Woman in the Fifth

‘He was discreet, he never flaunted the fact to me, he never made me feel in any way less important to him. On the contrary, I think his many lovers kept him with me …’

I shook my head. She said, ‘You are amused by all this.’

‘Absolutely — because I could never imagine an American couple agreeing to this sort of arrangement …’

‘I am certain there are many who do … but, of course, never breathe a word to anyone outside of their marriage …’

‘Maybe — but the prevailing rule in American life is, If you transgress, the punishment will follow.’

‘As you well know,’ she said.

‘How do you know that?’

‘It’s written all over you. You got caught at something. And the other great rule of American life is, Don’t get caught.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘the rule is, There is a price to everything.’

‘What a sad way of looking at the world: thinking that pleasure must be punished.’

‘Only illicit pleasure.’

‘Most pleasures are best when they are illicit, n’est-ce pas?’ she said, tracing a line down my face and kissing me. This time she responded when I kissed her back deeply. But then, a few moments later, she ended the embrace.

‘Like I said …’ she whispered.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘”Not today.”’

‘But three days from now — absolutely. Now you must go.’

‘So soon?’

‘I have things to do.’

‘OK,’ I said.

Ten minutes later I was on the street, walking quickly toward the metro, trying to sort through everything that had happened during the brief hour I had spent in Margit’s apartment. Questions, questions. ‘Not today.’ But why? And also, what things did she have to do that made her turn me out of her apartment after sixty minutes? The story of her ‘arrangement’ with the fat businessman strangely rankled — because it felt as if she was testing me, seeing what I would accept, and also letting me know (without much subtlety) that this ‘thing’ (I couldn’t yet call it an affair, let alone a liaison) would be conducted according to her rules, her limits. And if I didn’t want it …

But the truth was, I did want it. As I descended into the Jussieu station, the letdown intensified. Three days was a long time from now.

While walking to work that night, all I could think was how I now had to spend the next six hours locked up in an airless room, and how I was tiring of the job, and wouldn’t mind taking a sixty-five-euro loss if it meant getting one day off each week.

But when I posited this idea to Mr Beard the next afternoon, his reaction was not positive.

‘I do not think the Boss would like that,’ he said. ‘You are needed there every night.’

‘But when I was first offered the job, Kamal said I could work just six nights.’

‘Kamal is dead … and you are needed there all seven nights.’

‘Couldn’t you get someone else to handle just one night of the week?’

‘It will not be possible.’

‘Would you at least ask the Boss?’

‘I will ask him, but I know what he will say: It will not be possible.’

But the next afternoon, when I stopped by the cafe to pick up my wages envelope, Mr Beard favored me with a scowly smile.

‘I have spoken to the Boss. He is d’accord. “Every man needs a day of rest,” he said. Yours will be Friday, but the Boss also wants you to work one evening shift: six p.m. to midnight, one day a week.’

‘But that means doing a twelve-hour shift …’

‘You will not lose any money that way.’

No, but if Margit will only see me at five p.m. every three days …

‘Could I do six a.m. to twelve noon?’

‘It will not be possible.’

‘Ask him.’

When I returned the next day, Mr Beard tossed me my envelope and said, ‘The Boss wants to know why you can’t do those extra hours.’

‘Because I see a woman in the late afternoon.’

That caught him by surprise — even though he tried hard not to look shocked.

‘I will tell him that,’ he said, looking away from me.

And it was only three hours before I could see her again. With time to kill, I walked over to that little cafe near the Gare de l’Est where I ate steak-frites twice a week. The place was quiet. I sat down. The waiter approached me and took my order. I asked him if he had a newspaper I could read. He returned with Le Parisien. I opened it up and started flicking through its pages. I have to say that I liked the paper because it was full of the usual petty crimes and misdemeanors that inform the life of a city. Today’s criminal reports included: Two teenage thugs caught trashing a car in Clichy-sous-Bois. An insurance executive killed instantly when his car swerved in front of a truck on the autoroute to Versailles (and the post-mortem showed that he was, booze-wise, way over the limit). A feud between two families in Bobigny which got so out of hand that one of the husbands smashed the windshield of his neighbor’s Renault Megane. A desk clerk at a small hotel in the Sixteenth getting knocked down in a hit-and-run accident on the rue Francois Millet.

Hang on …

Hotel Clerk Left Paralysed By

Hit-and-Run Driver

Philippe Brasseur, 43, the morning desk clerk at the Hotel Select, rue Francois Millet, has been left paralysed from the neck down after being struck by a car yesterday afternoon in front of the hotel. Eyewitnesses say that the vehicle — a Mercedes C-Class — had been double-parked near the hotel, and pulled out suddenly as M. Brasseur left the hotel. According to Mme Tring Ta-Sohn, who operates a traiteur asiatique opposite the Select, ‘The driver of the vehicle appeared to deliberately target the man.’ Mme Tring Ta-Sohn also informed the police that the license plate of the Mercedes appeared to have been covered. According to the investigating officer, Inspector M. Guybet, this detail evidently indicated that this was a premeditated act. M. Brasseur remains in a stable condition at the Hopital de Saint-Cloud. The attending neurologist, Dr G. Audret, said it was too early to tell whether the paralysis was permanent.

Good God. As much as I hated that bastard — and privately wanted to see him get some sort of comeuppance for his hideous behavior toward me — I still wouldn’t have wished that fate upon him. The man must have made some serious enemies over the years.

Four hours later I was recounting this tale to Margit. We were in bed, sprawled naked across each other and talking for the first time since I had arrived. When she’d opened her front door, she’d immediately pulled me down on to the bed, yanking down my jeans, hiking up her skirt. Once I was inside her, she became immoderate — her legs tight around me, her moans increasing in volume with each of my thrusts.

Afterward, she said, ‘Take off your clothes and stay awhile.’

I did as ordered while she went into the next room to retrieve two glasses. Then picking up the bottle of champagne I had brought (‘I won’t say, “Again,” … but you really must stop such extravagance’), she opened it, the cigarette ash falling off on to the sheets as the cork popped.

‘More work for the maid,’ I said.

‘I am the maid. Just like you.’

‘You’re beautiful,’ I said, stroking her thigh.

‘You’ve said that before.’

‘It’s the truth.’