The Klone and I (4 page)

The hotel had no room service that week, due to a problem in the kitchen, other than croissants and coffee in the morning, so I decided to wander down the Boulevard Saint-Michel and look for a bistro. I had had lunch at the Deux Magots, alone, listening to the Parisians and watching tourists. I felt incredibly grown up as I left the hotel.
This
was true independence. I had finally made it. Victory. In French underwear. I was wearing the pale blue set I had bought that morning, and stockings with garters. But who would know it? Only the police, if I had an accident, a cheerful prospect…. Like my thoughts of Sam earlier on, I could just hear the French gendarmes commenting to each other what fabulous underwear the corpse wore. But I managed
to stay alive, underwear intact, all the way to the bistro. And then I saw him.

I had just ordered a Pernod, a bitter licorice-flavored drink I'd hated all my life, but ordered because it seemed so French, and a plate of smoked salmon. I wasn't really hungry but thought I should eat something, and I found myself staring at him when the waiter set the Pernod down. I was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, and an old pair of black loafers. I'd left the high-heeled sandals back at the hotel in my suitcase. I wasn't trying to look sexy here, just enjoy myself until I met the children. I had left Roger a message that morning about where to bring them, so he didn't put them on the plane to New York.

The man I was staring at was tall and slim, with broad shoulders, and eyes that seemed to take everyone in. He was long and lanky, and had a way of sitting there, leaning back in his chair, as though he had a part in a Humphrey Bogart movie. I guessed him to be somewhere in his early or mid-fifties, and for some reason suspected he was either English or German. He had that kind of cool look about him. I knew he wasn't French, and surmised from his somewhat complicated exchange with his waiter that he didn't speak it either. And then I saw him reading the
Herald Tribune.

I have no idea why, other than sheer loneliness,
or boredom, or chemistry perhaps, but I was fascinated by him. With hordes of Frenchmen wandering nearby, I couldn't take my eyes off him. Something about him mesmerized me. He was handsome, certainly, but only slightly more so than other men I'd seen, but there was an aura of undeniable attraction about him, and worse yet, I suspected that he knew it. Even reading the
Herald Tribune
, he looked sexy.

He was wearing a blue Oxford shirt, no tie, khaki pants, and loafers like mine; and as I watched him sip his wine, I realized he was American. I had come all the way to Paris and was fascinated by some guy who was probably from Dallas or Chicago. Pathetic. Talk about wasting the price of a ticket. And then he turned, and saw me. His eyes met mine, we stared at each other for a brief time, and then he went back to his paper, clearly unaffected by what he'd seen. He was obviously holding out for Brigitte Bardot, or Catherine Deneuve, or some French girl who looked like Helena. What did I expect, I asked myself, for him to knock over his chair, fall at my feet, and beg me to have dinner with him? No, but he could have come over to say hello, or offered me a glass of wine. Not in this lifetime. Men in real life don't do that. They glance at you, look you over a couple of times, and go back to their wives in Greenwich. I had decided by then that he
probably lived in Greenwich or on Long Island. He was a stockbroker, or a lawyer … or a professor at Harvard. Or another deadbeat like the ten thousand men I'd met in the past two years. Probably an alcoholic. A child molester maybe. Or another giant bore, who wanted to talk about his stock portfolio, or his ex-wife, or the only rock concert he'd been to in his life, when he was in college. Either the Rolling Stones or the Grateful Dead, both of which I hated.

There was no doubt in my mind that he was married. He looked like he'd gone to Yale, or maybe Harvard. He looked like he'd break my heart, or walk out on me one day, like Roger. He was so goddam sexy, just sitting there in his khakis and Oxford shirt, I couldn't stand it. And just looking at him, sitting there,. I knew I'd hate him. How many lions does it take to eat a single Christian? The correct answer to that question is: many. Or one great one. I had already been devoured, chewed up, and spit out by experts. Like this one. I could recognize a lion easily by then. In an instant.

Snarling at him inwardly, I ordered dessert, and
café filtre
, knowing I'd be awake all night but in Paris who cared, and then walked past him indifferently after I paid for my dinner. I was going to walk back to the hotel by some indirect route, to breathe in the sounds and smells of Paris and
forget him. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second as I walked past, knowing I'd never see him again, and forcing myself not to care. I had been obsessing about him all through dinner, and even I knew, or especially I after the last two years, no man is worth it, no matter how sexy.

I had already convinced myself I'd forgotten him as I looked in shop windows all the way back to the hotel, and then turned the final corner, only to realize that the hero in the blue shirt and khaki pants was just behind me, and closing on me quickly. My heart skipped a beat, and I paused, not sure what to say when he reached me. I was still standing there, trying to think of something clever to say, when he walked right past me. Without a smile, a look, a glance in my direction. He marched right by me into my hotel, and I wondered how he knew I was staying there, or why he cared. He was probably waiting for me in the lobby. Clearly, after two years of readjusting to everything in life from sleepwear to dating, I had lost my perspective.

He was collecting his key from the porno star at the desk when I walked into the lobby. And this time, he turned and smiled at me, and something very primal deep in my soul spoke to me. I was so undone just looking at him, I couldn't even hear what he was saying. If nothing else, he was great to look at. Instinctively, I looked for a wedding
ring, but didn't see one. He was probably one of those guys who cheated regularly, and slipped the ring off and left it in his pocket. I could only assume the worst about him. In my opinion, he was much too good-looking to be decent.

“Nice night, isn't it?” he asked pleasantly, as we stood together, waiting for the elevator that looked like a birdcage. I had been walking the two short flights until then, but looking at him, I couldn't this time. My stomach had melted into my shoes somewhere and I could hear myself mumble. I had been right, anyway. The words were American. But I could have figured that much out from the Oxford shirt, the khakis, and the loafers. I didn't need to see his passport.

“It's a lovely city.” Brilliant. High marks for that one. Thank God I went to college, and graduated cum laude.

“Are you here on business?” he asked as the elevator came. My God, a conversation. What happened?

“I'm meeting my children in a couple of days. I'm just killing time, and spending money.” He grinned at that. Great teeth. Great smile. Great body. And I felt about as old, and sophisticated, as Charlotte, with or without the nose pierce.

“It's a great city to do it in,” he said easily, as he followed me into the birdcage. “Do you come here often?” I pushed two and he pushed nothing.
Maybe he was planning to follow me to my room and kill me. Or seduce me. Whatever. But at least I was wearing the pale blue lace underwear and garters. I knew he'd be impressed when he saw that.

“About once every ten years.’ I said honestly. “I haven't been here in ages. Do you? … Come here often, I mean …” I felt unbelievably stupid. All I really wanted to do was stare at him. It was impossible not to think of him with his clothes off. I wondered what kind of underwear he wore. Probably Jockeys. Gray or white. Calvin Kleins. And knee
socks.

As it turned out, his room was next to mine, and all I could think of was the scene from
Pillow Talk
between Doris Day and Rock Hudson, where they're both in the bathtub, separately, talking on the phone. If this had been a movie, he would call me. In real life, he'd have had me committed for what I was thinking.

“Good night,” he said pleasantly, and went inside to call his wife and seven children. Or his ex-wife, and two girlfriends. Or his boyfriend. Or any combination of the above.

I stood in my room, staring out the window, and thinking of him. And since there was still a faint possibility that he was a normal person, and not a registered sex offender, he didn't call me. But I saw him again the next morning. We left
our rooms at the same time, perfectly synchronized, and rode down in the elevator together. It was raining, a light rain, but I had come prepared, and I was wearing a raincoat and carrying an umbrella. I knew I could hit him with it if he assaulted me, and was fiercely disappointed when he didn't.

Instead, he turned to me in the lobby, as I began struggling with my umbrella. He was wearing a white shirt this time, and he asked me where I was going.

“Out …” I said awkwardly, “shopping … maybe the Louvre … I don't know….”

“I'm going there too … to the Louvre, I mean. Care to join me?” But what about his wife and children in Greenwich? That's it? Simple as that? After all those jerks who drank too much, and forced me to use aikido on them on the way home, this incredibly handsome man wanted to go to the Louvre with me? I wanted to ask him where the hell he'd been for the last twenty-one months while I was dating Godzilla and all his brothers and cousins. What took you so long, Bozo? Maybe the time was just right now.

“I'd love it,” I said with a smile.

We chatted easily in the cab. He lived in New York too, about a dozen blocks from where I do. And he spent a lot of time in California. He owned a company in Silicon Valley, specialized in
bionics, some kind of combination of biology and electronics. He explained briefly what the company did, and it sounded like Swahili. Whatever he did, it was something high-tech. And he hadn't gone to Harvard or Yale. He had gone to Princeton. And while he was married, he had lived in San Francisco. He had only moved back to New York two years before, after his divorce, and he had one son at Stanford. His name was Peter Baker. He was fifty-nine, and he had never lived in Greenwich. And my own history was so dull, as I relayed it to him, that I found myself listening to hear him snoring. He managed to stay awake long enough for me to tell him the pertinent details. I left out the scene on the satin chairs, and the fact that Roger had more or less left me for Helena, or maybe just because he didn't love me. I told him about the kids, that I was divorced, and had worked at a magazine as an editor for six years before I got married, but I even managed to make that sound boring. I was surprised he stayed awake till I was through with my story.

I wanted to run through the list for him as quickly as possible. I was a pro at this after nearly two years. Tennis, skiing, yes, rock climbing, no, marathons impossible, can't jog anymore due to bad left knee after minor ski accident the year before, but nothing major, no hang gliding, no small planes, fear of heights, a little sailing, gourmet
cuisine C—, new sheets, decent nightgowns, wine, no hard liquor, fatal weakness for chocolate, a little Spanish, rusty high school French sneered at by most waiters. The rest he could see for himself. And perhaps, if pressed, Roger would offer a reference. No serious relationships in two years, God had it been that long, but a lot of incredibly mediocre dates in a lot of very ordinary Italian restaurants, and a few really great French ones. Lonely divorcee seeking … what? Seeking what actually? Seeking who? … Man in crisp white shirt and clean khakis, with navy blue blazer over his arm, Ralph Lauren tie in pocket. And what exactly were “bionics”? I wasn't sure, and I was embarrassed to ask him.

He tried to explain it again on the way to the Ritz for a drink, after the Louvre. It sounded pretty good when he offered. He said he had once stayed there, with “friends,” but didn't elaborate further. I assumed a torrid affair, which gave me something to think about in the taxi. In spite of a certain openness, there was nonetheless an aura of mystery about him. And something very sexy. Just the way he moved, and talked about things. The questions he didn't ask. The answers he didn't offer. At the Ritz, he ordered a martini, and told them how he liked it. Sapphire gin. Very dry. Straight up. Two olives.

By the time we left the Ritz, it was nine
o'clock, and we had been together for ten hours. Not bad for a first date. Or was it? What was it? It was nothing. I was a little drunk on white wine, and he was terrific. We ate oysters at a bistro in Montmartre, and I told him about Sam and Charlotte, and the nose pierce. I even told him about Roger and the scene on the satin chairs, and his telling me he didn't love me.

Then it was his turn. His wife's name was Jane, and they had parted company after she had a two-year affair with her doctor. They were living together in San Francisco, and Peter didn't look particularly upset when he said it. He said the marriage had been dead for years before that. I couldn't help wondering if that was what Roger had told Helena. Or did he have to tell her anything? I'm sure Helena had never sat around eating oysters with Roger in Paris or anywhere else. They had probably gone to discos, or cheap motels, so they didn't have to talk to each other. Peter also mentioned his son, and that he was crazy about him.

We got back to the hotel just before midnight, and rode up in the elevator in silence. I had no idea what would happen or what I wanted, but he solved the problem for me. He said good night, told me he'd had a great time, and he was leaving in the morning for London. I told him it was wonderful meeting him, and thanked him for dinner.
It was an interlude, a moment in a lifetime, and as I closed my door and looked around I told myself that guys in white shirts and khakis were a dime a dozen. But not like this one. For some reason, he seemed unique. And he was. I knew it.

Peter Baker was a rarity, a gift, a unicorn in today's world. He seemed like a normal person. A nice one. I could already feel myself being led into the Colosseum, blue lace underwear and all, although today I had worn the pink ones. I wasn't sure what I expected from him, what I wanted, or what he did. More than likely, nothing. But he'd said he would be back in New York, and would call me. No chance of that, he hadn't asked for my number, and it was unlisted. Besides, I was going to be in the Hamptons with the children. And I had already been in and out of the Colosseum. I had been eaten alive for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And Roger had gotten the best parts before that. I was no longer sure what was left of me, or if he cared. In fact, I was sure he didn't. I was convinced of it as I undressed, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. It was so warm, I didn't even bother to wear a nightgown, and there was no sound from the next room. Not even snoring. Utter silence, until the next morning, when he called me.