Ken Hada is a fourth generation Oklahoman, descendant of Danish and Hungarian immigrants: Gypsy poets, barn dance aficionados, art lovers, amateur philosophers, wheat farmers, preachers, teachers and common-sense craftsmen.

“These poems, acting as spare parts themselves, go into the making of one smooth-running, powerful engine.”

 - Diane Glancy

Author of Pushing the Bear

Pas de Deux | by David Aquila

 

Oh, she smelled good as she pulled me in, handshake-clasped together, close, for that French-friend double kiss, first the right cheek and then the left.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” she kept hold of my hand.

“It’s good to meet you too,” I smiled, trying to remember where I’d once smelled her perfume.  I had pictured her differently when we’d talked on the phone, somewhat older, shorter hair, not this petite.

“Please, come inside,” she guided me off the darker landing, into her apartment. “You had no trouble finding me?”

“No.  You gave excellent directions,” I followed her into a larger room to the right.  The apartment was big by Paris standards and seemed lived in and warm.  There were paintings and photos on the walls, and several bookcases in this room, each one over full.  I tried to take in the names of some of the authors without stopping to look.  I was glad she liked books.  We could talk about books.

“Please, sit down,” she sat across from me on the couch.  She pointed to a bottle of white on the table.  “Wine?” her eyebrows up.

“Oui, merci.”  My accent was bad.  She smiled.  

We had the proper introductions of course, so important here in France.  Each of us a friend of the same Swiss woman who’d thought that we should meet.  You’ll like her-- our friend had said.  The Lovely Lisette, we call her.  I told her about you too.  Poor thing, she’s had a tough time of it… but she really is lovely-- and she’d added this last part in quickly.  I remember saying that lovely was good but inside wondering about her tough time.

Lisette held my glass by the stem and at a slight angle, tipping the bottle to the pour, the gold-yellow liquid flowing out easily in short, choppy, quick-clugs, almost filling to the top.  The Lovely Lisette, I’m thinking as I take the glass, and our friend had been right.  A soft Mediterranean face framed by dark-brown hair in long curls that grew well past her shoulders, highlighting her smile, and green eyes that were complemented now by the color of the wine.  “There is cheese aussi,” she said quickly, pointing to a plate, and for the first time I could sense that she was nervous too.  

I raised my glass, “To the cheese aussi.”  I hoped she would laugh-- and she did.  The wine was good.

“So Thomas, you’re a writer,” and she leaned forward, picked up the small knife on the table and sliced into the Camembert.

“Guilty,” I could hear a TV in another room behind me.  I assumed it was her daughter.

“And you said on the phone that you are here to start a novel?”  She put the creamy triangle onto a piece of cut baguette, spread it slightly, and handed it across the table on a small plate.  “Is it your first?”

“My second, actually.”  I waited for her before I ate.  “It’s cliché, I know, another American writer in Paris.  But I just wanted to be here, in the city, to write the first sentence.”  I put the small piece of the bread in my mouth and loved its mix with the cheese and then the wine.  “I’ve tried to explain it to people, you know, why Paris?  But I can’t.”  I took another sip of wine and tried again.  “There’s just something about this place and I can’t quite put my finger on it.  

I mean, is it the buildings, or the trees, or the avenues?  Is it the gardens, or the river, or the light?  Is it the humanness of the place?  All the literary history?  For god’s sake, Joyce wrote here, and Hemingway, and Miller!”  I raised both hands.  “Or is it just as simple as the crunch of that baguette, and the taste of that cheese, and the wine all mixed together in my mouth?”  I started to laugh and shook my head.

“You’re a romantic,” she was smiling.  “When was your last visit here?”

“Oh, it’s been awhile.  Eight years.  We stayed for three months-- an extended honeymoon.  That’s when I started my first novel.”  

“Oh, so this is a tradition for you, to begin things in Paris,” Lisette leaned forward.

“I suppose it is.”  We’d made our daughter here.         

“Can I still buy a copy of your book?” she placed her wine glass on the table and began slicing two more pieces of the Camembert.

“No, it went straight to video.”  Her face told me that she didn’t understand.  “My novel didn’t do very well.”  I made a mental note to watch the idioms and decided not to tell her about how I’d recently seen an old paperback copy in the bargain bin of a Los Angeles bookstore.  $1.99-- about sixty-three cents for each year I’d worked on it.  Instead, I made another joke, “It did get one rave review though…but I suppose my mother’s doesn’t count.”  Lisette laughed politely and I was immediately sorry I’d said this.  It was a good book and I was proud of it.  I took a drink of my wine.  I was trying too hard.

“And what is it about?” Lisette sat back into the couch and looked genuinely interested.  

“The first novel?”  I’ve been asked this question so many times but I couldn’t understand why I felt so nervous now explaining it to Lisette.  “Well, it’s the typical story, you know; boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets bit by radioactive dog, becomes a mutant, and saves the world from villainy.”  

She smiled at me, more familiar this time, “You’re kidding again.  Be serious.  Tell me.”

I took a drink.  Set ups are always a gamble and I’d been reluctant about this one.  I had memories in Paris and I still wasn’t sure about turning that page.  But I sat back in the chair and I told Lisette anyway and she listened and asked questions and she even got enthusiastic, in that wonderful way the French do, and she said that she must read it and this made me feel better than it normally made me feel, and our conversation flowed easy from topic to topic as we finished off the cheese and that first bottle of wine.

Then Lisette stood up, “I’m just going to check on my daughter,” and she walked around my chair and went out of the room towards the sound of the television.  I finished the wine left in my glass and walked over to the balcony doors.  Outside, the moon had risen and the rooftops around were clear and almost glowed.  I could see the Eiffel Tower lit golden white in the distance and somewhere, behind it all, was the river.  I was glad that I had come.  

I checked my own reflection in the glass, and my face staring dimly back looked older than I felt.

“Are you still hungry?” Lisette’s voice came into the room quickly.  I turned around but she didn’t wait for me to answer.  “Because my friend just returned from Italy and brought me the most wonderful prosciutto.  Would you like some?”

“Sure.” I smiled, thinking that I must have passed some level with her because now we were going from mere domestic cheese to imported cured pork.  

“I’ll be right back,” she said leaving the room again, this time heading in the opposite direction.  I hadn’t eaten any dinner and I was already beginning to feel the wine.  I followed her voice into the kitchen.  I stayed in the doorway, leaned against the jam and watched her cutting up a small cantaloupe.  She looked towards me quickly and then back to her cutting.  “I hope you like melon with your prosciutto.”

“I do.”  She seemed more comfortable and I liked watching her work.  It seemed familiar.  “Can I do anything?”  

Lisette kept cutting but briefly motioned her head to the right.  “You can open that bottle of wine, if you’d like.”

“I’d like,” and I moved towards her picking up the bottle-- a Pinot Noir.  I looked around, “The corkscrew?”

She moved her hips slightly out of the way, “In here,” and I opened the drawer in front of her.  As I reached inside, my left hand went down naturally to the small of her back.  It lingered for a moment-- she smelled so good.  Then Lisette turned facing me, “Open,” and she put a small piece of the melon in my mouth.  She smiled, “It’s good, no?”

“Yes.”  And it was.   

Lisette turned again, opened a cupboard and brought out a light-blue plate.  Then she went to the fridge and took out a small package of pink butcher paper.  She held this up and did a little dance as she walked, “Here it is,” in sing-song, “…my favorite, favorite, favorite.”  I smiled.  I liked that she got excited about food.  Familiar.  

She picked up the plate and motioned for me to follow her into the other room.  I took the wine.

Lisette sat and I filled her glass, then mine and instead of the chair, I sat down next to her on the couch.  She held up her glass smiling, “To the prosciutto aussi.”

“Aussi,” I repeated laughing and we clinked our glasses and drank.  The wine was very good, smooth, much better than the first and I knew that I shouldn’t rush it.  “So, Tina tells me that you’re a translator for the government.” My turn to ask questions.   

“Yes,” her mouth full, hand covering it as she spoke.  She leaned forward slightly, sitting on the end of the cushion.  “Basically, I translate contracts.”  She took another piece of melon from the plate, wrapped it in prosciutto, pushed her hair away from her face with one hand, and leaned back on the couch.

“Into English?”

“English, Italian, Spanish… whatever is needed.”

“You speak four languages?”  I shook my head, “I have trouble with the one.”

She smiled, took a bite, and brought her hand up again to cover her mouth, “Well, actually four and a half.”  She said this nonchalantly as if anyone could do it.  “A little Portuguese as well.”

 “So I guess you began studying right out of the womb?”  

Lisette laughed, leaned forward, and touched my arm lightly.  “You’re funny,” then she raised her pointed finger, “but also very correct in this case.”  She took off her shoes now and curled her legs under her on the couch.   “You see, my father was Italian and my mother is French, so those two I learned…out of the womb, as you said,” she grinned and drank some wine.  “Then English, of course, in higher school…” I liked this small mistake, “…and later I learned Spanish at university.”

“What about the Portuguese?”

She raised her eyebrows and looked coyly to the side, “Well, let’s just say I had a rather,” she paused, “…difficult relationship with a Brazilian.”

I laughed, “So, I bet you know all the curse words in that language.”

“Every one,” she reached and touched my arm again.

“And do you enjoy your work?”

Lisette shrugged her shoulders, “It is a bit boring at times, you know?  Contracts are not great literature…” she lifted her glass towards me, “…they can be quite tedious,” I liked the way she said tedious, “…but it is a job and I need to support my little girl.”

I could still hear the TV in the other room, “How old is she?”  I took a longer drink.

“Nicole will be six in September.”  

 “That must be a fun age,” a flash of our Jenny-- she’d have been seven.

Lisette paused and looked at me for what seemed like a long time.  I could tell she was debating.  

“Tina told me about the accident, about your wife and little girl,” decision made, her voice was soft.

I had figured this would come up.  It always does.  I’d just thought I would have a few more glasses of wine longer tonight.  I nodded.  Beth had gotten up early that morning.  She was having one of her cravings, a café latte after her run.  Then Jenny was crying, she wanted to go with her mother.  It’s just easier if I take her, she’d said and then that quick goodbye, a small peck, and I’ll see you in a bit.  The house was quiet after that.  

Again, in the distance through the balcony doors, I saw the Eiffel Tower.  It was different now, not lit in just one color but with the lights sparkling on-off in a sequence, first blue and then white, from its base to its tip, making it seem almost like a big bottle of champagne.  

“So, have you always had this view or did you just get it installed?”  I pointed towards the glass doors.

Lisette turned and looked, “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”   

I paused for a moment.  “It was just so long ago, and I don’t…”

Lisette turned back and placed her hand on mine, “I’m so sorry, Thomas,” she said quickly.  “I shouldn’t have brought it up…”

I laced my fingers into hers, “Come on,” I said, “let’s talk about happier things… like your ex-husband.”

Lisette’s laugh filled the room.  “Oh la-la, don’t get me started on him.”  

I let go of her hand, picked up the wine bottle, and refilled both our glasses.  “Yes, let’s get you started.  Was he the Brazilian?” I smiled moving closer to her on the couch, “Come on Lisette.  Start talking.”  

“Alright, alright,” she touched my chest then turned herself towards me.  “Where should I start?” she took a long drink of her wine.  Her perfume.  She smelled so good-- the mix with her own body.

“Tell me how you met.”  

“Oh, mon dieu, it was so long ago,” she looked at the walls as if the years were hung on them.  “I was only thirteen,” then she turned back to me and smiled.  “We met at collège,” she touched my arm.  “How do you call it…middle school?”  I nodded and she kept her hand there.  “Patrice was a year older than me, a rebel, you know?”

“Like James Dean,” I smiled.

“Yes, exactly,” she nodded as she said this.  “He was really very troubled, but oh,” she looked at the ceiling, “he was so beautiful, Thomas.  And he was a singer in this punk rock band.  He had a horrible voice but it didn’t seem to matter because they always played so loudly and they would turn down his microphone,” she laughed at the memory.  “He even had blue hair at one point.”  

“I remember the 80’s,” I smiled.  “So what happened?”

Lisette looked back to me and her tone changed.  “Well, we were together for a very long time, and then we broke up after university, and then five years later we met again by chance-- in a boulangerie, a bakery…”

“Did he still have the blue hair?”

She smiled, “No, he didn’t you silly man,” she squeezed my arm.  “But I was stupid and I thought it was fate that had brought us together, and so we got married.  Then we had Nicole, and we were living what I thought was a fairly normal life until around last Christmas.”  Lisette turned her head and looked down at the table.  “That’s when his other wife called me from Lyon to say that she’d just found out about us, and that she needed Patrice to come home to her and their three children.”  She turned to me and forced a smile, and I heard our friend Tina in my head saying… poor thing.

“Jesus,” I took the bottle off the table and refilled her glass and then my own.  I couldn’t think of anything I could say but I needed her to laugh. “You and I should write a Greek tragedy together.  We could call it…” I decided to push it, “‘Bigamy, Death…’”

“… ‘and Prosciutto Aussi’?” Lisette surprised me, but her laugh was forced and too quick, and as her hand came across her body, it lost hold of the glass and she spilled her wine.  “Oh, merde…” her face reddened.  “Look what I’ve done.”

I grabbed for a napkin. “It’s okay,” I held it on her knee where she’d spilled quite a bit.

“I’m so stupid!  I’m stupid,” her voice was higher and I could see her hands were shaking as she picked up another napkin.  

“It’s okay,” I looked at her face.  She was crying.    

Lisette turned her head away and towards the wall, saying stupide over and over again.  She wiped at her eyes and tried to laugh.  

“It’ll be alright,” I took her hand and held it softly.  “It will.”  She nodded, looking towards me, then away.  I brought my other hand gently to her face.  I needed her to know.  “It’ll be alright,” and she looked up at me, took in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and bent her head to my caress.  I felt her tears on my fingers.  She was beautiful.  And without even thinking I pulled her in, and I kissed her.  Slowly at first and then she began kissing me back.  It was good.  Like a dance-- with those first familiar rhythms, the different scents and warm tastes of someone new, and then that slow-burn melting into one another.  Lisette’s hand came up to my neck and her fingers went into my hair.  I felt her tongue, she pulled me closer, and I heard her breathing in.  My hand was slowly moving over her back when she broke our kiss and looked deeply into me.  She must have seen it all in my eyes like I saw it all in hers, but neither of us said anything.  We just kissed again.