poor Victor,” Mimi says.
Victor forces a broader good-natured smile, says, “True,” and shrugs.
A modern French pop song begins, eliciting some excitement and swaying.
“Victor, you don’t mind if I dance with your Mimi?” Roger asks Victor. Victor narrows his eyes at their host before he gestures go ahead with a hand. Roger grasps Mimi and, for such a large man, gracefully glides Mimi around and through the rapt group. Victor knows that Mimi is a wonderful dancer, as they met dancing. Some others join in, even men with men, although Victor is certain they are straight. A lady asks Victor to join her, but he declines, concerned he still smells like a shithead.
Roger wears down, understandably, from his full evening performances. A guest rises to the occasion as new ringleading partier of the group. Michel is a handsome, tightly muscled man in his early twenties, with shirt unbuttoned down to display his bulging pecs. Others seem to defer to him and his self-confidence. He has buzzed sidewalls with an interesting scar adorns his cheek.
“Michel, how did you…” Mimi touches his face.
“Ah. It is a dueling scar. Defending the honor of a beautiful lady, such as yourself.”
Some in the group scoff, knowing the actual circumstance. Mimi blushes. “Perhaps like Victor Noir.”
It is Michel’s turn to redden, recovering to proclaim, “Exactamente!” to everyone’s amusement.
Michel is most engaging. After so many drinks Mimi’s French begins slipping, as does her red tube top. Michel states flatly to Mimi, in his near-fluent English, “Pleeaze. Speak English.”
Mimi is somewhat flustered as she was confident that she is speaking, mostly, well. Victor experiences a flash of anger, thinking the remark is insulting, but is secretly relieved that they will be speaking English.
“You like Piaf, right, Mimi?” Michel asks.” She nods emphatically. “She loved a boxer dearly, passionately. I am a fine boxer as well.” Several murmur oui, it is so. “I am ranked third in division amateur welterweight.”
Amused and now somewhat skeptical, Mimi says, “Well, aren’t you something, Michel?”
He goes through some fast footwork and punching motions. Michel favors his left hook. He looks at Mimi the whole time before glancing for Victor’s reaction.
Victor rolls his head and eyes.
“Voila!” Michel exclaims. Mimi gives a smattering of applause and others join in.
Tiring of the attention Mimi is receiving and where this is going, Victor soon signals to her they should leave. Mimi is the mistress of The Long Goodbye. Time goes by. Victor feels more left out, jealous and tense. Time to reassert himself.
He rises to envelope his girl in an arm and pull her close for a kiss. “Mimi, it is very late. We must meet our friends early for breakfast. We should get back.”
Protests from the group. Victor says, “Goodnight everyone, thanks so much. Can we catch a driver on the street here?”
“Most probably not,” Michel says in English, “Not to worry. I have a car and will happily drive you to your hotel.”
“Momento,” Victor says in the only other language he almost knows. He pulls Mimi aside and gives her a hard look. Before he can speak, she blurts…
“That man was so right,” she says.
“Man? Michel? Meaning?”
“Bonne chance! The bonne chance man! The pigeons pooping on us was such good luck. This entire… elated… uh -elirious evening.”
“Yeah. Yeah. But luck doesn’t last forever. Maybe chance turns into a pumpkin at 3 A.M.” He whispers, “We don’t know him and he has been drinking as much as us.”
“It’s fine, fine. He’s perfectly charming. You heard him. Can’t get a ride here now.”
“Yes, Michel, thanks.” Mimi slurs loudly, “That’s perfect, that’s so perfect.”
“I will bring my car right up, Mimi.”
“Bonne soirée! Ciao, ciao!” Mimi flutters finger kisses to the group, who respond in kind.
“Michel, we’ll walk with you,” Victor says. “The air will be good for us.” He glares at Mimi, who by now he truly resents for her flirting.
Down the now darkened, shuttered, chilly, empty street, Victor holds Mimi steady. There is a dampness to the air.
“Oooh,” Mimi sighs. “It’s going to rain. Paris in the rain has such a unique scent.” This remark causes Michel to scoff.
“Why is that funny,” Victor asks.
“Oui, unique especially here in Montmartre, “den of iniquity” as some Americans say. And I say, scents around our cemeteries.”
Mimi and Victor give each other a quizzical glance. Around the corner where it is even darker, they arrive at Michel’s small, boxy red Renault.
“A Renault Rouge! I’m c-c-cold,” Mimi chatters.
Michel looks her up and down. “Yes, though I admire your goosebumps, I will turn on the heater. Best if all in the front seat.”
Mimi slides to the middle, arranging herself around the stick shift in the floor hump. Michel grins as her skirt slides up, and bare thighs are additionally revealed. Victor squeezes in after. Michel warms up the car and soon growls away. He races down the steep hill of Montmartre, his hand on the shifter straying gently to Mimi’s thighs between shifts.
“Pardon me for the intimate,” he says innocently.
Michel blazes thru the City of Lights nightscape, running through the intersections, even the red lights. All is very thrilling at first. Mimi occasionally squeals.
“We’re not in that big a hurry, bud,” Victor protests.
A light drizzle begins. Michel begins a guided commentary now, indicating, often with a hand out his open window, the misty lights glistening on obelisks, bridges, statues, and other features. Despite the drinks and the excitement the couple are becoming more alarmed.
“Michel, she doesn’t even have a seat belt. We really don’t want to be a candidate for one of your celebrated cemeteries,” Jason says.
“I am native Parisian, well acquainted with not only the streets, but alleys, short-cuts and the timing of the stoplights.” They speed through another red light.
“Don’t red lights mean stop here in Paris like back home?” Jason asks sternly.
“Not after three in the morning,” Michel replies. “Besides, is best time for quick tour.”
“The streets are wet, just stop at the damn red lights,” Jason says.
“No need, I am excellent driver.”
“So might think the other asshole running the intersection the other way.”
“That asshole will stop.”
“That’s what James Dean said right before he fucking died. No one could stop.”
“As a boxer I have, how you say, lightening reflexes.” His left fist punches at the air as he runs another red lighted intersection. “Haugh, haugh, haugh!”
“Please slow down, Michel,” Mary says. “I’m going to get sick. And I… I am pregnant.”
Jason pulls his eyes from the road to look at her. She’s been drinking steadily and unsure if she is just using this as an excuse. He moves his eyes to the glovebox.
“We will just get out here,” Mary says. “Thanks. Right here is fine. Or here. Or here…”
“No. I must take you my apartment. I insist.” Michel runs another red light. “I have some drugs we do and we have ménage à trois, OK?”
“What?” Mary protests.
“This is Paris, if you ever want to try ménage à trois, where better? You know what means, Victor?”
“I know what it fucking means,” Jason says tersely. He covertly opens the glovebox. “No, Michel. Where did you get that insane idea that we would do that?”
“Idea?” Michel chuckles. “Your lady dances with men, flirts with me all night. You say nothing! You appear you would like it, too.”
Michel downshifts roughly, the Renault tires squeal. They fly through another red light.
“I don’t want to die.” Mary’s breathing is now irregular and raspy. “Jason… I don’t want… our baby… to die.”
Jason jerks his head toward her. Then yells, “Michel, I’m serious. Quit fucking around and let us out.” He runs his fingers through the glovebox.
“San Francisco is swinger town, no? And very gay, yes? Oh, I understand. You don’t have to three-way, Victor. Mimi and I do fine while you watch. I am familiar with other men who like to be the cuckoo.”
Mary gasps. Her clutched inhaler slips to the floor. Jason says grimly, “Stop the fucking car. Party’s over.” Feeling through only papers and tickets in the glovebox he shuts it. Any type of weapon that could have been there, he wanted it first.
It’s now raining. Another red lighted intersection and Michel still goes. A white Citroen appears like a ghost, flying from the right on its green light.
“Watch out!” Jason yells.
Michel slams his brakes, skids, veers, the old Citroen swerves.
“Merde! Merde! Merde!” Michel yells.
Mary shrieks. The Renault scrapes the Citroen rear bumper, tail-spinning the heavier car in a 360 to slide, slam into a traffic signal with a metallic crash and sound of broken glass. The threesome bang back and forth against one another in the Renault, Mary still screaming. Michel recovers, downshifts, floors it, keeps going.
He laughs, “Haugh, haugh, haugh! See, what I tell you? Other asshole stops.”
Mary’s right hand snakes under her left triceps grasping and securing Michel’s right elbow against his side, raises her left elbow to twice slam into Michel’s temple. Michel grunts, his head drooping. The boxer is apparently knocked out. Mary’s right hand grinds the shifter from 3rd to 5th gear to chug the engine.
She grabs the wheel to steer the slowing car to angle banging against the high curb, then scrape along. Michel suddenly shakes his head, turns toward Mary, clutches at her. She backfists him in his nose, blood splattering. When pulls out the keys the car dies and stalls at the curb.
Jason kicks open his door and jumps out, offering Mary a hand out. Mary makes sure Michel, through his bleeding face, sees his keys, before she throws them in an underhanded softball pitch, far back up the street, clattering along the gutter. Jason snaps two photos of bloodied Michel in the banged-up car angled on the curb.
“Thanks for the ride, asshole,” Mary yells, with Jason voice fortifying “asshole.” With her arm around Jason, Mary leads them up the boulevard in the rain.
fin
Read another recent J.Macon King story: “Mensa in the Jungle” — humorous short fiction.