Leaving Madeleine - Part 17

SEVERAL WEEKS WENT BY. My relationship with Madeleine completely deteriorated.  What was broken before was irreparable now. We had hid it under the bed for so long without talking about it. Now it was brought out into the open and we talked around it. I slept in my own bed, in my own apartment most days of the week – a rarity before Brigitte. Madeleine stopped asking why. Partly because she didn’t want to know the truth, and partly for what further inquiry would do to her ego. At least this was my interpretation. We loved each other, but it was not enough. She loved me, but she needed to feel loved. I loved her, but I was excited about somebody else. I had spoiled it. I had spoiled it rotten. And I was angry with myself for doing so. When you affront love, love always wins.  Only a fool takes it for granted. And I was most certainly a fool.

Things went on this way for some time. We sleepwalked through our relationship and fought without energy, prolonging the end that each of us could see so clearly. It was Madeleine who brought it to a close. The fact hit me harder than I anticipated. She seemed completely in control. I am convinced that women have an ability to make decisions about their feelings that men do not have. A coldness arose in Madeleine that I could never understand. I told her as much. She explained it was something she had to do. I told her I had to do the same, but was unable. She stopped answering my calls. She told me to give her time. And so I did.

And so I was released.

I saw Brigitte as often as I could and slept with her whenever the occasion presented itself. Sometimes even when it didn’t. She was young and wise and as reckless as I was. We were running so far ahead, so fast, knowing full well we’d eventually have to catch our breath, but neither of us willing to stop and find out what that would entail. We’d make love in a café bathroom, a retail change room and on a train to Monaco. It was France, so it was tolerated. She was leaving at the end of the month and I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to follow her to Hong Kong. She wanted the same.  I wanted to tell her about Madeleine, but I knew I couldn't. She would form an opinion of me that was inaccurate. I could've told her before we were intimate, but not after. So I kept it inside, something that seemed to be becoming somewhat of a habit. The deceit tormented me, so I threw it away. "I'll tell her later," I told myself, quenching my guilt.  I allowed myself to be happy and enjoy the days we had left in Paris together.

Leaving Madeleine - Part 16

IT WAS SHORTLY AFTER 2:00 PM when I left Brigitte's. I needed the time to think, so I decided to walk home. A large part of me wanted to tell Madeleine exactly what happened, but I knew I couldn't. What right did I have to ruin her ability to trust future lovers? Or maybe I was justifying keeping my indiscretion hidden. Either way, what we had was over. At the very least it was permanently altered. No, it was over. This was the first time I had crossed the line with another woman and I wasn't about to soil whatever was sprouting. I was a picaro, but Brigitte had tapped into something so far inside me I thought it had long since left. Once upon a time, everything was pure and beautiful. That was all gone now. But with her I thought maybe I could have something like it again, without the naivety of the other times.

So I'd tell Madeleine I'd lost my phone. And I'd tell myself it was for her sake.  I thought briefly about tossing it into the seine. Then I thought better. I went to a bar, I don't remember which one, had a glass of wine, and left my phone in the washroom.  When I got to Madeleine's, she wasn't there. She was at school. I lay in bed thinking how the bed wasn't mine anymore. Nothing was mine. Everything was different. Everything changed. I was different. I changed.

I fell asleep.


Hours later, I'm not sure how many, Madeleine came home. She had my phone. Someone found it in the washroom and gave it to a server, who gave it to the manager. The manager saw twenty-five missed calls from Madeleine and decided she was the best person to call. Madeleine picked the phone up from the bar after her class.

"Mais pourquoi tu n'a pas m'appeler, ni revenir chez moi?"  she asked.

"I don't know. I was drunk. I couldn't find my phone. I just went home."

"Et qui est, Kiyoko?"

"Un ami." I always found it easier to lie in French. Although this wasn't the lie.

"Je n'ai jamais entendu parler d'elle."

"Okay. What am I supposed to say to that?"

"Je ne sais pas."

All women, at least all that I've known, have an uncanny sense of when a man is unfaithful. It is often not entirely accurate, however the suspicions usually have some ground. It could be the man is simply indulging in thoughts of another woman. What many call emotional cheating. Or it could be worse. Madeleine knew something was wrong, but she didn't know what. I gave her the truth up to when I parted ways with Patrick. From there, I did what I hate. I lied. I told her I bumped into another friend, one she didn't know, and went for a drink. One drink turned into several and without thinking, I stumbled to my own apartment instead of hers. My phone being off for the movie she found satisfactory. Even bumping into my friend. But not ending up at her place bothered her immensely. So did Kiyoko.

I ran out of steam after an hour or so of arguing, thanked her for picking up my phone, and left for Le Danton.

Leaving Madeleine - Part 15

MY EYES OPENED and it was morning. I was still in Brigitte's bed and I was still naked. As was she. If she was awake she was hiding it well. Despite my predicament I held no inclination of rushing out. I fetched my jeans from the floor and put them on. Grabbed my underwear, folded it tightly and shoved it in my back pocket. Brigitte's voice startled me.

"Why are you putting Calvin in your pocket?"

"They're dirty," I responded. Somehow this answer was satisfactory.

"Want breakfast?" she asked.

"Where?"

"Here. I can make pancakes or ham and eggs."

Evidently she was in no hurry to get rid of me either. I was glad.

"Pancakes sound grand."

"Grand," she repeated. "What are you, from the nineteen-thirties?"

"Yes, " I replied.

To this she said nothing, but pulled the covers away without shame, her tight, unblemished skin and tiny breasts welcoming the sunlight.

"Mind if I shower first?"

"Not at all."

"Want to join me?"

"Would that be okay?"

She smiled coyly and sashayed toward the bathroom.

We showered together and made love a second time. I had no toiletries so I used hers. Better to smell like Arid Extra Dry for women than male body odor I figured. I still of course had only my dirty clothes, but Brigitte insisted that I put my socks and underwear in a plastic bag instead of my back pocket. I agreed.

She made pancakes and we watched Kids Return. It was as good as I remembered it. I had twenty-three missed calls, four voicemails, and eighteen text messages. If there is one thing moral to be said about modern technology, it certainly makes deceit an extremely difficult undertaking.

Leaving Madeleine - Part 14

We crossed the Seine at Pont Des Arts, which Brigitte informed was her favorite bridge, and continued on towards the Louvre Hotel. During our walk we discussed paintings we liked, the beauty of Paris, the excitements of China and Japan, and everything from religion to our favorite season. We also held several long stretches where neither of us said a thing, and neither of us felt uncomfortable about it. The night was calm and rewarding like most nights in Paris and all I could think about was the potential for sex at the end of it and the consequences of tomorrow.

Her aunt's place was a few minutes from the Louvre Hotel. Brigitte produced a mess of a key chain with multiple trinkets hanging off it and opened the door with one of what must have been fifteen or twenty keys.

"I used to believe the number of keys on a key chain were a sign of success," I said.

"How come?" she asked.

"Keys to a house, a car, a cottage, work, you know, on and on..."

"And now?"

"I don't know. I just had a lot of keys at one point and I wasn't very successful."

She nodded. It was the first time in our short relationship I felt self-conscious. We walked up five flights of creaky stairs, she produced another key, and we entered her aunt's flat. Brigitte flipped off her shoes and flicked on the light. I stepped out of my own shoes and rejoiced about the absence of holes in my socks.

"I hope my feet don't stink," she said staring at her bare feet.

I inhaled deeply. "Minus two hundred."

"What?" She flopped down on the floor and brought her foot almost to her nose. "I don't smell anything."

"I was kidding."

She punched me - quite hard too, for her weight class. "I'm sorry!" I said sheepishly.

"Do you want something to drink? Water? Tea?" she asked jumping to her feet.

"Aren't you going to wake up your aunt?" I whispered.

"I told you, she's away."

"You didn't tell me."

"I didn't?"

"No."

"She's away," she shrugged. I have to go to the bathroom."

"Again?"

"I have a small bladder. That was an hour ago anyway!" she said walking away. "Can you put the movie on? It's in the cabinet thingy under the television." She disappeared down the hallway and I went to the forty-two inch widescreen in the living room.

The TV stand was indeed a cabinet and inside were several DVD cases, including a box set of Takeshi Kitano movies, everything up to, but not including, Zatoichi. I slipped out two of my favorites: Kids Return and Fireworks. Neither film approaches anything romantic, but the former was my introduction to the director, so I went with it. I popped the disc into the player next to the television, slid the cases back into the box, and found a couple of remotes on the table in front of the couch. Switching on the television, then the DVD player, I jumped to the menu screen and waited.

A large bay window to my right opened to the busy street below. I could hear cars zipping by along with the occasional pedestrian making their way to wherever they had to go. I started to think of how things might start. Would we watch the entire movie? Would it be here on the couch? Or would we take it to the bedroom? Maybe I was being presumptuous. Perhaps she wasn't envisioning any sexual activity at all. Why did she bring me here then? Was it shallow of me to think that she wanted to do more than just watch a movie and talk? What should my first move be? As I began to consider a couple of possibilities, I heard her coming out of the bathroom and enter the kitchen.

"Kids return alright?" I called out.

"Perfect, " she called back.

"Did you want tea? I have wine if you prefer."

"Tea's good," I said.

I listened to her work away in the kitchen. Water running, stopping, cups clinking, a fridge opening, closing, a cupboard doing the same...

I decided to join her. "Need help?" I asked in the doorway.

"Not really."

I took a seat at the kitchen table instead. The water came to a boil and the kettle shut off automatically. She filled two cotton filters with Mariage Frères tea, dropped them in a pot and poured the water over them.

"Black tea alright?" she asked.

"Sure," I responded. Then, for some reason, I got up and joined her at the counter. There were some macaroons on a saucer. I took one and popped it into my mouth.

"Who said you could do that?" she said playfully.

I finished chewing, swallowed, and decided to kiss her. She kissed back. I lifted her to the counter so she was sitting, our lips almost level. We stopped kissing for a moment to search each other’s eyes. Mixed with the surety and confidence I had seen all night, I saw something else. Something akin to fear or apprehension. It was hidden but I saw it. And as if realizing whatever it was had been exposed, she sought to explain it.

"I've never had a one night stand before," she told me.

I knew that wasn't it, but I went along anyway. "Is that what this is?"

"I don't want it to be."

"Me neither."

We kissed again. 

"You're kisses taste like macaroons," she whispered. We laughed at that as she slid down from the counter top, took my hand and led me out of the kitchen to a bedroom down the hall.

The furnishing of the room was simple. A twin bed, an armoire, white linen curtains, and a free standing full length mirror. She sat down at the edge of the bed and made to pull me into her. I kneeled on the floor instead, resting my hands on her thighs and pushing my lips into hers. I pulled off my shirt. She moved back toward the headboard and I crawled in over top of her. I kissed her neck, undid the buttons of her shirt and then the button of her jeans, followed by the zipper. I pulled off her jeans with some difficulty, undid the clasp on her lace bra and kissed the hard nipples on her small breasts. I reached my hand under her matching panties and felt inside her. She was very warm and very wet. And I was very hard. Just as I wandered if I was going to have to take my pants off on my own, she began to fumble with my belt. I helped her. With my pants off, I pulled down her underwear and did the same with mine. She removed her shirt and put her hand on me. We shared another kiss and silently told each other we were both ready. I went inside her and every thought other than pleasing her ran from my mind. The motion of her hips told me she had some experience. Our fingers interlocked, along with her ankles around my waist, and I felt her squeeze as she moaned and came. A little longer and I was there too. I pulled out and collapsed half on her, half on the bed. We lay in silence, enjoying one another in that way for some time. She rolled over and looked into my face. I kissed her a few times and she ran her hands through my hair. I looked for guilt and for Madeleine, but I couldn’t find either so I stopped looking.

Leaving Madeleine - Part 13

Somehow it was past midnight. Not particularly late by any stretch of the imagination, but late enough for Madeleine to wonder where I was and why I hadn't called. The display on my Nokia informed me I had three missed calls, two text messages and a voice mail - all from her. No one was the wiser since I had turned my ringer off before the movie and never bothered to turn it back on afterwards.

As we stepped outside, Patrick suggested we all share a cab. I was the first to back out saying how I felt bad enough for crashing their date and didn't want to deprive them of a romantic taxi ride. Patrick quickly pointed out it was not a date and was about to try and change my mind, when Brigitte interjected with the fact that her aunt's place was in the opposite direction anyway. Still trying to honour what was left of the "man code" and against every urge in my mind and body, I insisted I'd take the métro and bid my friend and potential lover a good evening. I exchanged a genuine handshake with Patrick, a kiss on each cheek and a long "I don't want this to end" glance with Brigitte, and left for Saint Germain station.

It wasn't until I bumped into a woman on the sidewalk that I realized the daze I was in. I felt lightheaded and directionless. The only image in my head was Brigitte's face and the only clear thought was to turn around and find her. I issued the customary "pardon" to the victim of my aimless wandering and had a momentary lapse of reality. "I need to call Madeleine" was the first dose. I pulled out my phone. There was another call from a number I didn't recognize. I stopped dead in my tracks, my heart jumping to my throat. I chastised myself for being so naïve, but had to call just to be sure.

"Where are you?" came Brigitte's voice after a couple of rings.

"Almost at Saint Germain. Where are you?"

"At Saint Germain."

"Really?"

"I took a taxi." And as if reading my mind she added, "I'm alone. Hurry up, there are strange French men looking at me."

"I can see you." I could.

"I see you. "

She was standing on her tip-toes, though I wasn't sure why since there was no one between us. I waved and she waved back. Thirty seconds later, we were reunited.

"Where's Patrick?" I asked.

"I don't know. He put me in the first taxi. Paid too. He's a real gentleman." She reached into her purse. "Can you give this to him the next time you see him?"

I refused. "You give it to him."

"Okay." She put the money back into her clutch.

"So, you want to take the train?" I asked dishonestly.

"We could," she responded. "Or we could walk along the Seine back to my place and watch a Kitano movie..." It was either a question or an offer. Either way, my answer was yes.

"Let's watch a movie," I said.

She smiled a deep, knowing smile, interlocked our arms at the elbow and led us towards the Seine.

Leaving Madeleine - Part 12

My pie was blueberry. Brigitte had apple crumble à la mode. I don't remember what Patrick ate, though I am pretty sure it was cake.

We talked about actors and actresses. About Ethan Hawke. About Sydney Lumet. About movies. Two hours flew by without a lull in the conversation. Brigitte had an impressive knowledge of film, rivaling my own. I admired her fondness of the Coen brothers and forgave her for worshiping David Lynch. My past as an actor and director impressed her and she made me promise to show her some of my work. When the conversation turned to music we found our tastes to be equally eclectic, crossing paths in the middle with Nina Simone and Serge Gainsbourg and dividing somewhere on the outer spectrum with underground hip hop for me and what can perhaps best be described as experimental trip hop for her. Her ethnicity was a mix of Chinese on her father's side and Cambodian and East Indian on her mother's side. Her parents had moved to Hong Kong just before the Khmer Rouge took over and then retired to Malaysia. She, however, stayed in Hong Kong working freelance as an illustrator. She was visiting a relative in Paris for a few months to brush up her French. She spoke two other languages fluently, Cantonese and the Queen's English, and spoke enough Mandarin to get ripped off in mainland China. It's fair to say I was smitten within the first four minutes of talking to her, and a total goner by the time we paid the cheque.

"Are we done?" asked Brigitte.

"Ready when you are," Patrick said.

"I have to go to the little girls' room first."

"You mean to powder your nose?" I interjected.

"No. I mean to pee."

I nodded awkwardly. I shouldn't have asked. She left for the washroom. Patrick pulled his chair closer to mine.

"Wow," he said.

"Yeah," I responded. "Quite the girl."

"No, I mean-"

"Where'd you meet her?"

"At a party. I think for Bacardi or something."

"Hmm."

"So what is this?" Patrick came out with it.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. What are you doing?" He was gentle with it, not accusatory.

"I don't know." It was true, I didn't.

"Well listen Evan, I really like this girl..."

"Yeah. She's very likeable."

"And you know, I am not saying anything - I mean about Madeleine. That's your business."

"I appreciate that."

"But I am just saying, yunno, if I, or if something happens between me and Brigitte, I don't want that to-"

"Yeah Pat. Don't worry about it. I'm sorry, man. I didn't see this coming at all. A few years ago I could've probably let it pass. But now, you know, I feel like I'm at that age where, I mean, not to be crude, but I just feel it's got to be may the best man win, yunno?"

"Yeah. Good. That's good."

The truth was, I really liked Patrick and he was one of the last guys in the world I wanted to be in this circumstance with. But it felt like the universe had turned against him in regards to Brigitte. Sparks had flown between us and more were on the way. I could feel it. I no longer believed in love at first sight, but what was happening between us was undeniable, tangible even. We weren't in love, but we could be. And we both knew it. I thought those feelings had left with adolescence, but here they were, staring me in the face and daring me to take the risk.

Brigitte returned to the table. "Ready."

"Let's go," Patrick said to no one in particular.

Leaving Madeleine - Part 11

I left Kiyoko's for Le Danton. There was still enough room in the day to get some work done. On my way there I saw that Before the Devil Knows Your Dead was just about to start at the UGC cinema. The days wasted anyway, I justified. I bought a ticket, some candy and a beverage, and found a good seat in the theater.

The film started. Immediately I was filled with nostalgia. I missed making films. I missed acting. Since I was very young, people had been telling me I resembled Ethan Hawke. It was one of the few comparisons I actually believed to be true. I didn't find it to be a compliment, nor did I think it was an insult. We did look alike. Same oblong face, jaw, nose, and big ears. I even got a job as his double once. The point of it all is that I feel a certain affinity with the actor. I didn't mind his performances, found him intelligent, thought he made a lot of good choices, and to top it off, he wrote decent literature. Not a bad guy at all. Compare me all you want. I had no problems with it.

The movie was good. Better than expected, in fact. Exactly what a matinee should be. Satisfying. Lumet still had it. Phillip Seymour Hoffman was at the peak of his powers. I wondered if Marissa Tomei minded showing her breasts at her age. I had seen her on stage in Salome with Al Pacino where she also bared her chest. She still had a terrific body and the ability to go toe-to-toe with any actor out there. The affair in the film felt like a warning. Coincidence? I had recently made the decision to consider nothing a coincidence.

As I got up to leave, I heard someone call my name. It was Patrick. And who was he with but the Girl in the Turquoise Dress. Of course, she was no longer wearing the turquoise dress. Instead she wore a pair of skinny jeans and an over-sized burgundy-brown button up shirt with sleeves rolled to just below her elbows. Large, red frame glasses occupied a good bit of her face and a digital casio watch was strapped around her wrist. Her suede shoes had tiny laces and with the exception of the size, looked more like a pair for men.

Oh boy.

"I thought it was you," Patrick started as we met in the aisle. "I can make out the back of your head from anywhere."

"Is that a good thing?" I asked.

"I don't think it's either," Patrick offered. "This is Brigitte. It's such a coincidence cause I was just telling her I have a friend that looks just like Ethan Hawke."

"We've met," Brigitte said. Then , with playfull eyes she added, "sort of."

"Yes. You never contacted me."

"I wanted to! But I lost that receipt you gave me."

Patrick was putting the pieces together. He kept quiet.

"Really? So you would've got in touch otherwise?" I pressed.

"I don't know. I think so. You didn't leave your name though. Which was kinda weird. And you didn't ask for mine either."

"Brigitte."

"Evan."

We all stood there looking at eachother. The credits were finished, the lights were on, and the theatre was empty.

"Let's get some pie!" Brigitte said with great enthusiasm.

"Let's," I said.

Oh boy.

We all walked out together.