A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,39
over his head, looking down on him. But Paris wasn’t really France. Paris was Paris—and it had become his home.
A small box popped up in the corner and there was Lise, virtually, telling him how glad she was to be back in touch, and, in fact, it was a particularly good time for her since her youngest was now in day care full-time. What was the project?
Gabriel looked at his watch. There was one minute until he had to pay for another quarter-hour session. He typed, “Can we just meet?”
“Sure,” Lise responded. “Where?”
Gabriel replied with the first place that came to his head, their old haunt, the Biche Blanche.
The Biche Blanche had the advantage of being across the street from the École. It lacked charm and originality, but was convenient and inexpensive, and the waiters let students linger at tables long after others would have cleared their throats to get the squatters to leave.
The amazing thing about Paris in general, and its cafés in particular, was that they remained outside time. All had identical bistro tables in fake marble, the rounded wooden chairs that were comfortable for no ass. The same large blond Americans, trying to speak French with the pimpled French boys, the insouciant students, too bored even to take a drag from their burning cigarettes.
Lise was already there when he arrived, reading a large book at a window table. As he recognized her she lifted her head, waving vigorously, so that he smiled. She stood and gave him two kisses which were not really kisses but cheek contact. He noticed she didn’t bother making the kissing noises, and he admired that about her. In the brief seconds their heads were touching, he noticed her lemongrass perfume.
At first they made small talk. Lise showed him pictures of her children—three, as it turned out—on a smartphone. She seemed very proud of the fact that she took care of the children with no outside help. Two days a week she worked at Ambrosine’s gallery.
“It’s good. I was actually managing the gallery before the kids. I used to think he was full of shit. He is full of shit, but he’s a genius at recognizing color,” Lise gushed. “You know how everyone always says color in my work is an afterthought? I think I finally get how important it is. Does that make sense?”
Without prompting, Lise began to tell him about other people they had gone to school with. Most of the names did not conjure up faces in Gabriel’s memory, and some were completely unfamiliar. She was friends with them on the computer, she said, whatever she meant by that.
Then there was a silence. Gabriel had noticed, in their brief friendship, and during the briefer-still time they were lovers, Lise’s way of asking few questions. At first he had assumed that she understood if he had anything important to say he would tell her, but he came to realize that she was not actually particularly interested in what he was doing or thinking.
What had he seen in her? he wondered. He mooned for more than a year, despondent when he saw her talking to men at parties, until she cornered him, said she could feel his eyes on her, and would he please stop it? Yes, they had spent one night together, but there was alcohol involved and it was just that once. Gabriel felt hollow inside, his pain so great that he stayed away from school altogether for two weeks. Why? he wondered now. She was just a girl, or rather, now a woman nearing middle age.
Lise smiled, accentuating the lines spreading from her eyes. “Now, what is this business proposition?”
Gabriel explained Klinman’s visit.
“Sounds great!” Lise said.
Gabriel handed her an envelope full of euros and several sheets of Klinman’s paper in a portfolio.
“Fantastic. I’m really excited.” She made a show of opening the envelope and removing a bill to pay for their drinks. “I insist. I’ll bring them to Rosenzweig’s after work on Wednesday?”
“Or I could come by Ambrosine’s.” Gabriel thought it might be a bad idea to have his friends traipsing in to drop off portfolios. Édouard might get suspicious. Her face fell; quickly she recovered her smile. It occurred to Gabriel that she didn’t want him there with his motorcycle boots and ratty secondhand clothing. He felt hot shame curl up into his face.
Lise said, “Could you come by the apartment? That might be easier.”