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Page 75.
 “It’s all over now,” Marc said, rinsing. “God am I glad it’s over.”
“Who is she?” Jack asked.
Marc turned off the water and reached blindly for a towel. “Some Sorbonne professor’s wife.” He found a towel.
“You have balls like a brass monkey statue.”
Marc pulled aside the curtain. “Small town, isn’t it?”
Can’t keep any secrets here.
Jack shrugged. “It’s like a movie. We’ve all seen it. Umbrellas of Cherbourg. Imbeciles of Paris. Cretins of Créteil. Never ends well.”
Marc dried himself and they migrated to the tangled bedroom. He told Jack, “Don’t ever get involved with a married woman. It’s hell on the emotions.”
Jack looked up from the magazine. “Don’t I know it?” Jack had the past winter involved himself with a waitress from the Hotel George V where he’d been tending bar. The upshot had been that the waitress, who was resigned to being beaten regularly by her husband, gave Jack a case of clap presumably obtained from her hubby, and that Jack had lost his job after being seen with the guy’s wife by another guy in the bricklayer’s union or something. “This is your first adventure, isn’t it?” Jack asked.
“The first and last,” Marc declared, dressing.
“Smart move,” said Jack with utter conviction.
“It doesn’t lead to anything,” Marc said.
“Want to take a drive home?
“Sure. Get a free meal. Why not?”
They drove in Jack’s Citroën past the Notre Dame de Paris, where at the moment the bells clattered in ever so wistful melody. They were anwered by a carillon somewhere near the Jardin des Plantes. Marc thought: Big bells might proclaim boldly, but precious little Emmas like these carillon cups lisped in hesitant, cute phrasings.
I ache for her.
At Marc’s request, they passed through a small side street in which Marc knew the department of Archeology was housed. Sure enough, there was a small Renault 5, looking very preppy but like a sharp with teeth, parked beside the curb. “Drive on,” Marc said.
Jack said, “What do you say we take a drive down along the lake?”
“Anything,” Marc said. It was always nice to see boaters on Lake Créteil on a sunny day.
Jack brought the Citroën into high gear. “I hear the chicks down there are ripe and ready.”
“Sounds like the pinkest and ripest thing to do,” said Marc without any conviction.
Jack grinned as they headed for the distant, dusky suburb where colorful sails circled around slender bathing bodies, feminine in nature. How complicated everything now seemed.
As motorway wind rattled through Jack’s campy little car, Marc tried to put aside feelings of guilt and apprehensiveness. What would this Mr. LeStink do to Emma’s husband’s career? What would happen when Emma’s husband found out? He pictured Emma, and longed to be with her.
I want to hold you, rock you, shelter you in my arms.
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