Jennifer Baily
Everyone has their favourite time of day in Paris. Some say the crisp start to the morning, when the pâtissiers are the only ones awake, and you can smell their nightly toils steaming out of the grates in the sidewalk. Others say mid-afternoon, when the city seems to slow down. This time feels mysterious, and if you are out on the street you wonder why you aren’t where everybody else seems to be.
Her favourite time was the minutes just before sunset. At different times of the year, this is experienced in different ways. In winter, it is bitingly cold, and people seem to rush in and out of buildings to make it home or inside a warm bistro before the chill really hits. In the summer people walk slower, enjoying the late rays of sun shining through the buildings and trees. But no matter what time of year, she loved the tension, the way the light hung perfectly in the air for the last few minutes before it set. She was certain there was something different about the twilight here. But more than the light, it was the way the streetlights all seemed to flicker on, swiftly and unnoticed. It was a game to her, trying to see if she could catch the last millisecond before the day turned to dusk.
She had been here before, when she was young and travelling with friends. She had always wanted to return with someone, maybe a man. She would be older, wiser, and simply soak up the city. The city at a slower pace, without nightclubs and tourist attractions, without unbuttered bread in the hostel, without cheap cask wine.
She had suggested the trip and her enthusiasm had hidden his reluctance. He had been to Paris numerous times for business.
‘It’ll be different!’ she encouraged. ‘No meetings, just relaxing and eating!’
She planned it, she had booked it and now they were here. She wore cigarette trousers and a turtleneck and twisted her hair up into a bun, tying it loosely with a patterned scarf. With her shopping basket over her shoulder she felt perfectly ready for meandering around Paris.
He looked at her, grunting something about looking like an old housewife. A Parisian woman sauntered by, her midriff showing and her skirt barely covering her rear end. She noticed where his eyes went.
When he finally admitted he hated Paris, that he had only come because she wanted him to, she was not surprised. He had been trying to speed through their visit, and she was powerless to stop it. She wanted to sit, to eat, to enjoy the things in Paris that you could not experience quickly. She had tried once or twice to sit outside and simply watch, to try and catch the lights change, but he was always talking, always asking her when they could leave as he had found a bar that showed European football.
The previous night she had been sure they would relax. They were in a small bistro that she had seen earlier in their trip that promised ‘Une cuisine traditionnelle basque’. Its speciality was poulet basquaise, chicken browned in pork fat then casseroled in tomato, chilli, onion and white wine. She loved the idea of cooking one meat in another’s fat and cherished Paris for it. He hadn’t wanted any, saying being on holiday is no excuse to put on weight. He ordered plain chicken, no sauce, to her and the waiter’s horror. He said a firm ‘no’ to her suggestion of them sharing a bottle of wine with dinner.
She hadn’t expected what came next. She was waiting for his small talk, and expected a rundown of how the business was going with him away after he checked his emails. So she sat quietly. She was tired of creating the magic. Instead, as he pushed his chicken around, she looked at him. He wore a short-sleeved button-up shirt. She remembered telling a friend once how she absolutely hated men who wore short-sleeved button-up shirts. As she pondered her shallowness and his bad taste in clothing, he looked at her and said, ‘I’d probably marry you one day, you know?’
She stared, mouth open as he wiped the grease off his face and clicked his fingers for the bill. She smiled with closed lips and looked out onto the street, realising that the lights had turned on, night had fallen, and she had missed it. He got the bill and she pushed her plate away, her poulet unfinished. She didn’t speak, didn’t ask to share the gateau basque.
‘Finally full after all the duck fat and pig meat, is you?’
She didn’t reply, and he nodded as if pleased with his victory. They had gone to bed early and she listened to him snore over the sounds of people laughing in the street.
He often napped in the afternoon and she would sit in the room and read. He didn’t want her walking in the city alone, so she would stay in the hotel. She didn’t argue. Paris had never felt to her like a city one should be alone in.
But now she was alone. She had packed her bag whilst he slept and walked out of the hotel, all in what seemed to be one swift motion.
She hadn’t left purely because of the rushing. She wasn’t a child. She had simply sat bolt upright in bed with him asleep beside her and decided she had to. She was scared, of course. Paris felt intimidating in those first few steps out into the street. Everyone seemed to be walking with purpose, walking somewhere, to something. So she straightened her back and did the same.
She breathed in the scents of the city—the dank wind off the river, the sweet air coming out of a pâtisserie, the warm scent of meat being cooked in preparation for dinner.
She reached the bistro and stopped outside. What was she doing? There was only one table left, and it was set for two. She must go back before he awoke, or she would have to eat alone, and not just today. She stood to the side of the bistro, out of view of its windows, and started to cry.
The waiter came out and he recognised her. Her cheeks began to redden. She turned to leave.
‘Bonsoir!’ he said, a little too loudly, to get her attention. She turned around. He was smiling. ‘A table? Would you like to sit outside? The view at this time of day, madame, it is a delight.’
He ushered her to the table, discreetly removing the second table setting and ignoring her tears.
‘A wine perhaps. I can recommend the Irouléguy rosé?’
She nodded and wiped her eyes. Although the bistro was filled with diners all waving for his attention he quickly brought out the wine, as if he knew she was likely to run.
The rosé was dry, and it calmed her. She breathed in, feeling the stillness, her resolve strengthened. Although the bistro was busy, the street filled with people, it felt quiet to her. She just sat and watched.
The waiter offered her the menu. She shook her head. She knew what she wanted.
‘The poulet basquaise, please, with the gateau basque to follow.’
He smiled again and left her.
She sat for what felt like hours, but was really only seconds, waiting and watching. The people seemed to move too quickly—the sun was setting and she wanted to stop them all and say, ‘Just look’.
The streetlights came on first, just seconds before the sun went down. They flickered on one by one along the street and she followed them with her eyes. She turned to the twinkling lights in the park. Some were on and the others began to flicker to life as she watched.
Then the bicycles followed suit, the riders turning on their lights as if following unspoken orders. The cars all seemed to light up in harmony in the peak hour traffic.
The waiter appeared next to her and placed her meal in front of her. The steam rose from the bowl and the garlic and onion raced for her nostrils. She began to salivate.
She ripped a piece of bread and wiped it in the sauce that shone with oil and put it to her lips. The smoky pork was deeply intertwined into the taste of tomato. She ate the whole thing.
Then the tart. Golden and plain on the outside, but when she cut into it the dark cherries spilled onto the plate, peeking out from under the unctuous cream. The pastry was buttery yet light and flaky and it seemed to melt on her lips. The dark cherries had been soaked in a liqueur she couldn’t place, that was mildly humming in the background of her taste buds. And the cream left a sheen of smooth fat shining on her lips as she took the last bite.
She sat with her back to the full restaurant, hearing nothing. There was no fear, and nowhere to rush to. Her eyes were on the street, and she watched the lights as she dined alone.