“The Waiter” (Part III)

He returned from an appointment and found her standing, fully dressed, in the middle of the apartment. “Take me dancing,” she said, firmly.

Astonished, he looked to Mme. Bernier, who shrugged and shook her head. “It’s a miracle,” the old dear declared. “She knocked on my door and demanded that I do her hair.”

She was incandescent once more, shining bright and white beneath her skin. François was completely flummoxed. She had been asleep when he left, breathing so faintly that he worried he would be gone too long. She had gained no weight since his departure, but she was statuesque and simmering, a beauty so intense that he felt the heat where he stood. Her eyes fixed on his, fierce and drowning. “Take me, François.”

He murmured to Mme. Bernier. The old dear nodded and promptly pulled out her knitting. Odette was at the mirror above the washstand, pinning her hat in place. Her hands trembled as she worked, and it was on the tip of his tongue to caution her when she spun on her heel and flashed him her most winsome smile. There was no tremor in her voice.

“Husband, I am ready.”

She insisted on walking along the crooked street to the boulevard and across the square, rather than taking a hansom as he suggested. Odette leaned into him, less for support than from affection, he thought, since she did not drag on his arm as she often did at home. She walked with pride, head up and eyes forward except when she turned to smile at him. “You are the best man I have ever known.”

François smiled back, too anguished to speak. She complimented him and she voiced her gratitude, but she never said the words he yearned to hear. She did not believe in love; he remembered her saying. She did not believe in romance.

If only he had had more time.

They heard the Moulin well before it came into view. More than concertina and violin, the melody was layered with laughter and conversation, punctuated by crystal and crockery jostled on the trays of waiters as graceful as the dancers whirling in and out of their path. Odette quickened her pace, eager to be among them. “It’s been so long,” she said. “Hurry, François, before the music ends.”

He waved to his friends from the café, who recognized Odette and might have speculated amongst themselves though none of them showed her any disrespect. It was good to see them, they were told, clapping shoulders and shaking hands. Odette was kissed more in those moments than she had been kissed in six weeks of marriage. She bloomed from the attention—but she danced only with François.

“Are you happy, ma chèrie?” he asked during a pause for some refreshment.

“Oh, yes,” she replied, glowing with it. She had removed her hat and a curl had come loose to caress her cheek. He smoothed it back, letting his fingertips linger by her ear. Their eyes met and held, and François’ heart slammed against his ribs, then Odette broke the spell with a rueful laugh. “This café au lait is pitiful.”

“I’ll make you a proper one when we get home.”

“The boulangerie is closed.”

“I have a key.” He pictured them stealing into the darkened shop, imagined her perched on a stool while the steamer spat and hissed at his command. She would cross her legs, showing off her ankle in its neat buttoned boot, and cup her chin in her hand to admire his mastery of the machine. You have an artist’s hands, she would say, sighing as if she longed to have him touch her with them. Perhaps he would oblige, beginning with her hair, stroking his fingertips over her cheek and down her throat to the top button beneath her chin. One by one, the pearls would pop. His fingers would slip inside her collar while she untied her ribbons. Her skin would burn icy white in the subdued shadow; her hair tumbling free of its pins and over his wrists. She would stand up and kiss him, her own hands hovering at his waistcoat before she embraced him, before she covered his hands with hers and guided him in close quarters, carving a path through their clothing, their lips ever touching, her mouth open and yearning, his name an impassioned murmur deep within her throat.

“François …”

He opened his eyes. The tumult of the Moulin assaulted him and for an instant his senses were scrambled beyond comprehension. Dazed, he fixed on the eyes fixed on him. Odette, buttoned and beribboned as she had not been in his dream, had abandoned her gaiety to regard him with solemn intent.

“We must go home.”

He bumbled to his feet, muttering apologies as if his thoughts had been plain for her to see. As he rose, the pitiful café au lait sloshed into its saucer, untouched after the first imperfect sip. The cup was porcelain, white dotted with pinprick scarlet. He did not recall the ornamentation on being served, and when Odette stifled a cough with her hand, her glove came away similarly speckled.

“Mon Dieu.”

“It’s nothing,” she insisted. “I only need to rest.”

He stammered. “Of course, of course.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her in haste toward the exit. On the sidewalk, she made him pause to let her breathe. She struggled a bit, but steadied after a few focused inhales and managed a brave smile.

“There, you see?”

“I should not have brought you here,” he scolded.

“I wanted to come. Please don’t be cross, François. It’s done me a world of good, far more than being cooped up with Mme. Bernier all day. You must bring her to the Moulin when I am gone. She met her husband here, you know. She says she’s not been back since he died, but I’m sure he would not have wanted that. He would have wanted her to dance and make friends, and perhaps to meet someone else. He would have wanted her to be happy.”

François was silent. Negotiating the pavement took all his attention, especially while trying to ignore the point she had begun to make with her uncharacteristic prattling. When he said nothing, she put it so bluntly that it bruised.

“One can only grieve for so long before it becomes self-indulgence.”

* * *

Odette did not join him in the empty boulangerie. He worked the steamer methodically, focused on his hands as they measured the coffee and poured the milk, and when he tried to imagine her perched on the stool with her legs crossed and her chin cupped in her hand, he failed.

Mme. Bernier had put her to bed while he was downstairs. “Is she asleep?” he whispered, on the chance that she was.

Her eyes opened before the old dear could reply. “Not before my café au lait.”

“Madame.” With a sardonic flourish, François presented the cup on its matching saucer.

Odette did not take it. “You’re angry.”

He wanted to deny it, but could not. “Aren’t you?” he asked, instead. He set the beverage on the bedside table.

“I was,” she admitted. “Now I am simply afraid.”

“I am not angry with you, Odette.”

“I know, but I am afraid nonetheless. I don’t want to die while you are angry, François.”

“Then don’t.”

Her dark eyes filled with tears. He turned away, unable to bear it though he knew there was no manipulation. Mme. Bernier startled him at his shoulder. He had forgotten she was there, and realized now that she had become a part of their odd little family, and that her presence was welcome despite his private despair.

She took his arm and led him the few steps beyond Odette’s hearing. “Be angry afterward,” she admonished. “To be angry now does her more harm.”

François merely shook his head, helpless. He had not understood what he felt until Odette put a name to it. Identifying it seemed to empower it so that it swelled in his chest and throat, and threatened to close off his air. Tears stung his own eyes. Mme. Bernier smiled kindly and sent him across the hall to her apartment while she settled Odette for a nap.

to be continued ...