What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1) by Alix Nichols Page A
Authors: Alix Nichols
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want to confess that she missed her, because she didn’t
really, not anymore. But she wanted to say something about her, share a tidbit
that wouldn’t mean much but would still define her.
“My mother was beautiful. Well, she still is, unless she’s been doctoring
her photos.”
“Does she look like you?”
“No, not at all. She’s tall, racy, and has the highest cheekbones. She
used to wear such beautiful clothes. And expensive French perfume at all times,
reapplied throughout the day. It made me nauseous.”
Rob raised an eyebrow. “Impossible. Must have been a Chinese copy.”
“I doubt it. In any event, it really made me sick. But Dad loved it and
Mom loved it, so I learned to breathe through the mouth around Mom.”
She fell silent. The little tidbit was turning too intimate. Worse still,
she was tempted to continue and spill the whole story to Rob. But she couldn’t.
Things were so complicated and twisted between her parents compared to normal
ones. Including the ‘normally’ divorced ones. She hadn’t allowed herself any
indiscretions in her seven years in Switzerland, not even with Gerhard. She had
no reason to open up to Rob. If only he cracked a joke now and made light of
her words! But he didn’t. He just gave her a funny look and smiled.
They continued their walk in companionable silence, and Lena couldn’t
stop thinking about her mom. She had a mane of shiny golden locks that cost her
biweekly salon visits to maintain. With hindsight, Lena figured those visits
had been Mom’s pretext to be with her lover, the man Dad later caught her with.
Which meant Mom’s hair must have been naturally gorgeous, just like the rest of
her. What a shame that the only thing Lena had inherited from Mom was her
vulnerability.
Rob interrupted Lena’s self-deprecating musings. “Look! Isn’t this your
poet’s book? Marina something?”
Lena focused on the stall before them and gasped. It was a Tsvetaeva book
all right. Better still, it turned out to be an early French translation of her
poems. Thrilled, she bought it without the slightest attempt at negotiating.
She rushed to the nearest bench and began to examine her acquisition. Rob sat
next to her, watching her with a smile.
“Oh my God,” she gushed. “This is the first French translation of
Tsvetaeva’s poems by Elsa Triolet, published by Gallimard in 1952. Rob, this is
a treasure!”
Rob grinned, pleased about his discovery.
“Triolet has the merit of being the first to introduce the French reader
to Tsvetaeva’s poetry. Though I must admit, I’m not a huge fan of hers.”
“Why don’t you like her?”
“She dropped the rhyme and changed the rhythm of the poems like practically
all of Tsvetaeva’s other translators.” Lena frowned disapprovingly.
“And that’s very bad because . . .” Rob drew out
the last word.
“Because those are essential to her poetry. She has only a handful of
poems without a strong rhyme and none without a strict meter.”
“I don’t know much about poetry. But aren’t rhyme and meter things of the
past?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, yes, and for some time now. But that’s the thing.
Tsvetaeva insisted on rhyme and meter in an age when most poets wrote in free
verse. She produced such delightful trochees and iambs. I wish you spoke
Russian to appreciate their beauty! They are so musical; it’s almost easier to
sing them than to recite them.”
“Will you sing one for me?”
“Believe me, you don’t want to hear me sing. It may traumatize you for
the rest of your life.”
“I’m tone deaf, which gives me natural protection against bad singing.”
She shook her head. “I have a rule. Never sing in front of another
sentient being.”
“OK. Then read me one.”
Lena leafed through the book, hesitating on some pages, and then closed
it. “They are just all so . . . ornate. This is my other problem
with the French translations of Tsvetaeva. They are too decorative, too
elaborate. Her
really, not anymore. But she wanted to say something about her, share a tidbit
that wouldn’t mean much but would still define her.
“My mother was beautiful. Well, she still is, unless she’s been doctoring
her photos.”
“Does she look like you?”
“No, not at all. She’s tall, racy, and has the highest cheekbones. She
used to wear such beautiful clothes. And expensive French perfume at all times,
reapplied throughout the day. It made me nauseous.”
Rob raised an eyebrow. “Impossible. Must have been a Chinese copy.”
“I doubt it. In any event, it really made me sick. But Dad loved it and
Mom loved it, so I learned to breathe through the mouth around Mom.”
She fell silent. The little tidbit was turning too intimate. Worse still,
she was tempted to continue and spill the whole story to Rob. But she couldn’t.
Things were so complicated and twisted between her parents compared to normal
ones. Including the ‘normally’ divorced ones. She hadn’t allowed herself any
indiscretions in her seven years in Switzerland, not even with Gerhard. She had
no reason to open up to Rob. If only he cracked a joke now and made light of
her words! But he didn’t. He just gave her a funny look and smiled.
They continued their walk in companionable silence, and Lena couldn’t
stop thinking about her mom. She had a mane of shiny golden locks that cost her
biweekly salon visits to maintain. With hindsight, Lena figured those visits
had been Mom’s pretext to be with her lover, the man Dad later caught her with.
Which meant Mom’s hair must have been naturally gorgeous, just like the rest of
her. What a shame that the only thing Lena had inherited from Mom was her
vulnerability.
Rob interrupted Lena’s self-deprecating musings. “Look! Isn’t this your
poet’s book? Marina something?”
Lena focused on the stall before them and gasped. It was a Tsvetaeva book
all right. Better still, it turned out to be an early French translation of her
poems. Thrilled, she bought it without the slightest attempt at negotiating.
She rushed to the nearest bench and began to examine her acquisition. Rob sat
next to her, watching her with a smile.
“Oh my God,” she gushed. “This is the first French translation of
Tsvetaeva’s poems by Elsa Triolet, published by Gallimard in 1952. Rob, this is
a treasure!”
Rob grinned, pleased about his discovery.
“Triolet has the merit of being the first to introduce the French reader
to Tsvetaeva’s poetry. Though I must admit, I’m not a huge fan of hers.”
“Why don’t you like her?”
“She dropped the rhyme and changed the rhythm of the poems like practically
all of Tsvetaeva’s other translators.” Lena frowned disapprovingly.
“And that’s very bad because . . .” Rob drew out
the last word.
“Because those are essential to her poetry. She has only a handful of
poems without a strong rhyme and none without a strict meter.”
“I don’t know much about poetry. But aren’t rhyme and meter things of the
past?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, yes, and for some time now. But that’s the thing.
Tsvetaeva insisted on rhyme and meter in an age when most poets wrote in free
verse. She produced such delightful trochees and iambs. I wish you spoke
Russian to appreciate their beauty! They are so musical; it’s almost easier to
sing them than to recite them.”
“Will you sing one for me?”
“Believe me, you don’t want to hear me sing. It may traumatize you for
the rest of your life.”
“I’m tone deaf, which gives me natural protection against bad singing.”
She shook her head. “I have a rule. Never sing in front of another
sentient being.”
“OK. Then read me one.”
Lena leafed through the book, hesitating on some pages, and then closed
it. “They are just all so . . . ornate. This is my other problem
with the French translations of Tsvetaeva. They are too decorative, too
elaborate. Her
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