A Rainy Night in Paris Ch. 01

Preface It had been raining all day. It was a grey, steady, depressing rain that seemed to wash all the colours from the city, reminding you just how much of the city was built of stone, solid gray and unyielding. Paris had survived the rule of Louis XIV, had watched her citizens rebel in the French Revolution. She had been witness to the German tanks on the Champs Elysées, the very same streets that Napoleon had marched on. But today she was shrouded in rain, bearing witness to beginnings and endings. The Seine, seen from the Pont Neuf was black and heavy as if oil rather than water were flowing through its course. Tonight, everything seemed depressed, or maybe that was just their mood. Paris, the City of Lights. Gay Paris. People fell in love in Paris. Tonight there was very little happiness, despite the romantic setting. It was their last night together; she was flying out in the morning. He had to be in London by lunchtime which meant he had to be on the morning TGV. They had promised no regrets, only fun, but as the reality of the end loomed closer, the weather only helped accentuate their inevitable feelings.

The cafes and bistros, normally boisterous cauldrons of frenetic energy, tonight were deflated and almost tranquil. They were finishing their wine, the dinner long since cleared but the small dessert plates still in front of them. The cafe was only steps from his Paris apartment but neither of them seemed in any hurry to leave, content to sit and sip their wine, forestalling the inevitable separation. The remaining patrons were all local and the patois rolled over and around them and like the background music it was one more memory to cherish and remember as the minutes ticked by. He poured the last few drops of merlot from the carafe into their glasses.

"Une autre carafe, chérie?" He asked quietly, the empty carafe in his hand by way of enquiry.

"Non, merci," she said, shaking her head, almost sadly thinking how much her limited French had improved over the past week almost entirely through exposure to him and his friends.

They had met in a café like this almost a week ago. The meeting had been much less harmonious....

Chapter 1

"Sapristi! Tabarnac!" he spat as the hot coffee splashed over his front and hands, the mug that had contained it was sent tumbling to the floor along with the plate and croissant that was supposed to have been his breakfast. A couple of the patrons in the cafe looked up at his outburst but quickly returned to reading their papers leaving him to look at the woman who had blundered into him.

"Stupid French dolt," she spat, her American accent jarring to ears used to British enunciations and French. "Can't carry a muffin and coffee without fucking it up." She started flicking at the stain that was rapidly soaking into her cotton t-shirt, the result of the collision now reflected there.

"Madam," he said, adopting his cultured British speech, "I am neither French, nor a dolt, and if you had not been walking backwards, while yakking into your cell phone and instead actually looking where you were going, you would not be wearing my coffee, nor the raspberry preserves that I was going to put on my croissant. Besides, they do not serve muffins here." He was impressed that he had managed to keep a straight face and his temper as he said that. He watched her go through several emotions. There was rage, certainly, almost an entitlement he had grown used to witnessing among Americans abroad especially in France, then embarrassment. "Perhaps I can offer you a napkin?" he suggested, handing her the paper napkin, all that remained of his breakfast. "Or would you prefer to put that in a washing machine before the stain sets?"

That was enough to set her off again. "Listen you...pig," she said, bitterly, "I was perfectly aware of where I was and what I was doing before you slammed into me and ruined my shirt. Do you have any idea how much this cost?" She was indignant, infuriated and if she admitted it to herself, embarrassed.

"I would say it cost 20 Euros at Benetton, but you can get them for as little as 5 Euros a pair at a little shop I know around the corner. And they come in a variety of colours too if you would prefer something other than white. Or you could go the other direction to my apartment where I have a washing machine and I won't even charge you a buck. That is, unless you have figured out where you are and think you have any chance of making your meeting on time, which, by the way you won't make because you are in the wrong part of the city."

"How do you know I am late?" she asked startled. "Are you following me?"

"Most of the cafe knows you are late, or at least those that speak English as that is what you were yelling about before you backed into me, just after you said 'how the hell should I know, all the signs are in French.' Which I hazard to point out is a common occurrence in a country that speaks French." He was smiling at her now, the absurdity of the situation almost too much to bear anymore. "So, since you will be late anyway, why not reschedule the meeting, get yourself cleaned up and then let me point you in the right direction?"

While she considered his offer, he took a moment to look at her. She was medium height and willowy, almost boyishly slim but with enough curves to highlight the fact she was a woman. The now coffee-stained white t-shirt was tucked into a pair of well fitting jeans and her feet were sporting a pair of those plastic abominations that he knew were all the rage in the States. He had several friends swear up and down that they were comfortable but besides being ugly to look at, he just could not imagine wearing that much plastic and not having his feet swimming in sweat. Of course, he was wearing a pair of custom leather boots, more appropriate for the middle ages so his opinion on footwear mattered little and he did not expect she would appreciate his comments on her shoes anymore than she seemed to appreciate him pointing out her tardiness. His own jeans had seen better days but they were comfortable and it was early enough in the day that comfort was more important than fashion, even in Paris. He had pulled on a black t-shirt which, while not his normal colour worked well with what was left of his summer tan and short blonde hair. Her hair was a mop of brown curls but what really got your attention, after you got over her sharp tongue, was her eyes. They were brown, but they seemed to be light when first seen and get deeper the more you looked at them, as if she was drawing you in to her with each glance. He was smitten; there was no question about it, even though she was wearing his breakfast which somehow only seemed to make her more attractive to him.

"How far away am I?" she asked, her voice shaking as if trying to find a way out of the inevitable.

They had stepped out of the doorway and were now standing next to an empty table, which he suggested they sit down at and flagged down a waiter to get them two coffees while he pulled out his little pocket map of the city.

"Hey, even I get turned around here," he said by way of explanation to her unasked question as he flipped through the pages. "OK, we are here in the Latin Quarter, just off Rue de Cluny," he said, drawing his fingers along the street on which they were eating. "If you go south a couple of more blocks, you will run into La Sorbonne. You," he flipped the pages to the index, "said you were trying to find Rue de Cerisoles...which...is on," he flipped to the index, found the map reference and page and showed her the location, in micro-scale, which was just south of the Arc de Triomphe off of the Champs Elysées. "You could be further away, but not much," he said with a bit of a grin. She was not amused, but sighed in defeat as the coffee arrived.

"How far away is it?" she asked, reaching for the sugar.

"Where you were supposed to be? Oh three or four miles, about twenty minutes by cab and maybe ten by Metro, but at this time of day, it could take an hour by cab what with morning traffic and all and it would take me that long to explain the Metro system to you enough that you actually made it there with all the right transfers, but that is only part of your problem," he said, indicating the stain on her shirt which had now spread to darken large sections, her bra underneath becoming quite visible.

She sighed again and reached for her cell phone, punching in a couple of numbers. He ignored her while she conversed with someone and tried to reschedule for the afternoon. She seemed thoroughly dejected when she hung up.

"First time in Paris?" he asked, trying to lighten her mood.

"Yes, and I am completely unprepared. I am trying to make a good impression on my new boss and it just is not going well." She seemed on the verge of tears as she told him that she was a junior fashion buyer for a company he had never heard of but it, in turn, supplied stores he knew when she mentioned them, how she and her boss, a lady named Rachel, had flown in yesterday and how Rachel was going on to Nice to look at fashions while she was supposed to deal with the Parisian purchases. She had gotten lost badly yesterday just looking around the city, did not have a good meal and was so hopelessly lost now that she was not even sure where her hotel was anymore.

"Garçon? Deux croissant s'il tu plait, avec du beurre," he said to the waiter going by the table as he reached across and took her hand. "My name is Alex," he said simply.

"Samantha," she said in response, taking a small sip of her coffee as the waiter brought their croissants.

"Here, eat. You will need something in your stomach. Real French coffee is not the same stuff they serve at Starbucks and it has a mean kick if you are not used to it." He was gently rubbing her hand, unconsciously trying to sooth her anxiety, and she was not pulling away from him, which he took as a good sign. "The offer is still valid. We can get you cleaned up, or I can give you some good directions to get you back to your hotel and you can carry on from there. After you finish your breakfast of course," he added, smiling gently at her.

She looked at him. He was unshaven, but attractive nonetheless, his beard was a non-descript colour, blonde hair cut short and grey eyes that seemed to reflect the light rather than absorb it. He was not outstandingly handsome but his face was kind and she found herself relaxing slightly despite her anxiety and concerns. She followed his lead, pulling her hand away and buttered her croissant and they sat in companionable silence for a few moments while they ate.

"All right, I accept," she said finally, gathering up her things. "But no funny business, I have mace," she said sternly, looking at him hard and trying to decide if she really might need to use it.

Alex tried hard not to laugh, but it did not work so he picked up his knife to redirect his attention. "Trust a New Yorker to bring mace to Paris," he said.

"I am not a New Yorker. OK, so I live there, well in New Jersey, but I work in The City. I am from Des Moines originally though."

"Des Moines? You really are out of your element aren't you? How long have you been in New York?"

"About three months, I guess. I was a buyer for a chain in Des Moines and spent enough time going back and forth to New York that when this job opened I jumped at the chance to do it. Now I feel like I have really gotten in over my head."

"You don't speak any French, do you?" Alex asked before popping the end of his croissant into his mouth.

"Not a word," she admitted washing down the last of her croissant with the last of her coffee. "And it wasn't like I had a lot of time to learn it before I was told I was coming here, either."

"Well, we can fix that. Let's start with the basics. Le cafe," he said, lifting his mug of coffee. "That is a complicated one, because it is the beverage, and also the building we are in, not to be confused with a bistro, which serves more regular fair than pastries, les patisserie. Le croissant, avec du beurre, your croissant and butter, sur la table, on the table. You try."

She did and it took a conscious effort for him not to flinch as he listened to her. Her accent was terrible. Midwestern twang and New York drawl and she stumbled but showed promise. Alex tried not to laugh at her attempts and promised her plenty of opportunities to practice if she was willing to try and learn. He forced himself to think back all those years. He had learned French at an early age, but the Parisian accent had taken longer to master than the idioms of the language had despite the help of good teachers. He would strive to help Samantha as much as he could. At this point he would be happy if she learned enough to be able to order dinner and catch a cab.

They were soon done with their breakfast and Alex directed the way out to the street, turning left and leading Samantha down along an alleyway that was a short cut to his building.