|
Page 27.
 As they walked, car doors randomly banged shut, marring the evening stillness. Motors, laughter, a swish of wind under a car, a splash in a puddle, night sounds. He whistled as they walked along the high-priced shops and clean sidewalks of the major boulevard. If women from here held people’s cigars, imagine the money the men with those cigars must have. He wanted to ask about Jérôme, but did not want anything to intrude upon the magic of the hour. She led him to a little private courtyard near the Rue des Bernardins. “We own it all,” she said matter of factly, meaning the 19th Century stone edifice towering all around in dignified silence. “We rent out apartments to bankers and the like.”
“Rich people.”
“Oh yes. Nobody else can afford to just casually plop here. So the building pays for itself through thick and thin.”
He followed her lurching heels up a wind-flickering, honey-lit concrete path under weeping willow trees. There was something wistful, sad, lost, yet hopeful about her and this property.
Call them weeping widow trees.
Speak of weeping, it began to rain again gently but persistently.
Her keys rattled, and soon the building door stood open—colorful stained glass panels in a sturdy oak frame.
“During the Occupation, a high ranking Nazi general lived here.” Seeing his look, she added: “Don’t worry, we had it fumigated during the épuration.” He’d read about the cleansing or purification that took place after the boches had been driven out. She said: “Took years to get the smell of Bratwurst and Sauerkraut out of the air. I wasn’t born yet, but my grandparents used to raise their eyebrows and look horrified when they told stories of what the swine did.” She added: “Of course, not everything that followed was so nice either.” Paris had gone through a decade of purges, violence, poverty, and dislocation. Marc’s lower middle-class family in Créteil had been far enough from the chaos to be spared the worst. Of course people like Emma’s folks usually landed on their feet in the end. Not her fault, he quickly added to himself.
“I’m on the second floor,” she whispered. She put her finger over her lips for him to be quiet. “We don’t want to call attention to ourselves. Don’t wake the tenants.”
Live in the moment, he reminded himself. Don’t get swallowed up or eaten alive by a bunch of dead history.
He tiptoed behind her up a creaking, carpeted stairway. He longed to touch that rocking rear, those shapely legs, and the rest of her. He wanted to undress her slowly, enjoying her enjoying every moment of his attentions. It would be a matter of minutes now. He watched her head toward him as in a spinning, unavoidable slow-motion crash on a snowy winter street; both drivers are helpless and see each other coming, bracing silently for impact, dreading injury, and calculating fender repair costs.
|
This generous program allows you to read half the book free. If you like it, you can buy the whole book safe, secure, and quickly at Amazon (print or e-book). The e-book is priced about like a cup of coffee (painless, fun). Thank you for reading. If you love it, tell your friends. Please post a favorable review at Amazon, Good Reads, and other online resources. If you don't care for it, please do no harm; easy refund, and just move on. Authors need your support! Thank you (JTC).
|
E-Book
|
Print Book
|
TOP
|
