At the Edge of Summer

I pulled on my trousers, stiff and wrinkled from a night on the floor next to her clothes. I found a clean shirt in the drawer. My jacket was on the back of the door, where I’d left it yesterday. The water in the basin was tepid. It was the same I’d washed in after coming back from the studio. I slipped my hands quietly in the water.

From the drawer in my desk, I took out a sheet of paper and my gold fountain pen, that too-ornate pen Papa gave me for my thirteenth birthday. I brought that ridiculous pen with me to the trenches. Because, as absurd as it was out there in the middle of war, it was the thing that made me feel like an adult. It made me feel somehow above the muck and playing soldier.

I think often of that summer, of our summer. Last night we were there again. I woke this morning and it was the shade of the trees and the roses and the river below. With your touch, you erased my nightmares. Don’t leave, Clare, not now and not tomorrow. You’re my happily ever after.

In the drawer was also Chaffre’s little lead Madonna in her case. I’d always before hidden her away, hoping to hide my memories of that night. Today, though, I tucked her in my pocket.

I leaned toward Clare, smelling warm and loved, and kissed her ear. “Don’t leave,” I whispered into it, though she didn’t wake. I slipped on my mask and caught up her red scarf. Tossing it around my neck, I left the apartment.

Madame Girard was in the hallway buttoning up her coat. “I’ll be out when you return. Bringing my sister fish, though I don’t know why,” she grumbled. “If she had the gout I do, she wouldn’t ask me to come out.” She eyed the mask. “What’s that? Did that woman bring it yesterday?”

“This?” I touched the metal. Today it didn’t feel so cold. “It’s a fresh start.”

I went to Les Halles to find the things I remembered her eating, things that I could find at the end of winter, in a city still caught in food shortages. Grapes, dates, a basket of late brown medlars. A loaf of crusty ficelle bought at an exorbitant price. I tucked it into my coat. Chestnuts, of course, a pocketful. It took a while longer to find oranges in the middle of winter, but I found a vendor with small, bruised Spanish oranges.

The old flower seller was waiting on her corner. “Flowers for your sweetheart?”

I dug into my pocket for my usual change and my usual line. In her basket were small bunches of wood violets, just like the ones that grew beneath the chestnut tree. So I smiled, the one half of my mouth matching the other on my mask. I smiled and said, “Yes, I think I will.”

She laughed, toothlessly. “I knew you’d find one.”

“She found me.” I took the flowers, the fragile stems damp.

The last thing I bought, from a narrow shop on the other side of the market, was a dozen soft Conté pencils. Eight years before, I’d bought pencils for Clare. I’d wanted her to know then that someone believed in her.

I’d spent weeks watching her head bent in concentration as she made my mask. Her face had been serene, satisfied. And, when she looked at her drawings hanging on my wall, exultant. I didn’t want her to lose that the way my own maman had.

Last time, I hadn’t given Clare the pencils. It was that young girl’s dress and that hopeful expression she wore when she ran up to me at Mille Mots. Then, I was afraid of letting her get too close. The shopkeeper wrapped the pencils in paper and I tucked them carefully at the bottom of my haversack. This time, I wouldn’t be afraid.

I wondered if Clare would still be in bed when I returned, wearing nothing but that brown sweater. I pictured her tangled in the blankets, smiling when she opened her eyes. I’d give her flowers. I’d kiss her one more time.

But I turned onto the Rue de Louvre. And I didn’t go home.

I thought I’d wake to a sleepy repetition of the night before, or at least to awkward yawns and blushes. I was already blushing before my eyes were open. I didn’t expect to wake to an empty apartment.

Maybe he was down the hall at the toilet or talking to the concierge. Maybe he’d stepped out so that he wouldn’t disturb me with his pipe. Maybe he’d gone in search of breakfast.

I stretched and waited. And waited. From the street below came the sounds of Paris waking up. Carts rattled, horses snorted, the rare engine from an automobile growled.