IN THE STREET OF THE ROSE-GATHERERS

It’s November and very cold. It’s our last night in Paris, and we seem to have been walking around for hours. I am silent; he is full of words. Finally I say I am hungry. He smiles as if he has been waiting for that. ‘We could go to that place. You know, the one Anders so kindly suggested – the Dangerous Place.’ He takes out a piece of paper: ‘La rue des rosiers … That’s not far.’

We cross the river on the footbridge, the lamps fuzzy in the drizzle, the water lapping underneath. On the other side, the streets are dark and narrow. There’s a Turkish bath-house, a Jewish bakery with Hebrew above the door. The place we’re looking for is on the corner, blue neon light flashing: a six-point star. In front, there’s a delicatessen: sides of spiced beef, jars of pickles, rows of smoked eels on a white marble slab, everything bathed in fluorescent light.

We plunge in, grateful for the warmth, discarding damp coats. It’s the river, they say. It’s always cold by the river. The restaurant is up a flight of stairs, a dim refuge of tobacco smoke and music, opera-red décor suggesting a lost Bohemia. Out-of-date playbills cover the walls. Amateur portraits, relics of long-ago customers, stare down at us. The room is long and narrow. Couples face one another down each side, as if reflected into infinity. There’s a duo of gypsy fiddlers working the tables. They smile and stamp, spilling out the fierce rhythms of Middle Europe. ‘How corny,’ says my husband, sliding into the plush banquette against the wall.

I take the outer seat, a bentwood chair. I have my back to the room, to the other row of diners, to the gypsies and the waiters. I prefer the banquette, but I say nothing. I brush the sleeve of the woman next to me as I unfold my napkin. I mumble apologies. She glances back, disturbed from her conversation, nodding briefly. She is young, and has a sad, Ingres face, brown hair wound over her head in braids: a pure, old-fashioned look. Across from her is a young man, bearded, Orthodox, intense – wielding an authoritative knife. They murmur. It’s always the same with Lalage … She’s always the same …

My husband looks at the menu, raises his eyebrows. ‘I hope you like sauerkraut, my darling. It seems to be Cabbage With Everything.’ Across the table, his smile is thin, composed. We choose, heads down. There are blinis, goulash, dumplings, salami, fish. I don’t know what to pick. I am exhausted, and my hunger has gone. Suddenly the violins swing past; a hint of cummerbund, a ripple of applause. Somewhere behind me, a group of people starts to sing ‘Happy Birthday’. They sing in English (badly). A cake is brought, hot with candles and the smell of melting wax. A wrinkled man rises, suit immaculate, eyes old as sin. He smiles with duplicitous courtesy: Merci, mes amis – merci, merci! He raises his hands, palms down. He deprecates their congratulations. After all, he says with a laugh, it is not a great achievement to grow old. They are delighted with his jeu d’esprit and applaud some more. Next to him, his woman, thin and shiny as a racehorse, shows her teeth in a royal acknowledgement. She sits, expensive, in her strapless dress and her tight pearl collar. The old man kisses her, hieratically and for show. She glances in the mirror and meets my eye as his lips nibble her necklace. (Anders and I saw one like it today at the Musée des Arts. Collar for a Decorative Dog, it said. The best thing there.)

The gypsies strike up again. They play animatedly in the aisle between the tables: See how we evoke the Magyars and the wild romance of the plains! They move towards us, eyes gleaming in anticipation of a tip. They pause at my back. I cannot see them, only hear the music at my neck, feel the movement of the air, sense their satin ruffles quivering away. I wonder if I should look them in the eye. And how much should I pay for this embarrassment? But my husband is prepared. He has a coin or two already in his hand. He drops them casually, gives me a sideways glance as the violinists bow and move away. ‘More Topol than Chagall, don’t you think? More Fiddler on the Roof than Hungarian Rhapsody?’

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s not waiting for answers at all tonight. He slides his index finger down the menu, eyebrows raised, lips puckered, hovering over dumplings: an important choice, he says. And of course we should have pickles, however crude. As part of the real ‘experience’ of the place. I am, he has become suddenly aware, very susceptible to novelty these days. ‘The strangest things seem to suit your taste.’ He shakes his head. ‘A pity Anders isn’t here to guide us through, give us, as you might say, the Orthodox view. Still, it was good of him to look after you this week. I hope he was a satisfactory guide. You know how I hate you to be bored.’

I don’t reply. I think about Anders, the flower market, the red rose I put in my coat as we walked about and then threw in the Seine when we parted. I can’t decide about pickles. My husband has chosen, but I still demur. Soup perhaps, or …

He won’t wait, calls the waiter with a finger-click. Enfin, he will order for us both, ‘As Madame’s mind is elsewhere at the moment. Madame has – how should we say – overstretched herself. The demands of a new culture, oh là là!’ The waiter smiles and nods: He is, alas, only too aware that people in Paris do this kind of thing. Paris can weave a spell; she takes you by surprise. He tweaks the menu from my listless grasp, tucks it firmly under his arm and sashays back along the aisle. Behind me, middle-aged waitresses flick open beer and wine, plump breasts straining against sateen and lace. Heavy platters sway above our heads: Excusez, Monsieur’dame. Take care! Take care!

‘How are your pickled herrings? Ethnic enough?’ I look at my fish fillets, grey and soggy on the plate. He has ordered borscht and dumplings, and tucks in with a crazy grin. He pauses, looks up; waits for me to start. I cut a piece. It’s sour and furry in my mouth. I nearly retch, but smile and give some kind of nod. He beams at me: ‘Good choice on my part, then?’

More music. More customers. The restaurant is very full, the shop downstairs is fuller. I can see the heads and hats of people as they come to buy meat and fish and bread. A queue forms near the stairs, waiting for spare tables; but no one leaves. The birthday party is in full swing, the Godfather and his woman are embracing again. She laughs and feeds him like a child.

My husband looks at the complimentary matchbox again. ‘I see they don’t close till two. And open seven days a week. That’s the way to make money. And Anders – he must have money too. He has plenty of time for walking around, pursuing pleasure, wouldn’t you say?’

I affect not to hear. I have no appetite, but he is wolfish; he eats for two. He is trying smoked fish, now, pooling pickles on his plate. ‘Yes, and on the subject of our Swedish friend … his father was a tailor, did he tell you that? Doesn’t exactly fit with the Aryan good looks. But I imagine he has a certain dreamy charm.’

I watch his chewing mouth, his busy jaw. I try the goulash, burn my tongue.

It’s late, now. The tables have been cleared and the water jugs are dry. The queue has dissipated, the party people are long gone. The violinists wilt in a corner, cummerbunds companionably awry, vodka maison in little glasses. A huge dog pads past the tables, unremarked. Two waitresses are singing, arm in arm. My husband’s downing schnapps: one glass, then two. He reads the playbills, coffee cup in hand, holding humorously forth about a string quartet, and symphonies by Mahler (naturally). Now he is saying something about Mendelssohn and Brahms.

I hear, but do not listen. Behind his head I see a mirror shattered by bullet-holes. Painted blood runs down from six-point stars. There is murder in the mirror, but his solid head talks on imperviously.

We’re outside now, out coats hunched tight. It’s midnight, and the street is freezing. Frost coats the vegetables left outside in crates and our breath steams white against the dark. My husband knows his way, he says. We’re not far from the rue de Rivoli, best place for a taxi, and we can walk there easily. A little walk will be good for me, a last chance to enjoy the special flavour of the quartier; after all, we won’t be here again. He marches me along the pavement. He squeezes me between parked cars, over runnels of dark liquid, decaying vegetables. A sudden rectangle of light displays some haute couture, a dress of dizzying green – three thousand francs (a snip). He jerks my elbow, makes me stop and look. ‘Now, if I were a rich man …’ He laughs softly as he hums the tune, chinks his coins deep in his pockets.

There are, after all, no taxis free on the rue de Rivoli. We cross under trees, descend to the Metro instead, strap-hanging through St Paul, Hotel de Ville, Louvre, a mixture of burnt soot and screeching brakes. There are more gypsies in the carriage. These are real, and have hard looks and an accordion. My husband proffers a handful of small change, which they take without a smile. He whispers: ‘You see, I pander to your ethnic tastes.’ At Palais Royale we ascend to wide streets and café-lights. We come to our hotel, the shadowy lobby, the desiccated plants. At the desk, the night porter watches a silent football match onscreen, hands us the keys without a glance: Bon nuit, Monsieur’dame, bon nuit!

I am undressing. My husband lies on the hotel bed, socks still on, orange lamplight across his hair, guide book in hand. It’s one a.m. and he’s reading it aloud, plangent lullaby, drowning the tinkling of the tooth mug as I brush my teeth. He wiggles his toes, unbuttons his shirt. The ancient plumbing gurgles and gushes. Strange feet creak the floorboards outside the door, faint keys open distant rooms. He puts the book down with a sigh. ‘Well, well,’ he says. ‘What was Anders thinking sending us there? Dangerous is hardly the word. Twenty-two injured, six killed – gunfire in the street and a grenade through the window. But we’ve survived, my darling, have we not?’

I wake up at dawn, and breakfast alone: one croissant, one pat of butter, one sachet of jam; coffee with everything. Now I sit in the lobby, suitcase at my feet. My husband is still in the bathroom, a razor at his jaw, his face tilting in the basin mirror.

I sit on a small bench, Paris Match in my hand. On the cover a film star goes off with someone’s husband. In the lobby mirror I see people arriving, departing, handing over keys, shifting luggage, waiting for the lift. Then I see Anders come in. He is tall and stands out from the seething crowd like a mast at sea. His blond reflection smiles at me.

Then I see a hole in his chest. I see him behind trickles of red blood. I see the Ingres girl, the young rabbi, the old man and his thin woman all jerking in the air, eyes and mouths Guernica-wide. The white shirts of the waiters are splattered with crimson, the violins are crushed, the pictures hang askew. Borscht and goulash stain the tablecloths. I turn from the mirror. Anders comes towards me with a smile. He is holding a red rose against the whiteness of his shirt. He bows and kisses my hand. He says, ‘Are you ready, Natalie?’

I nod. Then he lifts up my suitcase and we walk out into the street.