You have my permission— no, my command—to seduce her,” she says with a laugh, raising her eyebrows, adding, “Good for business.”
“Do you want me to make up your face for you?” he asks. Sometimes he had done this for his mother, who was very beautiful, with her light café au lait skin, her long neck, and her large dark eyes, which she would turn on him so lovingly. He felt she loved him unconditionally. He was both her son and her confidant, her friend. She would weep over his father’s infidelity, and he would comfort her, telling her what she wanted to hear: that his father loved her, would always love her best, that she was the most beautiful.
M. nods her head. He makes her lie down on the wide bed with her head propped up on the big white pillow. He sits beside her with her makeup kit. He plucks her eyebrows and removes a hair from her chin. He thinks of the folktale of the woman who needs a love potion and has to get a whisker from the lion to obtain it. M. is quite a lion, he thinks.
He massages her skin with her anti-wrinkle cream. Then he paints her face carefully, applying makeup, masking the lines around her eyes and mouth, hiding the age spots, what the French call “the marks of the cemetery.” He outlines her eyes with kohl, rouging her cheeks, puffing powder on her nose. He helps her up and chooses a long black dress with sequins on the bodice. He does up the zipper at the back, clasps a triple string of pearls around her long neck, spreads her diaphanous scarf decorously around her thin shoulders. Hesprays a little perfume on her long neck. “Beautiful. Ravishing,” he says.
Saying, “You have made me beautiful,” M. kisses him on the lips. He stares back at her. She does, indeed, look beautiful and youthful with her white hair shimmering on her shoulders, the long black sheath of a dress that hugs her slender form, her face so skillfully made up, her arms covered with the fine silk scarf, a diamond bracelet that glints in the light. Almost he desires her.
He dresses up in the black pantsuit that she hands him from her closet. He stands beside her so that she can admire him. “
Trés chic
,” she says, smoothing down the lapel of the jacket. She takes his arm, and they walk up the road, linked together and laughing like an old married couple. They go through the revolving doors into the Closerie des Lilas at the top of the Rue d’Assas. He has seen it before, read the exorbitant prices on the menu, and imagined how many hungry Ethiopians the price of one of these dishes would feed. M. tells him famous authors have eaten here. “You can order a
bifteck à la Hemingway
, if you like,” she says, laughing.
The couple is waiting for them at the bar. Dawit is introduced to M.’s editor and publisher, Gustave, and his wife, Simone. “My most favorite people,” M. says, kissing them on both cheeks and once again. The editor is the head of the old and distinguished French publishing house that has published many of her books, a portly gentleman with a thick red neck, broken capillaries in his cheeks, small, astute, slightly slanting blue-gray eyes, and thick white hair carefully slicked back from his forehead. Dawit thinks he looks like JeanGabin, whom he has seen in a French film. He wears a shiny gray double-breasted summer suit and a signature ring on his plump pinkie.
His much younger pretty wife is dark-haired, deep-blue-eyed, and small. She lifts her pale face up to Dawit, her dark eyes sparkling with malice and interest. She wears a large square diamond on her ring finger. She writes, too, M. tells Dawit, though nonfiction.
The headwaiter ushers them to a good table on the terrace near the trellis with its climbing plants. The night is warm, the stars visible, the sky an impossible midnight blue. Dawit feels distanced from the scene. What is he doing here with these people in this strange country? He watches himself from afar, as many of the other diners do. They stare at him,
“Do you want me to make up your face for you?” he asks. Sometimes he had done this for his mother, who was very beautiful, with her light café au lait skin, her long neck, and her large dark eyes, which she would turn on him so lovingly. He felt she loved him unconditionally. He was both her son and her confidant, her friend. She would weep over his father’s infidelity, and he would comfort her, telling her what she wanted to hear: that his father loved her, would always love her best, that she was the most beautiful.
M. nods her head. He makes her lie down on the wide bed with her head propped up on the big white pillow. He sits beside her with her makeup kit. He plucks her eyebrows and removes a hair from her chin. He thinks of the folktale of the woman who needs a love potion and has to get a whisker from the lion to obtain it. M. is quite a lion, he thinks.
He massages her skin with her anti-wrinkle cream. Then he paints her face carefully, applying makeup, masking the lines around her eyes and mouth, hiding the age spots, what the French call “the marks of the cemetery.” He outlines her eyes with kohl, rouging her cheeks, puffing powder on her nose. He helps her up and chooses a long black dress with sequins on the bodice. He does up the zipper at the back, clasps a triple string of pearls around her long neck, spreads her diaphanous scarf decorously around her thin shoulders. Hesprays a little perfume on her long neck. “Beautiful. Ravishing,” he says.
Saying, “You have made me beautiful,” M. kisses him on the lips. He stares back at her. She does, indeed, look beautiful and youthful with her white hair shimmering on her shoulders, the long black sheath of a dress that hugs her slender form, her face so skillfully made up, her arms covered with the fine silk scarf, a diamond bracelet that glints in the light. Almost he desires her.
He dresses up in the black pantsuit that she hands him from her closet. He stands beside her so that she can admire him. “
Trés chic
,” she says, smoothing down the lapel of the jacket. She takes his arm, and they walk up the road, linked together and laughing like an old married couple. They go through the revolving doors into the Closerie des Lilas at the top of the Rue d’Assas. He has seen it before, read the exorbitant prices on the menu, and imagined how many hungry Ethiopians the price of one of these dishes would feed. M. tells him famous authors have eaten here. “You can order a
bifteck à la Hemingway
, if you like,” she says, laughing.
The couple is waiting for them at the bar. Dawit is introduced to M.’s editor and publisher, Gustave, and his wife, Simone. “My most favorite people,” M. says, kissing them on both cheeks and once again. The editor is the head of the old and distinguished French publishing house that has published many of her books, a portly gentleman with a thick red neck, broken capillaries in his cheeks, small, astute, slightly slanting blue-gray eyes, and thick white hair carefully slicked back from his forehead. Dawit thinks he looks like JeanGabin, whom he has seen in a French film. He wears a shiny gray double-breasted summer suit and a signature ring on his plump pinkie.
His much younger pretty wife is dark-haired, deep-blue-eyed, and small. She lifts her pale face up to Dawit, her dark eyes sparkling with malice and interest. She wears a large square diamond on her ring finger. She writes, too, M. tells Dawit, though nonfiction.
The headwaiter ushers them to a good table on the terrace near the trellis with its climbing plants. The night is warm, the stars visible, the sky an impossible midnight blue. Dawit feels distanced from the scene. What is he doing here with these people in this strange country? He watches himself from afar, as many of the other diners do. They stare at him,
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