Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel)

  Bender at the Bon Parisien

  By Pres Maxson

  Text copyright © 2015 Pres Maxson

  All Rights Reserved

  Edited by Jennifer Maxson and Lauren Lastowka

  Cover design by Jennifer Law and Griffen Tull

  For Mollie and Cece

  Table of Contents

  Chapter I.

  Chapter II.

  Chapter III.

  Chapter IV.

  Chapter V.

  Chapter VI.

  Chapter VII.

  Chapter VIII.

  Chapter IX.

  Chapter X.

  Chapter XI.

  Chapter XII.

  Chapter XIII.

  Chapter XIV.

  Chapter XV.

  Chapter XVI.

  Chapter XVII.

  Chapter XVIII.

  Chapter XIX.

  Chapter XX.

  Chapter XXI.

  Chapter XXII.

  Chapter XXIII.

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter I.

  I was overthinking the architecture. One of the ceiling corners of our small, antique-white hotel room included no right angles. Either the floor above us was tilting, or the walls were folding toward each other. I blinked, trying to force my eyes to focus on it. It was early, and Janie was still asleep.

  A car door slammed six stories below on the Rue de l’Échelle. We had left the window open overnight. The first hues of light were creating subtle shadows in our room.

  The morning was too young to host city sounds. No telltale two-toned sirens or other traffic disturbed us. Any noises at that hour were isolated and sporadic, keeping me on the edges of sleep.

  Janie lay still and small beside me. We had been married for two years, and I still thought she was classically cute. She had a playful spirit and somehow looked mischievous even when she slept.

  As I gingerly swung my feet off the bed, something pulled me toward the window. My body lifted itself. The carpet was thin and cool, the air slightly biting. Delicately dizzy, I still felt the few bottles of wine we split at dinner the evening before.

  The window was large enough to be a doorway. Beyond our small wrought iron window dressing, the Paris morning was still a sunless, glowing, phosphorescent grey. I could make out images below, but without my glasses, the street in the low light looked like a charcoal drawing, vague and dark.

  I took a deep breath and inhaled the spirit of the city. Soon the morning fog would loosen its grip around the steel skeleton of the Eiffel Tower. Its exit from the city would resemble a slow march, ghosts leaving the grand avenues crisp and clear.

  Tables with white linens had yet to be set out in front of cafés. Still ponds in empty parks had yet to reflect Parisians on their morning walks to work. Shop fronts remained dark save the occasional boulangerie, baking the morning’s bread under soft yellow lights.

  I exhaled. Rooftops across the way were about even with our window. Beyond them, more roofs crested as if they were approaching in waves. Black windows with flower boxes lined up like photographs in an album. The intersection below displayed flashing lights for no one.

  I scanned the sidewalk directly opposite our hotel. My eyes had begun to regain their focus power, and I could identify the figure of a man standing in an archway off the sidewalk below. Trying to get over the assumption that he was imagined was difficult.

  Still struggling to keep a clear head, I didn’t think too much of the stranger at first. The city still slept, and all seemed normal. There wasn’t another person in view, no café owner sweeping their storefront entrance, no moving vehicles.

  Yet there he stood, his eyes apparently fixed on a spot somewhere beneath me, on our side of the street. Was something happening in front of our hotel? If it were, I couldn’t hear it, and he wasn’t reacting. He stood expressionless, silent, and still.

  The man didn’t shift his stance once. His suit was smart and casual, but distance and darkness obscured details about his face or age. Was he waiting for someone? No coffee. No cigarette. No paper.

  Was I sure that I wasn’t dreaming him? Finally, as if sensing my unease his head turned slowly upwards. Our eyes met.

  “Hey Pete,” Janie whispered sweetly from the bed behind me.

  She broke my trance. I turned to look at her. She was propped up on one elbow, wearing one of my undershirts, and gently brushing her straight brown hair out of her face.

  “Hey baby,” I answered.

  “What are you doing?”

  Her voice sounded beautiful even when groggy.

  “I was just looking down at the street,” I stammered, as I turned back to the window. The man was gone. Below me, there sat only empty grey sidewalk. I tilted my head like a dog staring at an inchworm. I swear I’d barely taken my eyes away for a second. “Huh,” I grunted.

  “What is it?” Janie asked.

  “Nothing,” I answered. “Just saw a guy down there.”

  “A guy?”

  “Thought I did at least.”

  “Was he bringing us coffee?” she laughed, slumping back to her pillow.

  “Hopefully?” I answered with a tired smile.

  “Can we sleep in a little longer?” Janie asked as she rolled over. Her hair spread out on the pillow, floating as if underwater.

  “Of course.”

  “Are you coming back to bed?”

  “Yep,” I said still without moving, focusing again on the archway below. Maybe the man hadn’t been there at all. Perhaps he was just a distant image from a lost memory, superimposed on the scene by my exhausted mind.

  Still, there was that brief, arresting moment of eye contact. It felt as if no distance had existed between us. The effect would have been the same had we been standing opposite each other in a doorway, unsure which one of us should step aside to allow the other to pass.

  I tried to forget about him. I went back to the bed but didn’t fall asleep. Janie woke up for good soon after. She put on a short denim skirt over black leggings. I accidentally skipped a buttonhole on the first try with my favorite blue plaid shirt.

  My head cleared and mind focused, making me once again question the ghost standing beneath the archway on the sidewalk earlier. I also reexamined the corner of our small, antique-white hotel room. This time, the floor and ceiling appeared to be perfectly parallel.

  * * *

  Having met in college, Janie and I hit it off as a bartender-waitress pair in a dusty college-town bar. She was now a grad student in poetry and often wore colors that clashed, whereas I busied myself trying to be professional as a junior staff writer for the Indianapolis Star. We’d saved for more than a year for France.

  Janie’s hair, tied back and looking like tail feathers, bounced in front of me as we walked down the winding stone staircase to the lobby. The Hôtel des Bretons was reminiscent of a rundown museum. Original rich reds in the artwork and interior design had faded to maroons. Distant doors echoed as they open and shut, augmenting the silence. We hadn’t seen any other guests though, nor did we care if there were any.

  Paul, the pleasant salt-and-pepper-haired concierge normally greeted us with a smile and a nod, but he wasn’t at his post. It must have been too early. A young clerk with dark eye makeup read her book behind the front desk and didn’t look up as we walked passed. Our steps echoed in the high-ceilinged entryway.

  Motion caught my eye. A red curtain swayed across a doorway off the lobby. I’d only caught a fleeting glimpse of him, but I was almost sure that I’d just seen the man from the sidewalk dart through it. There wasn’t enough time for a double take. Janie heard me gasp.

  “What is it?”<
br />
  “I don’t know,” I said as we walked. A ‘closed’ sign stood in front of the curtain. I hadn’t noticed this doorway before in our comings and goings. “I swear I just saw that guy from the street this morning.”

  “Who?”

  “The one I told you about.”

  “Wow, I barely remember that,” she answered.

  I had to look in.

  “Are you sure you just saw someone?” she continued. “I mean, I didn’t hear anything or see anybody.”

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled.

  Without the concierge there to stop me, I crept passed the sign and peered between the doorjamb and curtain. Quiet and magnificent, what lay inside was instantly intriguing.

  “What is it?” Janie asked.

  “It’s a bar.”

  “Huh, I didn’t know this hotel had a bar.”

  “Me neither,” I muttered.

  “Been here two days, you’d think somehow we’d have seen that,” Janie remarked, pushing herself under my arm. My chin rested on the top of her head.

  We could see the entire inside of the room from the doorway. Hanging glassware shimmered. Dark, worn woods made the room smell like the inside of a drawer. Lines of liquor bottles stood in perfect rows, light passing through each magnificently. Knickknacks peppered the shelving among the bottles, almost giving the wall the look of an antique store. An eclectic and crooked mix of decorative hangings and artwork covered every inch of wall space. The bar fit just five or six stools, but many tables filled out the rest of the room all the way to the front windows, facing the street corner. An exterior exit across the room was presumably locked. The stranger from the archway was nowhere to be found.

  “He really is a ghost,” I mused under my breath. Janie didn’t hear me.

  “This place is perfect,” she said. “What a good little dive.”

  “It’s immaculate,” I said.

  “I don’t see anyone.”

  “Me neither.”

  Janie thought for a moment. “Let’s try this out tonight when it’s open.”

  “Sounds good.” Turning back to the clerk in the lobby, I asked, “Excuse me. Have you seen anyone else down here this morning?”

  “No. You are the first guests up,” dark eyes responded, looking up from her book for the first time.

  I was puzzled.

  “Strange,” Janie said, turning away from the curtain. “Ready?”

  “Yeah. I need a coffee. I think I’m seeing things.”

  We left the Hôtel des Bretons and disappeared into the soft morning light, bound for a café.

  * * *

  That afternoon, I’d intended to relax and read at the hotel. I must not have lasted more than a few paragraphs, because I woke up just before dinnertime with the book resting on my chest. It was open to the same page on which I’d started.

  “I don’t need to take the elevator this time,” Janie said, as we walked the narrow hallway to the stairs. It was the size of a phone booth and sounded like grinding teeth. I rubbed my eyes and yawned.

  “You need to wake up. Lots of night left,” she said.

  “I’ll be fine,” I grunted, looking forward to food and drink.

  Each step on the staircase felt well trodden, the stone gently worn down from decades of soles. When we arrived in the lobby, the concierge sat on a tall chair at his post.

  “Good evening,” he greeted us pleasantly with a nod.

  “Paul! Good evening!” I answered before the curtained doorway caught my eye again. The ‘closed’ sign was still up.

  “Will this be open tonight?” I asked him, motioning toward the bar. I was already feeling energized.

  “The Bon Parisien? No, I’m sorry sir. We do not have a bartender right now.”

  “Ah,” I nodded.

  “That might explain why we haven’t noticed it. It hasn’t been open,” Janie wondered aloud.

  “I could have sworn I saw someone go in there this morning,” I continued to Paul.

  “Perhaps,” he answered. “The exterior entrance has been locked for a few weeks, but it could have been a hotel staff member.”

  “Maybe,” I answered, doubting it.

  Janie and I continued with a step toward the exit, but something stopped me. Visions flourished of treating my wife to pre-dinner drinks in our own private Parisian bar.

  “Well, may I have the job tonight?!” I blurted out.

  The concierge laughed. “Very good, monsieur.”

  “No I’m serious,” I gently persisted. “Maybe one drink before dinner?”

  Obviously it was an unlikely request from a guest, but I could tell he was thinking.

  “I have experience as a bartender, so I wouldn’t make a mess. I did it in college,” I added.

  He tried not to smile at my poor pronunciation.

  “Of course, we’ll pay for it,” I insisted.

  Paul began to lift his hand to wave us out to the sidewalk. Guests were probably not allowed in areas meant for employees, let alone areas that are shut down or not under supervision. He started to shake his head.

  “I’ll make you one too,” I tried with a smile.

  Surely with denial on the tip of his tongue, he then glanced toward the front desk clerk. It wasn’t Dark Eyes. This man stood smiling under his bowl haircut.

  I couldn’t tell if they were humoring or silently laughing at me. The clerk didn’t say anything, but he nodded slightly.

  “Go ahead,” Paul said with sigh. “We’ve had a gate up all week until a day or so ago, and it’ll be nice to see someone using the bar again.”

  “Great! I’ll get you a beer!” I blurted out, suddenly ecstatic.

  “I don’t need a drink, but I’ll be right in behind you shortly,” he kindly answered.

  I turned to Janie, unable to mask my giddiness.

  “What just happened?” She asked. “Are they open tonight?”

  “No, but I asked if we could go in.”

  “He said yes, didn’t he?”

  “Yep.”

  “Awesome,” she said with a smile.

  We walked around the ‘closed’ sign, and our evening in the Bon Parisien was underway. Excitement made me temporarily forget any person or ghost I may have imagined earlier. However, we’d soon learn that many corners of Paris are home to complicated, even enchanted, histories.

  I pulled aside the curtain and stepped beyond the doorway.

  Chapter II.

  “The light switch is just on your right,” the concierge called from behind.

  I reached into the darkness. “I found it, thanks.”

  As I turned up the dimmer, the windows reflected the cozy inside of the bar. Janie ventured past me, smiling into the glorious room. She slid on to a barstool and rested her feet on the crossbar, worn through the stain to raw wood.

  I’ve always been in love with bars. They are hives for conversation, albeit often drunk and meandering ones. Low-hanging lights, the buzz of cheap neon signs, and dusty bookshelves attract me. I’m not a regular anywhere specific at home, but the Bon Parisien checked every box on my list.

  “Well? Make me a drink!” Janie urged, her smile shining at me.

  I moved behind the bar and started to take inventory. Just like the wallpaper in the hallways upstairs, many of the labels on the bottles were peeling at the corners.

  “What may I make you?” I asked, putting my hands on the bar. The dark wood was covered in so many coats of varnish that I almost suspected it wasn’t ever an actual tree.

  “Surprise me. We’re on vacation.”

  I found some gin. I set the bottle on the counter and flipped a nearby highball into position next to it.

  “Fancy,” she noted.

  I smiled to myself.

  “Be careful, please,” came Paul’s voice from the doorway.

  “Sorry. Old habit.”

  “It looks like you are comfortable here. Please find me if you need anything.”

  “Are you sure that I can
’t make you something?” I asked one last time.

  “Thank you very much. I’m working,” he kindly replied. Part of me thought that he wouldn’t have accepted even if he were off the clock.

  “Of course,” I answered.

  “I’ll come back in shortly. Enjoy yourselves.” With that, the concierge exited the bar and shifted the curtain closed behind him.

  “Is this ‘the dream’ or what?” I said.

  Janie laughed.

  “Remember reading a book as a child about some kids getting locked in a department store?” I asked.

  “Rings a bell,” Janie nodded.

  “I think this is the equivalent.” I looked around. “Ice.”

  Beneath the bar, a dry and empty metal bin sat holding a metal ice scoop, but I saw something else that distracted me. Hung ceremoniously in the dim underworld of the bartender’s workspace, a rifle rested upon a pair of tarnished brass hooks. Janie noticed the surprise in my eyes.

  “What?”

  “There’s a gun under here.” I had never seen a gun in any of the bars where I had worked before. I instinctively leaned in for a closer look.

  “What kind of gun?” Janie asked curiously.

  “A rifle.”

  “Well let’s see it.”

  “Oh God, no, honey. I’m not touching it!” I exclaimed.

  “I could take your picture while you’re holding it if you want,” she said.

  “Are you kidding, why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. You’re a dude, and dudes like guns.”

  “This thing scares the crap out of me. What if it had been used to kill someone? I don’t want my fingerprints all over that thing!”

  “Fine, have it your way,” she conceded.

  “Do you want your picture with it?”

  “No! I’m not touching it,” she said with a giggle.

  I laughed. “Okay then.” I turned to search for ice again.

  “I guess that’s life as a bartender in the big city,” she said.

  “Yeah, I guess. I hope no one’s ever had to use it,” I answered.

  “At least tell me what it looks like while you’re making me a drink.”