50

We ate last dinners throughout October. We went to Chateaubriand and ate the foam. Pierre and Chloe took us for cocktails to Chez Janou, a tiny cottage in the third arrondissement, not far from Place des Vosges. Chloe was astounded we hadn’t been there before. “But this is where all the Americans hang out, like La Perle for hipsters. How do you live here all this time and not know Chez Janou?”

For dinner afterward, we went to Les Côtelettes, a new traditional French restaurant nearby where we ate andouillettes and boudin noir, then afterward we hopped in Pierre’s car and drove to a new club called Cha-Cha, near the Seine. Techno blared, people texted, dancers danced. Due to the ban on cigarettes, the owners had built a glass box inside where people could smoke, into which Chloe disappeared, introducing herself to people with swooping bises. On the top floor was a private party. Floating down the stairs, the music sounded much better, so Rachel tried to sneak in, but the bouncer told her he needed a password. She spent ten minutes testing different pieces of her vocabulary. The bouncer humored her, but he wouldn’t allow her passage. Whatever the password was, we did not find out.

At the office, Marc the project manager returned from a week in California relaxed and happy, no longer burnt out by la stresse. He showed around a photograph of him eating a cheeseburger the size of his head; it was the only thing he would talk about from his trip.

In Paris, October was extremely fine. The next week I called in sick with a gastro—I lied—and Rachel and I spent two days roaming Paris, reliving our first week, before I began work. We went for long walks and said goodbye to our favorite markets, garden stores, the Village Voice bookstore, the Red Wheelbarrow bookstore, and WH Smith. It smelled like toasted spices on the street. The light on the riverbank was one long glaze down Ile St. Louis, and the light was constant and stationary, like Paris itself.

I’d been wrong with my “city of clouds” idea. Paris was the city of light, like people said, but its light was the kind that was kindled internally.

End of October, Rachel’s birthday fell right before we flew home. We went out for dinner and dancing on the Champs-Elysées. Christmas lights were being strung up, but they weren’t lit yet. Around midnight we ended up at Regine’s, a nightclub where Lindsay knew the owner, tucked into a street behind where I went to work every morning.

At the same club, back in February, I’d almost been turned away one night for wearing sneakers and jeans. Luckily, that evening, for Rachel’s birthday, I had on a suit.

The bouncer let in the girls, but stopped me.

“Sorry,” he said. “Too formal.”

“He’s with me,” Lindsay said. “I’m friends with Regine. What is the problem?”

“There’s been changes,” the bouncer said. He waved his hand over me like it was a security wand. “The club’s got a new look.”

“How about he loses the tie?” Lindsay said.

I took off my tie and untucked my shirt.

“Next time,” the bouncer told me, “wear sneakers.”

Downstairs, the club was packed with guys in sneakers, girls in hoodies. After twenty minutes, Lindsay and I went outside to split a cigarette. A line of hopefuls stretched down the block. One young guy, handsome and cool, ducked under the velvet rope and asked us for a light.

“Wait a second,” he said in French after a puff, “the two of you are together? That’s a paradox.”

“Why a paradox?” Lindsay said.

“Well, you’re beautiful and tall. Then you,” he said, turning to me and contemplating, throwing back his hair, “you’re not very tall.”

Lindsay said, “Is he beautiful?”

“He’s wearing a suit,” the guy said. “He’s proper. Like if you’re visiting Granny on Sunday. But you,” the guy said to Lindsay, “you’re one of us, you know?”

Harsh but true. The guy was dressed in skintight lumberjack clothes, and Lindsay was wearing a green plaid shirt she’d bought that afternoon at H&M.

Then he said to me, “Look, I’m sorry. You’re beautiful. Please, can I see your teeth?”

I opened my mouth.

“Waouh, man, honestly? You have great teeth.” He took his time, peering in, apparently oblivious to my fillings. “Really beautiful.” After I closed my mouth, he said, “Now I can see you guys together. It is the contrast, very subtle.”

There didn’t seem to be anything else to say, so I said, “You have a good head.”

“Thank you,” he said, smiling. “Look, do you mind if I come downstairs with you?”

No problem, I said. I told the bouncer that the guy avec la bonne tête was with us. The bouncer didn’t like it, but he allowed him in anyway; after all, he was wearing the right clothes.