Women Drinking Benedictine (2 page)

“I wasn't expecting a crowd today,” Steve complained to Max. The church gave him the creeps, and he walked down the aisle quickly, trying to hurry Max out of the cavelike structure.

“A little company might cheer you up.” Max stopped at the back of the church and lit a candle. The money box had been left open. It was empty, but Max put a ten-franc coin in.

“Big spender,” Steve said.

“In memory of your father,” Max said.

Steve stepped outside and shivered in the bright sunlight.

The only restaurant in town was slightly crowded. The owner led them to the table smack-dab in the center of everyone's curious glances. Steve knew their loud American voices would soon fill the small room. They would be on display, like goldfish in a glass bowl.

The women were obviously flattered by Max's attention. They giggled through his wine order and asked him for lunch suggestions.

“It's such a relief not to struggle with the language,” they said. They got giddy after the appetizer plate and demanded that Max continue his lecture on the Cathars.

“You're so eloquent,” one remarked. She had her pen out and was writing furiously on her napkin. The napkin was a dark shade of blue, the same color as the ink. Steve looked over and could not see any of the words she wrote. Still, she scribbled furiously, as if she would be tested on it the next day.

“They believed in the rival energies of Good and Evil. Lightness and darkness were their guides,” Max explained. Steve finished his third glass of wine. He tipped the bottle over to show Max that it was empty, and Max motioned for the waiter to bring another to the table. Max, the perfect host, did not skimp when it came to the palate.

“The Cathars were not happy with life. They found it terrifying—the ultimate punishment that God could inflict on a people. Birth was a misfortune. Death was a deliverance,” Max said.

“I know exactly how they felt,” Steve said loudly.

“My friend isn't interested in history,” Max explained. “He enjoys being the center of attention, which is difficult when you're talking about the thirteenth century.”

“How can you not find all this fascinating?” The largest woman leaned across the table and held onto Steve's wrist. He prodded her with his fork, then excused himself as if it had been an accident.

“What's not to like?” another of the women asked. She was scowling as if it had never occurred not to like what so many others admired.

“I'm of the mindset, you've seen one old church, you've seen them all,” Steve said. “I mean, really, what's the point?”

His remark changed the mood of the meal, and the women finished their lunch with the insistence that they had someplace to be that afternoon. They did not stay for coffee.

Max was disappointed, and after the women left, he called Steve a spoilsport.

“I'm used to your temper tantrums,” he said. The two of them walked outside. “But you could have been nice to them. They were interesting and kind. You didn't have to ruin their lunch.”

“I was just stating my opinion,” Steve said. “That's not a crime, is it?”

“Your opinion?” Max asked. He picked up a stone and tossed it toward the large oak tree in the center of town. A trio of squirrels scattered with the noise.

Steve felt he had to explain himself. “This place is just so depressing.”

“To you,” Max said. “But obviously not to those women. We were having a nice lunch. You were being rude.”

“They were boring,” Steve said.

“You mean I was boring,” Max said.

“It's just boring here,” Steve said. “It's dull as death.”

Max threw another stone at the tree. The squirrels were gone, and the stone missed the target by six or seven feet.

Steve had every reason to complain. Except for the miles of sunflower fields, the whole area was gray and lifeless. The churches were exactly the same. There was nothing to look at but old men bowling under the trees.

“You win,” Max said and dropped his hands. The remaining stones fell around their feet. “I give up.”

Max took him to the Côte d'Azur. The few cathedrals in the resort towns were filled with chandeliers, glass jewels, warm-colored drapes, richly painted statues, brightly stained glass windows. Nothing smelled.

The sun was shining on the Mediterranean. The beaches were jammed. The breezes were warm—the surf a beautiful hue of blue. The streets were filled with noisy, honking tourists. The souvenir shops were spilling over with shoppers. The cafes were crowded, and the lines at the museums snaked around the block—the wait was at least an hour. Max was miserable, but Steve's spirits lifted immediately.

“Come on,” Steve said. “Isn't this better?”

“For you,” Max agreed. “Maybe this will put an end to your whining.”

Until they got to the Riviera, Steve and Max had avoided any long talk about Steve's father. But after their visit to the shoe store, they walked to the beach and sat at a boardwalk cafe. The Mediterranean was a wild shade of blue-green, and they abandoned plans to drive the mountain roads in favor of drinking beer in the sun. Apropos of nothing, Max told Steve how much he missed Carl.

Steve turned away. He did not want to have this conversation.

Max borrowed a cigarette from the young woman at the next table, apologizing profusely. Ten minutes later he asked for another, then another. Finally, she threw the pack of cigarettes at him.

“I'm so sorry,” Max said, upset that he had made the woman angry.

“Next time buy your own,” she snarled in English, and then took some francs off their table.

Max lit a cigarette. Tears ran down his cheeks. “Your father was the greatest,” Max said. “I just think you should know that your father was the greatest man who ever lived. I really miss him.”

The cafe was jammed with tourists and Steve was certain that most of them spoke or at least understood English.

“Let's talk about something else,” Steve said. His father had been dead six months and he was not ready to think about him. The cancer, which had started in his stomach, then spread to his lungs, had starved his father, leaving him unable to eat for the last three months of his life. “Let's have fun,” Steve said. “There's no sense worrying about the past. We can't change anything that's already happened.”

“I forgot, I forgot. I'm sorry,” Max said. “Steve, Mr. Emotional Hologram, doesn't like to talk about personal things.”

“Excuse me?” Steve said. He sobered almost immediately at the criticism.

“An emotional hologram,” Max said and hiccuped. “That's what your father used to call you. Always best to stay a little bit shallow. Talk about the weather, books, some sports. But don't dig too deep.”

Steve leaned on the table and stared out at the ocean. The sudden shift in weight tilted the table, and their beer mugs slid across the slick surface. He tried to catch them, which didn't help. Everything tipped at once. The glass smashed. The Americans across the way burst into applause—everyone else just stared. The waiter was there in a flash. He had already collected for their last round of beers. He offered Steve a police escort out of the cafe.

“It's not necessary,” Steve said. “In fact, we were just leaving.”

“There's just one thing I want to say.” Max was still under the impression that they were having a conversation.

Steve pulled him down the boardwalk, where Max yelled his feelings to the ocean.

“I loved your father,” Max said. “I really loved that man.”

“Yes,” Steve said. “I loved him, too.” The sun had moved behind a cloud. The sea had changed color. He lifted his head, his hands stiff to keep himself from crying. He cleared his mind, deliberately not thinking of his father.

Max did not cry anymore on the trip, though he did buy a number of postcards, saying each time, “I wish I could mail this one to your father.”

They spent Steve's last night in Paris.

All in all Steve was happy. He could go back to Pittsburgh satisfied that he had made good on his father's request. It had not been a perfect trip, but he had kept his promise to his father, and that was what was important.

It was time to go home. In two months he would be married and would not have to worry about spending time with his father's friend.

In his Paris hotel room, he took a cold shower, then, not ready to dress for dinner, he found the cleanest pair of socks he had and tried on his new shoes.

The only mirror in the room was over the bathroom sink. He had to stand on the toilet to see himself. The shoes were stylish. He would carry them on the plane and put them on before getting off. There was always the threat of his feet swelling, but he wanted to be wearing them when he first saw Kathleen.

He looked up to see Max's reflection in the mirror. “They look great,” Max said.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve shouted and jumped off the toilet. His shoes slipped on the wet tiles and Max kept him from falling by holding his elbow. Steve pulled away. He picked a towel off the floor. It was damp from his shower and uncomfortable next to his dry clean skin.

“Sorry,” Max said. “I knocked lightly, but thought you might be sleeping.”

“Jesus Christ!” Steve yelled.

“I'm sorry,” Max said. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

Steve was not scared, but his heart was racing.

“Fuck it, Max,” Steve said. “Can't a guy have a little privacy? I've been with you for fourteen fucking days. Give me some space.”

“My fault. I didn't mean to be too familiar. I just think of you as family. I didn't realize it was necessary to knock. Excuse me.” Max bowed, as if humbling himself. He left the room as quickly as he had entered.

“Wait,” Steve said. “Max?” He opened the door. “Are you there, Max?”

The lights in the hall were on a timer, and they shut off, leaving the small space in darkness.

“I'm sorry, Max,” Steve said and closed the door, certain that Max had heard his apology.

They walked the streets of the Latin Quarter, where three or four men called to them in English. “Eat here. Good and Cheap. Get a Fine French Meal.”

Max seemed oblivious to the obvious tourist trappings of the area. He took no time deciding on a restaurant, simply choosing the first one. He pulled out a chair and motioned for Steve to sit across from him. “This okay?”

Steve did not want to argue.

They ordered the night's special and were served in a matter of minutes.

“High turnover seems to be the goal of the night,” Steve said. “I've never seen waiters move so quickly.” He would rather have been eating in a better quality place, where the waiters were rude, the food and drink pricey but delicious.

“Just as well,” Max said. “I'm tired.” It was the first time Steve had ever heard him complain. “I guess all this traveling has finally caught up with me.”

“How about a walk along the Seine?” Steve said. He hadn't meant to lash out at him. A fight was a fight and then it was best to forget it ever happened. He had apologized—at least three times.

“You go,” Max said. “I'm beat.” He was planning to spend a week in Paris and then head into Italy. He would fly back to Detroit from Florence.

Steve had thought they would meet for breakfast, but Max turned to face him when they got to the hotel.

“You have a safe flight and call me to let me know when that wedding of yours is going to be.” He held out his hand.

“I will,” Steve promised and shook Max's hand a dozen times. “Listen. Thanks for everything. Everything. I mean it. It's been great. Just great.”

“See you soon,” Max said and disappeared into the dark entranceway of the hotel.

Steve should have been elated that the trip was almost over. He had done what his father had asked, and yet he couldn't help but feel that something was wrong.

He walked across the river and sat on the steps of Notre Dame. The summer crowd was dense and slightly unruly. A few kids offered to sell him pot. No one was speaking French. Not used to being alone, he left.

He was nervous and excited when he landed in Pittsburgh. He looked forward to seeing Kathleen. He was anxious to start planning their wedding. He did not want to think about Max. If Max was upset with him, that was his problem. Steve had done nothing wrong.

Kathleen told him he looked like he had grown.

“Grown?” he asked, hoping she was making a joke. He thought of all the beer he had been drinking, the late-night meals, the sugar and milk in the coffee. He didn't feel heavy, but he put his hand over his belt and pressed in his stomach.

“Taller,” Kathleen clarified. “You look like you've grown a foot.”

With that, Steve wondered if she had been unfaithful. She was obviously comparing him to the shorter man she had been sleeping with while he was away. He began to panic, then deliberately pushed these thoughts aside. He was tired—he had watched both movies on the plane and had not slept at all. He cleared his head and asked about the weather. “Has it been brutally hot?”

Kathleen grinned. “Is that what they're talking about in Europe nowadays? The weather?”

“Yes,” Steve said. He was at once awkward and self-conscious. Kathleen was not a sarcastic person, and he felt himself on unsteady ground.

He knew what was coming.

Kathleen had been moody and sharp before he left, and he had thought that the time apart would do them some good. He had been wrong. She was even more moody and more sharp than before he left.

She was ruthless, breaking off their engagement on the highway. Steve, sitting in the passenger seat in her non-airconditioned car, was sick as he listened to her speak.

Her reasons for the breakup were varied.

“I love you, but my feelings have changed,” she explained. “I need some time. A wedding in October, come on. It's already August.”