was hesitant at first when he invited her into the bar for a drink
but changed her mind and handed him her coat to carry. She was wearing
what in Houston would have been a short evening gown with thin straps
and cut so you could see the tops of her knockers. The dress was
kind of violet, matching her eyes, and he knew that was one of the
things that reminded him of Esperanza, she had eyes that color.
in a little ahead of him and Pierre stopped in the middle of what
he was playing and started a tune Ritter had never heard. And when
Ritter walked in behind her Pierre looked surprised and started
Deep in the Heart of Texas.
was that?" Ritter asked.
donít know it? "Dip in the Ďart of Texas.í"
"I mean the one before."
"La Seine," she said.
"It must be your song. Pierre knows you."
"Of course. I come here often."
"I never saw you here before last night," Ritter said. She looked
at him thoughtfully, appeared to decide something, and said defiantly,
"During the Occupation."
"So?" "You wish to cut off my hair?"
"It looks too good where it is."
It was piled on top of her head and she looked like a movie star.
"Hey," he went on. "Itís none of my business."
surprised he didnít care if sheíd gone out with Germans. Hell, he
was a foreigner here, too. And maybe it meant she was really eager,
not pretending just to get him all hot and bothered like Lieutenant
Asshole last night. Anyway, heíd already guessed she hadnít stayed
home nights during the Occupation because she could dance like a
surprised that it didnít bother him.
"Were they good dancers?"
"Not very. Not like you. Who says he has not danced with a girl
in three years."
drinks, citronade for her, a beer for Ritter and a cognac for Pierre.
Pierre said, "I never saw her before."
Sylvie said something to him in French.
"So you know," he said to Ritter. "But she was always very proper."
He played all of La Seine for them and Sylvie said it was
time to go. Ritter looked back at Pierre when they went out and
Pierre gave him the okay sign, the tip of his forefinger pressed
against his thumb.
insisted on hiring the cab because she was so much better at it
than an American and she was right. They sat in opposite corners
in the back seat though Ritter knew he could be a perfect gentleman
even if they sat closer even if she did smell like a flower garden.
She told him to let her deal with the driver because Americans could
not cope with Paris taxi drivers. Ritter thought heíd become pretty
good at and tried to show off when they got out at the restaurant
and held out two hundred francs when the driver asked for two fifty.
Sylvie snatched the money from his hand and gave the driver one
fifty and what seemed to Ritter a vivid description of his family
was up a long flight of stairs above a store front. Looking up at
it from the street it did not seem like so much to Ritter even though
there were white drapes on the upstairs windows. Sylvie made him
wait downstairs in the shadows while she went off with a waiter
in a tux. After only a few minutes he came back down and herded
Ritter quickly through a room full of empty tables covered with
spotless white linen cloths and gleaming place settings with napkins
folded like lilies and an array of knives, forks and spoons that
Ritter thought pretentious. Each table had a candle on it, as yet
unlit, and a slim vase with a single rose in it. Then he was in
a private back room which was not quite as magnificent and not really
private. Three tables. Sylvie was sitting at one with her coat thrown
over a chair and her knockers proclaiming themselves to the world
or the small part of it represented by a party of four at a third
group. Two young people feeding each other morsels, giving each
other sips from their wine glasses, exchanging butterfly kisses.
A middle-aged woman, her eyes red from weeping, her chin resting
in the palm of her hand, her elbow propped on the table. A short,
round middle-aged man, looking as if heíd been inflated to the limits
of his silk short-sleeved shirt and gabardine riding britches, worn
with cordovan riding boots. Blue suspenders and a belt, too, studded
with colored stones. He was eating and drinking noisily with great
gusto, reaching over now and again to feed the weeping woman a forkful
of something or tilt his wine glass to her lips. He noticed Ritter
looking at him and raised his glass in a toast.
where they put the people they donít want anybody to see, Ritter
thought. Except people like Sylvie, who lit up the room. If she
werenít with an offlimits American she would have been at a front
table in the main dining room. He wondered if German soldiers had
to dine in the back room.
ordered for both of them, conferring seriously with a tuxedoed waiter
and a another man with a chain dangling from his neck. The main
with the chain brought a bottle of white wine in a cooler and poured
a sip for Ritter to taste. Ritter deferred to Sylvie, who smelled
the cork and nodded approval. She did the same with a bottle of
red wine reclining on their table in a narrow basket.
there was what looked like his momís chopped liver, with little
toast points. Pate de fois gras, Sylvie said. Then onion soup with
bread topped with melted cheese floating in it. Ritter knew what
that was. French onion soup. And fish in some kind of creamy white
sauce, and meat that Sylvie said was veal in a brown sauce, and
string beans, French beans they called them in Houston, and crusty
French bread and a salad--in Houston you ate salad during, not after,
a meal. And runny cheese he hated the smell and taste of. Sylvie
ate more than he did, crooning and nodding to herself and sipping
had had one other meal like this, less sumptuous, in a mountain
resort outside of Beirut the time he and Cohan took a three-day
pass. It was okay, too, but he preferred New Orleans French to Paris
French. And liked to know what he was eating. Heíd really have preferred
a T-bone and big baked potato with chives, butter and sour cream
at Ye Olde College Inn and hot blueberry muffins served from a warmer
by a little black kid in a uniform.
the fish, he asked Sylvie if Germans had to eat in the back room.
She studied his face to be sure he was asking out of curiosity,
had the best tables, the officers," she said. "I was in this very
restaurant with, how do you call it, a leftenant coronel?"
"Oberst leutnant," Ritter said. He touched his silver bar." "Youíve
come down in the world."
"You are much more Ďand some," she said, not at all coquettishly.
she spoke English so well but couldnít handle "h."
"We also attended the ballet and the opera."
"An intellectual," Ritter said. "What is your favorite opera?"
She said, "I know the Toreador Song from Carmen when I hear
so quick. She knew he was getting even with her for teasing him
the night before.
She laughed. Her knockers shook a little. Fascinating.
"Are you not jealous?" she asked.
"That is not the same thing?"
"Jealous is when you are pissed"he didnít want to say pissed
off in front of her "angry at the other guy for having something
you donít. Envious is when you just wish it was you."
"Interesting," she said.
the veal she listened to the conversation at the next table.
"It is a wedding party. The bride is the daughter of the woman who
cries and the vulgar fat man. I think he trades in the black market."
were having American powdered coffee when the waiter brought the
Twenty five hundred francs. Twenty-five dollars even by the French
each. The best dinner in Houston cost two bucks. And he didnít have
twenty five hundred francs. He looked at his watch. Was there time
to get back to the Crillon and get a loan from Pierre?
black market guy had offered him two thousand for it. Must be worth
twice that. He pushed back his chair.
he said, "Iíll need an interpreter."
for the other table. She gaped. He thought nothing could surprise
to sell him my watch," he said. "I donít have enough to pay our
bill." In Houston it would have mortified him to admit that, especially
to a gorgeous date he was out with for the first time. But now it
didnít bother him at all. After everything that happened to him
the last two years?
was amused. No American girl would have been. Not Esperanza Riordan,
for sure. And everybody would know about it the next day.
"I have three hundred," Sylvie said, digging into her purse. "Is
"It might cover the tip."
"The gratuity is included. But not for the captain."
"The one who conducted you to the table."
"How much does he get?"
"In France it is very serious not to have enough for líaddition,"
"And it is a very serious laddishon," Ritter said.
"Let us by all means visit the black market," she said, getting
up and leading him toward the fat manís table.
help but admire the way her hips undulated in the tight violet dress.
On the way, Ritter put his watch in his pocket. It would be tacky
to sell it off his wrist. The fat guy looked up, puzzled. Sylvie
said something to him in French. All Ritter understood was the French
for "Prisoner of War." The
fat guy jumped up and pumped Ritterís hand.
said, "Donít tell him itís to pay our check. Itís for champagne
to celebrate our engagement."
struggled not to laugh. She and the fat guy talked a while and she
said, "He wants to buy the champagne."
took the watch out of his pocket and said, "Tell him I really appreciate
it but it wouldnít be the same. The future bridegroom must pay.
It is the tradition in Texas."
something to the fat man, who said something back and rose and kissed
Ritter on both cheeks and then everyone else at the table, all drunk,
kissed Ritter and Sylvie on both cheeks and Ritter said, "Seven
guy took out a wad so big he had trouble extracting it from his
pocket and started counting out one thousand franc bills.
Sylvie said, "He says say Ďwhení."
he counted out five thousands, Ritter said, "When."
guy slipped the watch on his new son-in-lawís wrist and the son-in-law
got up and gave Ritter and Sylvie more kisses and lingered so long
on Sylvie his new bride got up and pulled him off her by his hair.
Mother-in-law burst into fresh tears. While the fat guy was plying
her with red wine and pats on the back Ritter and Sylvie went back
to their table and gave the hovering waiter three of the thousand
said, "Tell him three-fifty for the captain and one-fifty for him,
since his gratuity is already included."
Out in the cab, Ritter said, "Can we finish the evening on two thousand
francs and change?"
Sylvie said. "Nicely. You are such an imbecile."
The way he called Cohan, "Sumbitch."
It augured well, Ritter thought.
"What happened to him?" he said.
She knew who he was talking about. "Why are you so curious?" she
"I know what happened to us," he said. "I want to know what happened
"He was taken prisoner," she said. "And you were a prisoner. Ironic?"
"Well," Ritter said, "to the victor belongs the spoils." Which was
exactly the wrong thing to say. She bristled. "I do not Ďbelongí
to anyone," she said angrily.
"Any imbecile can see that," Ritter said, pronouncing it the way
Sylvie had. "Itís the other way around."
her a moment to understand. English was not her first language.
"Remember that," she said. "And perhaps you may borrow me for a
couldnít tell if she meant it or was just stringing him along like
was the liberation like?" he asked.
Was she sorry to see her oberst leutenant go?
she said. "I was visiting my aunt in St. Claude. Then suddenly shooting
and shouting and running. We knew what was going on. We lay on the
floor and listened. As if to music. I crept to the telephone and
called a girlfriend in Paris. The soldiers hadnít reached there
already. I held the telephone so she could hear the fighting. We
were so excited!"
"Werenít you scared?"
"No. Excited. We drank champagne."
"We drank coffee."
She reached over and squeezed his hand.