Beyond Homer. Benjamin W. Farley

a postal clerk, in the Marais district. Gaston works for the city, delivering messages on a bicycle. Imagine, on a bicycle! At least city hall provides him with that. But we’re not thieves!” he said, raising his voice, while still keeping it to a whisper.

      “Well, if it isn’t Gaston!” I nodded toward Pierre, as his roommate entered.

      Gaston moved quickly and silently toward the table and hurriedly sat down. He scraped his chair, as he pulled it forward, causing some of the elderly guests to look our way.

      “Merde!” moaned Gaston. “I’ve botched it!”

      “No you haven’t,” I consoled him. “Just what happened, anyway?”

      “Pierre, here, hadn’t left for work yet, and I was on the bus, headed toward town. As soon as I got there, the police were waiting for me. It was terrible! Humiliating! Everyone was staring at me, as if I were some kind of criminal. Do I look like a criminal? Non. I am the victim!”

      “Well, I see they at least let you go! Non!”

      “Yes, but not until they grilled me with a score of questions: ‘Have you ever been arrested before?’ ‘Why are you living at Dufavre’s, when your work brings you here?’ ‘Are you hiding something under your coat?’ ‘Yes, a gun! You buffoon!’”

      “You didn’t say that?” Pierre grinned. “Formidable! ‘Oui, j’ai un pistolet!’”

      “Of course not, you buffoon!”

      “Hear, hear!” replied Pierre. “Who pays half the rent?”

      “Listen, mes bons amis! Have a little wine.” I twisted off the cork and poured each of them a small glass, before filling my own.

      “Salut! A votre santé!” Pierre clinked his glass against mine.

      Gaston hunched forward, with his elbows on the table, a bit dispirited, and waited for Mme. Cueillier to bring out the potage. “I hope it’s not that left over cabbage,” he wheezed, with a slight cough.

      After dinner, I walked up the stairs and down the hall to Christine’s room. She had left the dining hall earlier, with something of a childish pout in her face. What had I done or said? Maybe she was bipolar! You would have to be to study French at the Institut. “You must always end your requests with, ‘S’i’l vous plait!’ How many times must I tell you that?” “OK! I’ve got you!” I wanted to answer. But that was the Institute of 1958, when I first studied in Paris.

      I knocked on her door. She immediately opened it.

      “Whatever were you and those dunces talking about? I thought you’d never stop.”

      “Well, I have. Are we still on?” I smiled, as I stepped forward to kiss her lips.

      “Oh, God!” she exclaimed. “Take me to that bistro, or bar, whatever it is!” She leaned her head back for me to embrace her and kiss her again. Her hot lips all but burned my own. “Ummm!’” she groaned. “Let’s go.”

      We left the pension and headed toward the Boulevard du Montparnasse. On a little side street, near a quaint flower market that had just closed, we came upon Le Café D’Orion. “This is the place,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to try it.”

      A slender woman of Gypsy descent escorted us to a quiet table, set for two. Her long braided pigtails hung black about her breasts. She wore a red scarf and a pleated, full-length yellow dress, with a wide black sash. A deep cleavage peeked out between her breasts. “For dinner?” she asked, with a lusty smile.

      “Just drinks,” I replied. “Do you serve cocktails?”

      “Certainly, Monsieur, what will you have?”

      “Christine, what would you like?”

      “The strongest drink you serve?” she winked at the woman.

      “Ahhh! I’ll make it myself,” she laughed. “It’s an old Hungarian secret. You’ll need a taxi to get home. What about Monsieur?”

      “A dry martini, with lots of Vermouth and olives.”

      “I’ll bring you some poppy-seed bread, a little cheese for the Mademoiselle, Oui?”

      “Yes, that’ll be fine.”

      The woman brushed her braids across the back of her neck and suddenly clapped her hands. Two musicians, with violins, came out from somewhere and began playing a Brahms folk dance. It was quick and lively, sad and melodic, all at the same time. It was the first in a medley of other Brahms folk tunes they played. I took Christine by the hand and kissed her right ear. One of the violinists came over to the table and began playing a soulful, Bohemian piece, just for Christine. He laid into the strings with his long bow and swept the hairs gently across the wires with artistic grace. I knew that would mean a huge tip, but I was hoping that Christine would soothe that empty pang I carried and still the restless flames that wavered within. I handed him a hundred franc bill, which he tucked miraculously in his coat pocket without missing a single sweep of his bow.

      “What is that story you were going to tell me? Remember?”

      “Oh, that! It hardly matters now.” She rested her head on my shoulder and reached for my hand. “Will you love me tonight, like last time? I feel very, very needy.”

      “You know I will. I was afraid you’d never come back.”

      “I had to slip off to England. I had to know if Tobby still loved me. I went to his mother’s home in Wales. “‘He ain’t livin’ here no more, ma’am’ she said. ‘But you’ll find ’im at this address,’ she handed me a postcard of a pub. ‘He rooms in an upstairs loft, with his drunken sweetie. Ahh, the humanity of it! The shame! I raised ’im better than that, you know!’

      “I found the pub pictured on the postcard near a rail station. Bloody fools were drunk all over the place. But not Tobby. He was sitting at an oak table, drinking ale with a rather remarkably pretty woman. She was dressed in a dark green skirt and white blouse and had shimmering red hair. On her wedding finger, she sported the largest gaudy diamond I have ever seen. Tobby looked shocked when he saw me. He knew I suspected where that ring had come from. He rose awkwardly and addressed his fiancée with a shameful smirk. ‘Dearest Elaine, there’s an old friend I want you to meet.’ Need I say more?”

      “I’m sorry for your sake.”

      Just then, our Gypsy hostess returned. “For you, Monsieur, and for you, Mademoiselle,” she smiled pleasantly, as she set our drinks in front of us.

      “Let’s drink the past away,” I proposed, as I picked up my martini.