Serenade by Enrico Toselli
She found him where she thought he would be: on the bridge overlooking the small tributary to the Seine. She smiled and walked over to him. The way he was standing, he had been crying, but his composition was perfect and graceful. She followed his hand as it reached up to his forehead and then back to rest on the rail of the bridge. She placed her hand gently next to his and waited for him to notice her. She let him take his time. He turned and smiled, his eyes red with tears.
“Bonjour,” he said. “What brings you here?”
“To see an old friend,” she said. “What about you?”
“The same,” he said. “But she hasn’t shown up.”
“May I ask—” She knew better than to finish.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Marguerite wasn’t much for promises.”
“I’m sorry you promised to marry her.”
He shrugged. “Who were you—?”
She put her hand on his forearm. “I found him fairly quickly. Perhaps he would like to join me for croissants and tea?”
“Bien sur, mon amie.” (Of course, my friend.)
“There’s a beautiful café just a little while from here. Unfortunately, I don’t have my car, so we’ll have to walk. Is that all right?”
“Yes.”
She smiled and lent him her hand. He took it after a moments hesitation and started to walk with her through the small park. The magnolia trees were in bloom and the cherry trees’ pink blossoms rustled in the wind. The sky was an aquamarine blue without a fluffly cloud in sight. She sighed.
“How long were you waiting there?”
“About two hours.”
“Je suis desolée.” (I’m sorry)
“Ça va.” (It’s all right)
She mentally kicked herself for her curiosity. “It’s a lovely day.”
“The magnolias are very pretty.”
“I was thinking of dying my hair that color. What do you think?”
He laughed. “I like your hair the way it is.”
Her heart jumped. “Ah well, my mother didn’t think it was a good idea either.”
He laughed again.
“How long have we known each other?” she asked. “And I never get to see you, anymore.”
“For a long time,” he said. “As long as I can remember. And if you’d stop working at the opera in Paris, I might be able to see you once in a while here in Rouen.”
“I can’t help it I like to play and the opera house has such a romantic atmosphere for an artist like me.”
“You mean you can’t help practicing all the time so you’re good enough to work at the opera.”
“That too.”
The café was a small open street place with most of its tables outside and a small counter under the roof. They sat down and ordered two coffees. She set her elbow against the table.
“You know, I’d be more than willing to let you stay with me in Paris.”
He chuckled. “Don’t be silly. What would I do? If you’re a businessman in Paris, you work with tourists. Nothing else pays.”
“There are lots of other places to be.”
“I’ve thought about it before,” he said. “I don’t want to work in Paris. If I’m going to move, I’d go to Nice. It’s on the Mediterranean, it’s warm and right next to Italy is the best place for a romantic like me.”
She blushed. “Speaking of romantic…”
He raised an eyebrow. “I just got ditched by my fiancée when we were about to get married. I’m not sure you want to be on the subject.”
“Look, Paul. I’ve known you forever and loved you just as long. Do you trust me?”
He paused. “Yes, why?”
“I want to get to know you again. More than friends; I think we’re past that.”
“Give me time, Marie. I can’t…go running into a relationship now. Even with my best friend.”
“Can you…” She paused as the waitress delivered their coffee. “I’m leaving for Paris again in two and a half weeks. Please let me know yes or no by then.”
“I can do that.”
“And don’t let that proposition scare you away until I leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I finish this cup of coffee.”
She breathed a small sigh of relief. “Well, now that that’s off my chest, momentarily, how’s Rouen been without me?”
(Listen to it. Please forgive the chirping birds and pretend you’re at Ravinia.)
