Woman in the Fifth

‘I’d simply have a lover.’

‘Do you have a lover?’

‘I might … if he plays his cards right.’

I felt myself tighten. I met her smile and put my hand back on top of hers. She immediately pulled hers away.

‘What makes you think I was talking about you?’

‘Pure arrogance.’

‘Nice reply,’ she said, and now put her hand on top of mine.

‘So you definitely don’t have a husband?’

‘Why do you need to know that?’

‘Idle curiosity.’

‘I had a husband.’

‘What happened?’

‘That’s a somewhat involved story.’

‘Children?’

‘I had a daughter.’

‘I see.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You don’t see. No one can ever see that.’

Silence.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like to …’

She put a finger to my lips. I kissed the finger. Several times. But when I started moving down her hand, she gently pushed me away.

‘Not yet,’ she whispered. ‘Not yet.’

‘OK,’ I whispered back.

‘So when did your wife divorce you?’

‘Talk about a mood-breaking question …’

‘You asked if I had a husband, a child. I think that gives me the right to ask you …’

‘She left me a few months ago. The divorce is in the works.’

‘And you have how many children?’

‘How do you know that I have kids?’

‘It’s the way you looked at me when you found out that I had lost my daughter. I knew immediately that you were a father.’

‘You never get over it, do you?’ I asked.

‘Never,’ she whispered.

Then she turned and pulled me toward her. Within an instant, we were all over each other. I had my thigh between her legs, and my hand on one buttock as she unbuttoned my shirt and grabbed my chest. We fell up against the wall. Her free hand was now up against my crotch, my penis so hard it strained against the zip of my pants. But when I moved my hand up her dress, she suddenly disengaged, her hands dropping to one side as she sidestepped away from me.

‘Not here,’ she whispered.

I came close again and gently kissed her on the lips, my hands away from her, even though I so wanted to hold her again.

‘Then where?’ I asked.

‘I live nearby … but not tonight.’

‘Don’t tell me you have another appointment?’

‘Just things to do.’

I glanced at my watch. It was just nine thirty.

‘I wouldn’t have been able to do tonight anyway. I go to work at midnight.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I’m a night watchman.’

‘I see,’ she said, reaching into her purse for another cigarette.

‘It’s just to pay some bills.’

‘Well, I didn’t think you did it for intellectual stimulation. What exactly are you watching over?’

‘A fur warehouse,’ I said, knowing that there was one around the corner from me on the rue du Faubourg Poissioniere.

‘And how did you land such an unusual post?’

‘That’s a long story.’

‘They always are,’ she said, igniting the cigarette with a small, old-fashioned lighter. ‘Where do you live?’

‘The Tenth.’

‘Some bobo loft on the canal Saint-Martin?’

‘If I’m doing a night watchman’s job …’

‘And if you are guarding a furrier’s, then it must be somewhere near the rue des Petites Ecuries.’

‘That’s the rue running parallel to my own.’

‘Rue de Paradis?’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘After forty-five years of non-stop residence in a city, you don’t simply know … you start to haunt it.’

‘Or it haunts you?’

‘Precisely. Do you have a ligne fixe ?’

‘No.’

‘So you live in a chambre de bonne ?’

‘You are a quick study.’

‘If you don’t have a ligne fixe, you are generally hard up. But everyone has a portable these days.’

‘Except me.’

‘And me.’

‘A fellow Luddite?’

‘I simply don’t see the need to be contactable at all times. But if you do want to contact me …’

She reached into her purse, pulled out a card and handed it to me. It read:

Margit Kadar Traductrice 13 rue Linne 75005 Paris 01.43.44.55.21

‘Mornings are bad for me,’ she said. ‘I sleep until the middle of the afternoon. Any time after five p.m. is good. Like you, I start work at midnight.’

‘It’s the best time of the day to write, n’est-ce pas?’

‘You write, I translate. And you know what they say about translation: it’s about rendering morning words into evening words.’

‘I will call,’ I said.

‘I look forward to it.’

I leaned forward, wanting to kiss her again. But she put a hand up between us.

‘A bientot …’ she said.

‘A bientot.’

And she turned and walked back inside.

I stood on the balcony alone for a long time, oblivious to the night air, the gusting wind, still lost in the strange and extraordinary encounter that had just taken place. I tried to remember a previous time in my life when I’d met a woman and was locked in a crazed embrace with her only a few minutes after first saying hello. I knew the answer to that question: this was a first for me. In the past, the sex always arrived a few dates afterward. I was never someone who could ever make a bold move. Too cautious, too circumspect. Until …

No, don’t bring that up again. Not tonight. Not after what just transpired.

Montgomery suddenly walked on to the balcony.