Parisian Promises by Cecilia Velástegui

we?”
    â€œYeah, OK,” Karen said, sounding as reluctant as she felt.
    Madame sashayed up to her.
    â€œKaren,” she whispered sweetly, “you must always respond with equal charm to a toast. For example, you might say, ‘Chère Madame, to our beloved countries,’ and then raise your glass daintily.”
    As much as they liked Madame’s eccentricity, both Lola and Annie wanted this cocktail toast to speed by.
    â€œTo France,” they said in unison, and downed their drinks. But Madame was in chatty mood.
    â€œLet’s agree to not talk about the bombings of late, shall we?”
    This comment piqued Annie’s curiosity. “Madame, why do you think these bombings are taking place? Who’s to blame?”
    â€œPfft.” Madame shrugged her shoulders. “I had hoped not to talk about this topic.” She adjusted her pencil skirt and sank into a Louis XVI chair, the tapered wooden legs of which had been gnawed through the decades by Madame’s many past dogs. “People come to Paris so that their voices can be heard around the world. We get all sorts of international conferences and so forth. Why, this past January delegates from your country, South Vietnam, North Vietnam, and the Vietcong’s Provisional Revolutionaries met here for the Paris Peace Accords, and they signed an end to your country’s involvement in the Vietnam War.”
    Madame brushed phantom dust from her jacket and beamed at them, her head erect. “ Enfin , you see, Paris is the center of the world.”
    â€œBut why all the bombings in Paris now?” Annie wanted this wasted time to count for something, so she might as well get some useful information out of the old lady.
    â€œIt’s not just Paris, my dear. There are insane revolutionaries all over the world now. They wish to change the world order. Oh, it’s just too convoluted. We’ve barely recovered from the Second World War, and now it’s one side cheering for anti-imperialism, an end to colonialism, left-wing politics.” Her shoulders slumped, and she dropped her high-heeled shoes onto the floor. “It’s the red faction of this, and pro-group of that! And on the other side is a cabal of conservative media, pro-business, police brutality, and who knows what other fascist evils. Look at what’s happening in Spain, Germany, Italy, all over, yes! Even in your own country!”
    The three young American women were speechless. They had thought their housemother out of touch––loony, even––but she’d just summarized the global state of affairs rather succinctly.
    â€œSo, you say today’s bombing was near here, right?” Karen persisted.
    Madame was up, barefoot, walking up to her Art Deco mirror bar to pour herself another glass of Armagnac. She studied the old, stained bottle label––1908 B. Gelas et Fils, Vieil Armagnac––and she cackled at her sorry state of affairs. She’d been refilling the old bottle with cheap spirits for years. Finally, she replied, “Yes, the bombing was a little too close for comfort. Apparently some tall man blew himself up in the cellar of an ancient building near the Rue Censier.”
    â€œBut that … that’s just a few blocks away!” Karen was wide-eyed.
    Madame guzzled her Armagnac and let out a belch. “Can you imagine all the Bordeaux wine bottles exploding in the cellar?” she sighed. “Their owners are in deep purple, mourning their loss, I assure you. Why, we French cherish our wines the way we cherish our dogs.”
    She plopped down on her Recamier-style lounge chair, and waved a hand at Lola.
    â€œ Ma belle rousse , be a darling and go fetch my petite Fifi from that peasant of a concierge, please.”
    Annie and Karen stood up, taking this as their cue to leave the salon, but Madame was having none of it.
    â€œYou must stay and chat with your hostess, n’est-ce