37
We danced at the Club Marvelous on our last night in Paris. It was an old-style nightclub that Raef had recommended. It could have come directly out of a vintage 1930s Busby Berkeley movie, with cigarette girls roaming—selling chocolates instead of cigarettes—and some men sporting tails. It felt like a masquerade party, with everyone dressed to play at her or his favorite movie period, except that it truly existed in modern-day Paris. A ten-piece orchestra played dance music, and the arrangements were heavy on muted horns and whispery snare drums. We were colossally underdressed, but it didn’t matter. Jack was so powerfully handsome that it sometimes surprised me to turn to him and discover him at my side. He was a Vermont boy, sweet and gentle, his shoulders square, his demeanor open and welcoming. When he danced with me, he held me securely, his right hand flat on my lower back, his left hand holding my hand. He smelled like Old Spice.
I wore a wrinkled travel dress that I had tried to steam out in the shower. It hadn’t worked. But we made a good-looking couple. We did. I could catch it in the glances we received, in the smiles we captured as we walked back and forth to our tiny table by the left-hand side of the orchestra riser.
“We’re only drinking martinis,” Jack said after we had danced to a tune I faintly recognized. He held my chair for me and tucked me into the table. “And two exactly. More than two, and we will regret it. Less than two, and we will also regret it.”
“When did you become such an expert on martinis?”
“It’s a family curse. We are good at martinis and pepper jack cheese.”
“Vodka martinis?”
“No, no, not proper, I’m afraid. You need gin. It’s a dangerous business to drink a gin martini, because gin turns people into savages. Everyone knows that. A vodka martini has no danger. Gin is the way to go.”
“Olives or onions?”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t ask that,” he said as the waiter appeared.
Jack ordered two martins with olives. Then he reached across and held my hand.
“Last night in Paris,” he said.
“For now.”
“Yes, for now. We’ll always have Paris. Shouldn’t one of us say that?”
“You just did. You should pay a penalty of some sort.”
“Tomorrow we leave for New York.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think your parents will try to poison me?”
“They might.”
“Do you think they will let us sleep in the same bed?”
I looked at him.
“Hard to say,” I said. “But it should be interesting.”
“Do you still have stuffed animals on your bed?”
“Two. Hopsy and Potato-Joe.”
“I’d like to meet them.”
“I’m sure you will.”
The music picked up and played something with more speed. Sitting at an angle, I could sometimes watch the horn players’ spit spray when they hit a hard note. I had never noticed that before.
The waiter came back with our martinis.
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” I asked as he served them. “Stunning and lethal.”
“Sip them. Don’t drink them too quickly. Now what should we toast to?”
“I hate toasting.”
“You do?” he asked. “I would have thought you were a fan.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’re a sentimental mush.”
“You should talk.”
“What do you do, then, if you don’t toast?”
“We tell each other’s fortunes. You first.”
He looked at me. He picked up his martini and waited until I had mine in my hand.
“You will meet a tall, dark stranger,” he said.
“No, a real prediction. That’s the rule.”
He smiled.
“You will be a great, smashing success in New York. You will visit Paris often over the years. And you will own goats at least twice in your life.”
We sipped. It tasted like glass if glass melted and surged onto your tongue.
“Now your turn,” he said.
“You will also be a great, smashing success in New York, and you will travel to Vermont whenever you have free weekends. And a puppy you dream about will turn into a footstool that will comfort you in your old age.”
We sipped again.
“Lean forward,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to look down a woman’s dress as I sipped a martini.”
“You never have?”
“Not once.”
“Why do boys look down girls’ dresses?”
“Why wouldn’t they? Because it’s fun.”
“Do you actually want to see nipples, or is that not the object?”
I felt the martini in just a few sips.
“Not really the object.”
“What is the object, then?”
“To see lingerie, I think. And to peek when you’re not sure she knows it, but she kind of knows it, but she would never admit that she knows it. She has to kind of want to be seen, but not really, but definitely wants to.”
“Makes perfect sense. The she in that construction meaning just any woman?”
“The décolletage-er. She has to be in on it for it to be alluring.”
“I’m learning a great deal tonight,” I said.
“Lean forward a little more.”
“Should I look away? How does that work?”
“You’re letting me look, but not letting me look. That’s the trick.”
“I think I kind of knew that.”
I sat straighter and raised my glass. He mirrored me.
“You will have pinkeye twice in your life,” I said, “and a hamster you own will escape and die underneath your refrigerator.”
“That’s horrible,” he said and sipped. “And you will develop a love of root beer in later life and take to wearing kilts and matching berets.”
“I like that look.”
“Sip,” he said, and I did.
“Should we dance again?” he asked.
“Yes, we should.”
“Do you recognize this song?”
“No, do you?”
“No. That’s good. I don’t want us to have some sappy song we always associate with our last night in Paris.”
“Good point.”
He came around and held my chair while I stood.
“I saw down your dress,” he said. “It was very satisfactory.”
“I’m happy for you.”
Then we moved onto the dance floor.
*
It was late, very late, and we were still on the dance floor. I had my head on his shoulder. I felt tired and melted into him. We did not want to go to bed. It was the trick for trans-Atlantic flights. Stay up all night and then drip onto the plane.
“We’ve been to Paris now,” Jack said. “Some couples, they wait their entire lives and they never get to Paris.”
“We’ve been to Paris.”
“We’ve had martinis in Paris.”
“Two precisely. You were right about that.”
“Martinis are a science-based drink.”
“Is it always bad form to have a vodka martini?”
He nodded.
“You could have one in Sheboygan, maybe.”
“Where is Sheboygan? I like saying Sheboygan.”
“Is it in New York State? No, I think it’s in Wisconsin.”
“Sheboygan. She-boy-gan. It’s an Indian word, I bet.”
The music stopped. We didn’t break apart right away.
“We can’t be the absurd couple that keeps dancing even when the music stops,” Jack said. “It would make me rethink our entire relationship.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
He kissed my neck. Then he kissed the top of my head. Then he stopped moving, and we slowly split apart.