Chapter Twenty-five

ROSE AND JEE-JEE SPOKE with Miss Pettibone and they agreed to defer Charlie’s education for at least the semester.

“You only honeymoon once in this life, ideally,” Rose had said to Miss Pettibone.

“Ideally,” said Miss Pettibone, who could not help but envy the young marrieds. Her honeymoon had been three nights in the Poconos. Lots of reading in bed. Lots of silences.

“Charl will find his way back to you,” Jee-Jee said to Miss Pettibone.

“I’ll be right here if he does,” said Miss Pettibone, then made a wish that she would never see Charlie at college again. That he would escape College Hall for them both.

*

They flew first class out of JFK. Ten nights at the George Cinq, whose monstrous gilded mirrors and muted, white-gloved staff permitted the children in and sat them in a divan while their room was being readied.

“Do you think people were staring at us?” asked Paula. “We’re so young to have all your parents’ leather luggage. People must think we’re waiting for the real adults. I’m happy I’m turning twenty this trip.”

“We’re wearing wedding rings, and Europeans applaud young marrieds. They don’t snicker like Americans, who always assume there must be a pregnancy.”

“But there is.”

During the flight he’d forgotten. He’d fallen asleep in the dark cabin, over the dark Atlantic, his wedding ring finally numb to his sleeping skin. He awoke to the smell of coffee, so happy to be going on the date of a lifetime. But when he looked over, she was chatting up the stewardess about where to find maternity clothes on the Left Bank.

They’d agreed that she could have one glass of champagne each day. It was at Charlie’s urging; he didn’t want to drink alone. But Paula said her body craved healthy things. So there they were in the hotel lobby, Paula aglow with her plate of fruit and glimmering bottle of Vittel water, and Charlie raccoon-eyed with his second vodka and jus d’orange, his fingers stained from the pain au chocolat. Just like Jee-Jee’s were, after Nutella.

“Sometimes I forget you’re pregnant,” said Charlie.

“Well, I don’t have that luxury,” said Paula. “We should wait till our last day to get Mom’s napoleons, don’t you think?”

“Your mom can get those things in New Hope.”

“Just look at my cranky husband.”

“Do you like saying ‘husband’?”

“I do.”

“We haven’t said the other thing. At least you didn’t say it back.”

“You know I love you.” Paula kissed Charlie’s cheek. But she hadn’t actually said it yet. She’d said, Me too, or I feel the same way.

“I’m probably the only married guy whose wife hasn’t said it to him.”

“I bet there are plenty of girls who say it and don’t mean it. In fact, I know there are.”

“I’d even downgrade us from a suite to a traditional room just to hear you say it.”

“Let’s just stop talking about it. It’ll happen when it happens.”

“So, it’ll definitely happen?”

“Listen, I’ve never said it to anyone. My mom told me to wait as long as possible, and that’s what I’m going to do. A girl has to protect herself.”

A pantsuited French woman appeared from behind the divan to announce that their room was ready for occupancy, that their luggage had been unpacked for them, and that she could confirm today’s lunch reservation at the horribly expensive restaurant inside the Eiffel Tower. It was where Charlie’s parents had eaten on the first day of their honeymoon and was one of a hundred immutable plans he’d made. Paula had tried to warn him against such rigid days, but he’d been planning this trip his whole life. Mr. Frommer had other plans for me, thought Paula. Backpack, Eurail Pass, three summer months in the same pair of shorts.

“Did you have a nice trip in, Mr. and Mrs. Blue?” asked the woman.

“It’s actually ‘Green,’” said Charlie.

“Oh, of course, so sorry. Mr. and Mrs. Green, of course.”

She reminded Charlie of Miss Pettibone. The perfume, the exposed neckline, the short stiff hair. “A honeymoon, I understand?”

“Yes,” said Paula. I can’t believe I’m Mrs. Green. I can’t believe my last name is a color. Forgive me, Viking ancestors.

“We have you for ten nights in one of our nicest suites,” said the woman. “Just this way.”

The key fob was hoary with tassels and heavy with brass.

“The key’s gigantic,” said Paula. “Do we each get one? I’m happy I brought my bigger purse.”

“You leave it at the front desk,” said Charlie.

“Yes,” said the woman. “It’s better this way, so your bag isn’t so heavy while you explore. Voilà. Your room, Mr. and Mrs. Blue.”

The woman marched the length of the room and opened French doors that led to a balcony overlooking the hotel’s marble courtyard below, where breakfast waiters palmed trays of coffee.

“This is what I love,” said Charlie. “When you first get to Paris and it’s still breakfast time. Everything’s ahead of you.”

“Yes,” said the woman. “The beginning of the honeymoon is, um, magic, yes?”

Paula saw that her fingers were ringless and for a moment envied her freedom. She wished the French woman were her friend. Having only a husband in Paris was starting to feel isolated. Or maybe it was the jet lag? She’d been warned by Charlie about a dark surreality that comes with that first time change.

“I will leave you to the magic,” said the French woman.

Don’t go, thought Paula, but she did, leaving them to the sounds of breakfast winding down, Charlie worshipping from the balcony. “I love how noise carries in a French courtyard.”

“Let’s get undressed and go to bed and watch French cartoons and fall asleep together,” said Paula.

“I thought we could do that on our second-to-last full day. Also, you don’t want to fall asleep in the middle of your first day in Paris. You’ll wake up, it’ll be dark out, and you’ll feel really lost. Trust me.”

“Okay, I guess you’re the boss,” said Paula. She found her makeup bag and the master bathroom.

Down below, Charlie spied an older gentleman reading the newspaper. Trousers hiked from his crossed legs revealed green socks and a bare shin. Gray Hitlerian mustache. His was the only table set for one. He sat, amid families and couples, at the center of the butter and jam carnival.

Wealthy and lonely, thought Charlie. He wondered what the man would do after breakfast. Where would he take his little mustache? Probably to lunch, where there would be another table for one. Then the evening edition and dinner for one? The old man would read a paragraph, look up at nothing in particular, and make certain his demitasse cup was in its saucer, or marvel at his table’s wealth of sugar cubes.

Charlie promised himself, then and there, that he would never become the lonely old man. That he’d do everything in his power not to let Paula down. Women leave men all the time, and the men don’t see it coming. And once they leave you, there’s nothing you can do except roll the sugar cubes like dice, but every time they will come up fortuneless. As blank as your future when your love vacates your life. The old man must pray night and day that death is soon and dreamless. How many times, before going mad, can you ask only yourself, “Remember when she kept calling us Mr. and Mrs. Blue?”

Charlie shut the French doors and drew the curtains, there and in the bedroom, and turned off the lights. He got undressed and found Canal+ on the color TV. Golden Girls in French.

“What are you doing?” asked Paula. She opened the bathroom door just enough that he could see a bare shoulder. “I was going to take a shower.”

“Come here. We’re going to do what you said. I don’t want a stuffy lunch on our first day. I just want you to be happy. Forget about all my plans. I’m not the boss.”

She turned off the light and got in bed.

“Oh my God, these sheets. So crisp. Hold me. I hope it’s a Golden Girls marathon.”

“Me too,” said Charlie. They embraced under the sheets, the only people in the world, except for the bilingual Golden Girls.

“Hey,” said Charlie. “Remember when the lady said Mr. and Mrs. Blue?”

*

It was under black and blue clouds that the Greens waited in line at the Louvre, sandwiched between two gaggles of Japanese tourists.

“French skies are so pretty,” said Paula. “So low and moody. Maybe we should’ve brought an umbrella?”

“It’s not going to rain on us. It wouldn’t dare.”

They’d spent the majority of their first three days in bed, really only leaving the room so the maids could clean. Now they held hands easily, their fingers intertwining with a consciousness all their own, and when they kissed it was as if they accessed a second chamber of warmth, a fantastically balmy one they hadn’t known could exist. They carried on this way amid the Japanese, shrouded by the foreign chatter. Kissing your wife on your honeymoon was probably the greatest home field advantage a man could have, thought Charlie. Hold hands, advance in line, kiss. Repeat.

“I’m happy,” said Charlie. “Really, really happy.”

“Me too. I wasn’t sure I would be.”

“I could tell when we checked in.”

“When did we become us?” asked Paula, finding new comfort in the brownness of his eyes. Today, despite the murky sky, they were rich with light. And the whites so clear. They’d eaten well, slept long, and had tender sex. Washed one another in the shower. They brought chairs out to the balcony so Charlie could show Paula the old man.

“I don’t know when we became us,” said Charlie.

“It’s magic,” said Paula. “Like the hotel lady said, and to think I was jealous of her ringless fingers, even for a second.”

They kissed while the Japanese throng cascaded by them, reminding Charlie of the schools of fish that had circumvented his boyhood raft ten summers before. That used to be his safest memory, but it had become trite. True love has no use for the past. Its fuel is now. If only they could explain that to the nostalgic old breakfasting bastard and the croissant crumbs in his stubby mustache. After the longest kiss of their lives, they entered the museum, where Paula and her disposable camera made a beeline for the Mona Lisa.

“Whatever you do, don’t photograph it,” Charlie called after her. “It’s supposed to be bad luck.”

“Frommer’s says it’s the most photographed painting in the world, and we haven’t even taken a single picture yet.”

“Okay, but slow down.”

“I don’t want to miss it.”

“It’s not going anywhere.”

“My mother says nothing is guaranteed.”

“We’re skipping over so many great paintings,” said Charlie, trying to catch up.

“Okay, well, maybe it’ll be the only shot of the trip. I used to think there’d be this famous honeymoon album. Maybe we’ll just remember everything and remind each other all the time.”

With that, she stopped in her tracks and waited for him to reach her, for him to hug her from behind, which she knew he’d do. Take her hands and raise them angelically, barely kiss the vein on her neck. With every touch, his education grew more and more complete. He was learning her, and she was falling in love.

I’m going to wait to say it, though, thought Paula. Wait until it bursts out of me.