A few days later I arrived back in Paris in late afternoon, and took the Metro directly to see Lindy. After several knocks the door opened a crack and her mother said, “Nick! You’re finally back! Come in!” Maureen was in a long, silky dressing gown, barefoot, and apparently having a cocktail while listening to music on the radio. A single, dim lamp lit the living room and the window to her balcony was open to let in the errant, hot, summer breeze.
“I take it Lindy’s not in,” I said brusquely. My patience had been tried at the building’s entrance by the nosey old concierge, Madame Langlois, who’d insulted me in a typical Parisian way.
“She waited for days, Nick, and you didn’t show,” said Maureen. “Then her friend Carolyn flew in from California…they’ll be roommates this coming year…so they went to Grenoble to get situated.”
“Is she mad?” I asked.
“More disappointed than angry. She likes you, just as Allison did, and I will tell you that she and her sister have talked about you.” She gauged my response. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. You must know that about women. But, enough gossip. Let me pour you a Scotch, then let’s go out on the balcony and you can tell me all about your journeys!”
Between the time I got my drink and wandered out to the balcony, Maureen had brushed her hair, freshened her makeup, and put on a pair of open-toed summer high heels. Her silken gown showed little evidence of undergarments, and my eyes feasted on the prominent nipples of her breasts through the material. As I regaled her with tales of Viking museums and modern Scandinavian sculptors, she leaned against the wrought-iron railing and listened raptly to me, idly lolling one leg back and forth. Whenever I spoke she’d stare into my eyes, then she’d look out across the city to the Montmartre district, where Sacre Couer cathedral stood in proud, white, Byzantine splendor. Moving her right foot away from her left, her gown split open and I was transfixed by the extraordinary beauty of her tan calf, from the knee to her ankle. She gazed wistfully at the church as she listened to me, slowly smoking a cigarette and sipping her Pernod, apparently deep in her own thoughts.
“You’ve become quite well-traveled, Nick, and so mature. Where will you go next?”
“I was thinking, Berlin. Kruschev is making some noise about “keeping out the Fascists,” and I want to see what he’s gonna do,” I said, parroting the European newspaper accounts of early August, 1961.
“Could be dangerous,” said Maureen, giving me a long, penetrating look. Then she quickly changed the subject. “This is my favorite time of day in Paris…the sunset all purple and pink…the lights coming on…the…oh, listen! I love this song!” Stubbing out her cigarette, she vanished inside.
After a minute or so I got up and followed her. Maureen was dancing in slow circles – hugging herself with closed eyes – to Edith Piaf’s La Vie en Rose…an impossibly-romantic Parisian love song. She ignored my presence, as if she were moving in a meditative state, then she saw me watching, smiled, and reached out for my hand.