Honey bees fill the air with their hum. He rocks rhythmically to and fro. I have come to celebrate his eighty-third birthday. His tanned gnarled hands grip the rocker’s arms, his faded bib-overalls are too large for him, and the crown of his sweat-darkened Stetson is stained deep red from so many years of handling. The air is cool, and he wears a dark, green, flannel-lined denim jacket.
“I’m glad you seen the light,” he says. “We Clarkes was never meant to be religious. I told your Aunt Sally, you was making a huge mistake. Maybe we’re spiritual when it comes to the land, but never religious. At least, you’ve gotten out. What triggered it?”
“The whole experience, Uncle Harry. The wasted afternoons of pastoral calls, when nobody was at home, or wanted you around. Plus the dogma. I had to make my peace with it.
I’d rather be a pagan, suckled in a creed outworn,
or hear ole Triton blow his wreathed horn,
to quote the bard,
than Sunday after Sunday preach a Jesus
I couldn’t believe in any more.”
“I figured you’d come around in time.” He began rocking thoughtfully. “When I was young and still in the Navy, I messed around with a lot of whores. Maybe they wasn’t whores, and maybe not that many, but enough. I stayed drunk most of the time. One night, when I was half-sober, half-lit, I slipped into bed with this young girl. She had the most beautiful long hair I had ever seen. She had dyed it blonde, and it fell full length around her shoulders, and about her breasts. She was slender, almost frail, and wanted to please me, since I’d paid her upfront. ‘Let’s do it doggie,’ she said. She got on her knees and I got up against her back and placed my hands on her hips. Right there, under my palms, was two tattoos, linked by rose stems across her lumbars. On the right was the tattoo of an angel, with wings swooped back and bare feet as tan as the girl’s body. On the left, under my other hand, was a cross, with the bowed head of the Christ hanging down. For months after that, I couldn’t screw anymore. Then I met Sally and fell in love. After we married, I stopped drinking, went to church for a while, but felt more comfortable here, just rocking and day-dreaming and sometimes talking to myself. But I’ve never forgotten that girl, or her tattoos. And I finally figured out what they mean. I’ve tried to live by them and offer it to you.” He stopped rocking and looked at me. “There’s not a human life that ain’t salvageable, if it wants to be. That’s what they mean. Remember that, and you’ll treat people right. It’ll be the only religion you need.”
8
That evening, during dinner, Christine smiled as she passed my table. She walked composedly to her own and sat with her back partially against the wall. That way we could glance at each other if we chose. A poster print of Le Sacré-Coeur hung on the wall behind her. Its majestic dome towered upward, filling the blue sky with its pale lemon crown. I must visit it again, I thought.
Just then, Pierre—the shorter of the two, whose table all but touched mine—came in and sat down with a peeved expression on his face. “A police inspector was here today and Madame Dufavre let him into my room. My room! And Gaston’s! The very idea! That we were the thieves.”
“You’ve heard about the excitement, then?”
“Ah, Oui! Gaston is so embarrassed that he’s delayed coming down. But I told him the earlier the better.”
“Agreed. Why have they singled out you two?”
“Who’s to say! It’s probably because we’re just petits fonctionnaires, government workers at the lowest pay scale.”
“What do you do, if I may ask?”
“I’m a postal clerk, in the Marais district. Gaston works for the city, delivering messages on a bicycle. Imagine, on a bicycle! At least city hall provides him with that. But we’re not thieves!” he said, raising his voice, while still keeping it to a whisper.
“Well, if it isn’t Gaston!” I nodded toward Pierre, as his roommate entered.
Gaston moved quickly and silently toward the table and hurriedly sat down. He scraped his chair, as he pulled it forward, causing some of the elderly guests to look our way.
“Merde!” moaned Gaston. “I’ve botched it!”
“No you haven’t,” I consoled him. “Just what happened, anyway?”
“Pierre, here, hadn’t left for work yet, and I was on the bus, headed toward town. As soon as I got there, the police were waiting for me. It was terrible! Humiliating! Everyone was staring at me, as if I were some kind of criminal. Do I look like a criminal? Non. I am the victim!”
“Well, I see they at least let you go! Non!”
“Yes, but not until they grilled me with a score of questions: ‘Have you ever been arrested before?’ ‘Why are you living at Dufavre’s, when your work brings you here?’ ‘Are you hiding something under your coat?’ ‘Yes, a gun! You buffoon!’”
“You didn’t say that?” Pierre grinned. “Formidable! ‘Oui, j’ai un pistolet!’”
“Of course not, you buffoon!”
“Hear, hear!” replied Pierre. “Who pays half the rent?”
“Listen, mes bons amis! Have a little wine.” I twisted off the cork and poured each of them a small glass, before filling my own.
“Salut! A votre santé!” Pierre clinked his glass against mine.
Gaston hunched forward, with his elbows on the table, a bit dispirited, and waited for Mme. Cueillier to bring out the potage. “I hope it’s not that left over cabbage,” he wheezed, with a slight cough.
After dinner, I walked up the stairs and down the hall to Christine’s room. She had left the dining hall earlier, with something of a childish pout in her face. What had I done or said? Maybe she was bipolar! You would have to be to study French at the Institut. “You must always end your requests with, ‘S’i’l vous plait!’ How many times must I tell you that?” “OK! I’ve got you!” I wanted to answer. But that was the Institute of 1958, when I first studied in Paris.
I knocked on her door. She immediately opened it.
“Whatever were you and those dunces talking about? I thought you’d never stop.”
“Well, I have. Are we still on?” I smiled, as I stepped forward to kiss her lips.
“Oh, God!” she exclaimed. “Take me to that bistro, or bar, whatever it is!” She leaned her head back for me to embrace her and kiss her again. Her hot lips all but burned my own. “Ummm!’” she groaned. “Let’s go.”
We left the pension and headed toward the Boulevard du Montparnasse. On a little side street, near a quaint flower market that had just closed, we came upon Le Café D’Orion. “This is the place,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to try it.”
A slender woman of Gypsy descent escorted us to a quiet table, set for two. Her long braided pigtails hung black about her breasts. She wore a red scarf and a pleated, full-length yellow dress, with a wide black sash. A deep cleavage peeked out between her breasts. “For dinner?” she asked, with a lusty smile.
