First tango in paris, p.18
First Tango in Paris, page 18
*
“Come on in. The door’s open,” Brigitte called. “I’m almost ready.” The door clicked closed. “I’ll be right out. Help yourself to whatever you want to drink.”
Brigitte checked herself out one last time in the full-length mirror, recalling how excited she’d been when she’d dressed up to go hear Erroll Garner. Tonight, she’d dressed differently. She liked the way her chunky gold necklace glittered against the simple black turtleneck she wore. And her black flared skirt and dark hose covered any remaining flesh. She wanted Eva to find her attractive but didn’t want Eva to think she was coming on to her, like that horrid woman had when Brigitte had spotted them in the club.
She’d decided to wear her hair down and patted it one final time, then dabbed some perfume on her wrists and behind her ears. She liked this more natural look and hoped it would appeal to Eva.
Eva was sitting on the couch sipping chardonnay as Brigitte entered her small living room as unobtrusively as possible. She glided to the minibar and poured herself a glass of pungent merlot.
“What a beautiful necklace and earrings,” Eva said.
Brigitte wondered how she could see them in her forest of hair and stroked her mane back to give Eva a better look. “Thank you. I’ve had to dress well for so many years that it’s a habit.”
“Ah, yes. Your necklace almost blinded me. But the earrings are the perfect final touch.”
Obviously Eva appreciated subtlety, so Brigitte was glad she’d chosen this outfit. “Where did you get your unusual necklace?” she asked.
Eva fingered the exotic assortment of shells that shone on the soft background her white blouse provided, and Brigitte couldn’t resist touching them. “In Hawaii. They’re called puka beads. I hope these aren’t the imitations that are beginning to pop up everywhere in tourist spots abroad. With the real ones, the hole in each of them has formed from wear instead of being drilled by a machine.”
“How interesting. So you’ve traveled a bit?” Brigitte stepped back, regretting that she couldn’t touch the smooth, tanned skin that lay under Eva’s necklace. The puka beads revealed more about Eva than she realized. She was as natural and authentic as her jewelry.
“Oh, yes. Travel’s one of my passions. It’s so easy to get caught up in the small space where you’ve grown up and either fear or ignore the rest of the world.”
“I can certainly relate to that. When did you see the world, and where did you go?”
Eva’s eyes shone. How beautiful she was. “Oh. Well, I’d almost studied myself into a coma here at the university, so I broke away and circled the globe for two years. Didn’t miss a single continent except Antarctica.”
“Impressive. So you just needed a break?”
Eva shook her head. “That too, but I was arrested during the student protests here during my final year in school. That really unsettled me, so I decided to take a break away from my routine life for a while.”
“I can relate to that too.” Rosa’s suicide note flashed through her mind. “It’s part of what brought me here to Paris.”
Eva smiled and set her glass on the coffee table. “Your break is my quotidian. Now I’m back, ready to settle into my rut again.” Then she glanced at her watch. “Shouldn’t we go? The hotel’s a little more than a mile from here, and I don’t think we want to rush down the Champs Élysées on such a nice night, do you?”
Brigitte finished her own wine and stood up. “Oh no. I want to enjoy every minute of our time together. I feel special, spending time alone with my guide. Rather like being the head nun’s pet back in school. Which I never was, by the way.” She flashed Eva a grin. “And don’t think you’ll get away without telling me more about getting arrested.”
Eva returned her grin, and her anticipation—and desire—only grew.
Chapter Twenty-one
Eva grasped Brigitte’s arm as Count Basie’s orchestra played its final notes in the smoky jazz club. The hard-driving, fast-paced sounds of the music died away, replaced by a thunder of applause and then the clink of glasses and bottles and the noise of people scraping their chair legs on the floor. Throughout the session Brigitte had been moving her entire body to the rhythm of the drums and the piano. Eva couldn’t decide which she’d enjoyed more: watching Brigitte listen to the music or hearing it herself. “Are you tired, or would you like to explore the nightlife of Paris a while longer?”
The house lights came up, and Brigitte turned to her with an almost dazed expression, as if the music had transported her to another dimension. The saxophone and trumpets had affected Eva too, made her better understand what the word swing meant.
“What did you say?” Gradually Brigitte seemed to realize where she was. “Oh. What nightlife are you talking about?”
Eva squeezed Brigitte’s arm, then let it go and bent closer to her. “We could go over to Chez Moune. It should be heating up by now.” The crowded, hazy room was noisy as people walked up to the stage to chat with the musicians or headed for the exit. The musicians were taking their music from their stands, packing their instruments, talking among themselves and to fans.
Brigitte’s blue eyes sparked. “Chez Moune. Isn’t that a club for les—”
“Yes. It’s for lesbians. If you’d rather not go…” Eva pulled back. She didn’t want to push Brigitte into anything she wasn’t ready for.
Brigitte tossed down the last of her screwdriver and nodded. “No. I’d love to. This music really revved me up. I’m in the mood for a little adventure.”
Outside the Meridien Etoile, Eva hailed a taxi. She gave the driver the address and held the door open for Brigitte. “We’re heading toward Montmartre, in case you’d like to get your bearings.”
Brigitte was staring out the window and smiling, especially when the taxi took the Avenue de Villiers at top speed. She looked like the music was still running through her head, her entire body, as if it had loosened part of her that she usually restrained.
“Have you been to Pigalle yet, Brigitte?”
Brigitte’s shoulders stiffened infinitesimally. “No. I’m focusing on the cultural centers of Paris. You know, the museums, the palaces, and the cathedrals. A place like Pigalle doesn’t interest me much, at least not for its own sake.”
“Yes, it does look rather shabby during the day, but at night, the bright lights and crowds change it into a busy, exciting place. Though I didn’t get to New Orleans on my trip, it still intrigues me. I imagine the French Quarter there must be a lot like that too.”
Brigitte’s shoulders dropped. “You’re right. That area draws a huge crowd looking for a good time. I’ve heard a lot of good music on Bourbon Street and seen some tasteful drag shows. But the drinks are overpriced, and usually the crowds seem a little frantic, like they’re trying too hard to enjoy themselves.”
“Do they have any gay bars there?”
“Not many. There’s always Cafe Lafitte, which has been around forever. But it’s mostly for guys, and the men I…went out with weren’t very interested in other men.”
“I don’t venture down to Pigalle often, but once in a while it’s fun to let go. Everyone’s heard of the Moulin Rouge, but my favorite’s Chez Moune. It’s the oldest bar for women in the city.” Eva grimaced. “Sorry. My tour-guide persona took over.” Garish flashing lights and noisy crowds signaled their arrival. “Okay. We’re here,” Eva said. “Hopefully we won’t have to wait in line too long.”
They finally made it into the large basement establishment, teeming with laughing women wearing every style of clothes imaginable. As they shoved through the noisy crowd toward a vacant table, Eva caught their reflection in the mirrored tiles covering the walls. Brigitte looked right at home here, as beautiful as the women painted on the huge angular bar that dominated the club. Her blond hair and gold jewelry glowed richly in the subdued lighting.
“What a babe,” someone whispered as they passed, and Eva was sure they weren’t talking about her.
“I’d love to take her home with me,” someone else said. Again, the observer had to have Brigitte in mind.
Eva put her hand on the small of Brigitte’s back, steering her through the crush of ogling women and laying claim to Brigitte’s attention, for tonight at least.
Almost every woman there stared at them, clearly admiring Brigitte, but quickly shifted her attention back to her own date when Eva glared. Brigitte moved through the crowd as if barely aware of the desire she provoked.
Finally they were seated at a small round table, and the women nearby settled down. Their knees were touching, and the feel of Brigitte’s sleek hose against Eva’s bare leg made her want to run her hand under Brigitte’s skirt. She took a deep breath instead. Control yourself, she inwardly chanted. “Another screwdriver?”
Brigitte nodded as she gazed around at the women pressed close together on the dance floor. She didn’t seem offended or surprised at the lesbian scene or at the way most of the women had stared at her with obvious lust. Instead, she sighed. Then she slipped off the pointed-toe high heels she was wearing.
Eva began to relax too.
Brigitte leaned forward. “Do you come here often?” Her voice had dropped at least an octave, taking on a sultry tone that made Eva’s cheeks grow warm.
“No. Only on special occasions. When I’m lonely or want to blow off a little steam.”
“And are you lonely or ready to blow off steam tonight?” Brigitte’s voice became impossibly lower, and her eyes drew Eva in.
“Uhh—”
“Would you like a drink?” a waitress asked Eva, and she swallowed her unformed response to Brigitte.
“But yes. Thank you. A Pernod absinthe with water for me, and a screwdriver for my friend.”
After the waitress gave Brigitte a lingering look and left, Brigitte shook her head and smiled at Eva. “I’d never have taken you for an absinthe drinker. I’m impressed. I’ve never tried such a notorious liquor.”
Eva glowed inside. She’d impressed Brigitte! “I told you I felt like letting go. But don’t worry. The modern version of absinthe isn’t a hallucinogen like its ancestor used to be. I won’t do anything bizarre tonight and embarrass you.”
Brigitte flinched. “I’m not worried about you, Eva, and you couldn’t embarrass me if you tried.” Then she began to watch the crowd.
Eva wondered what was going on in Brigitte’s head. She’d somehow upset her, but for now she kept quiet, not sure what to say. Instead, she let the noise of the women and the music and the nearness of Brigitte overwhelm her.
Finally Brigitte inclined her head slightly toward her and whispered, “Look at that couple over there.” Her sultry tone had disappeared, and the intimate moment Eva had wished for dissipated into the banal.
After their drinks arrived, Eva sipped her absinthe and tried to retrieve their closeness. “So, Mary Brigitte, how do you like Chez Moune?”
Brigitte flinched again, her eyes sharp, even through the heavy smoke. “How do you know my full name?” Her hand trembled as she slowly set her glass on the table, staring at Eva as if she’d revealed a carefully guarded secret.
“Your passport, of course. Jeanne made a copy of it when you signed up for the tour.”
Brigitte toyed with her napkin. “That’s right. I forgot.” She sat in silence for a while, then wadded her napkin into a ball. “My mother named me Brigitte and always called me that. The few times she showed up.” She glared at Eva. “My grandmother refused to use the name. She said it sounded foreign and vulgar.”
The force of Brigitte’s angry expression hit Eva almost like a blow to the chest. “Why would she say that?”
“I told you she hated my mother, and Grandmother said she drove my father to his death. She named me Mary—called me Mary Brigitte when she spoke with my mother, and with everyone else she never called me anything but Mary. I hated it, but what could I do?”
Eva fed on the anger that sparked in Brigitte’s blue eyes.
“After all, she clothed and sheltered me,” Brigitte said. “When I started school, my teachers always insisted on calling me Mary Brigitte, and the other girls in my class giggled behind their hands, told me it sounded like a nun’s name, just like our teachers’.”
Eva was so lost in the pain Brigitte’s eyes expressed, she almost didn’t hear her final words on the subject.
“It took me a long time to convince everyone to call me just Brigitte, though my grandmother called me Mary until the day she died. Please don’t use it again. I hate that name.”
“I won’t.” Eva spoke so softly she wondered if Brigitte could even hear her.
Brigitte took a long drink of her screwdriver and shrugged. “Enough about me. Is Eva your given name?”
Eva’s heart began to thrum. “No.”
“Well? I told you my story. Let me hear yours.” Brigitte sat up straighter, her eyes still flashing.
“My real name’s Yvette, for my father, Yves. He apparently wanted a boy but had to settle for me. But when my brother Louis came along several years later, he treated Louis even worse than he did me.” A rush of anger gripped her now, but Brigitte’s satiny knee against her leg helped her keep her seat.
She told herself to calm down. “I started calling myself Eva when I was in my teens and heard Father talking to someone on the telephone. He had his hand in his pocket, jangling his loose change. When I walked by he lowered his voice and hung up almost immediately, glaring at me like I was the one who was doing something wrong.”
“Most likely talking to another woman in a way he shouldn’t have.” Brigitte’s voice was as soothing as a glass of milk to an ulcerated stomach. “And you didn’t want him to.” Brigitte draped her arm around Eva’s shoulder and squeezed it.
“How did you know that?” Eva had never told anyone about that day and had no idea why she’d just shared it with Brigitte. But she was glad she had. Brigitte’s hand siphoned off some of the pain she’d felt since then. What a difference from the distant, unreasonable woman she’d encountered in the library not that long ago.
The music changed to a Latin beat, and Eva took a risk. She’d noticed Brigitte watching the dancers and had seen how she responded to an occasional tango tune by moving her upper body. “By any chance, do you know how to tango?” she asked, and held out her hand.
Brigitte simply nodded, slipped on her high heels, stood up, and grasped Eva’s hand as if dancing the tango with another woman was second nature to her.
*
Eva held Brigitte’s hand briefly, then dropped it and walked to the crowded dance floor, leaving it up to Brigitte to follow her. After turning, she paused and then stood still. Brigitte let the beat of the music embrace her, pound through her, fill her with its insistence, wrap her in its longing, its call for her to become one with it. Slowly, when Eva opened her arms and invited Brigitte into them, Brigitte felt only the music and Eva’s presence. She accepted with her right hand, sliding her warm palm against Eva’s cool one, and let her hand drift into Eva’s.
They faced each other as still as statues, sighed, and now Brigitte waited for the pulsating music to wrap around both of them. But too quickly, Eva led Brigitte in the first step, rushing them into the dance instead of gliding toward her in slow motion, as Rosa used to do. Eva’s dark hair brushed her cheek, a red mottled patch appeared on Eva’s throat, and her heart pulsed in the hollow of it. Brigitte sighed as waves of heat rushed up her legs to her breasts and down her arms. Being with Rosa had never made her react like this.
Eva seemed to preen, as if aware the crowd had begun to watch them. Was Eva excited about dancing or about being close to her? The ambiguity made the shock of their initial embrace subside a bit. Then she inhaled the fresh scent of Eva’s soap, with its hint of flowery perfume. Could she live with this smell for the next three minutes? For a lifetime? Eva’s breath was rushing in and out like a winded boxer’s. Did Eva notice Brigitte’s heart racing too, like that of a fighter about to enter the ring?
Keeping her expression blank, Brigitte tried to slow her heart’s pace, to pretend she wasn’t about to throw herself into the excitement of the tango and the thrill of being near Eva. With a new partner, could she execute the difficult steps it had taken her so long to master, or would she make a fool of herself on the dance floor? Eva’s hands trembled slightly, suddenly lost their coolness, and became warm and damp. Was she concerned about the dance, or did she tremble for some other reason?
Eva kept her at a safe distance, their breasts barely touching, and neither of them spoke. Finally, Eva smiled as she would at a stranger, but they didn’t look at each other as they began to perform the elementary yet challenging steps of the tango. The distance and their pretense of indifference were part of the dance, but under the façade, Brigitte burned with questions.
Can Eva lead me, determine what I’m capable of, what steps I prefer? Eva held her as if she knew what she was doing and appeared to be analyzing Brigitte’s every move. Each time Eva introduced a new step, she paused for a second, as if silently asking if Brigitte felt comfortable. So far so good.
Will Eva demand too much of me? She did her best to respond to each move Eva initiated, uncertain if she could keep pace with a woman ten years younger. Rosa had been so much older that Brigitte hadn’t had to worry about that. But as the music continued she realized she wasn’t even breathing hard, at least not from the dancing itself.
She relaxed into the physical aspects of their tango, but old insecurities lingered. Is Eva dancing only to impress the crowd that’s gathering to watch us? Brigitte had come to hate having people stare at her every time she appeared in public, and right now she felt almost onstage. Yet Eva didn’t even appear to be aware that anyone else was in the bar as she led Brigitte around the small dance floor. How amazing, how flattering to have someone focus so completely on her.
