Page 31 - WTPVol.XI#4

Ah, New York, she says with a smile, a hint of remem- brance in her eyes. I’ve been there many times. A lovely city.
She takes another drag from her cigarette, her eyes studying him.
You come to Paris once a year and you don’t speak the language?
I’m afraid not. It’s embarrassing, I know, but I always had a mental block when it comes to languages.
Her laugh is hoarse and raspy, but not unpleasant, and when she laughs the light in her eyes is more pronounced. It is the look in her eyes where he sees the woman he’d grown accustomed to seeing. The
“It’s the walk of an old woman but he can’t help
notice the light surrounding her, the light which Godard was once able to bring out through his films. She still possesses it, even after all these years.”
way she speaks English is also endearing, almost child-like in a way, and it also enhances the light radi- ating from her.
I should learn, he says, but...
It’s all right. You really don’t need to. It would help, though.
She turns away and sips her Aperol, takes another drag from her cigarette, then stubs it out in the ash- tray, then immediately lights another one. A slight breeze comes off the Seine, blowing tendrils of her dark hair over her frail shoulders. He can’t stop look- ing at her. She’s as beautiful as she ever was.
I’ve been listening to that musician, she says. He’s not very good, is he?
I was thinking the same thing, he says with a laugh. He doesn’t seem to realize his guitar is out of tune.
You’re a musician?
Not professionally, but I play. How did you know?
Only a musician could tell if an instrument is not in tune, she says. I used to sing, but not anymore.
He’s aware of the records she made, the films she made, the novels she wrote, and just about everything else about her, but he doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t want to impose on her or embarrass her. Though feeling a bit star-struck, he doesn’t want to
let on that he is. Besides, he’s getting a kick out of the fact that she doesn’t know he knows who she is and wants to see where the conversation goes, if any- where. He still can’t believe he’s talking to her, that she’s even here. Strangely, those few patrons at the café, the waitstaff, nor the passersby take any notice of her, or are also not letting on they know who she is, what a cultural icon she once was, and perhaps still
is. There’s no fawning, no one eager for autographs, no one taking photos, and she seems perfectly okay with that, probably even prefers it. She can just sit there, enjoy her drink and her smoke, and the pleas- ant autumn day.
She turns her attention to a group of children running around in front of the café as their mothers converse, their playful giggles infectious, endearing.
Children are wonderful, she says. They just allow themselves to be, live for the moment. They’re not thinking about tomorrow, or the past. It’s a shame we lose that when we get older, along with that insatiable curiosity they possess, don’t you think so?
Do you have children?
No, I never did have children. I was too busy.
I didn’t mean to ask such a personal question.
It’s all right, she says, then takes another drag from her cigarette. I lived a very full life.
She says it rather matter-of-factly, with just a hint of fatalism. He feels he touched a nerve.
I have a daughter, he says. She lives with her mother. I’m divorced.
She just looks at him, her eyes searching his face.
I’m not proud of that, but you know how it is.
Do you still see your daughter?
Of course, he says. I make sure to be a father to her.
(continued on next page)
24