The Pont Neuf
Capucine aggressively dropped a brown sugar cube in to her coffee cup and looked at David but not into his eyes. “So last night I went out with a guy from okcupid-”
David interrupted her, looking directly into her eyes, “Where did you go?”
“What? That place we like, across from the fountain in St. Michel.”
“Le Depart?”
“Yeah, whatever, it doesn’t matter. So anyway, he was tall, attractive, with a strong face but filled with a sort of melancholy tenderness, actually, he kinda reminded me of you.”
“Really?”
“Sort of. I mean he was handsome and intelligent, we talked about books and he was witty… I liked him. I felt almost like I could love him.”
“No!”
“Why not. It’s possible to feel that way on a first date. A lot of people do.”
“No they don’t… just you.”
“Anyway, so we’re having a third glass of wine, getting along swimmingly and then-”
David laughed at the word ‘swimmingly’.
Capucine continued, now looking into is eyes, “And then he tells me that he’s in an open relationship- you know- they see other people-”
“I know what an open relationship means.”
“Well, I told him that I didn’t have the strength of will to get involved in a situation like that, got up and said good-bye.”
Now he laughed louder then sneered, “I find that ironic, my dear.”
She was silent.
“Red or white?”
“What?”
“The wine you drank last night.”
“White.”
“Poor guy.”
“Why?”
“He had to pay for six glasses of Sancerre.” He laughed once more.
“It’s not funny.”
David waved the menu he had just lifted off the table in the air, “Fish in the sea… are you ready to order?”
“I’m not hungry. You’re not hearing me.”
“I am, it’s not a crisis. You’ll find someone else within a week. You always do.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe just salad.”
The waiter came to the table but as David was ordering her salad she told the waiter that she didn’t want anything.
“Why are you so shaken up by a date from okc?”
“I’m exhausted.”
“I do love you.” He sighed.
She sighed too. Capucine and David had had a great, overwhelming, 18th century novelesque romance six years ago. They broke up painfully and didn’t speak for a year and then, after crossing each other’s path on Le Pont Neuf one cloudy, soft, breezy afternoon, went to Le Depart for a bottle of wine and swore undying friendship to each other and love. She would have slept with him that night but he made it adamantly clear that they could never be ‘that way’ again because, he said, “it would cause him too much pain.” Yet they both knew that what he really meant was that he was still (after 12 months!) deeply pissed at her for cheating on him and from the moment of that event engraved upon the death stone in his mind that Capucine Hortense Bellerose was an absolute slut. But David Mathieu Cousineau would not, could never, stop loving her.
He lived on the left bank. She lived on the right. He had stayed in the apartment they found together and inhabited for two years in utter bliss eight years ago. She didn’t know how did it, surrounded by all those beautiful memories that, because she had failed, were suddenly torn to shreds and scattered from floorboard to floorboard… well, she imagined, he must sweep the place a lot. Yet she did visit him on the Rue Guénégaud often and somehow they were able to be comfortable and respect their friendship amidst the invisible shards and ruins. The deal was that he would keep the apartment and she took the cat, named Jean-Christophe after Romain Rolland’s classic novel, which she did, right across Le Pont Neuf to the Rue des Bourdonnais where she rented a tiny studio, just big enough for her bed and her piano, and planted white geraniums in clay pots on her extremely tiny balcony in tears.
The waiter brought David’s lunch of bread and mussels in lemon garlic sauce. He began to eat. “So, how’s Jean-Christophe?”
“He’s mastered Chopin’s Prelude No. 4 in E minor and I’m going to teach him the Scherzo No. 2 in B flat minor Opus 31 next.”
David smiled while chewing. “These are delicious, c’mon, have a bite.”
She shook her head but took a piece of bread and dipped it in the sauce. “Mmm. It is good. What did you make last night?”
“Coq au vin. I should have invited you over! It came out perfect. How about Saturday? I’m thinking Sole Meunière and maybe some onion soup.”
“Ok, sure, if I don’t have a date.”
As a hobby, David learned to become a gourmet cook. He was actually quite talented and could have probably become a famous chef but he was much more passionate about his barely profitable art gallery in St. Germain des Pres. Capucine attended every opening show but found his taste in contemporary art abominable. Of course she never dared tell him her opinions, yet at the last exhibit- black skeletal like sculpture, when he proudly asked her what she thought, she answered, “You should have been a chef.”
He handed her another piece of bread for dipping purposes, “Right… the dating thing.”
“You should try it.”
He shook his head. She knew he didn’t need to put a profile on line, plenty of beautiful, sophisticated women visited his gallery every day and she often witnessed his sexy little admirer’s at openings. For all she knew, he was screwing a different babe each night. He kept his love life, or lack there of, to himself and she knew that if someone true were to enter his world, he would surly tell her about it.
When Capucine emailed him on Saturday afternoon saying, kindly apologetically, that she did, just that minute, accept a date for that night with a guy that ‘looked promising’ on line, David was almost frightened to feel his heart plunge into a painful abyss. Why? He had half expected such an email all week and yet gone out that morning to various shops all over Paris to spend money he didn’t have on ingredients of the finest quality for the evening meal. He didn’t understand this sudden, deep emotional surge. It was just Capucine, he’d see her again in a few days. He became angry with himself, threw the groceries in the refrigerator and walked to Nocturne Bleu, his art gallery, where he tried to labor away the gulf of uneasiness that was childishly swallowing his soul. At eight o’clock he closed the doors and aimlessly strolled down the Rue St. Germain, turned down the Rue Mabillon and then onto the Rue Guisarde where he asked for a table for one at Chez Fernard but as they were booked full until midnight, he walked a few doors over and waited at the bar of the restaurant La Boussole for only half an hour before he was given a small table by the window, where he sat comfortably alone with a book (Immortality by Milan Kundera), sipped a glass of Bordeaux blanc and savored a glorious dinner of scallops casserole, coarsely chopped tomatoes flavored with Tandori spices and roasted camembert cheese with apple and tonka beans, while watching a light rain begin to wet the streets outside. He took his time walking home, enjoying the glaze of water on dimly lit windows and the slick, slippery essence of the nighttime streets. It was the end of spring. His anxiety over Capucine had faded during his meal and now he was able to feel like his sensible self again. His thoughts brightened at the news of summer, for tourists would flock to Paris and business would get better.
Meanwhile, Capucine’s date did not go well. The sexy vibe she’d originally derived from the man’s photos on the dating site was killed the minute they sat across from each other at a common Brasserie she’d chosen, just at the end of her street. He was ill mannered, a blatant chauvinist and his voice- she hated his voice, high pitched and creepy like a slimy lizard creature. She feigned an excuse about her ‘sick’ cat, thanked him for the tea, which didn’t touch, and ran out of the café without looking back. She called herself an idiot, told herself she would never find the right man, that she would never love again and worse, that she, (approaching 40!) would never be loved! Her life was over. She would die alone with Jean-Christophe. At least he loved her! Did he? He must, yes, cat’s can love…? David! She pictured him sitting alone in his kitchen before a lovely plate of Sole Meunière and wept, walking down the Rue Bourdonnais in the drizzling rain that, at that moment of despair, decided to quiet her city. She kept going and past her studio without stopping up for an umbrella. She crossed Le Pont Neuf and scuttled onto the Rue Guenegard. He didn’t answer the bell. She walked up and down the street and tried again. No light in the fourth floor windows. She was wet but didn’t want to go into a café; she didn’t want people to see her because she would never have a boyfriend and they would notice that and feel pity and shame. And she couldn’t go home, not in this state… for Jean-Christophe might see the same! She tucked herself into the doorway and waited. She lit a cigarette and cried and disappeared into the glaze of water on the dimly lit windows across the way and the slick, slippery essence of the nighttime street.
“What’s up?” David opened the door with his key. She followed him inside. They climbed the winding stairs.
She sat on his (their) sofa. He got her a towel. She dried her face and hair. He watched her and felt sorry for her, thinking that she was somewhat ridiculous at the same time.
“Do you want a drink?” He asked.
“Can I take a shower?” She was shivering.
“Um… yeah, sure, go for it.”
While she was in the bathroom, he poured himself a glass of scotch and put it to his lips but immediately set it down and without thinking, took off his clothes, opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hot shower behind her. She didn’t turn around. He put his hands between her legs and fingered her. He got hard in a minute and bent her forward. She braced her self with her hands pressed to the tiles. He entered her and fucked her madly for six minutes until he came. He moaned beautifully when he came. She wanted to compose a song to equal the beauty of that moan. Then she realized that she had come as well, that she had cried out as well and that the beauty of the song belonged to both of them. Before she could turn around, because she wanted to, she wanted to kiss him; he left the shower stall and the bathroom, put on a pair of clean, dry jeans and was sitting in a chair, sipping his scotch when she came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.
He couldn’t look at her. He put his hand to his forehead. She went into his bedroom, let the towel drop and got into his (their) bed. She was asleep by the time he joined her and slept all night next to her, wearing his jeans.
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