Read Online The Beautiful American by Jeanne Mackin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeanne Mackin
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American with bad French to arrange their bouquets. Refusing to acknowledge defeat, I bought a pail of red carnations, the entire thing, and walked past the Eiffel Tower to the Allée des Cygnes, where there was a miniature copy of the Statue of Liberty. I set my bucket down and, with a single red carnation between my teeth, smiled and waved at the passing tourists. I had sold half the bucket, earning about the equivalent of three dollars, when a strolling gendarme stopped and asked to see my license.
“But I don’t have one!” I said, smiling even more largely.
“Ah. Then I must give you a ticket,” said the young man.
I tried to weep for effect, but when you are young, in love, in good health, and it is a sunny day in Paris, tears do not come easily.
“Maybe just a warning?” I pleaded. I went home with a huge bouquet of the remaining carnations for our own table, and the three dollars still in my pocket, and the warm memory of that gendarme’s smile as he warned the “little American” to read the laws before she tried to set up a business again, even on a street corner.
“You don’t need to work,” Jamie said that evening after I told him about my day. “I’ll take care of us. I missed you, working by myself. Come here and give me the kiss that policeman probably expected and didn’t get. Did he? No? Then it is mine.”
Such happiness does not last. The half-life of a good, strong perfume is usually three hours. The half-life of love is measured in years, if you are lucky, not hours. But it is measured just the same.
I was in Café de Flore, drinking coffee and talking with a friend, Madeline from Albany, when the man sitting next to us put down the paper he had been reading, stood so quickly that he was unsteady on his feet, and rushed out the door.
“He’s in a hurry,” Madeline commented. She had a high-pitchedvoice that carried quite a distance, and the other diners looked up as well. Our waiter pursed his lips and blew through them, making the familiar sound of Parisian disdain. He took away the half-drunk coffee, the untasted ham and cheese baguette, but before the waiter could take the paper, I reached for it.
It was the New York Times , the Tuesday, October 29, edition.
“‘Stock Prices Slump Fourteen Billion Dollars in Nation-Wide Stampede to Unload,’” I read.
“Daddy must be so upset,” Madeline said, looking over my shoulder. “Poor old thing. Bet he’s going to cut my allowance. And I just ordered a dozen new frocks.”
“Just a dip. It’ll right itself,” Jamie said, back in our room on rue Froidevaux, across from the old cemetery. “Dad must be nervous, though,” he admitted, after he had thought about it for a moment. “I can’t go back yet, Nora. We’re okay.” When we made love that afternoon, rolling naked in the warmth of the early autumn weather, Jamie seemed a little preoccupied. “Don’t worry,” he repeated so often that I began to worry.
Soon after, Jamie had a letter from his father explaining that his monthly income would have to be reduced a little, but otherwise all was well. People would always buy bread. A month later there was another letter, saying that the Tastes-So-Good Bakery had almost defaulted on a loan and staff were being laid off.
“Come home,” his father wrote. “It’s time.” Jamie grimaced and tugged at his ear, the way he did when he was upset. “No,” he said back to the letter.
We were sitting on a bench in the Tuileries gardens, feeding to pigeons the crumbs of our leftover lunch. It was two days before Christmas and the gardens were browned and empty of color and scent. Jamie hadn’t received his money from home for the monthand we had enough cash to last one more month, if we were very careful.
The planned exhibit of the Pont Neuf Exiles had already been called off for lack of funds, and the sculptor had taken a boat back to the States. Jamie wasn’t smiling as often as he used to.
“What else does your
“But I don’t have one!” I said, smiling even more largely.
“Ah. Then I must give you a ticket,” said the young man.
I tried to weep for effect, but when you are young, in love, in good health, and it is a sunny day in Paris, tears do not come easily.
“Maybe just a warning?” I pleaded. I went home with a huge bouquet of the remaining carnations for our own table, and the three dollars still in my pocket, and the warm memory of that gendarme’s smile as he warned the “little American” to read the laws before she tried to set up a business again, even on a street corner.
“You don’t need to work,” Jamie said that evening after I told him about my day. “I’ll take care of us. I missed you, working by myself. Come here and give me the kiss that policeman probably expected and didn’t get. Did he? No? Then it is mine.”
Such happiness does not last. The half-life of a good, strong perfume is usually three hours. The half-life of love is measured in years, if you are lucky, not hours. But it is measured just the same.
I was in Café de Flore, drinking coffee and talking with a friend, Madeline from Albany, when the man sitting next to us put down the paper he had been reading, stood so quickly that he was unsteady on his feet, and rushed out the door.
“He’s in a hurry,” Madeline commented. She had a high-pitchedvoice that carried quite a distance, and the other diners looked up as well. Our waiter pursed his lips and blew through them, making the familiar sound of Parisian disdain. He took away the half-drunk coffee, the untasted ham and cheese baguette, but before the waiter could take the paper, I reached for it.
It was the New York Times , the Tuesday, October 29, edition.
“‘Stock Prices Slump Fourteen Billion Dollars in Nation-Wide Stampede to Unload,’” I read.
“Daddy must be so upset,” Madeline said, looking over my shoulder. “Poor old thing. Bet he’s going to cut my allowance. And I just ordered a dozen new frocks.”
“Just a dip. It’ll right itself,” Jamie said, back in our room on rue Froidevaux, across from the old cemetery. “Dad must be nervous, though,” he admitted, after he had thought about it for a moment. “I can’t go back yet, Nora. We’re okay.” When we made love that afternoon, rolling naked in the warmth of the early autumn weather, Jamie seemed a little preoccupied. “Don’t worry,” he repeated so often that I began to worry.
Soon after, Jamie had a letter from his father explaining that his monthly income would have to be reduced a little, but otherwise all was well. People would always buy bread. A month later there was another letter, saying that the Tastes-So-Good Bakery had almost defaulted on a loan and staff were being laid off.
“Come home,” his father wrote. “It’s time.” Jamie grimaced and tugged at his ear, the way he did when he was upset. “No,” he said back to the letter.
We were sitting on a bench in the Tuileries gardens, feeding to pigeons the crumbs of our leftover lunch. It was two days before Christmas and the gardens were browned and empty of color and scent. Jamie hadn’t received his money from home for the monthand we had enough cash to last one more month, if we were very careful.
The planned exhibit of the Pont Neuf Exiles had already been called off for lack of funds, and the sculptor had taken a boat back to the States. Jamie wasn’t smiling as often as he used to.
“What else does your
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