A good friend once told me I hadn’t got over the death of my father. That I would always struggle with grief if I didn’t face the conflicts stirred by his passing. I’d challenge her to judge me now, then. Wasn’t this authentic? The bewildered widow cartwheeling against the unexpectedly open door? It’s a brilliant quote though not mine. A novelist, I think. But it defines me, all at sea, unbalanced in mind and body, arms flailing.

Mike was thirty-eight. He went into hospital for a routine procedure and never came out. It wasn’t even the procedure that killed him. No, that was undertaken by a filthy bacterium, rotting his body, turning it black, green and purple. The coffin had to be sealed and the body burnt, of course.

So here I am, still flip-flopping, away from all that’s familiar. I couldn’t bear to stay. The irony is I’d forgotten it’s called the City of Love. I see it everywhere, slicing into my bruised heart. I wonder how damaged, how broken, it really is. The squeezing and clenching must surely have an effect.

The café is too warm, stuffy. I’ve removed my overcoat but now I’m wrestling with a clammy scarf, wrenching the damn thing over my head and ruining any semblance of poise. I sit heavily, eyes down, as I summon calm and the dispersion of body heat. My cheeks are still burning as my attention is drawn to a velvety voice. It’s not the same but similar to Mike’s. My heart performs its ritual convulsion. I raise my eyes and observe a young couple. He’s tall, blond, earnest and tilting his head to gain eye contact with his companion. He has something important to say to her. The girl looks younger, edgier and uncertain. I can see she is chewing her lip and finding his gaze discomforting. She’s picking at fingernails that poke through fingerless gloves. Strands of purple hair spike through a ragged beanie.

Of course, I can’t tell what he’s saying. That’s why I’m in Paris, to learn. But it doesn’t take much imagination. He’s entreating, laying bare his feelings about her. You can tell by his tone and gestures. The desperate attempts to draw her in, convince her of his ardour, his integrity. Because he looks like a decent chap. All clean cut, pressed and considerate. He’s not baited by her indifference simply persevering in his quiet, respectful way. She, all the while, shifting and plucking at her clothes, at herself.

I can’t stop watching. Will he succeed in convincing this skittish colt? I have my doubts and I’m right. She jumps from her seat, avoids his outstretched hands and shakes her head. He pleads and I capture the unfamiliar words as a whole, indivisible sound bite, like remembering a strange incantation, ‘Je t'aimerai jusqu'au jour où je mourrai.’ And her reply, something similar, yet hurled back at him, ‘Je vais mourir avant de t'aimer’.

I am dumbfounded, shocked by her vocal attack. So is he. His eyes follow her departure, filled with confusion and self-consciousness. Because everyone is watching now. They’ve caused quite a scene. I pull out my notebook and laboriously replicate the plea and riposte in phonetic script, to better remember this surprising encounter. But I recognise the verb, ‘amour’. Love. Maybe it will be something I show my French teacher. Ask him to translate it for me, so I can understand the entirety of what was said. Not straight away, naturally. I’ve only just received word that he’s accepted the contract. Later. When we’ve met and got to know each other.

I put my notebook away and get up to leave before realising I haven’t even ordered my coffee.

***

The doorbell startles me. I’m so unused to visitors these days. I rise too quickly and sway towards the hallway, ramming my knee into a hat stand. The pain explodes, pouring from my body in beads of sweat. I swipe at them and grit my teeth.

I swing the door open and there he is. The tall, blond, earnest young man from the cafe. It is over two weeks since I sat like a voyeur on his dissemblance. My cheeks colour with shame. He has no memory of me, of course, being so engrossed in his own tragedy. I wonder what he makes of me; an older woman blushing in his presence. His smile is kind, but his head dips and I know I’ve embarrassed him. I hesitate, then wave him reluctantly into my lounge room with its detritus of the lone occupant: the stagnant coffee cup, the untidy fan of magazines and newspapers, the dust. I hobble after him.

His English is excellent so the formalities flow easily. I keep my story short and without pathos. I tell him I’m here to learn spoken conversational French, to be competent enough to read everyday signage, instructions and the like. I have no lofty aspirations. He is confident he can help. He has some sort of teaching qualification and offers lessons of this type to supplement his higher studies at the Sorbonne. I guess at his age. Twenty-six? Maybe twenty-seven? I wonder again about the prickly woman who so captured his heart. Does it ache with loss, like mine?

I have no intention of telling him about Mike. It is irrelevant, a self-indulgence that alters a dynamic. Or so I’ve noticed. Death repels some, understandably, but attracts others who dig into your feelings, revelling in the vicarious suffering. It perplexes me, frankly, though my good friend would probably accuse me of the former. Being an avoider, that is, and no help to the bereaved at all. So, the subject is taboo, unmentioned. I am a single woman determined to improve herself with a course of language instruction. And quickly. I’ll not be here for long. Phillipe – that’s his name – is friendly, open and uninquisitive about my past. Perfect.

We agree to start there and then for there’s still time to accomplish something today. I don my coat and we walk to the corner store. I can’t help myself. The café is right there, next door. A cup of coffee, I suggest? He hesitates and counters with the benefits of learning the names of grocery items. I nod and follow him inside the supermarket. I bite my lip and berate myself. If I ever want those sentences translated, this isn’t the way to go about it. Not now I know those words belong to him. And her.

I pull myself erect and focus. He is asking me what types of food I cook. I almost laugh. Cook? These days? It seems such a pointless exercise. I force myself not to roll my eyes, clear my throat and consider the question. Pies, curry from a jar, breaded fish and frozen chips. I want to laugh again. How uninspired and Australian. What will he make of a person who made no effort even when she had a loved one to care for? I cock my head to cover the embarrassing pause, trying desperately to remember something more sophisticated. Cordon bleu.

‘Coq au vin’, I blurt, realising too late, how cliched it sounds.

He blinks and fleetingly scrutinises my face for mockery.  ‘D’accord. So, chicken, bacon, onions, mushrooms and red wine? A good list, no? Basic foods. Excellent, Therese.’

‘I think I remember some of the names.’ I’m frantic to appear less ridiculous. ‘Is it champignon? Vin?’

‘Oui. D’accord, OK, let’s start with the vegetables – les legumes.’

***

It’s Tuesday again. I wake early, inspect my knee which is now an ugly shade of green and contemplate the morning with Phillipe. We’ve had eight lessons now, and he says I’m doing very well - très bien. My improved shopping skills are a revelation, and I willingly rise to the challenge of the local street market most days. It is heartening to be recognised, understood, and I no longer subsist on microwave dinners.  Language and superior nutrition. Who would have thought? It’s helping to keep me on an even keel. We have traveled the Metro and bus system, negotiating the ticketing system and schedule. I move differently, figuratively speaking. I still avoid the crush times but there is a confidence to my daily routine beyond the confines of my apartment.

I think about that now, departing the warm covers to scrutinise the lounge room. It needs attention. A lick and polish. Fortunately, we get coffee and croissant at the local café, so I need not dwell on the chaos in the kitchen. Yes, the same café. No, I haven’t asked him yet.

Phillip is punctual, as always. ‘Bonjour, Therese. How are you today? You’ll need your coat - manteau. It’s windy outside - il y a du vent dehors.’

I stare a fraction too long, savouring the new sound of my name. There’s a gulf between his enunciation and the anglophile whine. Even Mike made a fist of it, though he tried hard enough.

‘Oui, d’accord. Manteau, it is. God, I need a coffee. Et toi?’ I look for his reaction to my bold informality - the use of the personal pronoun. Not just any ‘you’ but special, intimate ‘you’. Though he seems distracted, I see a small twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s OK. He’s OK with the glorious intimacy of the French verb conjugation. I inhale sharply, suddenly mortified by the innuendo, turning to conceal my crimson cheeks. I rush the marble staircase, nevertheless, our gloved hands slide, stumble and touch on the intricate balustrade, shattering any hope of composure. I gulp cool fresh air as I examine these feelings, vowing they must stop. I can’t even look at Phillipe.

I pretend the wind has caused my distress and wave away his concern. ‘So, what’s on the agenda today - aujourd’hui?’ I notice the dark circles. ‘Something’s wrong,’

‘It’s nothing – rien.’

‘No, Phillipe. Forget the lesson. Let’s just drink our coffee. Chat. I learn just as much that way.’

‘Are you sure?’ He’s relieved. Something’s bothering him or keeping him awake at night.

‘Is it your work – travail?’ My stomach knots in anticipation. I try to smile, ‘Or l’amour.’

He closes his eyes. ‘Both, in a way.’

I swallow. ‘How so? If you don’t mind me asking?’

‘There’s a girl I care for, but she pushes me away. It’s so difficult when I work and feel I should be with her.’ I remember the scene in the cafe, my curiosity. Now is not the time. Perhaps there will never be. Not now I have feelings for this boy. Absurd, preposterous, perilous, whatever label you want to choose. I do know.

In a strangled voice I ask, ‘Do you need to be with her now?’ My face mocks me in the mirror opposite. Unlike my larynx, it’s a mask of inscrutability. Thank God. ‘Would you mind? I’d be so grateful, Therese.’

He rises to leave; my smile remains fixed. As soon as the door closing signals his departure, I fold like an umbrella, all energy sapped. My knee inexplicably throbs.

***

He has flowers. They’re beautiful. I take the extravagant blooms and lay them gently on the hall table. ‘These are lovely, Phillipe. Merci beaucoup.’ My heart pounds.

‘I want to thank you, Therese, for the other day. And make it up to you with a double lesson.’ His face shines. It’s as beautiful and captivating as the bouquet.

‘There’s no need, really.’ My hand rises involuntarily, and I claw at my hair, feeling patches of clammy skin. ‘Sorry, Phillipe, it’s my turn to feel a bit ….’ I choose not to describe it in either language, pulling down the corners of my mouth. ‘We could have coffee here. What d’you think?’

‘Of course. Can I make it for us? Je le ferai. Did you get that?’ His voice trails away as he bounces into the tiny kitchen.

‘You’ll do it. Very good. Thanks.’ I sink into the sofa as the coffee pot scrapes across the cast iron hob.

He ducks back, a tea towel draped over his arm. ‘Que veux-tu, Madame?’, he says, bowing.

His first use of the informal pronoun. I smile, despite myself, and reciprocate. ‘Un café blanc sans sucre, s’il tu plait.’

‘C’est arrivé.’ And so it does. On a tray. He’s managed to find two clean cups.

‘I’ll miss our usual meeting place.’

‘Only for a little while – un petit moment, oui?’

I look away on a pretext. Not hard when the floor is covered in magazines again. I take my time retrieving one, and remember his troubled love life. Will I be asking out of politeness or jealous probing?

I clear my throat and blow across the surface of my coffee, eyes dipped and concealed. ‘How are things with your girlfriend?’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘Oui. Ta petite amie?’

‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’ I look up to see puzzlement and something else. Hurt? ‘Sorry? The girl you love who pushes you away.’

He exhales, places his cup carefully and moves closer. ‘That girl is not a petite amie.’ He needs me to believe him. ‘She is my responsibility and I try to love her, but …’ His shoulders droop.

I put my coffee cup down, too. I’m confused, naturally. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘Non. That’s not why I’m here and it’s hopeless anyway. A hopeless case – un cas désespéré.’ He shifts and stares intently. ‘I’m here for you, Therese.’

‘Well, yes. Of course, our lessons.’

‘Is that all?’ His eyes haven’t left my face though mine have severed contact several times, only to be drawn back. My resistance is overruled. I can’t deal with his reciprocity, if that is what this is. He is my secret passion, not me, his. One last chance to feel my heart squeeze for the right reasons. I pale at the thought of the catastrophe I might be bringing down on us both.

‘This is all very awkward – genant, I think?’ I sound like a snob complaining about something - room service, maybe. My voice is full of disdain.

His is only a whisper. ‘Oui, genant. Me too.’ He looks away, lost and spent.

Moments pass, then he rises, swipes at the creases in his chinos and leaves me without a word.

***

In minutes, he’s back. It never occurs to me he’s behind the door, there’s no glass or spyhole. My face is ravaged – tear streaked, blotchy. He enfolds me and the tears flow again. I find myself back on the sofa, a heaving mess, comforted until the crisis passes.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ I croak, grabbing tissues to clear my tears.

‘But you feel the same, don’t you?’ He’s pleading now. I bawl again. ‘Is it our ages? I’m not so much younger. Don’t make it the obstacle, I beg you.’

I can’t reply.

‘I’ll come to Australia. I can apply for a research grant there. My professor has contacts in Sydney.’

I’m stunned by this admission that he’s considered a life for us, together. Without knowing. Without knowing about me, or Mike.

‘Please say something, Therese. Tell me you feel something. That we have a chance, at least.’

‘Who is the girl?’

He bristles. ‘Mon Dieu! That girl is my sister. She’s a drug addict. I try to help her but it’s a waste of time. Why are you so obsessed with her?’ He pulls away.

‘I saw you both, months ago, in our café. I thought she was your girlfriend and you were trying to woo her.’

‘Non! I was trying to get her to see sense and agree to rehabilitation. She ran off, as always.’ He is raking fingers through his hair.

‘I wrote down what you said to each other that day. I thought it was a doomed love affair. Your declaration of love. Her rejection.’ He frowns, trying to understand my prurient interest. It’s his life, after all. Does he see me differently now? ‘Of course, I know it was wrong, but back then I didn’t know you.’ I search for reassurance and he nods, a tiny gesture of forgiveness. ‘I intended getting it translated by my new French teacher, but he turned out to be you!’ I attempt lightness, a sense of the absurd. And isn’t it, really?

‘So, have I taught you well enough to understand it now, by yourself?’ There’s an edge there.

‘I think you said you would love her till the day you die.’

‘I did. But as you heard, she’d rather die than love me.’ He stares ahead, preoccupied.

‘Phillipe. Please. There are things you don’t know about me, things I should have told you. This is important.’ He flicks brooding eyes knowing he is about to be refused. He’s no fool. All romance is gone. ‘Please listen. This isn’t how I wanted things to be. You’re right, I have fallen for you. But I assumed it was one-sided, a stupid crush. The classic folly of the older woman and the young man.’ I pause as he heaves in a painful breath. He doesn’t want to hear this, but he must. ‘I was married until recently. My husband died during a routine procedure to harvest stem cells. He picked up a terrible bug that ate him from the inside out.’ I gulp at the memory.

Phillipe comes back to me, holds me, and strokes my thinning hair. ‘My darling. I had no idea. Why did you not say? If you need time ….’

‘But that’s just it. I don’t have time. Those stem cells were for me.’

I watch his face collapse as history repeats itself. In his beautiful, velvety voice he whispers his sister’s words, ‘Je vais mourir avant de t'aimer. I’ll die before I love you.’

We pull each other close, and I whisper back, ‘Non, mon amour. I have loved you before I die.’

THE END

Copyright © Diane Clarke 2019