Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) Page 2

  I glanced down one more time. “Well, it is pretty serious given our location. It’s a shotgun. That would do an insane amount of damage in here. Why not conceal a handgun back here?”

  “Maybe the bartender was a terrible shot?” Janie joked, referring to the lack of accuracy needed to hit a target with buckshot.

  I spied a small refrigerator in a dark corner and went to it. “I’m just going to pretend that gun isn’t there,” I said.

  “Good plan.”

  The interior of the fridge was packed with chilled beers. In the freezer area, I found one ice cube tray that was only about half full. “Whoa. We’ll have to be frugal with the ice.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. We’ll just have one here before we head out for dinner,” Janie answered.

  I dropped three cubes into her glass, took another two for myself, then refilled the tray and put it back for the next tourist bartender.

  “Gin and tonic?” I asked Janie.

  “Are you serious?”

  “What?”

  “That night with the accordion? I’ll never drink a gin and tonic again.”

  I laughed. Months earlier, we’d been out with friends. Janie drank many gin and tonics, and the night ended in our apartment as she sang loudly in the bathtub. I sat on the toilet seat, playing along on a toy accordion.

  “Besides,” she continued, “we are in the heart of Paris, locked in our own little bar, fully stocked with tons of booze we’ve never heard of, and you want to make a simple little gin and tonic?”

  “Okay,” I answered, smiling. “What do you suggest?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the pro. If you ask me, we should invent something.”

  “Really?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Totally. Then, we can always drink it and remember tonight.”

  “Okay,” I thought aloud as I looked over the liquor. “I love whiskey.”

  “I know. I like it alright, but there’s got to be more to it than that.”

  “Here’s something with a picture of an apple on it. I don’t recognize the wording in French on the label though.”

  “I like apple things,” Janie said.

  I unscrewed the top of the bottle and sniffed. It was apple alright, and it stung. I poured a small amount over the whiskey in the glasses I’d prepared.

  “Add bitters,” Janie suggested.

  “Really? Why?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve just heard of bartenders using them before.”

  “Do you even know what bitters are?” I asked.

  “No. Do you?”

  I laughed. “I actually don’t. They add pretty rich flavor, but I don’t know the spices or flavors involved. So you got me. But we have some back here.”

  The drink’s light amber hue was stained with dark wispy clouds as I added a few drops of bitters. Janie took her drink from me and swirled the ice in the glass. She sniffed it and nodded approval.

  “Well, here we go, baby,” she said.

  “Cheers, honey.”

  After a small taste, she nodded again. “It’s really not bad. Nice job.”

  “Yeah, I like it. What should we call it?”

  “I’ll leave it up to you. You are the one who mixed it.”

  “How about an Esprit de la Nuit.”

  “Spirit of the night? I like it.” She took another drink. “Is it really already quarter to eight?”

  “What? No,” I answered, looking at my watch. “It’s not even six thirty yet.”

  “Okay, that’s what I thought. Just got confused by the clock behind you.”

  “I noticed that. It’s nice. Too bad it’s broken,” I answered as I turned to the timepiece. The clock, suspended at 7:45, was ornate and looked slightly newer than most of the décor. The design on the face was unique, with silver and gold carvings of the sun and moon. I’d never seen one like it and imagined that it should go on a rich person’s mantle.

  “All the trinkets behind you,” Janie said, forgetting about the clock, “looks like a pawn shop back there.”

  “You’re right. Nothing matches. The plaques, the pictures.”

  I looked around a little more. An old black-and-white checkered flannel shirt was tucked away beneath the bar. It was out of character with the style of the place. But I kept an extra shirt stashed behind the bar when I was a bartender, so I can’t say that I was surprised. An old pair of lace-up construction boots also sat beneath the bar. These made less sense to me, but everything in the room was a little eclectic.

  “What about that record player?” Janie asked as she glanced toward the end of the bar over my far shoulder.

  I shifted my gaze. Cobwebs marred the view through the dingy clear lid. I imagined for just one moment that it didn’t even need a record to play, that if the needle dropped on nothing, sounds of the bar’s past would suddenly come alive.

  “I wonder if it plays,” I said almost to myself.

  “Do you think this place had regulars?”

  “Sure, don’t you think?”

  “Probably a bunch of old folks,” she guessed with a shrug. “I think I’m probably going to write a lot about this place when we get back.”

  “Seems perfect for that.”

  “Did you see the piano over there?”

  I looked up. Sure enough, a dusty upright grand lurked in the shadows.

  “Yeah, cool,” was all I mustered.

  “You should play it.”

  “I might give it a whirl.” I wasn’t very good.

  “I know you want to,” she coaxed before looking back at the shelves behind the bar. “Who do you think that is?”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed a bronze bust holding court over the room. The character frowned, adding ice to his glassy stare. About the size of my fist, it looked like a bookend without a matching second half.

  “I don’t know, but he seems to think he’s someone,” I joked, noting his expression.

  “Maybe a king?”

  “I’m not sure. Wouldn’t royalty have some sort of crown?”

  “Who knows? Weren’t they all weird people?”

  “I think I’m going to get an artist to make a bust of me.”

  Janie smiled. “Why?”

  “Don’t you think that it would be cool? Maybe I’ll give it to you for your birthday.”

  She laughed. “Great. Just what I always wanted.”

  “I think I’d do the same look on my face as this guy,” I said, motioning to the small statue.

  “He’s more sophisticated than you,” she shrugged.

  “A guy like that does what he wants.”

  “He does look proud of himself,” she added. “Hey, may I come back there?”

  “Of course. I don’t work here,” I joked.

  “I’ve never been behind an actual bar before.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I’m not actually sure.” Her interest was evident as she made her way around slowly, relishing the moment.

  “So what do you think?”

  “It’s excellent,” she said as she looked around and placed both hands on the counter as if she were surveying an imaginary party.

  “Do you feel powerful?”

  She laughed and turned to me. I went in for a kiss. She patted my back the way she does during a kiss that isn’t supposed to last long.

  “Pretty cool night, Mister Pete,” was all she mustered before pulling away from me.

  “Sure is,” I whispered.

  “I got you something!” she exploded suddenly.

  “What?” I said with surprise. “No you haven’t.”

  “No, I did,” she said smiling.

  “What is it?”

  “Just a little token to remember tonight. Do you want it now, or later?”

  “Yes, now please. What is it?”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. It would be so much better if I’d waited to give it to you later.”

  “Well it’s too late now,” I laughed. “What is i
t?”

  “It’s this little guy!” Janie exclaimed as she pulled a figure out from behind her back. Carved from stone, I recognized it as a rendering of Rodin’s sculpture of Balzac. Only a few inches high, he stood naked and defiant.

  “Balzac?” I asked.

  “Yep. A little Balzac.”

  “Where did you get him? I don’t remember seeing him at a souvenir shop.”

  “I took him from the shelf right here,” she answered, pointing between the bottles.

  “Oh, c’mon. Don’t steal him.”

  “No one will miss him. It’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “C’mon, Pete. I’m sure someone left him in here by accident in the first place.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, looking him over.

  “I’ll leave a few extra euros for him along with the drink money. Does that make you feel better?”

  “Okay, you got me,” I answered, thrusting Balzac into the pocket of my corduroys.

  “That reminds me,” Janie looked around. “Is there an envelope or anything back here? We should keep track of how much we spend. You know, put money in as we go.”

  “Well, how much longer are we going to stay? I figured we’d head out to dinner shortly.”

  “Yeah I know. But, I could handle one more so I think we should keep track. You know, not betray Paul’s trust.”

  “Right,” I agreed.

  Finding an envelope with the words “theatre tickets” scribbled on it stashed behind the register, I scratched out the existing label and replaced it with our room number. We stuffed a few euros inside.

  “There. I feel better about taking Balzac now,” I said.

  “He’ll look good on our bookshelves at home.”

  Suddenly, the front door to the street rattled. Someone was trying to open it from the outside. We saw the shadow of a large dark figure peering into our date. It knocked on the window twice, but I waved them off.

  “Sorry! Closed!” I shouted. It had been an aggressive sort of shake. After the door rattled again, the shadow moved away. “I guess the lights attract customers,” I mused.

  “I guess so,” Janie answered. “So what’s for dinner?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. We could try any number of the little places right out along here.”

  “Let’s ask Paul. I didn’t love lunch yesterday,” Janie admitted.

  “What was wrong with lunch yesterday?”

  “It was gross.”

  “I loved it!” I said. Having never used a two-pronged fork before, I’d had orange duck and a pilsner.

  “Well, we shouldn’t just randomly choose somewhere, is my point. We have no idea that way if a place is actually good.”

  “It’s Paris. It’s all good,” I ventured.

  “Please. I mean, if we’re on vacation, it’s worth taking a little extra effort to find something really special.”

  “Okay, that makes sense.”

  “You want it to be good, right?”

  “Of course.”

  The curtain ripped open, and a very large woman strode into the bar. The concierge was right behind her, unable to stop her.

  “The front door is locked!” She sang in French as she passed a few tables and pulled a chair away from the bar. “This alone is offense enough for me to …”

  “I’m sorry Madame von Hugelstein. We are closed this evening,” Paul began.

  “Then what is this?” she yelled indignantly. “Do you select your patrons now that you are in charge? Victor would not have allowed this!”

  Janie and I glanced at each other. The woman looked ridiculous with her fur coat and plumed purple hat. Her eyes pointed in different directions.

  “I’m sorry, madame, these are our guests. They are simply having a look around before dinner,” Paul explained.

  “They are having a drink!” she exclaimed as she looked at me. “They are not looking around! They are having a fête!”

  “It’s not a big fête,” I interjected. “We’re just enjoying this lovely room for a minute. We’re actually about to leave.”

  “AMERICANS?!” she exploded after detecting multiple imperfections in my French. “Paul, you foul animal. You are staining Victor’s memory!”

  Paul rolled his eyes.

  Again, I attempted to help. “May I make you a drink before dinner, madame?”

  She shot me a disparaging look. I glanced over at Paul, and he looked back, defeated. He lazily thrust his hand in the air as if he barely had the strength to lift it.

  “One,” he said.

  “Whiskey,” she hissed. “No Scottish swill.”

  I looked for a bottle with a label all in French. “Is this one okay?” I asked.

  “Two ice cubes, and a little vermouth.”

  I knew that she meant a Manhattan. I was not going to point out the name of the drink. “I’m sorry, madame, we don’t have any more ice right now.”

  “Well that’s perfect. Of course you don’t.”

  “Will you take it neat?” I asked.

  “I think I’ll have to.”

  Our guest was a cartoon of herself. We were doing our best to hide our amusement, but I noticed Janie snicker. I slid the concoction toward the woman, who took an expressionless slip.

  We sat in silence for a few seconds. Janie and I exchanged a few silent words. I thought that we could inhale the Esprits de la Nuit and move on. The evening’s enjoyment beckoned and we could feel ourselves wading into bizarre waters if we stayed longer.

  Madame von Hugelstein didn’t say a word. She stared off in another direction, perhaps viewing a corner of her mind that was alien to us. Or, she was doing the same thing we were: avoiding eye contact. I decided to accelerate the exchange.

  “Well, we were about to go get some dinner …”

  “Victor was a good man,” she spat.

  I sighed, seeing that she didn’t care about our dinner.

  “I’m sorry, who is Victor?” I asked. At the moment, I didn’t know whether I actually cared or just wanted to finish the conversation quickly.

  “The bartender here, of course. You’re standing on hallowed ground!”

  “Where is he?” I asked. “We heard this place has been closed for a while. Did he quit?”

  “No, no,” she sighed. “He has probably run off with some tramp.”

  “Oh, uh, okay. Were you two close?”

  “Absolutely, but it’s been a few weeks,” she said, still avoiding direct eye contact.

  Janie and I shared a look again.

  “Are you from the neighborhood?” I asked.

  “Yes. I live a few streets down. I am an opera singer.”

  That explained the downright melodic sounds of her outburst as she entered the room minutes earlier.

  “Oh wow, that’s great,” I said trying to lighten the situation.

  “Pete plays a little piano,” Janie added.

  “Well, not really. I am a writer. Well, a journalist, really.”

  The woman didn’t react.

  “Give yourself some credit, baby,” Janie replied. “He’s better than he says he is. He was in a rock band once.”

  “Well, we only played one gig. It was freshman year of college,” I answered. “Still, it was a good place. For Indiana.”

  “I don’t know where that is,” the opera singer mumbled into her drink.

  “It’s in the middle of the U.S.,” I answered. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure that I caught your name. It was Madame von …?”

  “Hugelstein. Trudel von Hugelstein,” she said with a nod but without a smile or kind tone. She bit into the second half of her last name and emphasized the shteen.

  “von Hugelstein? Is that German?”

  “I’m French, asshole!” she struck.

  “I apologize.” There was a little more silence.

  “Victor knew that I was French the day that I met him.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking,” I
said, back-peddling.

  She took a sip of her drink.

  “We were in love. Or, at least I thought we were in love.”

  Here we go, I thought. Janie shot me a look.

  “She was in love with the bartender here before he took off,” I whispered in English.

  “No, I think I got it. Bummer,” Janie commented, slowly stirring her Esprit de la Nuit with a short straw.

  Trudel picked up her drink and stood. “It’s amazing how terrible this place has become in just a few weeks. Look at all this dust.”

  I hadn’t noticed it. Everything looked clean to me.

  “What kind of bartender are you?” she added as she looked around. “Get a rag. Fix this.” She motioned grandly toward the room.

  Janie looked like she enjoyed hearing this stranger boss me around. She raised her eyebrows and smiled. I wet a bar towel and came out from behind the counter, not willing to clean up the entire place. I wiped down one table and righted the chair. The clock chimed behind me. I turned to see Trudel, who was now engaged behind the bar.

  “This room isn’t the same without these tones,” Trudel said as she wound and adjusted the hands on the clock. It didn’t occur to me that it was only stopped, not broken.

  Still amused, Janie made a nod toward to the curtain. The motion was subtle, but I agreed that it might be time to leave.

  “Well, we should probably be heading out,” I mused out loud for Madame von Hugelstein.

  “Yep probably,” Janie agreed. She finished her drink and casually slid the empty glass away from her.

  Trudel ignored us. She moved down the bar a little and greeted the bust. She straightened up and gently toasted the man with an air of sarcasm. I downed the rest of my drink and took my place behind the bar again. Trudel grimaced at me and returned to the customer side to sit down.

  “Ready?” Janie asked in an effort to get us out the door.

  “Yes. Madame von Hugelstein,” I started. “It was our pleasure …”

  The curtain again parted and a new face peered in. Janie and I looked over as my voice trailed off. The man staring back was as silent and expressionless as we were.

  “Oh God,” Trudel muttered quietly.

  The man entered the room. He walked cautiously, as his eyes darted around the bar with a nervous energy. His face was all jowls. Mostly balding, the frumpy man had tried to comb what little hair he had left to cover his entire scalp. The shine on his loafers had long left the shoe, and his sweater vest bore the classic look of a well-laundered article of clothing. I guessed that at one point it had looked expensive.