Vanity Fair UK - 12.2019

room, still reminds me of that conversa-

tion. ‘So it’s worse than I thought,’ she

said. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Because against a

woman I still stand a chance, but against

who you are, there’s nothing I can do. I

cannot change you.’ Thus ended almost

20 years of marriage. My son was bound

to find out soon enough, and he did.”

“How?”

“I told him. I was under the illusion

that he’d understand. He didn’t.”

“I’m sorry” was all I could say.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t

regret the turn in my life. But I do regret

losing him. He never calls when he is in

Paris, seldom even writes, and doesn’t

pick up when I call.”

He looked at his watch. Was it time to

go already?

“So it’s not a mistake that I tracked

you down?” he asked for the third time,

perhaps because he loved hearing me say

that it absolutely wasn’t, which I enjoyed

telling him.

“Not a mistake.”

“And you weren’t upset with me about

the other evening?” he asked.

I knew exactly what he was referring to.

“Maybe I was—a bit.”

He smiled. I could tell he was eager to

leave the café, so I moved closer to him,

my shoulder touching his. Which is when

he put his arm around me and drew me

to him, almost urging me to rest my head

on his shoulder. I didn’t know whether

this was meant to reassure me or simply

humor a young man who had opened up

and spoken some touching words to an

older man. Perhaps it was the prelude to a

goodbye hug. So, fearing the unavoidable

leave-taking, I blurted out “I’m not doing

anything tonight.”

“Yes, I know. You told me.”

But he must have sensed that I was

nervous or that his tone was off.

“You are an amazing and—” He didn’t

finish his sentence.

He was about to pay but I stopped his

hand. Then as I held it I stared at it.

“What are you doing?” he asked al-

most reproachfully.

“Paying.”

“No, you were staring at my hand.”

“I wasn’t,” I protested. But I had stared

at his hand.

“It’s called age,” he said. Then a mo-

ment later. “Haven’t changed your mind,

have you?” He bit his lower lip but then

right away released it. He was waiting for

my answer.

And then because there was nothing

I could think of saying to him but still

felt the need to say something, anything,

“Let’s not say goodbye, not just yet.”

But I realized that this could easily be

viewed as a request to extend our time

together by a short while in the café, so

I decided to opt for something bolder.

“Don’t let me go home tonight, Michel,”

I said. I know I blushed saying this, and

was already scrambling for ways to apol-

ogize and take back my words when he

came to my rescue.

“I was struggling to ask the very same

thing but, once again, you beat me to it.

The truth is,” he went on, “I don’t do this

frequently. Actually, I haven’t done this in

a very, very long time.”

“This?” I said, with a slight jeer in my

voice.

“This.”

We left shortly after. We must have

walked with my bike a good 20 or 30 min-

utes to his home. He offered to take a taxi.

I said no, that I preferred to walk; besides,

the bike was not the easiest thing to fold,

and taxi drivers always complained. “I

love your bike. I love that you have such a

bike.” Then, catching himself, “I’m speak-

ing nonsense, aren’t I?” We were walking

side by side with hardly a foot distance be-

tween us and our hands kept grazing. Then

I reached for his and held it for a few mo-

ments. This would break the ice, I thought.

But he kept quiet. A few more paces on

the cobble street, and I let go of his hand.

“I do love this,” I said.

“This?” he teased. “Meaning the

Brassai effect?” he asked.

“No, me and you. It’s what we should

have done two nights ago.”

He looked down at the sidewalk, smil-

ing. Was I perhaps rushing things? I liked

how our walk tonight was a repeat of the

other evening. The crowd and the singing

on the bridge, the glinting slate cobbles,

the bike with its strapped bag I would even-

tually lock to a pole, and his passing com-

ment about wishing to buy one just like it.

What never ceased to amaze me and

cast a halo around our evening was that

ever since we’d met, we’d been thinking

along the same lines, and when we feared

we weren’t or felt we were wrong-footing

each other, it was simply because we had

learned not to trust that anyone could pos-

sibly think and behave the way we did,

which is why I was so diffident with him

and mistrusted every impulse in me and

couldn’t be happier when

I saw how easily we’d shed

some of our screens. How

wonderful to have finally

said exactly what was on

my mind ever since last

Sunday: Don’t let me go home tonight.

How wonderful that he’d seen through

my blushing on Sunday night and made

me want to admit I’d blushed, only then

to concede that he himself had blushed

as well. Could two people who’d basi-

cally spent less than four hours together

still have so few secrets from each other?

I wondered what was the guilty secret I

held in my vault of craven falsehoods.

“I lied about the occasionals,” I said.

“I figured as much,” he replied, al-

most discounting the struggle behind

my avowal.

When we finally stepped into one of

those tight, small Parisian elevators with

no space between us, “Now will you hold

me?” I asked. He shut the slim elevator

doors and pressed the button to his floor.

I heard the loud clank of the engine and

the strain as the elevator began its as-

cent, when suddenly he didn’t just hold

me but cupped my face in both his hands

and kissed me deep on the mouth. I shut

my eyes and kissed him back. I’d been

waiting for this for such a long time. All I

remember hearing was the sound of the

very old elevator grinding and stagger-

ing its way up to his floor as I kept hop-

ing the sound would never end and the

elevator never stop.

A FINE

ROMANCE

“Let’s not say

goodbye,

not just yet.”

“I was aware

of his lips,

his forehead, and

his eyes.

He’s the handsome

one, I thought.

I should have said

so, and the moment

was ripe for it.

But I kept quiet.

”

108 VANITY FAIR DECEMBER 2019