It was a Saturday morning; Jean and I sat outside our favourite bistro, drinking Dubonnets. In those days, they used to serve little snacks with them. In fact, we chose the drinks because of the snacks; it was a cheap way to get a bite to eat.
We knew we shouldn't have bought those drinks; between us we had just enough money to pay for them, but that still left us the whole weekend without a sou in our pockets. But then, tomorrow is tomorrow, and we'd worry about the lack of money when we became hungry. Besides, it was a spring morning in Paris, and what else was there in life but sitting in a café, spending our last centimes.
"There is still some bread at home," said Jean.
"Yes," I said, knowing very well that I had eaten it. But there was no point in confessing to it just now; we'd get around to that soon enough.
There wasn't much traffic, at least not in the Rue de Rome. That, at least, made it easier to doze away the time. We tried to stretch our drinks as far as possible; that saved us from having to think about what we might do later.
Just then I saw Monique walk by. Of course I didn't know her name then... all I knew was that she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.
"See you later," I called to Jean, and went after her. Not that I had the faintest idea what I was going to do once I caught up with her, but I was sure something would develop. And so it did, when she demanded, "You wouldn't by any chance be following me?"
I had trotted along behind her for quite some distance. When she suddenly stopped at a shop window I nearly ran into her. My attempt to appear interested in the window's contents - lingerie, what else could it have been? - must have looked pretty transparent. Still, what a beautiful day it was. She had spoken to me, so I didn't have to find an excuse for approaching her. When I didn't answer her question, but only gazed admiringly at her, she asked, "Don't you have anything better to do?"
"Anything better than following the most beautiful girl in the world?" I replied. Very corny, but then who cares? It wasn't a day to worry about fine points of etiquette, and on such short notice I just couldn't think of anything better.
She looked at me with her big brown eyes. Her face was a bit wide, her mouth a bit large, she wasn't very tall, but nice and slim. Maybe the details were not absolutely first class, but the overall impression was perfect.
She pretended to think seriously, then said, "Let me guess... You are a movie director and want to put me into the pictures. Or maybe you are really an eccentric Texas oil millionaire, and want me for your secretary, and I can earn a fortune working with you? Or maybe you are a painter and just have to paint me in the nude? Because if you are any of these, save yourself the trouble. I've already had all those offers this morning."
I hadn't planned any of these particular approaches, but most likely I would have come up with something equally stupid. Anyway, I decided not to bother. "Actually," I said, "I am an ordinary everyday Canadian, flat broke, and without any offers of this nature." Which was largely the truth, except for the Canadian part which was one of my standard lies to avoid having to explain my slight accent.
She smiled for the first time. "I must admit that's a new one. I have never met any broke Canadians before. How broke are you? Too much to buy me un petit rouge (a small glass of red wine)?"
"Too broke even for that," I said. She took me by the arm and guided me into the next bistro. There she ordered two small glasses of red wine, the bartender complained about an insufficient tip, and we sat down. I didn't know what to say. I hadn't expected to get anywhere, especially not into a situation where she was buying me a drink. I just sat there, probably looking rather stupid, drank my wine slowly and waited for whatever she might do or say next.
"I'm glad you are not some pretend oil millionaire." She paused for a moment; "I don't like people who tell such lies." She looked up and smiled again. "Tell me about yourself."
I proceeded to give her a run-down of my background. Or some of it, at any rate. She seemed fascinated that I was a writer of sorts. "I've never met a writer before," she exclaimed and seemed genuine in her excitement. I was a little embarrassed, because I hadn't had much success in my writing. Every now and then I would earn a few francs, just enough to survive a little longer. But then, one always lives in hope that the next story will be the great breakthrough.
But my lack of fame didn't seem to bother her. "I know how you feel," she said. "I haven't been able to sell much lately."
She was an artist, a painter. She talked about her work with great enthusiasm; I liked that... one meets too many pseudo-artists in Paris, too many trying to be 'with it', too many people with paint brushes but without talent who pretend to be God's gift to the arts.
We finished our drinks and left. We didn't talk about anything in particular, just this and that. I was making silly conversation; I kept talking because I had the feeling she might leave me at any moment. I wanted to tie her to me for as long as possible, make it impossible for her to go away.
We walked along the Rue de Rome back towards my "hotel", one of those rickety remnants from the last century which was by now far too primitive to attract the tourists, but provided mainly cheap accommodation for permanent guests like starving artists, too poor to complain about the inconvenience of having to climb narrow, creaky flights of stairs without any lights. When we reached the building she followed me upstairs as if it was the most natural thing for her to do. I was a little worried about it. Maybe I had picked up the wrong sort of girl? I spent some time thinking about the definition of 'the wrong sort' - particularly in view of my not particularly celibate lifestyle - while we climbed the six flights of stairs. Anyway, I thought, she knew I was broke so she couldn't be after money. Which, at least, determined that she wasn't a pro.
The apartment was a mess as usual. I cleared away the clothes which lay everywhere, and Monique sat on my bed. I had a look in the other room to see whether Jean had returned yet, but there was only a message that he would be back soon. I returned to Monique and sat beside her.
I didn't know what to do next. I had nothing in the house, no wine, not even coffee. I had picked her up less than an hour ago, so I wasn't sure why she had come up with me anyway, and what she might be expecting to happen.
I was in luck again: the problem was solved when Jean suddenly returned with Jacqueline, his girl-friend. Jacqueline seemed to have money - which was unusual - because Jean was carrying a few bottles of wine, a loaf of bread, and real butter, a luxury in which we hadn't indulged for many months.
"We're celebrating," he told us while putting the things on the table. "Jacqueline got a job as a teacher. She got paid in advance."
I wasn't sure whether that was true, or whether Jean was just trying to show off with his girl-friend, probably to impress Monique. Jacqueline was quite well-educated, but I would have thought her too silly and childish - or better: child-like - to be a teacher. But then, anything was possible.
Jacqueline had celebrated quite a bit already; she was very giggly even by her standards. She danced around the room, throwing her arms in the air, then collapsed on the bed and laughed hysterically. I got worried again, because I didn't know how Monique was going to react to all that, and I wasn't about to blow my chances with her because of Jean and Jacqueline. But Monique was sitting there quite fascinated, laughing quietly.
"I'm going to have a shower," Jean called from the bathroom. "Does anybody want to come and have a shower with me?"
Predictably, Jacqueline started her giggling again. "Come on, let's all have a shower," she screamed.
"Oh, shut up," I told her since I didn't want the whole building kept up-to-date about what was going on here.
"Don't be such a spoil-sport," called Jean. "Just bring your girl-friend, and we'll all find room somehow."
By then, Monique seemed quite infected by Jacqueline's silliness. "Why not," she said, laughing. "I think it's a mad idea, just the right thing for a day like today."
Jacqueline was in her element now. She sensed support and 'public appreciation'. "Come on then," she shouted to Monique and started to hum a slow melody, opening the buttons on her blouse in rhythm to it. Monique went along with the joke, performing a strip as well.
When they were down to their underwear and saw that I was still hesitating, they suddenly fell over me and commenced to tear off my clothes. I have often remembered this sudden, impulsive attack, how the two of them seemed to have the same idea at the same time.
I decided to throw my reservations overboard. What a fool I was anyhow - here was a golden opportunity for some fun and I was behaving as if I believed in Victorian morality. So I gave up worrying about making the right impression on Monique or about what she might think, especially since she obviously wasn't bothered herself. I got to work on her bra while she was tearing down my underpants - she was more successful than I was, since her bra was one of those contraptions with hooks that seem to defy any attempt at penetration. In the end, she had to lend a helping hand.
She was truly beautiful: brown, smooth skin without blemishes; no appendix operation on this girl, that was obvious. Even her smallpox vaccination mark seemed especially dainty. She had a trim figure with large, but very firm breasts, which curiously seemed to defy gravity by sitting on her rib-cage without sagging; they were the sort of breasts which, if I had seen them in a photograph instead of having felt them myself, I would have dismissed as very clever airbrushing or similarly clever surgery.
There wasn't much time to admire her body, though. All four of us were soon under the shower, splashing each other, and half the apartment as it seemed, with water.
By that time I was feeling as crazy as the others. It simply was the sort of day when one wanted to do the most stupid things just for the fun of it. So I started dancing with Monique, a sort of slow and sensuous waltz under the shower, with the aim of making as much mutual body contact as possible and, at the same time, pushing the other two away from the falling water. Jacqueline started to laugh hysterically again, and Jean grabbed her for a dance as well. The competition for a place in the warm rain became increasingly fierce. By now, the whole bathroom and large parts of our bedroom were wet, and I began to worry about getting into major strife for damaging the building.
Suddenly, Jean decided it would be even better if we had music to dance to. "Ravel's Bolero is called for," he said, and went to turn on the record player.
Monique began to rub herself against me in a most sensuous manner. I already had a raging erection and she seemed determined to bring it to an abrupt conclusion. Jacqueline seemed to think that this was more fun than idly waiting for Jean, and got to work on me as well. I was, as they say, in seventh heaven. But then we heard a sudden oath from the other room, followed by a heavy thud, then hysterical laughter from Jean. Wet as we were, abandoning the enjoyable game we had been playing, we rushed to see what had happened, and found Jean rolling on the floor.
"I nearly killed myself," he yelled between breathless bursts of laughter. "I nearly electrocuted myself on that damn thing." He kicked the record player.
The rest of us didn't find it quite so funny. I felt quite sobered, and was no longer sure that this was such an ideal day for doing crazy things. The girls weren't laughing either.
We helped Jean onto his bed. Lying there, he calmed down, then started to swear. Jean could be a little odd at times. I had known him for many years, but had never been able to understand him completely. But then I don't really understand myself, so why should I have comprehended his way of thinking? Anyway, true to his fashion, he stopped cursing as suddenly as he had started.
"That's enough of that," he said. "Come on, let's celebrate." He went for the corkscrew. I noticed a purple spot on his thigh and wondered whether that was a love-bite from Jacqueline or whether he had bruised himself during the fall a moment ago. Can purple spots appear that quickly? Don't they turn other colours first?
He returned with a bottle and four glasses, which he had just rinsed under the still running shower. He poured the wine, broke off a few pieces of bread and put it all on a tray. The wine was unusually strong, and I wondered why Jean hadn't mixed it with water, as we usually did, not only to stretch our limited supplies but also because that strong red wine has quite a kick when drunk undiluted. And eating the bread with it only served to make the alcohol taste and feel even more potent.
The sun was shining through the open window; it was very warm and pleasant and I was glad of it, because at least nobody bothered to get dressed.
We drank the wine, then some more, and more again. Jean approached the record player again, with great respect, probably enhanced by the wine in his blood, and put on a few records. Our previous madness had changed to a feeling of tranquillity.
Monique finally crawled onto my bed and fell asleep. Jacqueline joined her there; the sight of the two naked girls sleeping with arms around each other, was actually quite fascinating. Jean suggested we should take a photograph of them and disappeared into the other room to find his camera.
I went out on the balcony; it was early in the afternoon now, the sun was warm and a light breeze had risen. Across the street was the office of an agent of some sort. His little old secretary threw a quick glance at me, then tried to avoid looking out of the window again. Probably she was worried about being morally corrupted by the sight of a naked man. Under normal circumstances I might have taken her feelings into consideration, but the wine had been rather too strong and too plentiful.
I went back inside to do some work. The two girls were still asleep and Jean was snoring in his own room. I didn't want to wake them, so I took the typewriter to the balcony and worked there. It wasn't easy at first, with papers flying everywhere, but finally I managed to get myself organised.
I don't remember much about writing; to be quite honest, I must have done it half asleep. All I know is that I finished the final chapter of my book that afternoon, and then dozed off still sitting at the typewriter.
* * * * *
© 1996 Maurice Benfredj
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