guilt …” Julia said.
“No,” Lydie said. “Why did he do it?”
The line was silent, except for static that might have been the Atlantic Ocean rolling over the wires. “I don’t know,” Julia said helplessly.
“I’m sorry,” Lydie said. “I know you wanted to hear happy memories.”
Then, with marked cheeriness, Julia laughed a little. “Oh, honey. I
thank
you. You’re the only one I can talk to.”
“Anytime,” Lydie said.
“That’s the spirit,” Julia said. “How’s Michael?”
“He’s fine.”
“Of course he is—he’s wonderful. He’s one in a million. Give him my love, will you?”
“Okay. I miss you, Mom,” Lydie said. Back in New York they had talked all the time—sometimes every day.
“And I miss you, sweetheart,” Julia replied.
Aren’t you amazed how people can change and how differently things come into one’s head?
—T O F RANÇOISE -M ARGUERITE , M ARCH 1680
M ICHAEL M C B RIDE LOVED someone new, and she didn’t know it. She was French; she worked at the Louvre. Every morning, walking along the Seine from his apartment to the Louvre, he had fantasies about her. When he actually saw her, however, they barely spoke. Her project was entirely different from his. Her name was Anne.
Tonight he walked the route with Lydie, on their way to a performance of Molière at the Comèdie Française, and it felt strange; all the familiar sights reminded him of his feelings for Anne.
“Don’t you want to take a cab?” he asked. “It’s a long way.”
Lydie looked down at her new open-toed shoes. Her feet blistered easily; to accommodate her love of walking Michael kept a supply of Band-Aids in his wallet.
“Let’s walk,” Lydie said. “My feet will be fine.”
But twenty minutes after leaving the apartment, she was limping,barefoot, carrying her shoes. They walked along the quai, and Michael watched the way she stepped carefully from cobble to cobble, as if they were stepping-stones across a stream. Gentle waves lapped barges moored to the bank; bicycles and pots of spring flowers covered the deck of one, a striped umbrella shaded the table on the deck of another, but the boats were deserted. Many mornings Michael had imagined himself and Anne leaving Paris on one of those barges.
“Would you ever want to take a barge trip?” he asked Lydie.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Don’t they usually stay on the rivers?”
The answer made Michael sad. He knew Lydie loved the beach, hated taking vacations inland. Now that he had begun facing the flaws in his marriage, it seemed he could see only Lydie’s faults. As if he had been blind to them for so long, blindly in love with her, her small faults seemed major. For example, that she couldn’t see the romance of taking a barge through Burgundy in the fall. Of bicycling through vineyards each day.
So he brought Anne into the vivid daydream: chilly air, the spicy scent of ripe grapes, crimson leaves and gold grasses, strenuous exercise that would make them feel they deserved the fine dinners those barges were reputed to serve every night. He imagined tasting wines with dinner: wines produced by the vineyards they had visited that day. He could see the wine, its color somewhere between orange and ruby, served in a ballon—a glass as big as a crystal ball. Walking along the quai he felt himself get hard, and he knew why: a dinner like that on one of these barges with Anne would make him feel like loving her all night long.
Michael took Lydie’s hand, as if that could make up for the way he felt about Anne. He knew that his marriage would probably end in Paris. He had wanted the Paris year to be special for him and Lydie; he had thought that coming might spark him to loveher the way he once had. Instead, it had left him excited, churned up, with no one to share it with. He had loved Lydie so much, and she had loved him back. But now she loved her family’s drama more than she loved him; sometimes he considered
“No,” Lydie said. “Why did he do it?”
The line was silent, except for static that might have been the Atlantic Ocean rolling over the wires. “I don’t know,” Julia said helplessly.
“I’m sorry,” Lydie said. “I know you wanted to hear happy memories.”
Then, with marked cheeriness, Julia laughed a little. “Oh, honey. I
thank
you. You’re the only one I can talk to.”
“Anytime,” Lydie said.
“That’s the spirit,” Julia said. “How’s Michael?”
“He’s fine.”
“Of course he is—he’s wonderful. He’s one in a million. Give him my love, will you?”
“Okay. I miss you, Mom,” Lydie said. Back in New York they had talked all the time—sometimes every day.
“And I miss you, sweetheart,” Julia replied.
Aren’t you amazed how people can change and how differently things come into one’s head?
—T O F RANÇOISE -M ARGUERITE , M ARCH 1680
M ICHAEL M C B RIDE LOVED someone new, and she didn’t know it. She was French; she worked at the Louvre. Every morning, walking along the Seine from his apartment to the Louvre, he had fantasies about her. When he actually saw her, however, they barely spoke. Her project was entirely different from his. Her name was Anne.
Tonight he walked the route with Lydie, on their way to a performance of Molière at the Comèdie Française, and it felt strange; all the familiar sights reminded him of his feelings for Anne.
“Don’t you want to take a cab?” he asked. “It’s a long way.”
Lydie looked down at her new open-toed shoes. Her feet blistered easily; to accommodate her love of walking Michael kept a supply of Band-Aids in his wallet.
“Let’s walk,” Lydie said. “My feet will be fine.”
But twenty minutes after leaving the apartment, she was limping,barefoot, carrying her shoes. They walked along the quai, and Michael watched the way she stepped carefully from cobble to cobble, as if they were stepping-stones across a stream. Gentle waves lapped barges moored to the bank; bicycles and pots of spring flowers covered the deck of one, a striped umbrella shaded the table on the deck of another, but the boats were deserted. Many mornings Michael had imagined himself and Anne leaving Paris on one of those barges.
“Would you ever want to take a barge trip?” he asked Lydie.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Don’t they usually stay on the rivers?”
The answer made Michael sad. He knew Lydie loved the beach, hated taking vacations inland. Now that he had begun facing the flaws in his marriage, it seemed he could see only Lydie’s faults. As if he had been blind to them for so long, blindly in love with her, her small faults seemed major. For example, that she couldn’t see the romance of taking a barge through Burgundy in the fall. Of bicycling through vineyards each day.
So he brought Anne into the vivid daydream: chilly air, the spicy scent of ripe grapes, crimson leaves and gold grasses, strenuous exercise that would make them feel they deserved the fine dinners those barges were reputed to serve every night. He imagined tasting wines with dinner: wines produced by the vineyards they had visited that day. He could see the wine, its color somewhere between orange and ruby, served in a ballon—a glass as big as a crystal ball. Walking along the quai he felt himself get hard, and he knew why: a dinner like that on one of these barges with Anne would make him feel like loving her all night long.
Michael took Lydie’s hand, as if that could make up for the way he felt about Anne. He knew that his marriage would probably end in Paris. He had wanted the Paris year to be special for him and Lydie; he had thought that coming might spark him to loveher the way he once had. Instead, it had left him excited, churned up, with no one to share it with. He had loved Lydie so much, and she had loved him back. But now she loved her family’s drama more than she loved him; sometimes he considered
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