What Is This Thing Called Love? Page 2

  I saw her coming out of her lesson one afternoon and as she passed in front of me with some of her girlfriends, who were chattering and giggling about music and food and the French language and bidets and making love—she never noticed me. If she had given me just the hint of a smile I think I would have asked her out on the spot, but . . . oh, God . . . I wish I wasn’t such a shy nincompoop.

  LILY

  I’m Lily Sachs. When I met David Marsh in Paris I thought he was a funny duck; tall, thin, dressed like a pauper, and always bent over, as if he were trying to hide from something. He was living in the same student residential housing where I live—the French call it a cité. His room was one floor above mine. I thought David was sort of obliquely handsome, and he had a sweet, gentle nature, but, oh my goodness, was he shy.

  DAVID

  Lily was cute more than she was beautiful, and her sensuous body sent chills through me. She had such a direct, very frank way of talking, which at first gave me the willies, but then made me envious. I finally asked Lily to go to dinner with me, dutch. I was hoping that wouldn’t offend her, but I didn’t have a lot of money to live on.

  LILY

  One evening in late September, David asked if I would like to go to dinner with him at this wonderful bistro he had heard of that specialized in Lyonnaise cooking. Before I could answer yes or no, he shouted, “dutch,” meaning that we would have to split the bill. I didn’t know what Lyonnaise cooking was, and even though I had only seen David two or three times in the hallways at the conservatory, he seemed like a gentleman, so I said yes.

  I also thought it might be nice to go to a real French restaurant. I had been going to the brasserie around the corner for my breakfast—usually an omelet with ketchup, and a bifteck with pommes frites and plenty of ketchup for dinner—but the waiters struggled to understand me. I’m taking French lessons now—three mornings a week—so I can learn how to say “ketchup” with a French accent so they’ll know what I’m talking about.

  David and I met in the lobby of the cité that evening. He was wearing a crinkled tan sport jacket over a crinkled white shirt with a crinkled frayed collar. I wore a simple light blue dress that my mom thought looked typically French, even though she bought it at J.C. Penney.

  Since it was a warm night, we walked for almost half a mile to this bistro David had heard about. I’ll tell you something—he’s certainly not a talker. After about ten minutes of trying to decipher his shy mumblings and getting tired of constantly asking, “What did you say, David?” we arrived at this small Lyonnais restaurant, called Chez Pauline.

  What a smell when we walked in: garlic and sausages and chickens and rosemary. There were only twelve tables in the whole place, each of them covered with clean brown paper instead of tablecloths. I’m sure the purpose of that was to save money, but it also made it look like people were coming there to eat, not to admire the décor.

  David ate his dinner like there was no tomorrow. My guess is that he hadn’t eaten a real meal for quite some time, but I don’t believe he asked me out just so I would split the bill; I think he liked me, which he showed in the most subtle ways, like holding my hand when we crossed the street on the way to the restaurant and then holding onto it a little longer than was actually necessary after we had already crossed to the other side. If I can get him to walk and talk, I think I might like him.

  It was still light outside when David and I walked back to the cité. I can’t say that I never saw Paris before, because of course I had, but I suppose I didn’t really look at what was in front of me. It was remarkable how my emotions that night made a difference in the way I saw things. I suddenly noticed how crooked the shops were—I mean that buildings were designed with curves instead of all the rectangles I grew up with in New York.

  I’m not shy and David is, so I decided to take the bull by the horns. As we passed a uniquely crooked bookstore, I said:

  “Afraid to hold my hand, David?”

  Without looking or talking, David reached down and took my hand.

  “Do you live in London because your father is English?” I asked quickly, to cover any embarrassment he might be feeling.

  “No, my father came from Russia. He died two years ago. It’s my mother who’s English. She came from London on a one-week tour of New York and met this handsome tour guide named Marshevsky . . . who changed his name later to Marsh . . . and they got married.”

  “How romantic.”

  As we crossed the avenue de l’Opéra, David put his arm around my waist and pulled me a little closer to him, “protecting me,” as the crazy drivers whizzed by. I thought he was finally getting a little amorous, but when we got to the other side of the avenue he loosened his grip. He was afraid, I suppose, that I would think he was being too forward.

  “How old are you, David?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Me too. I think I can see your mother’s rosy English cheeks in your face, and probably her straight nose . . . but I would bet that your crazy hair and eyebrows come direct from Russia.”

  “You’d be right.”

  When we walked into the lobby of our cité, David stood as still as a statue for almost a full minute, still holding my hand. He kept gazing up and down and around, but not at me. Then he suddenly turned and stared into my eyes, as if he were trying to decide something monumental.

  “Are you a virgin?” he finally asked.

  “Yes,” I answered, as my heart began to pound so loudly that I could hear it.

  “Me too,” he said, then shook my hand politely, mumbled something like “glad . . . enjoyed . . . nice . . . you,” and walked up the stairs to his room.

  No kiss, I thought to myself . . . but he came damn close.

  DAVID

  Two nights after the night I chickened out of kissing her and almost got sick because my stupid shyness kept me from doing what I really wanted to do, Lily asked me out.

  LILY

  I asked David to go to the Paris Opera House with me to see The Elixir of Love, by Donizetti. I don’t think he had a suit because when we met in the lobby of the cité he was wearing that same tattered sport jacket, but he must have ironed his shirt with the frayed collar . . . and he wore a beautiful yellow tie with blue flowers printed on it. I doubted he had ever worn it before. I was wearing one of my mother’s dresses—lilac and pink—which she said I should save in case I had any “romantic evenings.”

  We walked up about five thousand stairs to get to the cheapest seats in the theater. I wanted to see this opera because I heard it was so funny and sad, and very romantic. I invited David partly because I knew he couldn’t afford it, but also because I thought the story might inspire him to be a little more aggressive.

  “What’s it about?” David asked as the lights began to dim.

  “It’s about a sweet, innocent boy named Nemorino—who is a little bit like you, David—and he worships the prettiest and richest young woman in the village. But she won’t give him a tumble, even though she secretly cares for him, and he wonders how a fool like himself could possibly win her love.”

  “Shhh,” someone behind us whispered loudly.

  When the opera was over, the evening was balmy and the sky was filled with thousands of stars as David and I

  walked back to the cité. He was silent for several minutes, thinking about the music, I supposed, but when we crossed avenue de l’Opéra he finally spoke.

  “If she was really so fond of him, why on earth didn’t she just let him know? Why put him through such torture, making him do all those crazy things?”

  “Well, for one thing, there wouldn’t have been an opera.”

  “Sure, yes, of course. But I still think she was cruel, and probably enjoying it.”

  “What would you want her to do?”

  “Just say, ‘Nemorino, I’m very fond of you.’ And that’s it.”

  “David, I’m very fond of you and that’s it.”

  His face turned red. He stopped walking and looke
d at me.

  “Are you—now wait! Are we talking about the opera, or something else?”

  “Something else.”

  “Did I do something—I mean, is there something you want me to do?” he said, turning his head away to look at a passing car.

  “Keep looking at me, David.” When he turned his head back to me I said, “What would you like to do?”

  After what seemed like half an hour, he answered.

  “Kiss you.”

  “So?”

  “But we’re standing on a sidewalk across from the opera house, next to all these cars whizzing by, and in the middle of all the honking and thousands of people pouring out of the opera, watching us.”

  “Hundreds of people, David—don’t exaggerate! And they’re not watching us—they’re too busy talking about their own lives and desires and which restaurant they should go to for supper. And anyway . . . who cares if they do watch?”

  David looked at his shoes for several seconds. “I like your dress,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  He looked up and stared directly at me. “Your eyes are blue and gray and a little green.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen them,” I said.

  He leaned over, tenderly put his arms around my shoulders, and kissed me. He kept his lips on mine for at least an hour or two. I mean, for a minute or two. I wouldn’t be shocked if this were the first time he’d ever kissed a young woman.

  DAVID

  I was just in paradise. But what would I have done if she hadn’t given me a little encouragement?

  LILY

  David held my hand as we walked over a bridge they call the Bridge of Alexander III. There were beautiful tall lamps on each side of the bridge that looked like they were a hundred years old. We stopped halfway across the bridge and leaned over the railing to see the Seine floating underneath us, almost like quarter notes and eighth notes rushing to go home. And David was still holding my hand.

  When we arrived back at the cité and were inside the lobby, he kissed me again.

  “Good night, Lily. Thank you for a wonderful opera.”

  “Good night, David.”

  Well, it took a little work, but he kissed me. I don’t know why I’m so attracted to this mumbling, tortuously shy musician, but I suppose if you always knew the “why” about such things, the meaning of life wouldn’t be a mystery.

  As I watched him walk up the stairs to his room, I thought, “What a cute fanny he has.”

  DAVID

  Now what do I do? I like her so much that my body is quivering, but I can’t just knock on her door at this hour and say, “Here I am! Could I have some more kissing, please?”

  LILY

  A little after midnight there was a knock at my door. I was still awake, thinking about the opera and the kiss that David gave me in the middle of Paris. If it had been loud knocking I would have guessed that there was a fire, but with a gentle tapping I knew it must be David.

  I opened the door and there he was, standing in the hallway in plaid pajamas that had seen better days. His bright, piercingly brown eyes looked moist, as if he’d been crying. I stood in the doorway watching him in my flannel shorty. I waited several seconds for him to say something.

  “Did you want to borrow a cup of sugar, David?”

  “No, I . . . want to borrow you.”

  Now, that was the boldest sentence I’d ever heard him speak. I took his hand and led him to my bed. A little moonlight was sneaking through the only window in my small room.

  If David’s midnight appearance was for sex, then all of my “Miss Know-It-All” aggression was a sham. I’ve kissed a few men—not many, but a few—and I’ve hugged them on occasion and let them hug me, and in that regard I was more experienced than David. But of actual lovemaking, I had no experience. Still, my mother told me that there would be days (or nights) like this, and she told me what to do and how to protect myself and that I shouldn’t be embarrassed or expect too much at first.

  “Did you want to make love with me, David?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t we lie down together for a little while . . . then, who knows what might happen?”

  I sounded like a woman who had had hundreds of love affairs, but I could hear my heart pounding in my ears again. We sat on my rather smallish bed for a minute or two, just holding hands. Then, without any prompting from me, David took my face into his hands and began kissing my eyebrows and cheeks and then my lips.

  “Would you like to see me naked, David?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t we both take off our pajamas?”

  When David saw me naked he seemed astounded.

  “Not quite what you expected, David?”

  “More than I expected. You’re beautiful. I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

  “As long as you keep kissing me, you have nothing to worry about.”

  He did keep kissing me and when he entered me—with my helping hand—it felt very nice.

  David reached a climax very early; I came close, but I knew not to expect too much. He held me in his arms for ten or fifteen minutes as we both lay on the bed, looking at the moon through my window. I fell asleep with my head on his arm. We stayed that way till the sun woke us. (I had forgotten to pull the drape across my window.) David put on his pajamas, kissed me again, and walked back to his room. The next morning, I wrote to my mother.

  Dear Mama,

  I’ve been a very bad girl and you were right . . . it is sort of wonderful. David—the young musician I wrote to you about who walks bent over—became my first lover. He was considerate enough to ask me about my getting pregnant and I respected him for that. I told him about the diaphragm that Doctor Sabetta gave me.

  But when we made love—which was the first time for him too—he was sweet and gentle, as always . . . but oh so tentative. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy it, but I was hoping that once we were actually doing it, passion would sweep over him like a rainstorm and wash away that shy, sweet, nice, kind, etc., boy. But . . . this was only our first time.

  Love,

  Lily

  DAVID

  I don’t believe I sent Lily into ecstasy last night. I was too excited to realize what I was doing—even if I knew what to do. But she was always kind and I loved holding her naked body after she fell asleep on my arm. I was too damn shy, I know that, but I don’t want to buy a bunch of books about how a man is supposed to thrill a woman while making love. They’d probably all be in French anyway. Lily said I didn’t need books . . . that I should just play with her a little. She also told me how I might even use my tongue, which I would never have guessed in a million years.

  LILY

  One week later:

  Dear Mama:

  David and I made love two more times last week. Just to show you how much my French has improved, get a load of this:

  Mon coeur est plein de joie.

  Translation: “My heart is filled with joy.” You were right, Mama . . . it just takes a little time.

  Love,

  Lily

  The Lady with the Red Hat

  My name is Richard Bellsey and I’m a writer, not very famous, but I make a fairly good living. My books are mostly about love, which I understand more from longing than experience. I’ve only had two affairs in my life: The first was very awkward because I was painfully ignorant about lovemaking; the second affair was sublime and I was never so happy in my life. But after six months of heaven—and just before I was going to propose—the beautiful young lady ran off with a tall, handsome millionaire.

  After grieving for almost a year, trying to rekindle my self-esteem, my heart began to heal and I found myself thinking of women again. Then I began dreaming about women and yearned to hold another one in my arms.

  I moved from Manhattan to a little town in Vermont called Barnard. It was June 25, 2007, when I returned to my small colonial home after a long book tour. It was raining lightly that morning, but when it stopped I d
ecided to take a walk outside and see how my little flower garden was doing. I wasn’t disappointed: Spring had sprung and the roses and irises I had planted last fall were bursting with color.

  As I was walking around my yard I saw a woman who was gardening in the yard next door, in back of what was popularly known as the Hunter Mansion. She was wearing an old blue jacket, muddy gardening gloves, rubber boots, a multicolored skirt that fell below her knees and flared out as she walked, and a gigantic red hat that covered her face and neck.

  I had no idea if I had seen this woman before because I couldn’t see her face—not underneath that red hat—but the bushes and the tall swamp maple trees that she kept ducking behind and in front of as she gardened couldn’t hide her body, which was very attractive. Even the way she walked through the mud was alluring.

  I had an impulse to holler out “Hi, there—I’m back home,” but I suddenly got embarrassed at the possibility that she was married, or living with her significant other, or might not know who the hell I was. Of course, to be fair, I’m not sure if I had ever met her. If I had, it would have been at the Hunter Mansion’s open house last Christmas, which was only a few months after I had moved in.

  How strange to be so mesmerized by a clothed woman’s body, accompanied by rubber boots and large dirty gloves as she gardened in the mud. Am I that frustrated? Well, if I should bump into her one of these days, and if she gives me a warm smile and remembers meeting me, I’ll start throwing my shy charm her way and see if she responds.

  On July 1, I received an invitation in the mail:

  COME WATCH THE FIR EWOR KS W ITH US AT MR. HUNTER’S

  Food! Wine! Dessert!

  Friday evening, July 4th, 7:00 p.m. till midnight.