whisper,
“Repousser: to repel, to repulse, to push away.”
No. I can’t let the agency ruin this afternoon. I shrug off my negative thoughts. I turn back to Paul. “Tell me more about your music,” I say cheerfully, so as not to betray my hurt pride.
For the next while we talk about his career, from the bawdy music halls where he plays now to the sought-after place at the music academy he hopes to get accepted to. The minutes gallop by. The other patrons come and go; the artist takes down her easel and packs up her box of paints. Eventually we drift out of the gallery and down the marble stairs, through the grand rooms of the first floor and out into the Carré du Louvre. The sun is casting long shadows in the square. The October chill feels fresh after the stuffy air in the museum.
We sit on a bench with the shadow of the massive museum leaning down on us. There are fewer people in the square now that it’s late in the afternoon. A far-off clock tower strikes. Then Paul sighs and says, “I have a rehearsal this evening. I should be going.”
“Yes, I should go too,” I say, with a fizzle of disappointment. I can see the fading light reflected in his eyes as the afternoon disappears around us.
“We’re playing a concert on Saturday evening at le Chat Noir. You must come.”
I break into a smile. “I’d love to,” I say, and then immediately realize I can’t possibly go. Isabelle Dubern’s ball is next Saturday. A lead weight drags down my smile. “But unfortunately, I can’t … I have a previous engagement.” How torturous to be forced to refuse.
He smiles. “Too bad. There will be other concerts, though.”He rises to leave and we shake hands. “Have a pleasant week,” he says. “And don’t let your charge boss you around too much.”
I’d almost forgotten about that. My charge: what a deception. “Good luck with your concert, Paul.” It feels nice to say his name aloud.
“Au revoir.”
He turns away and I watch him stride across the square and through the thinning crowds of museumgoers. The spell is broken, but the magic of our meeting lingers around me like a haze. I walk out of the square and toward the river. I lean on the stone parapet, which is warm from the sun despite the crisp air. Coppery leaves rustle by my feet; the horse chestnuts and poplars have turned as autumn has taken hold of the city. The pleasure boats continue their back and forth up and down the river. Barges unload supplies on the quay. Puffs of smoke from other boats cough into the sky and meld with the white clouds. Right Bank, Left Bank, rich or poor, I decide that the river belongs to everyone.
There are closer bridges, but I walk east toward the Pont Neuf. I prefer the view from there. Paris and its procession of life. It is at such times when the city gives me a soaring feeling and I want to hold on to the perfection of the moment. But as soon as it is labeled, it is gone. Before long, my lonely garret room will bring me back down to earth.
T HE KETTLE WHISTLES ON THE stove in the repoussoir dressing room. Its piping hot squeal is shrill, but it can’t compete with the excited chatter of the repoussoirs discussing their weekend assignments.
Cécile is holding court. “He’s a captain in the Guard, and his dress uniform is simply dashing.” She is in better spirits now that another client has unwittingly provided a new love interest. Her heavy chin shudders with excitement; her bulbous nose wrinkles up when she gives a detailed account of this captain’s medals. “He’s sure to be made major before long. My client says it’s inevitable.”
Marie-Josée shows up late and bustles past the other girls. She grins at me as she takes off her coat and bonnet. “The countess didn’t gobble you up for dinner, I see.” The ripples of excitement in the other girls’ conversations have ebbed, and all eyes turn to me.
“The Countess Dubern?” asks Cécile. I detect a hint of hostility.
“She’s
“Repousser: to repel, to repulse, to push away.”
No. I can’t let the agency ruin this afternoon. I shrug off my negative thoughts. I turn back to Paul. “Tell me more about your music,” I say cheerfully, so as not to betray my hurt pride.
For the next while we talk about his career, from the bawdy music halls where he plays now to the sought-after place at the music academy he hopes to get accepted to. The minutes gallop by. The other patrons come and go; the artist takes down her easel and packs up her box of paints. Eventually we drift out of the gallery and down the marble stairs, through the grand rooms of the first floor and out into the Carré du Louvre. The sun is casting long shadows in the square. The October chill feels fresh after the stuffy air in the museum.
We sit on a bench with the shadow of the massive museum leaning down on us. There are fewer people in the square now that it’s late in the afternoon. A far-off clock tower strikes. Then Paul sighs and says, “I have a rehearsal this evening. I should be going.”
“Yes, I should go too,” I say, with a fizzle of disappointment. I can see the fading light reflected in his eyes as the afternoon disappears around us.
“We’re playing a concert on Saturday evening at le Chat Noir. You must come.”
I break into a smile. “I’d love to,” I say, and then immediately realize I can’t possibly go. Isabelle Dubern’s ball is next Saturday. A lead weight drags down my smile. “But unfortunately, I can’t … I have a previous engagement.” How torturous to be forced to refuse.
He smiles. “Too bad. There will be other concerts, though.”He rises to leave and we shake hands. “Have a pleasant week,” he says. “And don’t let your charge boss you around too much.”
I’d almost forgotten about that. My charge: what a deception. “Good luck with your concert, Paul.” It feels nice to say his name aloud.
“Au revoir.”
He turns away and I watch him stride across the square and through the thinning crowds of museumgoers. The spell is broken, but the magic of our meeting lingers around me like a haze. I walk out of the square and toward the river. I lean on the stone parapet, which is warm from the sun despite the crisp air. Coppery leaves rustle by my feet; the horse chestnuts and poplars have turned as autumn has taken hold of the city. The pleasure boats continue their back and forth up and down the river. Barges unload supplies on the quay. Puffs of smoke from other boats cough into the sky and meld with the white clouds. Right Bank, Left Bank, rich or poor, I decide that the river belongs to everyone.
There are closer bridges, but I walk east toward the Pont Neuf. I prefer the view from there. Paris and its procession of life. It is at such times when the city gives me a soaring feeling and I want to hold on to the perfection of the moment. But as soon as it is labeled, it is gone. Before long, my lonely garret room will bring me back down to earth.
T HE KETTLE WHISTLES ON THE stove in the repoussoir dressing room. Its piping hot squeal is shrill, but it can’t compete with the excited chatter of the repoussoirs discussing their weekend assignments.
Cécile is holding court. “He’s a captain in the Guard, and his dress uniform is simply dashing.” She is in better spirits now that another client has unwittingly provided a new love interest. Her heavy chin shudders with excitement; her bulbous nose wrinkles up when she gives a detailed account of this captain’s medals. “He’s sure to be made major before long. My client says it’s inevitable.”
Marie-Josée shows up late and bustles past the other girls. She grins at me as she takes off her coat and bonnet. “The countess didn’t gobble you up for dinner, I see.” The ripples of excitement in the other girls’ conversations have ebbed, and all eyes turn to me.
“The Countess Dubern?” asks Cécile. I detect a hint of hostility.
“She’s
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