First tango in paris, p.19
First Tango in Paris, page 19
Just then, they almost collided with another couple on the floor, and Brigitte caught a whiff of spring rain. Startled, she stared at the two women, who’d just whirled on, faceless, into the crowd. She’d smelled that scent during her last tango with Rosa. Could she have found the woman for whom she’d come to Paris?
Eva faltered, made a wrong step, and Brigitte held her breath. Will Eva scold herself for her mistake? But Eva merely paused, then smoothly changed their direction, her calm expression never wavering.
Brigitte really wanted to know how Eva would feel plastered against her, their legs entangling and brushing one another, their bodies moving as one, their breath mingling to create a fog of heat, their lips coming near enough to explode into flame. To hell with the rules of the tango. Brigitte wanted to push Eva into a dark corner and run her hands and tongue over every inch of her.
Yet, in spite of the music and her own throbbing heart, she kept hearing Rosa’s steady voice. During the dance you and your partner must keep apart, yet depend on each other and stay connected. It would be too easy to ravish Eva right here, right now, while the music pulsed through them, made them mindless. But she wanted to stay connected to someone, not dissolve into mindless lust.
This was the first time Brigitte had danced the tango with a woman other than Rosa, and when the passionate music ended all too soon, she let Eva lead her back to their table. She and Eva had danced their first tango in Paris together, and if Brigitte had her way, it wouldn’t be their last.
*
Eva returned Brigitte to their table, and they both dropped the mask of indifference the tango required. Brigitte’s eyes sparked like blue topazes as she asked, “Who taught you to tango like that?”
“Jeanne.”
“Jeanne, your aunt?”
“Yes.” Eva beamed with pride. “She may not look like it, but she gets around.” Eva savored the memories Brigitte’s question had stirred up. “About ten years ago, she became involved with a professional dancer, so when Jeanne learned various dances from her, she practiced them with me.”
Brigitte nodded and wrapped her hands around her drink, seeming more at ease than she had on the tour.
Eva thought about Jeanne’s affair with the dancer. “I liked that woman, but unfortunately she enjoyed switching partners without informing her steady one about it.”
Brigitte quirked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Jeanne caught her doing a literal belly dance with a good-looking redhead in Jeanne’s bed, and that ended my lessons. I’m glad we covered the tango before that happened.” Eva laughed. “What about you?”
Brigitte’s smile faded. “My best friend in New Orleans, Rosa, was from Argentina. Her parents moved to the States when she was a child. From what little she told me about them, they fought a lot and separated several times. Rosa danced with whichever one she was living with at the time, so she learned not only to follow but to lead, and she taught me to do the same.”
Eva leaned close to Brigitte, inhaling the floral, citrus fragrance that seemed to be an integral part of this enchanting woman. Eva’s lips were centimeters from Brigitte’s when she heard herself ask, as if in a dream, “Were you in love with her, your best friend Rosa?” She couldn’t ignore the stab of jealousy that suddenly attacked her. “Did you do more than dance with her?”
Brigitte recoiled, and Eva woke from her dreamlike state. “No. Oh, I admired her. She was her own person, except when it came to a certain kind of man.” Brigitte looked almost distraught as she spoke about Rosa. “She protected me the best way she could and gave me everything she had and knew.” Tears sparkled in Brigitte’s eyes. “But she was much older and like a mother to me. I loved her, yes, and she loved me. But not in the way you think.”
Eva would have given anything to withdraw her impulsive question, but she burned to know more. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. So you’re no longer friends?”
Brigitte rested her head on her hand, covering her eyes, and sighed. “Rosa’s dead.”
Eva set down her glass, unsure what to say. “I’m sorry. I won’t mention her again.” They sat in silence, Brigitte’s apparent sorrow washing over them with the same intensity the tango music had earlier.
Eva finally whispered, “The next time we dance, you can lead.” She sipped her absinthe, then ran a finger along the edge of her glass.
Brigitte looked up and wiped away her tears, a sad smile beginning to appear. “I’d like that. But we’ll need to wear our tango shoes. I brought mine with me in hopes of finding someone like you to dance with.”
Eva ventured a smile. “Somehow I’m not surprised, about the shoes, I mean. Just let me know when you want to tango again, and I’ll be happy to follow your lead.”
Brigitte finished her drink. “Thanks for a wonderful night, but I’ve had enough for now. Is it okay if we leave?”
“Of course.” Eva stood and held out her hand. Just when she’d felt she might begin to really connect with Brigitte, her past had intervened and pulled them apart.
They said good night outside the hotel, and she pulled Brigitte close for a moment and luxuriated in the feel of her body, which she’d only flirted with during the tango. But she forced herself not to kiss her. Brigitte seemed too sad, and Eva didn’t want to intrude. She’d wait until the time was right.
Chapter Twenty-two
Brigitte spent the next morning in bed, reliving her date with Eva. Their tango had given her a taste of what she and Eva might have together as lovers, but she didn’t want to rush it. It would be easy to fall into bed together, but she wanted so much more than that. She wanted to fall in love and stay there. That was a huge step for her, though, so she decided to spend a little time alone and let her feelings for Eva sort themselves out.
By that afternoon, however, she felt like enjoying the warm summer day, so she caught a taxi to the huge cemetery where they’d visited the graves of Sarah Bernhardt and Gertrude Stein.
Fields of graves stretched before Brigitte. Cast-iron signposts pointed her down the gray cobblestone street to her right, where she picked up a map in the conservation office. Then she sat nearby and plotted her course. On her earlier visit, she’d noticed several women she wanted to pay homage to.
As she strolled through the grounds and enjoyed the solitude, she stopped each time she saw a familiar name, until finally she reached a large, plain granite tomb with only one simple engraving: HERE LIES COLETTE, 1873–1954.
No cross, no religious symbol.
Colette had divorced two of her three husbands, so the church wouldn’t participate in her official state burial, the first one that had ever honored a Frenchwoman.
Running her hand over the cold, smooth granite, Brigitte tried to contact Colette’s spirit. 1873-1954. If Brigitte had visited Paris when she was seventeen, she could have actually met Colette.
Brigitte sat on a marble bench near the grave, concentrating on what she knew about this remarkable woman. What would such a meeting have been like? Her strange experiences here in Paris didn’t frighten or upset her like they had when they first occurred. In fact, she’d begun to find them interesting and wondered if she could somehow call them up at will. She sat there as if meditating, and finally, slowly, the sun dimmed, and she seemed to mentally hurtle back through time.
She strolled down the street near the Louvre and noticed two women wearing dresses with midcalf full skirts over petticoats, emphasizing their tiny waistlines. And hats—large ones that completely shaded their faces. She really was back in the fifties, she thought as she entered the quiet, secluded gardens of the Palais Royal. There, she headed for the most famous restaurant on the grounds, the Grand Véfour.
The maître d’ seated her at Colette’s customary table with a flourish. She looked around at her elaborate gold and red surroundings, ordered a glass of Burgundy, and watched Colette arrive in her wheelchair, her sea-green eyes sparkling.
“Ah, you’re drinking wine from my part of France. Nothing like it,” Colette said.
“Yes, it’s delicious.”
“Of course. Wine is the drink of the gods.” She held up her glass in a toast to Brigitte. “But let’s eat. I recommend anything with truffles.”
“Truffles? I’ve never had them.”
“Of course not. You’re an American, aren’t you? You know nothing of fine food.”
Brigitte wanted to mention the creoles and étouffées she loved but restrained herself. This woman was rather awe-inspiring.
“Then try the lobster medley in wine sauce and lamb chops and finish with some ice cream and pastries.” Colette’s spirits seemed to rise as she mentioned each item, and Brigitte admired her joyful attitude.
“What can I do for you, my dear?” Colette asked after they ordered. “You must have arranged this unusual meeting for some reason.”
Brigitte scrambled for a reply. She didn’t want to miss this opportunity to talk freely with someone like Colette. “I wanted to ask, did anyone ever reject you?”
Colette propped her heart-shaped face in her hands and looked thoughtful. “Do you mean in a personal relationship or in a public situation?”
“Both.”
“Yes. My first two husbands rejected me.” Colette’s gaze was direct and serious, yet seemed somehow playful and flirtatious.
“Why? And how did you cope?”
The waiter quickly returned with their meals, and Colette forked a duck-liver ravioli covered with a truffle emulsion cream. “Mmm. Delicious.”
Brigitte took a bite of her lobster, which was as appealing as Colette had promised.
Colette glanced up after she’d taken several bites. “Oh, sorry. I was a very unpolished country girl, and my manners haven’t improved much. What did you ask?”
“About rejection.”
Colette grew thoughtful. “As I’m sure you’re aware, when my first husband finally discovered my talent for writing, he encouraged me to pen my series of Claudine novels, based on my schoolgirl years, and to spice them with lesbian sexual adventures.”
Brigitte nodded. “I’ve read every one in the series.”
“He introduced me to the literary society of Paris and taught me a lot, but he couldn’t stop having affairs with other women.” She popped another ravioli into her mouth. “During the last years of our marriage, he practically pushed me into a liaison with an older woman, and he finally moved in with a much younger one.” She sighed. “I could write a book about rejection, and probably have.”
Brigitte finished her lobster while Colette polished off the last ravioli on her plate and motioned for the nearby waiter to take it away.
“But why would you ask me such a question?” Colette looked around expectantly at another waiter, who was approaching with their main course.
After the waiter set a plate down in front of her, Brigitte said, “I’ve felt accepted by only a few people in my personal life, but in my profession, I’ve always been extremely popular.” Brigitte toyed with the piece of lamb on the plate in front of her.
“And? Colette looked at her, clearly impatient to begin her main course.
Brigitte felt silly. “Since I began working, no one ever turned down an invitation from me, because I’d never asked anyone to do something with me. Until recently. And when a woman did turn me down, I didn’t know how to act. The rejection almost devastated me, even though she later agreed to spend the evening with me.”
Colette lowered her fork and grasped Brigitte’s hand in her doughy one. “Life happens, my dear. Let each of your experiences strengthen you. That’s what I did.”
But Brigitte couldn’t accept such advice easily. “Don’t you regret marrying your first husband and living with him, just to have him treat you so badly?”
“Heavens, no. We married when I was twenty and divorced seventeen years later. But with him, I learned I could write and that I had to be myself.” She looked thoughtful. “Becoming independent was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Without being rejected, I’d never have learned how to be on my own.” She took a bite of her own lamb chop and, after she finished chewing, quirked her small lips with contentment.
They ate in silence, and eventually Colette looked up from her plate and put down her fork. “You asked me about public rejection too. I have a theory about that. After we separated, I continued my affair for a number of years. I’d decided to become an actress to support myself, and my lover wanted to act in a play with me. I suppose you’ve heard how she appeared onstage at the Moulin Rouge as a male archaeologist and slowly unwrapped me.”
“Oh yes, the performance is infamous. You played a mummy she’d discovered, and after she removed your bandages, there you stood in a scanty Cleopatra costume.”
Colette guffawed. “That’s right. My curly hair was frizzed out like a burning bush, and she and I kissed long and passionately.” Her green eyes sparkled with mischief. “The audience erupted, and the police shut down the production. Talk about public rejection.”
After they’d had a long laugh together, Brigitte finally sobered enough to ask, “How did that experience affect you?”
“I was about your age when it happened, and later I realized that, for women, sex is one of the only ways we can truly assert ourselves.”
“What do you mean?” Rosa had once said nearly the same thing.
“Men have seen us as the objects of their desire for so long, the only way we can convince them we aren’t what they expect is to turn the tables on them.” Colette sounded defiant and unapologetic. “By pursuing my own desire for a woman, or for whomever I craved, and by expressing my own sexual instincts, I discovered and won my own independence.”
“And that was enough to satisfy you?” Brigitte knew she was being presumptuous, but this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Colette didn’t falter, yet her expression softened. “Throughout all my experiences, all I ever wanted was someone to love, who would love and accept me in return.”
“And your third husband does all that?” This woman, one of the most famous people in France, wanted exactly what Brigitte did, which gave Brigitte hope that perhaps she could find the kind of love Colette had.
The dessert course arrived, and Colette stared at it with appreciation. “Yes. He and my writing make my life worth living. Don’t be afraid to be rejected, and someday you’ll come across someone to love who will accept you for who you are. Never hide yourself.” Colette dipped a spoon into her ice cream. “And now it’s time for you to leave. Thank you for keeping an old woman company. And enjoy your time in Paris.”
Brigitte emerged from her trancelike state and shook her head to clear it. She admired Colette’s will to survive and envied her happiness with her third husband.
That night in Nohant, when Brigitte had confessed what she’d been before she came to Paris, she’d expected Eva to reject her. But Eva had surprised her, just as she’d surprised her by accepting her invitation to go listen to jazz last night. And their tango together afterward had made her hope Eva might grow to care about her. But was that simply lust and pride of possession on Eva’s part?
When the tango music and their dance had ended last night, Brigitte hadn’t wanted to sever their connection, even as distant and seemingly cool as it had become after Eva had questioned her about Rosa. The pair of them had been so separate and remote, like twin Eiffel Towers, standing side by side. But would they be able to move any closer to each other than they had last night? If Eva truly had been able to accept Brigitte’s past, they just might be able to follow their mutual passion to a satisfying end.
Brigitte felt optimistic as she blew a kiss of thanks toward Colette’s tombstone and left.
Chapter Twenty-three
“What time does the flea market open this Saturday?” Brigitte twisted the telephone cord through her fingers as she lounged in bed and talked to Eva. They’d spoken on the phone several times during the week but hadn’t seen each other since last Saturday night. Brigitte was more than ready.
“Nine. If you’re looking for bargains, you’ll want to be there then. If you just want to have a good time, ten thirty or eleven is fine. But mornings are definitely the best. This Saturday afternoon will be especially crowded because a lot of people will probably still be celebrating Bastille Day. Unless they drink entirely too much Friday, they’ll be up and ready to go again after noon.”
“That’s right.” Brigitte felt unaccountably lonely. “I plan to walk over and see a little of that huge military parade on the Champs Élyssés tomorrow. And I want to watch some of the fireworks all over the city to see how they compare to our American Fourth of July ones.”
Eva sighed. “Wish we could watch them together, but I’ll be corralling a group of students.” Her voice took on its tour-guide tone of instructiveness. “Remember not to bring your passport to the flea market Saturday, and carry what cash you think you’ll need in a money belt.”
“I know about the pickpockets. You warned us enough during the tour.”
“I’m sorry. Repeating myself seems to be an occupational hazard.”
Brigitte laughed. “Forget it. I understand. As to our meeting time, you should know by now I’d rather sleep late than hunt a bargain. What if we rendezvous somewhere near the place about eleven?”
“Sounds good.” Eva seemed excited as she gave Brigitte travel directions and designated a specific meeting place. “I’ll be wearing a green blouse.”
“Okay. Be on the lookout. I’ll be in red, and I’ll try to be on time.”
Eva laughed. “I’ll believe that when I see it. See you later.”
Brigitte slowly replaced the receiver on its cradle and stretched back onto her fluffy pillows. She and Eva had come a long way since that first day in the library just a month ago.
Tomorrow should be perfect. Brigitte could wake up and dress as slowly as she wanted, and Eva could get up early and be there as soon as the vendors at Les Puces, as the locals called the flea market, set up their wares. She’d said she was looking for a special birthday gift for Jeanne and wanted to find it at the best price possible. If she and Eva could arrange all their meetings like this one, they might manage to form a relationship that suited both of them.
