Page 75
“But we can’t help it,” Barbara said, opening her eyes to wide, white and blue balls.
They found a taxi stand up the block. As they stood on the corner, the smell of soggy dust rose from the street. A taxi pulled up and they got in and rode to the hotel.
“This town is the opposite of New York,” Michael said to Barbara as they walked side by side up the three flights of wide, white marble steps to room 302. “Here the cabbies are nice and the waiters are rude. I was sick of work when we left New York. I was actually thinking about resigning from the firm. Now it seems like I must have been happy there. Compared to Paris.”
After Michael opened the door with his key, he told Barbara to take the first shower then use his bathrobe until her jumpsuit dried. When she got into the shower, he sat in the big chair and listened to the water splashing. He remembered waking to Sonya’s last shower in this ornate, gold, black and cream colored room. He stood up, opened the door and walked quickly down to the elevator. In the lobby he saw the manager behind the desk who had certainly overheard his remarks to Mrs. Fisher. He walked quickly past the desk to the street and stopped just past the canopy with his back to the hotel wall. He wanted to do something, not just stand on the sidewalk as cars drove by, no one even noticing him, a lone pedestrian in wet clothes. Barbara cannot buy herself a dress just now, he thought, so I will buy one for her.
He walked a block to a clothing shop Sonya had browsed in their first day in Paris. An elderly, plump woman was dressing the thin, leggy manikin in the window. With hand signals, Michael got her out of the display. She spoke perfect English.
“Are you buying for your wife?” she asked.
“No, yes. Yes, for my wife,” he lied.