In the capital city

Early morning, we walk slowly hand in hand along the river. The pavements are being washed, the sky a luminous well above our heads, above the city we love. We have come to the capital city to reflect, to make love, and to try to forget the strange adventure that beset us with the return of Melissa in your life, our lives.

Julian is taking pictures of the Left Bank as we make our way toward the Tuileries. There is still very little traffic and a few pedestrians looking forward to the sunlit day. I feel at ease in this place, with the historic buildings, the light that permeates the stones, the trees, and the wandering tourists. 

His birthplace

I know that my husband wishes, in his words, to be reconciled with the capital, his birthplace, perhaps also find inspiration that has eluded him since the day he saw Helga among the military of the Alliance; that sight frightened him more than anything that he had witnessed before. 

It has been three months now and we haven’t heard from Melissa, or from Gabrielle. We are aware that things have started changing in our world. The divided country in the far East that nearly brought us to the brink of war is now trying to reconcile its two halves. The Great Power to Be appears to have taken the role of benevolent mediator, and its competitor, the Great Power, is suddenly seeking peace… 

But we know better than to expect a miracle. Julian has bouts of despair when we hear of massacres and of demonstrators being persecuted, tortured, killed, there and everywhere. There is a long way to go, but things are moving. 

The river

We cross the Seine on the little foot bridge, its edges decorated by thousands of small locks with painted initials. A year ago there was still space for more. Now we would find it difficult to fit ours anywhere along the metal fence. A couple walks toward us and smiles; the two young women look at me, then at Julian, our shorts, our short hair. They giggle and walk past. 

We stop and turn toward the sun, past the statue of Henri IV on the Pont Neuf: the heart of the capital. I wrap my arms around Julian’s shoulders as I kiss him, finding his full lips, searching him. 

“I wish Melissa would call us, or at least email us, or something…” Julian says. 

“Stop worrying,” I reply, holding him tighter still. “Nothing can happen to her, as we know…”

Pilgrimage

We walk through the small streets of the Left Bank, and I know it’s a bit of a pilgrimage for my husband; he’s retracing the steps of his youth. The city is around us, immortal. We buy mineral water at a small shop run by youngsters. The taller boy smiles at me, I could be his mother. 

We walk to the Rue Sébastien Bottin, and Julian says the name has changed to that of the great publisher whose offices are still there. He takes more pictures. We walk across the boulevard, stopping for another hug. 

On Boulevard Raspail we stop at the bookshop and stay there an hour, browsing. The  manager takes a definite interest in me; her grey eyes are inviting. Oblivious, Julian picks up the review – a double issue about Proust – and a biography of Flaubert. I chat with the manager, who gives me her card, and Julian pays for his books. 

Love

We walk toward the Luxembourg. It is now a little warmer. My arm is around Julian’s shoulder, and in steps, we enter the garden. People are playing tennis on the courts. We find a couple of chairs near the statue of Verlaine. Julian drops his bag, and we kiss for long minutes, enlaced.

Hours later, in our room, near the République, we make love until exhaustion sends us to sleep. Later as we get showered and dressed, taking our time and teasing each other, my telephone rings. It’s Gabrielle, who invites us both for the next weekend. She gives me an address, in New York.

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Picture: A view of the Luxembourg Garden