Secrets Of Paris Part 8

One goes completely naked into a small subterranean chamber where there is a pipe of hot water controlled by a woman who directs the flow to whatever part of the body you wish.

-TO F FRANcOISE-MARGUERITE, MAY 1675 MICHAEL SWAM THREE times before he saw Anne Dumas at the Piscine Deligny. On his fourth visit he sat in a folding chair reading times before he saw Anne Dumas at the Piscine Deligny. On his fourth visit he sat in a folding chair reading Le Monde; Le Monde; the sun, startlingly hot for such an early hour, warmed his thighs. His bathing suit was baggy, a red tartan bought by Lydie at the Tog Shop one summer on Nantucket. The other men at the nearly deserted pool wore tight spandex suits in glittery colors: lavender, orange, red. The suits left nothing to the imagination, and Michael wondered whether his c.o.c.k would look so impressive in a suit like that. Michael thought them vulgar, too obvious, like the mating plumage on peac.o.c.ks or the scarlet rumps of great apes. Did women find the style attractive? Only two women were at the pool so far this morning, both wearing scanty bikinis. The narrow strips of fabric were a tease, but alluring, not like the men's suits. the sun, startlingly hot for such an early hour, warmed his thighs. His bathing suit was baggy, a red tartan bought by Lydie at the Tog Shop one summer on Nantucket. The other men at the nearly deserted pool wore tight spandex suits in glittery colors: lavender, orange, red. The suits left nothing to the imagination, and Michael wondered whether his c.o.c.k would look so impressive in a suit like that. Michael thought them vulgar, too obvious, like the mating plumage on peac.o.c.ks or the scarlet rumps of great apes. Did women find the style attractive? Only two women were at the pool so far this morning, both wearing scanty bikinis. The narrow strips of fabric were a tease, but alluring, not like the men's suits.

Michael stared at one of the women. She was tan, a little plump, so pretty. She smiled at him, and he looked away. G.o.d, when had he started ogling sunbathers? His head spun, as if from heatstroke, but Michael knew it was from desire. He felt dirty, as though he were doing something illicit. And wasn't he? He had told Lydie about his plans to swim, much the way a businessman tells his wife the clean details of a business trip: the hotel where he will stay, the meetings he will attend, the presentation he will deliver. Omitting, the way Michael omitted his real reason for coming to the pool, any mention of the female colleague who will be taking the same trip.

Last night, lying beside his sleeping wife, Michael had imagined swimming alongside Anne, reaching for her underwater, kissing her as they sank to the bottom of the pool. He had imagined her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, so round and full under the light summer dresses she wore; in the pool the tips would harden to points. He had imagined his erect p.e.n.i.s magnified underwater, entering her as she lay on the cool tile. All this action was happening at the bottom of the pool, and Michael found it interesting that the fantasy made him feel so guilty that he was drowning himself and Anne in it.

Yet here he was, back at the pool. And there was Anne, real, in the corner of his eye. His heart raced. He squinted, concentrating on an article about the political right in Lyon.

"Hey, there," she said. "You came."

"Hi," Michael said, trying to sound surprised. He shaded his eyes. She wore a yellow caftan over her bathing suit, green espadrilles on her feet. She grinned; she looked so happy to see him that he rose and kissed her cheek.

"Come on, let's swim," she said. The caftan dropped to the floor, revealing a turquoise maillot. Michael thought of his fantasies about bikinis and skintight swim trunks, and he laughed. Anne tilted her head, inquisitive, but Michael just smiled. She dove into the pool.

What had seemed so s.e.xual, so unbearably erotic in his fantasy, turned into merely a vigorous workout. Michael swam in the lane beside Anne. Turning his head to take a breath, he glimpsed her legs kicking. A flash of pale thigh, muscular calf; he pulled ahead. He heard his heartbeat echo in his head, unbelievably, slower than it had been when she had first approached on dry land. He was out of shape. He hadn't the energy or strength to think about what could happen, or to make it happen. Instead, he swam as if his life depended on it. As if his s.h.i.+p had sunk a mile out of the harbor and he was fighting against an ebb tide and an undertow to reach the sh.o.r.e.

He couldn't swim anymore. He stopped, treading water, gasping for air. His eyes stung from chlorine, but he scanned the pool, looking for her. There she was, halfway to the other end, stroking steadily. She touched the pool's rim, then kicked off, coming toward him. Easy. Without looking up, she knew exactly where to stop.

"Had enough?" she asked.

He spoke with deliberate smoothness, to give her the idea he had his breath back. "For now."

"It is good for you to start off slowly," she said. "Swimming is the best exercise there is."

"You were right," Michael said. "This place is practically empty."

"Isn't it nice?" Anne said. "Now, let's get out of the water before you die."

They dried their faces on towels, then lay side by side on chaise longues. Michael was silent, his eyes closed, enjoying her closeness. She was right there, the woman he had fallen in love with. He wished the day stretched ahead without appointments. What time was it? Eight-thirty? Nine? He wished that his Louvre project would lead to another, so that he could stay in Paris forever. He felt her take his hand.

He opened his eyes, turned his head to look at her.

"Hi," she said, watching him. She held his hand lightly, as though she wasn't quite sure she wanted him to notice.

He said nothing, only looked.

"We could go somewhere," she said. She smiled, ducked her head. "Oh, it's embarra.s.sing to ask..."

"No," Michael said. "It's not. I want to."

"Will you come to my house? It is not far..."

Michael wondered whether this was how it felt to be hypnotized. He stood, gathered his towel and newspaper, followed Anne to the bathhouses. If she had told him to bark like a dog, he might have dropped to his knees and howled. She disappeared into one bathhouse, his signal to find his own and get dressed. He moved in slow motion, as though injected with a muscle relaxant. He noticed, with great clarity, the details of his clothes. The waistband of his boxer shorts, his blue boxer shorts, coming apart now, trailing filaments of elastic. His white broadcloth s.h.i.+rt bearing laundry marks from Wong's in New York and the Blanchisserie Clement Marot here in Paris. The madras tie, a gift from Julia.

His trance evaporated the instant he stepped from the dark bathhouse into the bright sunlight. Anne stood there, glowing, the sun on her hair. He went to her, held her face between his hands, kissed her. The kiss was white-hot, fire. Then she touched a cool hand to the back of his neck, making him s.h.i.+ver.

She pulled away. Her smile was gentle, forgiving: it gave him one last chance to get away. He thought of Lydie. He thought her name, "Lydie," and an image of her collarbone, elegant and delicate, came to him. Then Michael, whose romance with Anne had so far taken place in his dreams and imagination, willed his mind to be empty.

"Is it too far to walk?" he asked.

She lived in an apartment on the second floor of an old, impeccably restored building in the Sixth Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt. It overlooked the rue Jacob, a street so narrow it afforded exquisite intimacy with the building just opposite. Anne walked to the window, to draw the curtain, but Michael stopped her. He stepped onto the balcony, looked up and down the street.

"You must know your neighbors well," he said, gazing across the street into the boudoir of one, the living room of another. He was stalling for time, and he knew it.

"I know everything about every one of them," Anne said. "For example, the man who lives there." She pointed at a window to the left. "Every night at eight o'clock he appears on his balcony in white pajamas. He unwraps a cigar, bites the end off it, and spits it into the street. Then he disappears. And the man who lives there..." She pointed at the window exactly opposite. "He is a doctor. On weekdays he lives with his wife, who is fat and blond, but on weekends, when she goes to visit her mother, his mistress, who is fat and blond, moves in."

Michael stared at the doctor's apartment. He kept a red plastic garbage can on the balcony. Also a collection of brooms and mops. Then he noticed the apartment above, which had laundry hanging on a line between two windows. "You'd think the doctor would put a tree or something there instead of cleaning supplies," he said, thinking "mistress."

"That building is a slum," Anne said. "The inhabitants are all well-to-do, but look: laundry hanging out, mops and garbage cans on every balcony." She frowned, perhaps a.s.sessing the impression the building made on Michael. He noticed the tension in her shoulders, her neck. She probably wondered what they were doing, standing in front of her window, talking about her neighbors. He hated to think of them living so close, looking in at her.

He put his arms around her, felt a thrill that reminded him of the first time he had touched a girl. Her smallness excited him, and why? Because it symbolized the difference between men and women? Because it reminded him of the year he shot up six inches, discovered s.e.x, had to bend nearly double when dancing with girls in the gym? He lowered his head, kissed her deeply. Her lips felt soft; she tasted so delicious. Everything slid away except the kiss, their mouths, his and Anne's. He wanted the kiss to go on, not stop; exactly the way that other times, during s.e.x, just before coming, he would wish for the feeling to last, or at least recur on demand.

Anne stepped back. She held his forearms, smiled up at him. "I'm glad we are here," she said.

"Yes," Michael said. He glanced around, realized he was looking for the door to her bedroom.

"Would you like a tour of the house?" Anne said, teasing him.

"Okay." He lifted her into his arms. Laughing, she pressed her cheek against his chest. He kissed her hair, which was damp from the pool and smelled of shampoo and chlorine. "Tell me where to go," he said.

"Let's start in that room," she said, pointing to a closed door.

Michael actually held her with one arm as he turned the k.n.o.b with his other hand; she weighed nothing at all. He felt dizzy, breathless. The room was dark as a cave; heavy curtains blocked the light, and Michael stumbled. Anne clutched his neck; he steadied himself.

"It's an adventure," she said. "We go in there."

"In there?" They stood before what appeared, in the darkness, to be a tent. He brushed the fabric with the back of his hand, found an opening.

"It is my great folly," Anne said, laughing. She tumbled out of his arms. "My bed, can you believe it?"

"Are we playing 'Arabian Nights'?" Michael crawled in after her. It was snug, fantastic. He began to unb.u.t.ton her blouse. She rolled away from him.

"Not 'Arabian Nights,'" she said, "but there is a fantasy, certainly. This is a canopy bed from the seventeenth century." Anne giggled. "Sometimes I think about it: how many people living at that time could have afforded such a thing? Not many, and one of them was Marie de Sevigne. What if this belonged to her? I don't dare tell you what I paid for it; you would think I am crazy. The curtains are not old; I had them made." She sat erect, handling a fold of the silk damask drapery. The stiff fabric rustled between her fingers. She seemed absent, her mind gone back to the court of Louis XIV.

"It's beautiful," Michael said, lying back.

He sensed, rather than saw or felt, Anne. And he felt sad, because he knew that, although he was about to make love with her, the great moment of romance had pa.s.sed. He was wide awake. His own mood had slammed into Anne's. There she was, upright, conjuring characters who had died centuries ago. He still wanted her, even though she was crazy. She unzipped his pants, lowered her mouth to his erection. s.h.i.+vering, Michael closed his eyes. He reached for her shoulders; five minutes ago, this would have been exactly what he wanted.

I hear that there is a constant round of pleasure, but not a moment of genuine enjoyment.

-TO F FRANcOISE-MARGUERITE, JUNE 1680 THE BALL WOULD be magnificent, Lydie decided. She had located a chateau in the Loire Valley, whose owners, a t.i.tled though impoverished elderly couple, rented it to paying guests by the day, weekend, or week. The eighteenth-century chateau stood in a park, surrounded by a moat, at the edge of a forest. It overlooked a swanless lake. be magnificent, Lydie decided. She had located a chateau in the Loire Valley, whose owners, a t.i.tled though impoverished elderly couple, rented it to paying guests by the day, weekend, or week. The eighteenth-century chateau stood in a park, surrounded by a moat, at the edge of a forest. It overlooked a swanless lake.

"It's up to you," she said over the phone to Didier. "It's rather expensive, but I think it's the perfect backdrop for our ball."

"You say they will rent it for the weekend?" Didier asked.

"Yes."

"Then let's take it from Friday night through Sunday and make a country-house weekend of it. Hold the ball on Sat.u.r.day night and shoot the ads then. We justify the expense of the chateau by using friends as guests instead of paid actors."

"That's clever," said Lydie, who had been thinking the same thing. "When do you think we should stage it? After August, when people are back from vacation?"

"Absolutely. After the rentree rentree, at the end of September. Give people something to look forward to." Lydie heard him clucking at his end of the wire. "Especially Patrice," he said. "I suppose she has told you about her mother? Last night I had to give a tranquilizer to the poor girl."

"I know she seems to be under a strain," Lydie said. She had not yet met Mrs. Spofford, and although she knew that some women did not like their mothers, she thought Patrice's bad reaction to her mother's arrival petulant and mean. Patrice had said her mother didn't travel easily. Lydie wondered how Mrs. Spofford must feel, coming to Europe to visit her only daughter and finding her furious. Patrice had said to Lydie, "I'm in a killing rage anytime she's in the room."

"I am mad about your ideas," Didier said. "In marketing meetings I tell my managers, 'Take a look at this this plan, you a.s.sholes.' Listen, we will divide the guest list in two. You invite half, I invite half." plan, you a.s.sholes.' Listen, we will divide the guest list in two. You invite half, I invite half."

"Michael and I don't know that many people in Paris," Lydie said. "We'll ask ten guests, you can have the rest. Will Patrice's mother still be here?"

"G.o.d willing, no," Didier said.

When she hung up the phone, Lydie took notes on ideas for the ball. If the weather was fine, perhaps they could hold it outdoors. She would have to arrange for a sumptuous banquet. She envisioned oysters, spider crabs, a roast capon, something en croute en croute, platters of tartes tartes, Paris-Brest, and pet.i.ts fours. Every guest would be required to come in costume, and she needed a theme. Eighteenth century? Subjects of famous paintings? The court of Louis XIV? She left a question mark after the word "theme." She would have to visit the chateau again, to get a feel for the possibilities.

This project would take the place of Lydie's August vacation, and it was just as well, considering that Michael's work on the Louvre had s.h.i.+fted into high gear. Just as the rest of Paris was winding down, preparing for the great exit when every minister, cabdriver, waiter, executive, and concierge took off for Ile de Re, Saint-Tropez, Arcachon, Biarritz, or Deauville, Lydie and Michael would be digging in. Paris would be a ghost town, like New York on a hot Sunday in July. The blare of horns on Avenue Montaigne would cease; the few restaurants that remained open would be quiet and relaxed. She could stroll through the garden at the Musee Rodin and find an empty bench. They could stand directly in front of Manet's Dejeuner sur l'herbe Dejeuner sur l'herbe for as long as they pleased without being jostled. The idea of it made Lydie feel luxurious, and she put down her pen and stretched. for as long as they pleased without being jostled. The idea of it made Lydie feel luxurious, and she put down her pen and stretched.

She knew that Patrice and Didier planned to spend all August at Saint-Tropez with Mrs. Spofford, and for the first time Lydie wondered about Kelly. Would she go with them? Or would Patrice give her August off? Lately the thought of Kelly had made Lydie frown, and she wasn't sure why.

The telephone rang, and Lydie answered on the third ring. "Come out to lunch with us," Patrice said, an edge of desperation in her voice. "I need you."

They sat beneath a red umbrella in the courtyard of the Hotel Diaz de la Pena. Ivy covered the four walls and cascaded from romantic, asymmetrically positioned iron balconies and stone bal.u.s.trades. Lydie saw red everywhere: the umbrella, the pots of geraniums, the lipstick worn by Patrice and her mother.

"This was always my favorite hotel in Paris," Mrs. Spofford said in a voice that was at once warm and regal. She appeared much too young to be Patrice's mother. Her skin was unlined, powdered white, and her hair was honey-blond. Where Patrice was dark-haired and large, even robust, her mother was fair with a delicacy that bordered on frailty. Lydie could not take her eyes off the woman's wrists, which were thin, elegant, graceful as a ballerina's. The way Mrs. Spofford moved them made Lydie think she too was aware of them. And Patrice as well. How could they support the weight of those bracelets? All three women were captivated by Mrs. Spofford's wrists. It hurt Lydie to look at Patrice, whose anger was a mask blazing with too much eye shadow and lipstick. Like her mother, Patrice wore an armful of gold bracelets. Mother and daughter wore Chanel suits. "Patsy's father thought this hotel flashy, but I adored it."

"She calls me 'Patsy,'" Patrice said. "Didier just loves that."

"Well, dear, your name is 'Patricia.'" A subtle emphasis on the "is."

"Mother, has it ever crossed your mind that 'Patricia' in French is 'Patrice'? When a 'Pierre' moves to Boston he is called 'Peter.' Get it? You have to conform to the culture."

"Whatever," Mrs. Spofford said, turning to Lydie. "Where are you from, dear?"

"New York City, originally. Still, I guess. My husband and I are only here for a year."

"A year in Paris! How marvelous! I spent a year in Paris my junior year abroad. But how much better to have the additional perspective of being an adult. You appreciate more, don't you? I see it in Patsy: she has absolutely melted into France. Her accent is flawless."

"How was your trip, Mrs. Spofford?" Lydie asked.

"Oh, call me Eliza. You make me feel so old. It was fine, thank you for asking. So much easier, now that Air France flies out of Logan. I only wish we had more time in Paris, instead of going straight to the Riviera."

"Imagine," Patrice said. "Having to spend a month at a house built into the cliff overlooking the sea. With a salt.w.a.ter pool. Torture."

"Darling," Eliza said. "Saint-Tropez is lovely. But there is so much I want to do in Paris-I want to see that ghastly pyramid, I want to spend a day at least in the Musee d'Orsay, sitting right in front of those Degas horses. And I want to visit dear Sainte Chapelle, which has been closed the last two times I visited you. Is that unreasonable?"

"How do you know it's ghastly if you haven't even seen it?" Patrice asked, lighting a cigarette. At that moment the waiter brought their first course, salade de langoustines; salade de langoustines; Patrice gave him a dirty look, as if she thought his timing was deliberate, and put out the cigarette. Patrice gave him a dirty look, as if she thought his timing was deliberate, and put out the cigarette.

"Patrice loves the pyramid," Lydie said.

"Didier tells me your husband was chosen out of an enormous field of architects to work on the Louvre," Eliza said. "I think that is stunning. I don't know anyone who's worked on the Louvre."

"Thank you. I'll tell him you said so," Lydie said.

"This is delicious, isn't it, Patsy?" Eliza said.

Patrice said nothing. She prodded a langoustine langoustine with her fork. Lydie felt her stomach tighten as Patrice craned her neck, looking for a waiter. Don't do it, Lydie thought, willing her friend to behave. with her fork. Lydie felt her stomach tighten as Patrice craned her neck, looking for a waiter. Don't do it, Lydie thought, willing her friend to behave.

"This fish is not fresh," Patrice said to the waiter. "Send over the maitre d'."

"Madame, I shall take care of it myself," the waiter said, gathering the plates. Eliza Spofford wore an expression of pure astonishment.

"Put those plates down and send me the maitre d'," Patrice said, her voice rising.

"Right away, madame," the waiter said. He hurried away.

"My dear, they are fine," Eliza said. "Maybe a tinge of iodine, but that's par for the course with crustaceans. Now, don't spoil a nice lunch."

Patrice no longer looked angry, but she looked bold, as if she had a mission. "How can we have a nice lunch if the fish is bad? You know what happens if one eats bad fish? One vomits, and one has to spend the day in bed." To the maitre d', who had been standing by, she said in a cool tone, "We don't come to a restaurant like this to eat rotten langoustines langoustines. Bring us something different."

"What would madame desire?"

"Don't give me that s.h.i.+t," Patrice said. "Look in your larder and bring us whatever is fresh."

Lydie looked away. Although the red umbrella blocked direct sun, it absorbed the heat, and Lydie felt sweat on her brow. The atmosphere was airless.

"I think I'll take this opportunity to powder my nose," Eliza said, pus.h.i.+ng back her chair, striding with dignity into the hotel lobby.

"Those langoustines langoustines were perfectly fine," Lydie said. "I think you're acting like a jerk." were perfectly fine," Lydie said. "I think you're acting like a jerk."

"f.u.c.k you. Didn't you see the expression on her face as she said how delicious it was? Pure distaste. Believe me, she would have suffered through it, and tonight she would have told Didier it tasted like iodine."

"It was delicious. Why did you invite your mother to visit you if you're going to be mean the entire time?"

"Listen, I know you love your mother, and I think you're lucky. But all my love goes to Didier, not my mother. You don't know her. She is perfectly capable of being pleasant at a little luncheon. I know what's happening-you'll leave here thinking I'm cruel, one of those parent abusers they're starting to write about in People People magazine." magazine."

"I don't think that," Lydie said. She was silent, looking across the wide table at Patrice. "I know it's hard for you. She seems really nice, but I believe you if you tell me she's not."

"She's not."