Agathe
I know it is both unfair and callous to even to try to sum up a woman’s personality within the scope of an evening but I guess through these anecdotes, this is precisely what I am doing. Can we pretend to be able to draw a psychoanalytic portrait of a person over a couple of glasses of wine? Yes. One can try. It was a summer evening and I had arranged to meet a woman named Agathe at a trendy brasserie in the 16th arrondisement. Agathe was one of the many mysterious faces on the site that initially did not hold any promise. How could she? She was an anonymous pencil drawing that the internet itself had painted. That all changed when one day she sent a message saying that she would send me a picture of herself in my email box. This was usually the precursor to a very delicate and awkward conversation but I told her to go right ahead. Sometimes I think women just like the idea of leaving me in suspense and then crushing me with disappointment and the feeling that the only women left on the planet for me to date are the leftovers. I include myself in this category, therefore avoiding all accusations of misogyny. Agathe, however seemed different. Her photo showed a modest beauty that was not without its serious charms. It showed a thirty something woman posing for the camera in what looked like a quiet, dinner table setting. It provoked certain fantasies I have for never having to leave the home and I became excited about calling this girl up to meet for a coffee. She looked, calm, elegant. I saw stockings under the table lengths and in the photo, she held her hand up to her mouth, as if she was amused by what the cameraman or had to say to her. I imagined myself as that cameraman. As if I had just told a joke that pleased her but that she still wanted to remain modest, for there was an unrestricted warmth to that smile that only comes with intimacy. She had a demure way to her that did beguile me. And she had nice bright teeth. A rarity in the Parisian set with most of their pearly whites being slightly browned by tobacco and irregular cleanings.
The outdoor tables were filled with bourgeois locals trying to appear casual with their popped collars. There were unrepentant Eurostar commuters and new mothers with baby carriages at their side. I suppose all my life I had been working up to the idea of being able to date a member of the French upper class. And perhaps this was my chance. I didn’t exactly come from nothing but I had sure managed to squander my money and reputation by aspiring to be a screenwriter over the years. She sent me a text. It read: “I can’t find my keys. But have found them now and that is why I am late. I will be there in ten minutes.” It felt like a confession. She was telling me everything. What a way to begin our relationship. At least she had found her keys, I thought. Although I liked to imagine that it could have been an equally interesting date if I was recruited to help her find them. I imagined myself on my hands and knees looking behind her sofa, helping her to recall where she had last seen them. I also cursed myself a little for not factoring in the lateness factor. No French woman ever arrives on time for a social rendezvous. I should have known this. One always has to factor this and arrive late oneself, even though one has nothing much preoccupying one’s time beforehand. I sat like a fool and watched the traffic on the boulevard. The waiter came by and asked me what I wanted. I ordered an espresso unwillingly. It came and I was able to drink the whole thing before Agathe had even shown her face. From my table, I had a good vantage point and I could see her make her way to me even across the street. Once again I felt the slight disappointment factor creeping in as I reconciled her photograph with what was now greeting me. She had aged considerably and her expression upon greeting me was far less jolly than in the photo. Although she was still far from unattractive, her cold demeanor as we made the customary kisses on both cheeks was more masculine than I expected. I detected the slightly snooty air of someone who had grown up in her father’s land rover. I hoped that I was not correct in making this presumption. She placed her handbag by her side and recovered her breath a little. I supposed that she was still flustered by the key situation.
“Sorry I am late”, she muttered in French as she positioned herself in her chair.
“I’ve just come from Brittany. I’ve been on the train.”
“You must be tired.”
“Not necessarily.” I thought this a strange way of answering.
“So you are similar to your photo” , she added. “One of the guys on the site put up a picture of Harry Roselmack. Do you know this guy?”
I nodded. Harry Roselmack was one of the only black news presenters in the history of French television. He had broken the color barrier by achieving this position briefly and had become, during the previous summer, a media darling for all French people wanting to pat themselves on the backs for something that should have happened years ago.
“Anyway, I thought the face looked familiar. So I went to meet the person. He was white and very ugly. ”
She placed her handbag on the table like it was going to be the centerpiece of our date. Here in front of me was a woman who was willing to accept that a famous news presenter was on an internet dating site and asking her to meet her and then found it odd that a creep was using the photo as cover for his ugly looks. She was either conceited or stupid. None of these qualities were good options for me.
“Is that why you don’t put your picture on the site?”
“I don’t put my picture up there because I am afraid of creeps”, she told me in French. But you are willing to accept that Harry Roselmack is asking you on a date?
“Maybe I have freaks to worry about too.”
“Maybe. But for ladies, it is different. Women have to be careful. I hope you are not disappointed.”, she stated matter of fact as she finally managed to stow all of her gear and sits down.
“Not at all.”
She seemed to be finding the perfect spot on the seat, like an Olympic judge trying to come up with a score for me. The waiter was quick on the uptake and made his rounds again.
“I’d like white wine please.” She ordered a Chablis and I did the same. The ordering of wine at a restaurant or bistro can easily spin out of control if you let it. It was best to keep it simple, otherwise you might spend half your date listening to the waiter talk about the selection, or worse, for your date to be spending half her time with you on choosing from it.
“It’s summer. I added. It’s a good choice.”
She seemed rather puzzled by this comment. I found it self evident. I thought it was always a good idea to have white in the summer when the air temperature was still warmer than the wine.
“What did you do there?”
“My father has horses. We went horse riding. Well I went horse riding.”
“That seems a pleasant thing to do.”
“It is. I’ve loved it ever since I was a child. My father keeps them for me. Every time I go I can ride them.”
“That is special.”
“It is also my birthday. I didn’t know whether I could make it here after the journey but I did. So that’s another thing and that’s why I’ve already been drinking. I had wine for lunch so I’m just going to keep going with that.”
“Happy Birthday”, I said. This line of conversation would be hard. “Did you have a good birthday?”
“I’ve never been on one of these things with an American before. Of course I see many men in London but the men I’ve seen here have all been in French and the men there have all been English.”
Our conversation had become half confessional, half manipulation. Always a territory I feel comfortable in.
“This is the first time I’m speaking English when I am not required to for work.”
“Is that weird for you?” …Parce que on peut parler en Français si tu veut?”
“Non, non, vraiment. Ça me tente l’idée de parler Anglais ici avec un Anglais. » Great I thought to myself. Yet another Parisian woman wanting free English conversation time. But somehow I figured that this woman did not need lessons. She just told me she goes back and forth to London quite often and her accent was one of the most comfortable and effective I’d heard in a while. She pronounced her h’s with ease and she didn’t draw out the “es” to make it sound more like “eeeeeezzzzzz” like most women struggling to speak English.
“I’m actually half American, and half English”, I interjected. “I know that many French people think it’s the same thing but it’s not.”
“Who thinks it’s the same thing?” She phrased her question in a deliberately cryptic way. As if it was half genuine curiosity and half defense.
“A lot of people. This guy”, I gestured to a man nearby inspecting a loose piece of cement on the sidewalk.
“He looks like he has nothing to do”, Agathe dismissed.
“Do you like people watching?”
“You must like it. I read you are a writer. Writers get off on that stuff”
“It’s true”, I admitted. We do get off on that stuff. The man we were looking at had determined that the piece of cracked concrete would just have to stay as is and continued on his way. He kept both his hands behind his back like a groundskeeper.
“Old people have nothing to do”, Agathe added.
“He probably patrols the neighborhood every day.”
“Probably.”
We watched him turn the corner looking into each crack of pavement like a new affrontery.
Our drinks arrived and Agathe eyed her wine a little like it was an enemy. I had no such qualms and greedily took a sip. This was that moment when conversation took a little bit of a standstill as we both searched our souls for subjects.
“So it says on your profile that you are back and forth to London.”
“That’s right. It’s part of my job.”
“What is your job?”
“I am an assistant to a hedge fund manager. He works in London, so this is the reason I am back and forth.”
“So you are a facilitator." I was quite chuffed that I had already coined a term for what she was.”
“I guess that’s a simple way of putting it.”
“And you are a teacher?”, she countered.
“I guess that’s a simple way of putting it. Another way is that I am the filler in rich kids’ lives when they figure out what they really are meant to do.”
“That sounds dull.”
“And unrewarding, but it pays the bills.”
“There are a lot of things that pay the bills.”
“Not for guys with a liberal arts degree. You probably did something smart with your college years.”
My statement was too self deprecating. It hung in the air for wahile before it was dropped. There was another long pause and I again took the opportunity to empty some more of my Chablis down my throat. She did the same. I found her attractive. I could not hide this. The idea of her being some kind of Daddy’s girl also appealed to me. Deep down I thought that I could be the replacement. I could let her ride horses. I pictured her in beige riding pants waiting for me outside a stable like in some “Emmanuelle” film. It was turning me on. “This was no good,” I thought. Women can detect horny thoughts in guys like a sixth sense. Especially on the first date. We wear a need to get laid like a perfume that says “check please.”
“It’s a shame that you do not like what you do.”
“I wouldn’t say that I do not like what I do. I just wish that the people that I do what I do with were smarter.”
“You mean you wish you teach at a better school.”
“Yes. Well kind of.”
Actually I wish that I was a full time writer so that I could permanently drift into full time voyeur mode, never having to directly engage with society, but, of course, I did not tell her any of this.
“Well you should learn to speak French and perhaps they would hire you at a better school.”
“Like around here?”
“Perhaps.”
“This neighborhood is nice. I always like coming here.”
“Yes, it’s nice. Agathe looked up at the adjacent buildings as if she was admiring her toy doll house. But I am almost never here.”
“You mean you spend a lot of time in London?”
“Yes, and at my father’s place in the north. Here we go walking. Riding bikes. I love mountain biking. It’s a healthy life. People here are not healthy at all. I am there whenever I get the chance.”
I didn’t have anything to respond to this. I did not have the gall to tell her that my favorite thing had become to go out on dates with French women and then blog about them. The more we talked, the more Agathe began to refer to her father. I began to suspect that the conversation was slowly turning away from me. When a woman spoke about her father this much, it either signaled that she was searching for someone who could measure up. And at this point in my life, I doubted that I could compete with a guy who owned his own horses, or that the lady in question wanted to turn what could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship into being just strangers once more. In fact, I was beginning to feel worse than a stranger. Atleast if I was a stranger to Agathe, I would have felt hope, as it stood though, I could detect that I had blown it. Not that I really suspected to make something of this in the first place but I had to admitI was turned on by Agathe’s sporty, bourgoise nature. It was like I wanted to be a member of her club and was not being admitted. Perhaps the good news in all of this is that Agathe had finished her wine. It was her birthday after all and she had chosen to spend it with me. Perhaps she was regretting this decision but I had decided to ignite the flame with her one more time.
I scanned the sidewalk for our waiter. He was perched between two tables and surveying the street like his real job was being a cop on stake out. He did not see me as I waved at him. I could feel Agathe also begin to judge me. I was not the kind of man who could order more wine. Finally I got his attention and he glided over, slithering his body between diners.
“Yes?”
“I’d like another glass of wine.”
“The same thing?”
“Yes, the same.”
“I’ll have a cocktail. What do you recommend?” I looked up at Agathe surprised. I had not expected this.
“How about a Long Island?”
In France people just order a “Long Island” because they do not really understand the concept of “iced tea”. In fairness to them a Long Island Iced Tea really has nothing much to do with tea. I could not help but be impressed. French women never ordered cocktails and here was Agathe fearlessly ordering one in male company. It was perhaps the most dangerous cocktail of all the cocktails people try to make in Paris. Maybe it was because of her birthday and maybe it was because of all that time spent in London where heavy drinking was mandatory but a new layer of respect washed over me for Agathe. The way she had ordered it to, without prior warning, or the slightest hint of apology, was also incredibly sexy. I had misjudged her. This was going not at all according to plan. I thought she was going to order a carafe d’eau talk about horses for another half hour and that was it. This was obviously going a step in another direction.
The waiter nodded his head slightly and then waited half a second more, leaving us space to add another order if we wanted to, but we did not, so he left.
“It’s my birthday.”
“Yes it is”, I clarified.
“J’ai le droit.”
“Il faut pas justifier. »
“ So why are you not happy ?”
“I’m happy. What gave you that impression.”
“Things,” she admiutted vaguely.
“Really?” This next level of honesty was taking me by surprise.
“…And what you were saying about your students. It was sad. “
“Well I’m not really done yet. I clarified. The teaching is just to tie me over until someone discovers that I am a great writer with something to say.”
“And you write in English?”
“Yes unfortunately. I write in English. My French is not good enough to express myself the way I want to express myself in your language. Plus I am not funny in French.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m not funny in French. I never have been. I have tried to be funny in French but it does not come out right and even when it’s coming out right it isn't funny.”
“This is strange.”
“I’ve never laughed at a French comedy for instance.”
“You’ve never seen Pere Noel est un Ordure.”
“Yes I have…. And it’s not funny. It’s the movie all French people quote when they want to prove that their movies are funny but it’s actually not that funny. Atleast to my ears anyway.”
“That’s not fair.” Agathe seemed slightly flustered, as it I had probed a dark and infested place that had never healed.
“Well there it is.”
“So why do you live here?”
It was an honest question. I appreciated it.
“I live here because France do all the other things right. They love Art, Beauty and Intellect. And so do I. So this is why I stay. And the wine is cheap.”
“You like wine?”
“I’m ordering it, aren’t I? You’re the one having the cocktails.”
“I like cocktails.”
“I can see that.”
“I have the right, it is my birthday.”
“I am not judging you.”
The writer snuck in to one side and laid down a glass of chilled wine as if on cue. After the surprise of his sneak attack wore off, he presented Agathe’s “Long Island” in front of her like an award. He then vanished again. We now admired Agathe’s drink. It was served in a heavy industrial glass. It looked like an old school milkshake glass, except that it had been died a light shade of violet. The thing had a cocktail stirrer that had a gummy candy alligator with powdered sugar spiked through it. Among the other ornaments was a tiny toothpick sized umbrella to boot.
“It really is your birthday.”
“Thank you.”
We raised our glasses as if this was the next logical step in the conversation and looked each other in the eye. Gently clinking our glasses, we then took hearty sips. Agathe had to make room for the drink by removing some of the ornaments.
“I always wonder why they put umbrellas in cocktails.” I mentioned, breaking the ice yet again.
“I don’t know. I like it.”
Agathe took the tiny umbrella in hand and laid it a tiny patch of unidentified moisture on the table. She did it as if to convince me that she really did not mean what she said. I was far from figuring this woman out. There was silence. I began to sip my wine more heartily, debating in my head whether it was a good idea to get into her Daddy issues. I decided to head full steam ahead.
“Do you spend a lot of time in Britanny?”, I asked, trying to sound innocent.
“Yes, every chance I get. I just love the outdoors there. The scenery. I also love to take mountain bikes and ride all over the landscape.”
“Do you do this with your father?”
“Yes, often. He comes with me.”
I decided in my heart that this was over. Agathe was a thirty something Daddy’s girl that was looking for someone that mirrored his state of being in her life. I was a failed screenwriter, reaching the ice caps of thirty that still had a chip on his shoulder about trying to prove to everyone that I could write novels and movies just as bad as all the other incredibly successful people out there writing bad novels and movies. We were both killing time and we knew it. She was looking for a guy who could still give her ranches full of horses to ride, boundless real estate and a comfortable reminder of the most important person in her life: her father.
I was not however willing to give up on the possibility that I could become a birthday mistake. I wanted her to use me and then throw me away. At least then, we could both get something out of this whole equation. Plus I still had the memory of entertaining Alesandra for all those dates in which I had become a fixture in her busy agenda and I was filling resentful. At least after all of this; surely there was some sex on the horizon. This was still France, was it not? I felt like a dying star that you only read that has imploded hundreds of years later. The rest of our topics of conversation included me having apartment envy for her situation. It seemed that Agathe owned her own place in Paris and London. Eventually, she got to the base of her cocktail and motioned for her hand bag like it was time to go. I went with the motion, doing her one better by actually getting the server’s attention and getting the bill.
It was assumed that I would be walking to the metro and Agathe would be walking home. We did not have to talk about it. Here we were in a wordless procession back to our worlds. Agathe stopped outside her apartment a few minutes later.
“I am here. You know where the metro is.”
I looked up at the impressive Haussmanian building in front of us. It was the kind of sixteenth Arrondisement spread where whole floors belonged to the same person. I nodded as if doing an appraisal.
“Well it was very nice meeting you,” I said wishing to take our conversation to the next logical step. I could feel the white wine in my bloodstream surge or maybe it was vertigo. But didn’t you need to be up high to have vertigo?
I could sense a vacuum. What I would call that small window of opportunity where in spite of the flatness of the copnversation and the incompatibility of the couple in question, there was still hope for physical contact. I looked at her again and I began to pick up the sightest signal that she wanted to lean in for a kiss. It was real. I was not just imagining it. Damn it.
I really couldn't tell.
Which one was it? How do I get into these situations? I leaned in and let my face linger a little in the general vicinity. Letting my face linger here in retrospect must have pushed the moment to be even more awkward than it could have been.
But oh Agathe it is your birthday after all. Do you not feel like at least one proper good night kiss?
Ah well Agathe!
Adieu!
You shall no doubt have a nice life with your horses and your holidays and the close relationship you will always have with your father. And I shall have this memory of sharing white wine and cocktails with you on your birthday. After raising my head from this sustained posture, I kissed her briefly on both cheeks.
I walked towards the Passy metro station and left it a few moments before I looked over my shoulder to see what she had done. She was no where to be seen. She had long since escaped into the sancitity of her luxury apartment.
I spent the next five minutes cursing myself on the platform at the Passy metro station. The view at this platform is spectacular. I thoroughly recommend it.
I know it is both unfair and callous to even to try to sum up a woman’s personality within the scope of an evening but I guess through these anecdotes, this is precisely what I am doing. Can we pretend to be able to draw a psychoanalytic portrait of a person over a couple of glasses of wine? Yes. One can try. It was a summer evening and I had arranged to meet a woman named Agathe at a trendy brasserie in the 16th arrondisement. Agathe was one of the many mysterious faces on the site that initially did not hold any promise. How could she? She was an anonymous pencil drawing that the internet itself had painted. That all changed when one day she sent a message saying that she would send me a picture of herself in my email box. This was usually the precursor to a very delicate and awkward conversation but I told her to go right ahead. Sometimes I think women just like the idea of leaving me in suspense and then crushing me with disappointment and the feeling that the only women left on the planet for me to date are the leftovers. I include myself in this category, therefore avoiding all accusations of misogyny. Agathe, however seemed different. Her photo showed a modest beauty that was not without its serious charms. It showed a thirty something woman posing for the camera in what looked like a quiet, dinner table setting. It provoked certain fantasies I have for never having to leave the home and I became excited about calling this girl up to meet for a coffee. She looked, calm, elegant. I saw stockings under the table lengths and in the photo, she held her hand up to her mouth, as if she was amused by what the cameraman or had to say to her. I imagined myself as that cameraman. As if I had just told a joke that pleased her but that she still wanted to remain modest, for there was an unrestricted warmth to that smile that only comes with intimacy. She had a demure way to her that did beguile me. And she had nice bright teeth. A rarity in the Parisian set with most of their pearly whites being slightly browned by tobacco and irregular cleanings.
The outdoor tables were filled with bourgeois locals trying to appear casual with their popped collars. There were unrepentant Eurostar commuters and new mothers with baby carriages at their side. I suppose all my life I had been working up to the idea of being able to date a member of the French upper class. And perhaps this was my chance. I didn’t exactly come from nothing but I had sure managed to squander my money and reputation by aspiring to be a screenwriter over the years. She sent me a text. It read: “I can’t find my keys. But have found them now and that is why I am late. I will be there in ten minutes.” It felt like a confession. She was telling me everything. What a way to begin our relationship. At least she had found her keys, I thought. Although I liked to imagine that it could have been an equally interesting date if I was recruited to help her find them. I imagined myself on my hands and knees looking behind her sofa, helping her to recall where she had last seen them. I also cursed myself a little for not factoring in the lateness factor. No French woman ever arrives on time for a social rendezvous. I should have known this. One always has to factor this and arrive late oneself, even though one has nothing much preoccupying one’s time beforehand. I sat like a fool and watched the traffic on the boulevard. The waiter came by and asked me what I wanted. I ordered an espresso unwillingly. It came and I was able to drink the whole thing before Agathe had even shown her face. From my table, I had a good vantage point and I could see her make her way to me even across the street. Once again I felt the slight disappointment factor creeping in as I reconciled her photograph with what was now greeting me. She had aged considerably and her expression upon greeting me was far less jolly than in the photo. Although she was still far from unattractive, her cold demeanor as we made the customary kisses on both cheeks was more masculine than I expected. I detected the slightly snooty air of someone who had grown up in her father’s land rover. I hoped that I was not correct in making this presumption. She placed her handbag by her side and recovered her breath a little. I supposed that she was still flustered by the key situation.
“Sorry I am late”, she muttered in French as she positioned herself in her chair.
“I’ve just come from Brittany. I’ve been on the train.”
“You must be tired.”
“Not necessarily.” I thought this a strange way of answering.
“So you are similar to your photo” , she added. “One of the guys on the site put up a picture of Harry Roselmack. Do you know this guy?”
I nodded. Harry Roselmack was one of the only black news presenters in the history of French television. He had broken the color barrier by achieving this position briefly and had become, during the previous summer, a media darling for all French people wanting to pat themselves on the backs for something that should have happened years ago.
“Anyway, I thought the face looked familiar. So I went to meet the person. He was white and very ugly. ”
She placed her handbag on the table like it was going to be the centerpiece of our date. Here in front of me was a woman who was willing to accept that a famous news presenter was on an internet dating site and asking her to meet her and then found it odd that a creep was using the photo as cover for his ugly looks. She was either conceited or stupid. None of these qualities were good options for me.
“Is that why you don’t put your picture on the site?”
“I don’t put my picture up there because I am afraid of creeps”, she told me in French. But you are willing to accept that Harry Roselmack is asking you on a date?
“Maybe I have freaks to worry about too.”
“Maybe. But for ladies, it is different. Women have to be careful. I hope you are not disappointed.”, she stated matter of fact as she finally managed to stow all of her gear and sits down.
“Not at all.”
She seemed to be finding the perfect spot on the seat, like an Olympic judge trying to come up with a score for me. The waiter was quick on the uptake and made his rounds again.
“I’d like white wine please.” She ordered a Chablis and I did the same. The ordering of wine at a restaurant or bistro can easily spin out of control if you let it. It was best to keep it simple, otherwise you might spend half your date listening to the waiter talk about the selection, or worse, for your date to be spending half her time with you on choosing from it.
“It’s summer. I added. It’s a good choice.”
She seemed rather puzzled by this comment. I found it self evident. I thought it was always a good idea to have white in the summer when the air temperature was still warmer than the wine.
“What did you do there?”
“My father has horses. We went horse riding. Well I went horse riding.”
“That seems a pleasant thing to do.”
“It is. I’ve loved it ever since I was a child. My father keeps them for me. Every time I go I can ride them.”
“That is special.”
“It is also my birthday. I didn’t know whether I could make it here after the journey but I did. So that’s another thing and that’s why I’ve already been drinking. I had wine for lunch so I’m just going to keep going with that.”
“Happy Birthday”, I said. This line of conversation would be hard. “Did you have a good birthday?”
“I’ve never been on one of these things with an American before. Of course I see many men in London but the men I’ve seen here have all been in French and the men there have all been English.”
Our conversation had become half confessional, half manipulation. Always a territory I feel comfortable in.
“This is the first time I’m speaking English when I am not required to for work.”
“Is that weird for you?” …Parce que on peut parler en Français si tu veut?”
“Non, non, vraiment. Ça me tente l’idée de parler Anglais ici avec un Anglais. » Great I thought to myself. Yet another Parisian woman wanting free English conversation time. But somehow I figured that this woman did not need lessons. She just told me she goes back and forth to London quite often and her accent was one of the most comfortable and effective I’d heard in a while. She pronounced her h’s with ease and she didn’t draw out the “es” to make it sound more like “eeeeeezzzzzz” like most women struggling to speak English.
“I’m actually half American, and half English”, I interjected. “I know that many French people think it’s the same thing but it’s not.”
“Who thinks it’s the same thing?” She phrased her question in a deliberately cryptic way. As if it was half genuine curiosity and half defense.
“A lot of people. This guy”, I gestured to a man nearby inspecting a loose piece of cement on the sidewalk.
“He looks like he has nothing to do”, Agathe dismissed.
“Do you like people watching?”
“You must like it. I read you are a writer. Writers get off on that stuff”
“It’s true”, I admitted. We do get off on that stuff. The man we were looking at had determined that the piece of cracked concrete would just have to stay as is and continued on his way. He kept both his hands behind his back like a groundskeeper.
“Old people have nothing to do”, Agathe added.
“He probably patrols the neighborhood every day.”
“Probably.”
We watched him turn the corner looking into each crack of pavement like a new affrontery.
Our drinks arrived and Agathe eyed her wine a little like it was an enemy. I had no such qualms and greedily took a sip. This was that moment when conversation took a little bit of a standstill as we both searched our souls for subjects.
“So it says on your profile that you are back and forth to London.”
“That’s right. It’s part of my job.”
“What is your job?”
“I am an assistant to a hedge fund manager. He works in London, so this is the reason I am back and forth.”
“So you are a facilitator." I was quite chuffed that I had already coined a term for what she was.”
“I guess that’s a simple way of putting it.”
“And you are a teacher?”, she countered.
“I guess that’s a simple way of putting it. Another way is that I am the filler in rich kids’ lives when they figure out what they really are meant to do.”
“That sounds dull.”
“And unrewarding, but it pays the bills.”
“There are a lot of things that pay the bills.”
“Not for guys with a liberal arts degree. You probably did something smart with your college years.”
My statement was too self deprecating. It hung in the air for wahile before it was dropped. There was another long pause and I again took the opportunity to empty some more of my Chablis down my throat. She did the same. I found her attractive. I could not hide this. The idea of her being some kind of Daddy’s girl also appealed to me. Deep down I thought that I could be the replacement. I could let her ride horses. I pictured her in beige riding pants waiting for me outside a stable like in some “Emmanuelle” film. It was turning me on. “This was no good,” I thought. Women can detect horny thoughts in guys like a sixth sense. Especially on the first date. We wear a need to get laid like a perfume that says “check please.”
“It’s a shame that you do not like what you do.”
“I wouldn’t say that I do not like what I do. I just wish that the people that I do what I do with were smarter.”
“You mean you wish you teach at a better school.”
“Yes. Well kind of.”
Actually I wish that I was a full time writer so that I could permanently drift into full time voyeur mode, never having to directly engage with society, but, of course, I did not tell her any of this.
“Well you should learn to speak French and perhaps they would hire you at a better school.”
“Like around here?”
“Perhaps.”
“This neighborhood is nice. I always like coming here.”
“Yes, it’s nice. Agathe looked up at the adjacent buildings as if she was admiring her toy doll house. But I am almost never here.”
“You mean you spend a lot of time in London?”
“Yes, and at my father’s place in the north. Here we go walking. Riding bikes. I love mountain biking. It’s a healthy life. People here are not healthy at all. I am there whenever I get the chance.”
I didn’t have anything to respond to this. I did not have the gall to tell her that my favorite thing had become to go out on dates with French women and then blog about them. The more we talked, the more Agathe began to refer to her father. I began to suspect that the conversation was slowly turning away from me. When a woman spoke about her father this much, it either signaled that she was searching for someone who could measure up. And at this point in my life, I doubted that I could compete with a guy who owned his own horses, or that the lady in question wanted to turn what could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship into being just strangers once more. In fact, I was beginning to feel worse than a stranger. Atleast if I was a stranger to Agathe, I would have felt hope, as it stood though, I could detect that I had blown it. Not that I really suspected to make something of this in the first place but I had to admitI was turned on by Agathe’s sporty, bourgoise nature. It was like I wanted to be a member of her club and was not being admitted. Perhaps the good news in all of this is that Agathe had finished her wine. It was her birthday after all and she had chosen to spend it with me. Perhaps she was regretting this decision but I had decided to ignite the flame with her one more time.
I scanned the sidewalk for our waiter. He was perched between two tables and surveying the street like his real job was being a cop on stake out. He did not see me as I waved at him. I could feel Agathe also begin to judge me. I was not the kind of man who could order more wine. Finally I got his attention and he glided over, slithering his body between diners.
“Yes?”
“I’d like another glass of wine.”
“The same thing?”
“Yes, the same.”
“I’ll have a cocktail. What do you recommend?” I looked up at Agathe surprised. I had not expected this.
“How about a Long Island?”
In France people just order a “Long Island” because they do not really understand the concept of “iced tea”. In fairness to them a Long Island Iced Tea really has nothing much to do with tea. I could not help but be impressed. French women never ordered cocktails and here was Agathe fearlessly ordering one in male company. It was perhaps the most dangerous cocktail of all the cocktails people try to make in Paris. Maybe it was because of her birthday and maybe it was because of all that time spent in London where heavy drinking was mandatory but a new layer of respect washed over me for Agathe. The way she had ordered it to, without prior warning, or the slightest hint of apology, was also incredibly sexy. I had misjudged her. This was going not at all according to plan. I thought she was going to order a carafe d’eau talk about horses for another half hour and that was it. This was obviously going a step in another direction.
The waiter nodded his head slightly and then waited half a second more, leaving us space to add another order if we wanted to, but we did not, so he left.
“It’s my birthday.”
“Yes it is”, I clarified.
“J’ai le droit.”
“Il faut pas justifier. »
“ So why are you not happy ?”
“I’m happy. What gave you that impression.”
“Things,” she admiutted vaguely.
“Really?” This next level of honesty was taking me by surprise.
“…And what you were saying about your students. It was sad. “
“Well I’m not really done yet. I clarified. The teaching is just to tie me over until someone discovers that I am a great writer with something to say.”
“And you write in English?”
“Yes unfortunately. I write in English. My French is not good enough to express myself the way I want to express myself in your language. Plus I am not funny in French.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m not funny in French. I never have been. I have tried to be funny in French but it does not come out right and even when it’s coming out right it isn't funny.”
“This is strange.”
“I’ve never laughed at a French comedy for instance.”
“You’ve never seen Pere Noel est un Ordure.”
“Yes I have…. And it’s not funny. It’s the movie all French people quote when they want to prove that their movies are funny but it’s actually not that funny. Atleast to my ears anyway.”
“That’s not fair.” Agathe seemed slightly flustered, as it I had probed a dark and infested place that had never healed.
“Well there it is.”
“So why do you live here?”
It was an honest question. I appreciated it.
“I live here because France do all the other things right. They love Art, Beauty and Intellect. And so do I. So this is why I stay. And the wine is cheap.”
“You like wine?”
“I’m ordering it, aren’t I? You’re the one having the cocktails.”
“I like cocktails.”
“I can see that.”
“I have the right, it is my birthday.”
“I am not judging you.”
The writer snuck in to one side and laid down a glass of chilled wine as if on cue. After the surprise of his sneak attack wore off, he presented Agathe’s “Long Island” in front of her like an award. He then vanished again. We now admired Agathe’s drink. It was served in a heavy industrial glass. It looked like an old school milkshake glass, except that it had been died a light shade of violet. The thing had a cocktail stirrer that had a gummy candy alligator with powdered sugar spiked through it. Among the other ornaments was a tiny toothpick sized umbrella to boot.
“It really is your birthday.”
“Thank you.”
We raised our glasses as if this was the next logical step in the conversation and looked each other in the eye. Gently clinking our glasses, we then took hearty sips. Agathe had to make room for the drink by removing some of the ornaments.
“I always wonder why they put umbrellas in cocktails.” I mentioned, breaking the ice yet again.
“I don’t know. I like it.”
Agathe took the tiny umbrella in hand and laid it a tiny patch of unidentified moisture on the table. She did it as if to convince me that she really did not mean what she said. I was far from figuring this woman out. There was silence. I began to sip my wine more heartily, debating in my head whether it was a good idea to get into her Daddy issues. I decided to head full steam ahead.
“Do you spend a lot of time in Britanny?”, I asked, trying to sound innocent.
“Yes, every chance I get. I just love the outdoors there. The scenery. I also love to take mountain bikes and ride all over the landscape.”
“Do you do this with your father?”
“Yes, often. He comes with me.”
I decided in my heart that this was over. Agathe was a thirty something Daddy’s girl that was looking for someone that mirrored his state of being in her life. I was a failed screenwriter, reaching the ice caps of thirty that still had a chip on his shoulder about trying to prove to everyone that I could write novels and movies just as bad as all the other incredibly successful people out there writing bad novels and movies. We were both killing time and we knew it. She was looking for a guy who could still give her ranches full of horses to ride, boundless real estate and a comfortable reminder of the most important person in her life: her father.
I was not however willing to give up on the possibility that I could become a birthday mistake. I wanted her to use me and then throw me away. At least then, we could both get something out of this whole equation. Plus I still had the memory of entertaining Alesandra for all those dates in which I had become a fixture in her busy agenda and I was filling resentful. At least after all of this; surely there was some sex on the horizon. This was still France, was it not? I felt like a dying star that you only read that has imploded hundreds of years later. The rest of our topics of conversation included me having apartment envy for her situation. It seemed that Agathe owned her own place in Paris and London. Eventually, she got to the base of her cocktail and motioned for her hand bag like it was time to go. I went with the motion, doing her one better by actually getting the server’s attention and getting the bill.
It was assumed that I would be walking to the metro and Agathe would be walking home. We did not have to talk about it. Here we were in a wordless procession back to our worlds. Agathe stopped outside her apartment a few minutes later.
“I am here. You know where the metro is.”
I looked up at the impressive Haussmanian building in front of us. It was the kind of sixteenth Arrondisement spread where whole floors belonged to the same person. I nodded as if doing an appraisal.
“Well it was very nice meeting you,” I said wishing to take our conversation to the next logical step. I could feel the white wine in my bloodstream surge or maybe it was vertigo. But didn’t you need to be up high to have vertigo?
I could sense a vacuum. What I would call that small window of opportunity where in spite of the flatness of the copnversation and the incompatibility of the couple in question, there was still hope for physical contact. I looked at her again and I began to pick up the sightest signal that she wanted to lean in for a kiss. It was real. I was not just imagining it. Damn it.
I really couldn't tell.
Which one was it? How do I get into these situations? I leaned in and let my face linger a little in the general vicinity. Letting my face linger here in retrospect must have pushed the moment to be even more awkward than it could have been.
But oh Agathe it is your birthday after all. Do you not feel like at least one proper good night kiss?
Ah well Agathe!
Adieu!
You shall no doubt have a nice life with your horses and your holidays and the close relationship you will always have with your father. And I shall have this memory of sharing white wine and cocktails with you on your birthday. After raising my head from this sustained posture, I kissed her briefly on both cheeks.
I walked towards the Passy metro station and left it a few moments before I looked over my shoulder to see what she had done. She was no where to be seen. She had long since escaped into the sancitity of her luxury apartment.
I spent the next five minutes cursing myself on the platform at the Passy metro station. The view at this platform is spectacular. I thoroughly recommend it.
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