Leaving Madeleine - Part 7

Madeleine was not waiting for me upstairs. The house lights flashed several times directing the audience to return to our seats. I decided to follow their advice. When I got to my seat, Madeleine was there waiting.

“Where were you?” she whispered.

“I came up, but you weren’t there,” I said.

“There was a big line.”

“I figured.”

The show continued. Either I am unable to remember exactly what happened, or it was not memorable. Probably both. I believe Ariane escapes with Bluebeard’s former wives, convinces the townsfolk not to kill her husband and then annuls her marriage. Something like that anyway. What I do remember is feeling a tremendous amount of guilt; guilt for thinking of the Japanese girl on the subway and guilt for talking with and giving my number to the girl in a turquoise dress and red stockings.

For the rest of the evening, I showered Madeleine with affection.

When a man begins to contemplate infidelity, every woman that catches his attention becomes a more interesting prospect than the one he is currently maintaining a relationship with. He imagines this “new” girl will appreciate him more, please him more, be more attentive to his feelings, share his interests, and be an overall better match. The barista at the coffee shop that smiled as he past. The waitress at the restaurant. A friend or a friend of a friend. The beautiful woman walking hand-in-hand with her sweetheart who glanced casually his way. All these are options. And if he is bold enough, or low enough, he will start a conversation with one of them, or all of them. If the relationship progresses, he will of course learn the truth. Though, it is likely that, through this prism he has created, his vision is not entirely clear and it will take a little longer for the truth to come to light, and certainly it will come too late.

My second meeting with the Japanese girl was six or seven weeks after Ariane et Barbe-Bleue. I was going about my usual routine when she walked right into Le Danton and sat in the chair next to me.

“Est-ce que je peux écouter?” she asked.

Until she sat down, I had not noticed her. She had seen me from the street.

“Sure.”

I gave her my earphones. I was listening to Erik Satie.

“Very nice,” she said as she listened. She took the earphones out of her tiny ears and handed them back to me in an exuberant manner. “Here you go,” she said, drawing out each word. She had a slight accent that reminded me how much I enjoyed the sound of a woman’s voice with an accent. I knew the exuberance had nothing to do with the music.

She looked at the laptop closed on the table in front of me and at the moleskin and pen in my hand. “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” I said. “I’m procrastinating anyway.”

“You are writing?”

“Yes.”

“Can I read?”

“If you want.” She put out her hand and I placed the moleskin in it. Her whole body was smiling. “Who is this girl?" I thought.

First, she read the page the book was open to. It was an adage:

Do not relay the messages of the wicked, lest thou be considered a partaker in their slander.

This did not seem to impress her. She turned to another page and read some more. I am not sure what it was because she closed the book when she returned it to me.

“Do you always talk to strangers?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “You are not a stranger. I meet you on the train, remember?”

“I remember. But, that’s not really meeting.”

She fixed her posture as if to add some formality to the occasion and bowed slightly with her head and torso. “I am Kiyoko.”

“I’m Evan.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said.

“You too,” I replied.