Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) Read online

  His round face was framed by large glasses and centered by a well-trimmed little mustache. I looked at Janie, but she was sizing our new company up as well and seemed to have forgotten about the plan to leave for a moment.

  “Bonsoir,” the man started. He was sweating a little.

  “Bonsoir,” I answered. “My wife and I are guests here. I actually don’t work here or anything. We were just about to leave for dinner …”

  “A beer, please,” he said.

  “Well, uh, okay.”

  “We might as well, honey,” Janie assured me. “I’ll have one more, too.”

  I expected the concierge to step through the curtain at any time to stop the party, but the cloth barrier remained motionless.

  “1664 in a bottle, please,” he said.

  “Of course, sir.” I went to the fridge.

  He pulled up a stool between the ladies. “Hello, Trudel.”

  “Hello, Fleuse,” she answered, avoiding his gaze. She pronounced it “Flooze.”

  “You look nice tonight,” he offered.

  Trudel barely acknowledged this compliment. She raised her eyebrows and huffed softly. She hadn’t smiled once until this moment, but she didn’t seem to be all that happy.

  Fleuse waited for a response, but none came beyond that. He then looked in my direction.

  “And who do we have here?” he asked as he looked me up and down.

  “My name is Peter. This is my wife, Janie. We are on vacation from Indiana, in the United States.”

  “I know where Indiana is,” he sniffed.

  “I’m sorry,” I answered, thinking I’d offended the man. “Are you familiar with the United States?”

  “I went to New York City one time. I hated it.” Again, he turned toward Trudel. He paused, as if weighing his next question. “And how have you been?”

  “It hasn’t been that long, Fleuse,” she answered.

  “Well, it’s been a little while, at least.”

  “Maybe.”

  He glanced nervously back at me to see how intently I was listening or watching. “Maybe,” he continued, “we’d be able to have dinner tonight. You know, to catch up a little.”

  “Fleuse,” Trudel said as she authoritatively set her drink on the bar. “I am in love with Victor. It’s over.”

  “Trudel, I am sorry, but Victor is gone. He was my friend, too. I miss him.”

  “Oh, come off it. You’ve been waiting for him to disappear just so you could try to win me back.”

  “That’s not true, Trudel.”

  “Besides, what will you do when he comes back?” she sang out near the top of her voice. “Did you ever think of that? He’ll absolutely hate you for this!”

  “Comes back? You surely don’t believe …”

  Trudel’s stare stopped him mid-sentence. It was the first time that she’d actually turned her head to look at him. He slowly swiveled back toward the bar. We rested in silence for a moment, and I again tried to get Janie and me off to dinner.

  “Well, it has been nice meeting you both,” I started.

  Janie was barely listening. She raised her glass to the couple. “Sounds like we need a toast. To Victor, whoever and wherever he may be. I don’t know him, but it sounds like he meant a lot to you both. May he come back soon!”

  “Here, here,” Trudel warbled and took a sip.

  Fleuse just sighed. He looked to Janie. “Victor isn’t coming back.”

  Janie looked at me. I shrugged. We both looked back at Fleuse.

  “He’s dead,” he continued.

  “I don’t believe that!” Trudel exploded. “He is off. Probably with another woman!”

  “How could you say that?” Fleuse responded.

  “Nothing could kill Victor,” she answered wistfully.

  “Either way,” Fleuse tried again. “Let me take you to dinner!”

  “Don’t be an idiot!” she exclaimed. “It’s over!”

  Fleuse retreated to his drink.

  Janie looked at me with amusement yet again. As the four of us sipped in silence, it was obvious that we would not be leaving for dinner as soon as I’d hoped.

  Chapter III.

  A recording of orchestra music sounded its last note in a cramped, dark theatre in the Latin Quarter. A small audience of twenty or so stood and politely clapped in the hot blackness. Trudel von Hugelstein bowed, holding her fellow cast members’ sweaty hands.

  Trudel knew that this small stage might be the only one she ever would see. Her ambitions included stardom, but she’d been at it her entire life. Fame and fortune would have been a long shot even ten years earlier.

  The heavy, rusty stage door creaked as it opened. Blinding daylight in the narrow streets greeted her. Throngs of tourists bustled, searching for cafés and bars, smiling and pointing at awnings further down the way. Trudel pushed herself into the flow of pedestrian traffic.

  The seven o’clock performance hadn’t opened its doors to an audience yet. She noticed a small line of operagoers as she shuffled passed.

  “Excuse me,” one woman from the line said as she reached out to her.

  “Yes?” Trudel smiled pleasantly, if not genuinely.

  “I saw you in this production about a month ago. I loved it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you performing this evening?”

  “No, no. I just played the matinée today,” she answered, reminded that she had failed to win the role for prime showings.

  “Aw,” the woman uttered sympathetically. “Well, I’m a fan. I wish you were singing tonight.”

  “Well thank you, dear,” Trudel said, forcing a smile.

  “When are you singing next? I’m still in town until …” the woman’s voice trailed off.

  Trudel was already walking away. Forgetting the woman’s slight, the opera singer had begun reminiscing about that day’s performance. It was a good show with a nice audience. A small celebration was in order.

  She lived just far enough across the river that she never wanted to walk. Yet, it seemed silly to take a taxi such a short distance. This evening, she was happy to stroll. To break the walk into two manageable stretches, she promised herself that she would stop in for a drink at a café.

  The area surrounding Place Saint-Michel was crowded. People overran the sidewalks. Even the edges of the fountain were covered with seated youths, flirting and laughing. Trudel couldn’t stand youths. She navigated her way to the Quai des Grands-Augustins and set out for her side of the river.

  The opera singer knew that most establishments along her way would be swollen with patrons on an early Saturday evening. The pleasant mild air of the summer would turn humid and hot inside a crowded bar. At sidewalk tables, empty glasses and bottles littered white tablecloths, stained with spilled wine. Places like these were not her style.

  She wanted quiet. Trudel was hoping to hear the music in her memory. Even as she walked, she was imagining the bright lights that heated her forehead and tore through the blackness above the stage. Before she knew it, she’d lumbered halfway across the river.

  Trudel focused her energies toward finding a place to celebrate. She’d recently dated a man who spoke highly of a bar that was near her current path. On the street-level floor of a hotel, this place was unassuming and almost never crowded. While accepting the risk of running into an old flame, she decided to give the Bon Parisien a try.

  Slowly striding across the Pont des Arts with her purse swinging majestically at her side, the opera singer could hear the river gently flow beneath her. After a few more turns through the Louvre and a walk down the Avenue de l’Opéra, she finally approached the Hôtel des Bretons. The Bon Parisien’s sign beckoned over the corner entrance, warmly lit by a soft buzz. She went inside.

  The room itself looked perfect. Not a single item was out of place. She immediately smelled the richness of tobacco and wine vapors sitting heavily in the air. The late afternoon sun warmed the space comfortably like a toaster oven on the low
est setting.

  Behind the bar stood a man in his fifties. A little shorter than she, he was grizzled and greyed. Beneath a slightly wrinkled white button up, he was wiry.

  The man was alone in the place, and he leaned casually reading a newspaper that he’d laid out on the bar. Nearby, a lone glass of beer rested untouched. He was scowling at whatever it was that he was reading, but the expression quickly disappeared when he looked up to see Trudel walk through the door.

  “Good evening, madame,” he said, beginning to fold his paper.

  “Good evening,” Trudel answered as she headed for a table near the bar, exhausted by the walk.

  “Please have a seat. What may I serve you?” the man asked, hurrying out to meet her. He pulled a chair out from an empty table for her.

  “Not too busy tonight, no?” she asked as she took the seat, failing to thank the man.

  “There have been a few to come and go.”

  “Is someone waiting for that drink?” she asked, nodding to the glass on the bar.

  “No, it’s mine. I’m celebrating.”

  “Oh, congratulations. What are you celebrating?”

  “Well, it’s a long story, but this,” the man said with a grand gesture around the Bon Parisien.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s my one week anniversary working here.”

  “Oh. Good for you,” she answered. “What luck. I’ve found a bartender in training.”

  “Don’t worry, madame,” he responded, smiling. He spoke plainly and softly. “I think you’ll find that I can get you anything you need. I’ll be your personal barkeep.”

  Trudel found the man charming. The opera singer felt slightly disarmed.

  “Oh well, congratulations indeed,” she answered pleasantly, regretting her earlier sarcasm.

  “And what may I get you tonight? We do have some nice wines just in.”

  “Let’s see, I guess that I could drink a glass of wine. I too am celebrating.”

  “Excellent! Do you have a favorite?”

  “Red. A Medoc if you have it.”

  “I do,” he answered, scurrying back to the bar. “What is your occasion this evening?”

  “I have just finished a grand performance this afternoon. I sing. I am in an opera.”

  “How interesting.” He painstakingly uncorked the bottle of Medoc. “Where is your production?”

  “On the left bank. We have a nice little cast. They do well, but I have had to guide them through some of the harder times in rehearsals. They are not as experienced as I am.”

  “Very good,” he said. “My name is Victor. Victor Lacquer.”

  “Trudel von Hugelstein.”

  “Trudel von Hugelstein,” he repeated, smiling pleasantly. “The opera star.”

  She blushed and smiled coyly.

  “May I sit with you while no one’s here?” he asked, arriving with her drink.

  * * *

  “… So, just one second before I hit the final, climactic note,” Trudel said, several drinks later, “the power goes out.”

  “Oh no,” Victor answered.

  She had been recounting one of her favorite experiences, and Victor seemed to be enjoying it. A quiet couple whispered a few tables away and a group of four men laughed and drank near the front door. Victor had been pulled away more than once but stayed with the opera singer otherwise.

  “Truly,” the opera singer added, “it was total darkness. Plus, the music had stopped.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Well, I almost panicked.”

  “I would guess!”

  “But, I’m a professional. I didn’t let it get the best of me. I took a big deep breath, and I hit that last note like it was the last note I’d ever sing.”

  “In the dark? Brilliant!” Victor said, smiling.

  “It was,” she laughed as she sipped her drink. “The audience loved it. They thought it was on purpose.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. They thought the lights went out for dramatic effect.”

  “That’s incredible,” the bartender marveled.

  “It was great,” Trudel said still chuckling, almost hearing the applause.

  “You must be quite an entertainer.”

  “Sadly,” she conceded, “the ushers had to escort everyone out of the theater with flashlights. I thought that undermined the effect.”

  They each took a drink. Another patron entered from the street, and Victor rose to greet him. Trudel watched Victor prepare a drink for him, chatting pleasantly as he worked. For a brief moment, Victor put on a set of wire-rimmed glasses to read the label of a wine bottle. Trudel found him attractive. He looked almost academic for a moment.

  After serving the man, Victor returned to their table.

  “Sorry for the distraction,” he said to Trudel, folding his glasses and placing them in the breast pocket of his shirt.

  “I like those,” the opera singer said, nodding to the eyewear.

  “Well, I don’t,” he answered, smiling. “I used them more often at my former job.”

  “You seem like an excellent bartender. What did you do before this?”

  “I was an accountant until recently.”

  “Really? Numbers?”

  “Yes,” Victor nodded. “I’ve worked for many firms in my career.”

  “Interesting,” Trudel said. “So what brings you here? Are you retired?”

  Victor shifted in his seat. “No, not exactly. I was recently let go.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “We don’t have to get into it,” the bartender answered. For the first time in the evening, he wasn’t smiling or flirting. “The partners at the firm were terrible. They never listened to me. I’m sure they’ll run themselves out of business any day now.”

  He frowned into his drink as he took another sip.

  “So, how about you?” he asked, returning to his cordial tone. “I was an accountant, now a bartender. You are an opera singer and a …?” His voice trailed off, leading her.

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s it?” he asked as he raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes.”

  “You must be quite good, then.”

  “Well yes, I’ve been doing this a long time.”

  “You are in high demand then, no? How often do you perform?”

  “Sometimes up to six nights a week,” she lied, liking Victor’s opinion of her so far. It had been years since she’d actually worked that often.

  “That’s fantastic.”

  “Well,” she conceded. “I do have a little family money.”

  “That always helps. It must have been substantial.”

  “Why would you guess that?”

  “Well, as a former accountant, I know money. I’m guessing that you’ve never been married then?”

  “I have not been. How did you know?”

  “I assume you are a little younger than I am,” he said.

  She blushed.

  He continued, “Most people in our generation don’t refer to it as ‘family money’ anymore if they have shared it with a husband, had to split it in a divorce, funded a child’s education, etc.”

  “You are correct. I have never been married.”

  “Are you from Paris originally?” he continued.

  “I am. I was born here.”

  “I could tell.”

  “Really?!” She blushed again. “How can you tell?”

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged, smiling.

  “My mother was French. She met my father in Paris. He was a German soldier, unfortunately stationed here during the occupation.”

  “Goodness,” Victor said almost absent-mindedly. The table of men in the room was starting to get a little loud. They were beginning to distract Victor, annoying him. He made sure to keep listening to Trudel despite the noise.

  “My father,” Trudel continued without noticing, “managed to escape prosecution after the liberatio
n. My mother instinctively hated the Nazis, but she could not help herself with my father. She was in love.”

  “My, that is compelling. It’s a classic example of love conquering all,” Victor added, spying the rowdy table out of the corner of his eye.

  “I was born during the war, but their story is sad beyond that. As a child, I lived publicly as the daughter of the enemy. Luckily, I had a beautiful voice and a sweet personality. I was able to win over my educators, neighbors, and friends.”

  “Well, you are innately French. I don’t think you feel like an enemy.”

  “That’s good,” she chuckled.

  “So what happened to your father? How did he escape prosecution? That would have been a feat, no?”

  “He remained in Paris with my mother and me for a few years. He wasn’t able to stay long. Our community knew who he was. He wasn’t embraced. I’d say he was more tolerated. But, they knew that we were a family, and the authorities never came looking for him. He was just a private in the German army.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, do you know where he went? You don’t have to answer if you wouldn’t like to.”

  “No it’s fine. I have no idea where he went. For all I know, he was thrown in jail after he left. Who knows?”

  “Did you get a chance to say goodbye?”

  “Truthfully, I don’t remember him saying goodbye. I don’t really remember too much at all anyway. Everything I know is from what my mother has told me.”

  Suddenly, a glass shattered in the bar. Victor’s head snapped up in time to see the loud table of men in the bar erupt with laughter. One of the patrons had dropped his drink, and there were shards of glass everywhere in the vicinity of the table. Trudel saw Victor turn red.

  “Excuse me,” he said through his teeth. Victor jumped up with an impressive speed and purpose. “Gentlemen!” he shouted.

  They immediately were silenced.

  “I will not tolerate such behavior in this bar!” he thundered as he approached the table.

  Trudel was silently impressed with him.

  “Sorry, monsieur!” one of the men began.