Thirty-three

There are wishing places in life; places where you wish for something, places where you find yourself, places that leave nothing to be desired. I may be biased—that’s certainly the case—but for me, the pont Alexandre III is just such a place. Paris has many bridges, some of them very famous. But that old bridge with its wonderful candelabra, with the four tall pillars on which gilded horses seem to be flying in the air, with all its dolphins and cherubs and sea gods dancing playfully beneath the stone parapet seems to me to be different from any other bridge that I know.

If you live and work in Saint-Germain, you very rarely go there. Of course I’d driven over the pont Alexandre, but I’d never taken the trouble to stop and get out. And I had never crossed the old bridge on foot—not until that day when I was to see Mélanie again.

After Solène’s call, I had carefully taken the roses out of the wastebasket and put them back in the vase again. I knew the Café de l’Esplanade. It was not far from the pont Alexandre, on the corner of the rue de Grenelle and the rue Fabert, and when the weather’s good, you can sit there well into the evening, looking out over a splendid view.

It was six o’clock. Still three hours to go till my meeting with Mélanie. That was definitely too long. I couldn’t think straight, and I wandered about in the apartment, my restlessness growing every minute. I went into the bathroom and looked searchingly in the mirror. The bruises around my left eye were fading. I went back into the living room, sat on the sofa, and closed my eyes for a moment. A short while later, I leaped up again and put on a fresh shirt for the second time that day. I shaved again, put on aftershave, combed my hair, looked for my brown suede shoes, and, just to be on the safe side, put my jacket on again.

As I got ready, more nervously and carefully than I ever had done in my life, I imagined Mélanie doing the same somewhere on the other side of the Seine. Orphée sat on the bureau in the hall, attentively watching all of my movements. She seemed to sense that something was different than usual. Her calmness made me even more nervous.

And then I had an idea that seemed to suit my impatient mood very well. Why should I stay in the apartment any longer anyway? It was a beautifully mild evening, and I would just go and intercept Mélanie on the way. I was sure that she’d walk to the Café de l’Esplanade over her favorite bridge. How lovely it would be if I was there on the bridge waiting for her.

I took the roses out of the water. Two of the opulent pink blooms were a bit crumpled, but the rest had survived being crammed in the wastebasket.

“Wish me luck, Orphée,” I said as I stood at the door. Orphée sat enthroned on the bureau and looked at me out of her green eyes without moving.

I pulled the door shut behind me and went on my way.