Woman in the Fifth

Brit might still be at the bar. I looked around the room again. The salon’s volume was reaching high pitch now. Everyone seemed to be talking with strange animation. All I could feel was mounting despair — for the artificiality of this set-up, for the shrieking Southern Belle voice of Madame which towered over the amassed hubbub, for the undercurrent of sadness which was so prevalent in every conversation I’d had, and for my own pervasive awkwardness. Here was proof (as if it was needed) that my isolated weeks in Paris had turned me into a real Oblomov — inept when it came to social niceties or even managing to sustain a simple dialogue with someone else. I hated it here — not just because it was a sham, but because it also exposed everything I hated about myself.

Feeling just a little tight, I decided that some air was needed. So I headed out of the kitchen, weaving my way through the throng in the living room, making a beeline for the balcony.

It was a clear, cold night. No stars, but a full moon over Paris. The balcony was long and narrow. I went to the edge of it, put my glass down on the top of the balustrade, and breathed deeply — hoping the winter chill would muffle the buzz in my head. But instead the night air just seemed to deepen my lightheadedness; the sense that there was something faintly illusory about this salon, this balcony, this amazing fuck-off view. I glanced at my watch. It wasn’t yet nine. I wondered if I could catch a screening of something around nine thirty at the Accatone or any of the half-dozen other cinemas located within five minutes from here. But if I did make a film that let out at 11.30 p.m., I’d be cutting it very fine to get to work by midnight. And I didn’t want to risk not getting to work on time, just in case this was the first night when a visitor for Monsieur Monde showed up right after twelve, and word would get back to Mr Beard and the Boss that I had been negligent, and they might decide to let me go, and then I’d be back to square one in this city, and … shit … look at that view of the Pantheon from here …

‘I’m certain you’re thinking, “I merit an apartment like this.”’

The voice caught me by surprise. It was a woman’s voice — low, slightly husky, and emanating from a far corner of the balcony. I looked over. I saw a figure silhouetted in this dark nook, her figure outlined in shadow, the red ember of a cigarette lighting up the darkness.

‘You can’t know what I’m thinking.’

‘True — but I can conjecture,’ she said, continuing on in French. ‘And having seen your discomfort during the salon this evening, it is clear you are not at ease here.’

‘You’ve been observing me all evening?’

‘Do not flatter yourself. I have simply caught sight of you, from time to time, looking forlorn. A little-boy-lost who tries to chat up women without success, and then escapes to the balcony, and stares out at the Pantheon and thinks—’

‘Hey, thanks for the searing psychological profile, but if you’ll excuse me I think I’m out of here.’

I started to leave.

‘Do you always react so badly to a little gentle teasing?’

I turned back toward her, but could still only see the outline of her body and the glow of her cigarette.

‘Bizarrely, I find teasing from a total stranger just a little odd.’

‘I think you find teasing from a woman difficult.’

‘Many thanks for another slap in the face.’

‘You see, my point entirely. I make a few passing comments and you are immediately defensive.’

‘Maybe because I don’t like games like this one.’

‘Who is playing a game here?’

‘You are.’

‘That is news to me — as all I think I am doing is engaging in banter … or flirtation, if you want to give it its proper name.’

‘This is your idea of flirtation?’

‘Well, what’s your idea of flirtation? Trying to have a reasonable discussion with a crazy woman like that Alison monster?’

‘ “Monster” is a slight exaggeration.’

‘Oh please, don’t tell me you’re going to defend her after she emasculated you …’

‘She didn’t exactly do that …’

‘It certainly sounded that way to me. “Coward with a penis” isn’t exactly an ego-enhancing—’

‘How did you know she said that?’

‘I was in the kitchen at the time.’

‘I didn’t see you.’

‘That’s because you were so absorbed with that psychotic that you didn’t notice I was standing nearby.’

‘And listening to everything we said?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it was rude to listen into other people’s conversations?’

‘No, she didn’t.’

‘I was being ironic,’ I said.

‘Were you really?’

‘Sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘For making a dumb comment.’

‘Are you always so self-critical?’

‘I suppose I am.’

‘That’s because … let me guess … you have suffered a terrible calamity, and since then you have doubted everything about yourself ?’

Silence. I gripped the balustrade and bit down hard on my lip and wondered, Why am I so damn transparent?

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I obviously said the wrong thing.’

‘No — you scored a direct hit, a bull’s-eye …’

The ember on the cigarette glowed one final time, then fell groundward. As it did, she moved out of the shadows and toward me. The moonlight brought her into focus. She was a woman who had some years ago traversed that threshold marked middle age, but was still bien conservee. Of medium height with thick chestnut-brown hair that was well cut and just touched her shoulders. She was slender to her waist, with just a hint of heft around her thighs. As the light crossed her face, I could see a long-healed scar across her throat … the remnant of some surgical procedure, no doubt. Twenty years ago, men would have called her striking, rather than beautiful. She was still handsome. Her skin, though smooth, had been gently cleaved by a network of lines around her eyes. But rather than diminish her attractiveness, they seemed to enhance it.

‘You have been drinking,’ she said.

‘My, my, you are tres perspicace.’

‘No, I just know a drunken man when I see one.’

‘You want a written confession?’

‘It is not a crime, you know. In fact, I approve of a man who drinks. Especially one who drinks to soften the past.’

‘Booze doesn’t soften the past. It just blots it out … until the next morning. Nothing softens over time. Nothing.’

‘That’s a very Manichean way of looking at the world.’

‘No — it’s a very Manichean way of looking at oneself.’

‘You don’t like yourself very much, do you?’

‘Who the hell are you?’

She smiled an amused smile — her eyes brimming with mischief. And I suddenly wanted to sleep with her.

‘Who am I? I am a woman standing on a balcony in the Sixth arrondissement, looking out at the Pantheon, while talking to an American who has clearly lost his way in life.’

‘May I kiss the hem of your shmatte, Dr Freud?’

She lit up a fresh cigarette, then said, ‘Shmatte. Yiddish.