Putting It In in Paris: An Erotic Novel of the Eighties

By Brett Tonaille

Cachet sends Rufus Rousseau to Paris on business. But what he finds is pleasure: the long-legged Luz, the seemingly innocent Gabrielle, the recently-divorced Magda. And on the list goes... It's the Eighties after all, a wilder but also more innocent time. It doesn't hurt that Rufus is living across from Notre Dame, making Paris itself is a character in this shamelessly explicit romp.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brett Tonaille
• Release date: Oct 28, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458177742

Brett Tonaille

Brett Tonaille is the author and translator of various erotic works, including the novel "Putting It In in Paris: An erotic novel of the Eighties" and a modern translation of the French eighteenth century classic "Thérèse Philosophe".

Book preview

Gabrielle

Oh what a tangled web we weave...

—Sir Walter Scott, Marmion

Licking back

Gabrielle had her tongue up his ass.

This is the kind of thing a man should notice. Especially the first time it happens. But since they'd gone in the bedroom, Gabrielle, with her schoolgirl air, had so surprised him, he'd lost track of exactly what they were doing. Only later, thinking through that afternoon, did he realize: at some point, she'd worked her wide, innocent face under him, thrust in her tongue, and started licking.

In August 1979, gold twice went above its long-time high of $520 an ounce. Soon, it just kept rising....

The week before she came over, Rufus flew back to New York.

Manny, his boss, was in Texas. But Carl wanted to see him.

About time, thought Rufus. Carl, a trim, neat man in his early forties, came alive for pep talks to the staff, but the moment he'd ended his spiel he again became impenetrable. Behind his glasses, his piercing blue eyes looked past anyone unimportant. Even his long blond hair was sleek and corporate, a friendly touch on sales calls, but not to be mistaken as casual. He never acknowledged Rufus except when he was with Manny.

But Rufus was no longer working in the coin shop – or as Cachet called it, the gallery. Anyway, he'd only done that as part of his training. Now he was their man in Paris. Of course Carl wanted to see him; he'd have to acknowledge him now.

Beverly, middle-aged and efficient, showed him in, then closed the door. Carl was on the phone, behind his giant modern desk. He gestured for Rufus to sit.

Me, he said to the phone, "I fucking love Jimmy Carter. His half-assed policies are putting gold through the fucking roof. And that's great for the coin business."

Years among uncouth musicians had not prepared Rufus for the casual, aggressive vulgarity of career salesmen. Manny was an exception – with his curly beard and scholarly slump, he looked more like a disheveled academic. His habits were correspondingly abstemious; he didn't drink or smoke, and he only cursed when he'd made a serious score. But then he was a buyer, he wasn't out there hustling the public or even entire companies to invest in rare coins. All the guys on that side of the business, from Carl on down, used fuck, and worse, as punctuation.

Rufus sat up as Carl got off the phone. But Carl looked down at a pile of papers and began making notes on the top sheet. He did the same with three more before saying, his head still down, I heard you got a two-bedroom across from Notre Dame.

Yes. Rufus waited a beat. Manny approved it.

Carl grimaced.

Rufus knew, and suspected Carl knew, that that wasn't the whole story. Rufus, new to the business – new, in fact, to business, period – had hustled the Company. This was a perversion of the natural order, in which it was the Company that did the hustling.

He'd grabbed the apartment the moment he saw it, then made sure Manny got a look at it. Manny had had his doubts. Boy, had he had his doubts. The place wasn't cheap. But he also liked the idea of staying there when he was in town. He especially liked the idea of how it would look to any woman he brought by.

The view will impress our clients, Rufus said.

I guess. But Rufus knew that he was sold.

And you paid the whole first year's rent, said Carl, Right up front?

Rufus suppressed a smile. It's not like I could show them a pay stub.

As far as the elegant brunette at the agency knew, he was a student. In France, the fact that he was a student at almost thirty seemed perfectly normal. But both her mascaraed eyebrows shot up, and her jaw down, when he brought in the whole amount in one lump sum. You're giving me that in CASH? Her eyes narrowed. "You will be doing a little business here, perhaps?'

Perhaps. A little.

Unofficially?

Very unofficially. Cachet was well-known in New York; but in Paris, the idea was to keep a low profile. Let us say, discreetly.

That she could understand. Getting around the government was a time-honored French tradition.

Now Carl did look up, long enough to give Rufus a sharp glance. You do know they'll get all the interest on that amount?

No, Rufus didn't. Until six months ago, he'd been living on a folksinger's budget. Earning interest hadn't been a big concern.

Having made his displeasure known, Carl went on. So, Manny's teaching you the business?

Oh yes. Like hell. Manny had him watch while he did deals all over Europe, but almost never explained what he was doing.

Not that you'll be buying on your own.

Got that right.

Carl initialed another sheet. OK then. We're done. Unless you've got anything else? His tone was not encouraging.

Well...

Carl kept his eyes down. Is it important?

It's just, I'm a little worried that some of what we're doing isn't, strictly speaking –

Manny says there's no problem.

Manny had gotten Rufus the job. So he couldn't very well say, Manny's not what you'd call reliable on the subject of legality, especially when it won't be his ass on the line. Or his name on any paperwork.

I just want to be sure – .

Picking up his phone, Carl punched a button for a line. Talk to Manny.

When Rufus came in the next day, Manny was already holed up with Carl. So he went back to his borrowed desk and browsed through World Coins, trying to convince himself he was learning something. He saw Manny come out and stop at the mail bins before heading towards him. Among the Grey Sheets and other official mail, he held a small lavender envelope, which he ripped open, taking out a note card. He looked up from the card as he reached Rufus. Boy, are you lucky.

How's that?

Remember that Eurasian brunette we met on the rue Mouffetard?

The one you thought was hot?

"She is hot."

Cute.

You're an idiot. He handed Rufus the card. A lucky idiot.

Rufus read the note, written in French in neat, square letters: I understand Rufus has an apartment in Paris. Could you give him my number?

I mean, it's not like she was ugly, said Rufus, pocketing the card.

He remembered Gabrielle as a brunette, not yet twenty, with a big smile, black eyes, and a trim boyish body. At first, he'd had missed the slight Asian shape of her eyes.

It was Manny who guessed: You're part Vietnamese?

Yes!

But Manny himself had ended up with her friend, Magali, a thin, dusky woman.

At the time, Rufus had already met one woman in Paris – Luz, a tall, light-skinned métisse with high cheekbones, slim hips and long legs. Her daughter spent the summer with her father in Martinique, so Luz did her best to get as much sex in as she could before September. She was happy to fuck, which given her model-like build worked out nicely. But fucking was it.

Back in the States, Last Tango in Paris had made one alternative downright fashionable. But when he brought the subject up to Luz, she snorted. Why would I want to do something that not only gives me no pleasure, but actually causes me pain? Lacking an answer for that, he let the subject drop.

Her other refusal was more frustrating. It makes me throw up.

Oh, come on.

Still one night, after he'd treated her to a particularly nice dinner and she'd come back to his empty new apartment, she'd stripped to a pair of black silk panties, cuddled up by his crotch and started to solidly suck him off.

Just then the ceiling lit up, as pink, green and white ovals slid across it. Far below, speakers spit out phrases in alternate languages. The first time this had happened, Rufus had expected to see a flying saucer outside his window. Instead he'd looked down to see a long modernistic boat – a bateau mouche – filled with tourists. Now he accepted this as a regular event, the price of living across from one of France's major tourist attractions.

The room went dark again just as he came – and Luz leaped to her feet, racing into the water closet. Gagging sounds were followed by flushing and the squeak of faucets.

Coming out, she glared at him. I told you that would happen.

He tried to look contrite. Thanks for trying, anyway.

Otherwise, sex with Luz was a straightforward treat. She was in it for one thing and the last thing she wanted was a relationship. I'm a Gemini, she said. They say we like pleasure.

Though Rufus thought astrology was a crock, he suddenly wanted to meet more Geminis. At least the ones like Luz.

But September had taken her off his menu. Until next summer...

The student

Back in Paris, Rufus waited a day for his jet lag to wear off. Then he rang the number on the card.

A man answered. He sounded like he'd taken a Quaalude. Or two. Rufus hesitated. Uh... That is....

You want Gabrielle?

"Oui. S'il vous plait."

Gabrielle's exuberant response more than made up for that first shock.

Rufus! she said, in sweetly accented, over-precise English. So Manny gave you my number. Back to French. "Ça fait plaisir de t'entendre."

Me too. Do you want to meet up?

"Bien sûr. I can come over right now, if you like." He did. He liked very much.

In the small student restaurant on the rue Mouffetard, she'd looked like many a French college student, wearing a simple sweater and a pair of jeans. But now she looked almost like a lycéenne, one from a particularly strict all-girls' school. She wore a neat white blouse and a prim gray skirt. She kissed him on the cheeks with immediate familiarity, then sat demurely on his new white couch. He poured out some wine.

"C'est magnifique, cette appart'."

Yes, he had to agree, the place was pretty impressive. Aside from the unbeatable view – all you saw was the sky, Notre Dame and, if you looked down, the Seine – , the living room and dining room were open to each other, creating one huge space. He'd bought a few things – the cream white couch, a glass and metal coffee table, a white pseudo-fur rug and a large round pouf for the living room, a marble-topped table and some chairs for the dining room. Far opposite where they sat, on the wall behind the table hung a mock-Japanese print of a Eurasian woman looking out over the sea. She could have been Gabrielle.

Otherwise the space was pretty bare, a broad expanse of reddish brown tiles. He'd bought the same huge bed for his room and for the guest room (mainly to be Manny's) with a big cozy comforter for each and some good sheets. But there wasn't much in the bedrooms either.

He couldn't help checking Gabrielle out as he sat across from him: enough of a chest not to miss, but nothing dramatic; sweet, but small hips. And she was pretty. Beautiful, even. Her sleek black hair was pulled back, showing her broad, slightly exotic face.

Maybe Manny had been right.

So who was that guy?

She grimaced. This couple's been staying at my place. It's awful. They don't help with the rent; they eat up all my food.

Jesus. Why don't you kick them out?

Where would they go? I can't just put them out on the street.

That explained the male voice. So, you're not dating anyone?

The corners of her eyes went up, matching her mouth in a wicked grin. I just broke up with this guy. Would you believe – she laughed at the thought – he threatened to commit suicide?

Damn. But she didn't seem that worried. He changed the subject. Have you seen your friend Magali?

Oh my God!

What?

Manny spent the night with her, you know.

I've heard, yes.

She shouldn't have done that.

Why?

Again that grin, all way into the corners of her eyes. She's not supposed to just spend the night with guys. There are men she's supposed to go through.

Men? I don't get it.

She studied his face. You're very naive, aren't you?

I am? Rufus, who had played in some pretty dicey clubs and had his share of tawdry adventures, thought he was pretty hip.

Manny could have gotten hurt.

Rufus felt a touch dizzy. Whatever was involved here was way beyond him.

Just the same, it wasn't too long before he'd taken Gabrielle's hand and tugged her towards him. Minutes later, he was on his feet, with Gabrielle in his arms. She looked up, as he bore her into the bedroom. I'm a fine one to criticize Magali, eh?

He'd bent her over the edge of the bed, then lifted up her proper gray skirt and yanked down the prim white panties beneath it. Her butt, made bulkier by her position, looked more appetizing now. Quickly, he'd unzipped and pushed into her. Soon the only sounds were the slight squeak of his moving in and out and her small, half-suppressed sighs.

He watched the saints descending the steeple of Notre Dame, gripping her buttocks as he came.

After that, they both undressed and he soon lost track of exactly what they did. He put her on her knees at one point, but she did more licking than sucking; he never did quite come in her mouth. Then she climbed back on the bed and they romped incoherently until, at some point, he found himself seated on her face, her tongue hard at work. But by then this soft thrusting against his most intimate orifice barely registered.

It was as if he were drunk. Drunk on sex.

They fucked a few more times and then she had to go. Overall, it had been a very nice afternoon.

He didn't see her again for two days. She had to study, she said, and Rufus was still getting settled in. He also had to go over to the Bourse – the stock market – and talk to the dealers in that neighborhood, then report back to Manny.

Though he didn't really know what he was doing, he'd spend a few hours behind shop counters or in back rooms, chatting with colleagues who'd done this all their adult lives, lifting pieces of gold into brilliant light, squinting through a loupe, gingerly lifting rarities out of velvet-lined boxes. At noon, he'd use his expense account in some cozy old bistro, having a good pâté de campagne and a steak au poivre with one of the better Beaujolais as he studied the antique prints and copper kitchenware hung on the walls and the nattily dressed French businessmen, and more rarely women, always made-up and discreetly bejeweled, lingering over their two-hour lunch. Dessert was a chocolate mousse or a tarte tatin, the caramelized apple slices buried in crème chantilly. This was a big step up from the Chinese food that had made up the bulk of his restaurant meals in New York, or the salads and spaghetti he'd made at home.

But then, even the food he'd had here as a student had been memorable. Simple as the couscous or the steak frites at the restaurants universitaires had been, washed down with small bottles of vin ordinaire, he had fond memories of them. And the sex, for a young American surrounded by other foreign students, hadn't been half bad either.

This time around, one thing hadn't changed: Paris was proving full of pleasures.

These occupations filled a good part of the day and allowed him to report to Manny that he was working. But they still left him a lot of free time. Some of this he used to shop for the apartment. Some of it he used to fuck Magda.

Magda

Finding Magda again had been a bonus, another proof that Paris was working out. They'd both been Gabrielle's age when she, a recent refugee from Hungary, had tried out her femme fatale tricks on the easily impressed young American from her grammar class. He'd been to her tiny room numerous times without getting more than a few kisses. Somehow she kept him waiting for more; somehow more never happened.

He'd noticed a picture above her dresser, a photograph of an elegant woman with carefully coiffed hair and a contrived glow. Who's that?

That's me.

Really? He looked at the small, curvy blonde beside him, with her mischievous eyes and simple air. Why do you have a picture of yourself?

I'm an actress. Didn't you know?

One day, when the school year was almost over, he'd dropped by to see her. Just as he was about to leave, she'd said, I'm going to take a shower. Stay. He'd waited a few minutes before getting restless and was almost about to leave when she came out, warm and clean, in a bathrobe. She let him start to open it before, suddenly, turning to flee again. Feeling like a fool, standing there with his bulging pants, he was completely unprepared when she reappeared – she'd gone to squirt perfume in the nape of her neck. That done, she'd opened her robe at last, showing her small, ripe body, pale pink and freshly cleaned, giving herself to him with a triumphant smile.

Just after Luz had returned to her maternal duties, he was in the library at Beaubourg and drifted into the language lab, where he spotted a familiar blond head in one of the cubicles. Magda'd been working on her English. She peered up at him, struggling to remember his name: Robert!... Richard!... Ronald... The important thing was that she remembered him. Better yet, she'd just gotten divorced.

She invited him over. After acting in some films (Rufus had even heard of them), she'd married a famous journalist. Her failed marriage had left her with a handsome apartment, the living room plush with deep gold carpeting. All along the walls, bookshelves brimmed with understated culture.

Sitting on the fine leather couch, she proudly showed him pictures of her elegant wedding. He kept hoping she'd show him the bedroom, but instead she closed the album, stood up and said, Now show me your place.

She was duly impressed with the view, but that was all she saw before they moved to his over-sized bed. Her hips were just a bit fuller than he remembered, but the same exquisite grip still lay between them, tightening delightfully as he entered her. She had no interest in teasing him now. She'd come for sex and wanted it right away, straight and hard. She was less limited than Luz, though her hindquarters, too, were off limits. Still, he savored the sight of them – ripe and full – as she methodically, almost politely, sucked him off.

Once they'd done all they were going to do, it was past midnight. Now walk me home, she said.

Don't you want to spend the night?

She stroked his cheek, almost maternally. "Peut-être une autre fois. But, Rufus realized at once, nothing would change another time". This was what she wanted to do: fuck, intensely but discreetly, at his place, then go home.

He was being used. Used for his body.

Dinner with Gabrielle

His afternoon with Gabrielle was unrelated to his convenient, if unflattering relations with Magda, which now had gone on for several weeks. The idea of sleeping with two eager, cooperative women for the next few months made perfect sense to him.

And so he spent that Wednesday evening satisfying Magda, delighting in her inside's muscular hold as he pushed against her fleshy rump. But before he went to pick her up (she always had him pick her up), he called Gabrielle and made a date. She came over the next evening.

After a quick, half-dressed fuck, they'd headed out to the Boulevard St. Germain. Now they were seated on a restaurant terrace, enjoying the flow of returning students, lingering tourists, hawkers, beggars, and occasional musicians. A middle-aged couple sat at the neighboring table. More than once, the husband snuck a look at Gabrielle.

They're eating me out of house and home.

Charmed by the candlelight in her dark eyes, Rufus poured her more Brouilly,

You're being used, you know.

I'm too good, aren't I? She slowly licked the cream from her escalope de veau normande off the spoon, merrily watching Rufus' reaction. That's what happens when your father's a diplomat. You learn early on to think of others.

Where was he stationed?

Cameroon. I learned my English there. Half the country speaks it, you know.

He didn't. But it pleased him that she did.

It was wonderful. We were real pashas. Huge house, lots of servants, people bowing when we passed. A little gypsy girl came up and handed her a card, begging for money. Gabrielle took out a two franc piece and handed it to her. She didn't let go of her purse until the girl was gone. They'll rob you, you know. And there's nothing the police can do. They're too young to put in jail.

He studied the breasts – they weren't that small, really – nudging at her bronze blouse. She looked as sophisticated tonight as she had naive a few days before. A diplomat's daughter, eh? She was full of surprises. Her Spanish was as good as her English; she'd seen the world.

She was more than a cute little student, for sure.

When they got back to the apartment, she went to one of the windows to look at Notre Dame. Hidden spotlights lit the gray stone; one square tower and the broad flank of the church loomed before them, almost as if in reach. Snapping the clasp on the French windows, she opened them to either side, then leaned on the balustrade. Rufus watched her from a few feet away, enjoying the sight of his young lover's head, silhouetted by the lit church. That, and her butt, thrust out towards him.

He came up behind her and brought his hand up between her legs. "Bête," she said softly, as he worked his hand into her panties and moved his finger up through the moist mass. He started to stroke the most sensitive spot. She took a deep sharp breath as the pleasure intensified, fighting not to cry out. He pressed his other hand against the small of her back as she started to come, her face still out above the street. After a long low sigh, she was still, as he pressed the hand between her legs towards the one on her back. Claiming her.

He opened his zipper and pulled down her panties, then, hands on her bare flesh, wedged his way into her. He began to move; Gabrielle gripped the balustrade. Suddenly he heard a potpourri of languages – English, Italian, German, Spanish and Japanese – , describing the glories of Notre Dame. An instant later the windows beside them lit up, as the spotlights from a bateaux mouche began to sweep the quays. Rufus! she whispered, but he held her hips between his hands and worked her even harder, as the brilliant lights, one after the other, lit them up. Gabrielle fought back her own response until, as the last lights bathed them in that glare, she cried out: Oh!.

Again they were in the dark.

Both burst out laughing, she with her head hanging down. Slowly he pulled out and cupped one hand between her legs, catching dribbles of his own come.

What do you think they thought we were doing?

I doubt they had to guess.

A bit drunk, and happily sated, they went right to bed.

The next morning, he slipped out of the bed and stood looking at Gabrielle's bare, slim body, pale against the dark blue sheets. She half-opened her eyes, squinting affectionately at him as she lay on her stomach.

He kissed the back of her neck, then began to move his index finger down her vertebrae, stopping to circle her coccyx before continuing into the groove of flesh that followed, stopping again at the tiny orifice.

"Je peux t'enculer?"

She nodded. But be gentle, OK?

With a firm grip on each buttock, he spread them apart. Stick me in.

He felt her lean hand on his cock as she took hold of it, guiding him gingerly into her. He began to move forward.

She was tight, tighter than he'd guessed, and he went slowly, waiting at each step for her to loosen before proceeding. Still the further he went in, the more Gabrielle gripped the sheets, silent at first, then lifting her head to cry out, "Ô! Ô mon Dieu!...Ohhhhhhh...." until the sounds became completely incoherent, throaty, sharp gasps.

He buried himself all the way in her as he came and she cried out, deep from the diaphragm, as he arched his back, gripping her with all his strength.

She trembled as he withdrew, pulling the limp soldier free.

Did that hurt?

She was still breathing hard. "Oui. Affreusement."

Slowly she turned over, looking up at him, silent, with her large dark eyes.

Yes? he asked.

You won't believe what I was thinking.

What was that?

That I really felt I loved you just now. The whole time you were doing that.

And so Gabrielle became the first French woman he'd fucked up the ass. Not that the French didn't talk about the act. Instead of saying Fuck you, they were more likely to say, "Va te faire enculer; that is, Go get - literally- In-assed. But it had never been so big a deal back home, where he'd come to expect what he thought of as The Hole Trinity" from each new partner – first a straightforward fuck to seal the deal, then a little sucking – it was just good manners really, something a thoughtful girl should do – and then, somewhere, in the mix, he'd stroke his new friend's butt or even work a finger in and ask, almost casually, if he could. More often then not, after the usual plea to be careful, permission was granted.

It was all part of the fun, after all. A matter of being thorough.

But not in France, apparently. At least not so far.

The lawyer

The next morning he put on a suit. This still felt like getting into costume. Which was appropriate, since this whole gig was like playing a role. He was not an international businessman, he was not a hard-edged negotiator, and, even as he enjoyed his ersatz, expense-account affluence, he still was not all that interested in money. Unlike Manny.

Having first known Manny in grimy little folk clubs, he'd assumed they were more or less from the same world, even after Manny had hired him out of the blue and brought him into the business. But after months of listening to his apparently scruffy friend exult over the price of gold or gloat over some rip he'd just made, he had had an amusing if slightly dismaying insight: Manny loved money. Loved it to the point that one could measure his happiness by the day's profits, or lack of them. And he wasn't alone. For all their frank, sex-laced vulgarity, he suspected many of those he'd met in the business, at Cachet and elsewhere, took more pleasure from a good deal than from an actual orgasm.

If, that is, they could still tell the difference.

And they weren't alone. The business world in general – a world he'd spent years avoiding – was filled with people who thought the same. Maybe that was the normal state of affairs and he was the anomaly?

Whatever the case, he'd certainly drifted into a new world.

So dressing up to take his part in this world had actually helped, separating him from his old, scuffling, blue-jeaned self. He'd done it by degrees. His first suit had been an arty shade of brown. He'd wanted something with some color, not just one more dark suit. But after standing out, and not in a good way, among all the European businessmen he met, he went the next step and bought his own collection of good dark suits.

Now, when he put one of these on with a striped tie and a white shirt, he was indistinguishable from numerous other high-powered young salesmen and bankers, bustling about Paris in search of profit. Not that he had to do it much. He spent most of his day casually dressed, tearing off his disguise as soon as he came back from the Bourse.

Today he was headed to the dull but upscale Seventeenth arrondisement. He'd seen enough of the Paris operation to decide one thing: he really needed to talk to a lawyer.

Manny had seen him playing in a folk club and they'd started discussing Europe. I lived there as a student, Rufus said. Though Manny said nothing at the time, it turned out later he'd noted that fact. After that, he'd called Rufus a few time to get together, but was always canceling because he had to fly to Paris. Which sure sounded cool. Sometimes he and Manny spoke French and shared their student experiences there. One day, out of the blue, Manny had called: What do you think about working for us? In Paris?

Music by then was getting old. Which is to say, he was. Struggling to pay the rent month after month just didn't seem so romantic anymore. So the offer came at the perfect time. But delighted as he was to be offered a job, he knew how little he knew about the coin business. He'd wondered what the catch was. He knew Manny bought American gold, a lot of which had ended up in Paris back when it was still in circulation. But just how did he get it out of France? And why did he carry so much cash?

Manny had reassured him: You won't have to do anything illegal. No doubt Manny had been sincere. But it was also clear by now that Manny was quite casual about defining what was illegal.

This was where the lawyer came in.

You're being paranoid, Manny had said.

We can't play by the rules if we don't know what they are.

Fine. Just don't let it become an obsession. He'd OKed the expense, and Rufus had made the call.

Maître Santin was one of those proper, well-dressed Frenchmen who no doubt had looked the same at seventeen and wouldn't look much different at seventy: wire-rim classes, a bushy mustache, a bow tie and a fine gray suit. His office was in an old building and resembled a good if slightly worn private apartment, with some antique prints on the wall and an African carving propped up in a corner. One table lamp lit his modest desk.

So you want to export gold? He frowned. It can be done, of course. Everything can be done. He smiled. But it is complicated. He leaned back in his leather chair. Very complicated.

When Rufus left, he was sure of little, except that Me. Santin was satisfied that if anyone could help, it was Me. Santin, and that this help would be billed at a healthy rate, and also that, when it came to exporting gold, there were very few ways, from a legal point of view, to do it right, but many ways indeed to do it wrong.

Cédric and Micheline

That night Cédric and Micheline had a raclette, a suitable dish for their small apartment. The place looked stylish: a shelf of tall slick art books, a bright abstract print over the inert fireplace and all the furniture in bright red molded plastic, with gray cushions.

They'd returned to Paris after a year at Columbia, during which they'd been his neighbors in New York. Cédric was lean and small, sharp-featured, with black hair and, behind large glasses, piercing black eyes. She was tall, slim yet busty, and showed the slightly round face of a happy child beneath a tomboy thatch of light-brown curls. Rufus had amused them with his arty life and love affairs, even as they buried themselves in books, each working to add yet another degree to their resumé. Cédric was using his advanced math in business now and Micheline was working for the government. It had been a happy surprise when their colorful friend had announced he was moving to Paris. He for his part was glad to have familiar faces to turn to.

He didn't invite Gabrielle. He was a newcomer himself to this crowd, mostly French, with one American couple that had lived there for years, and all professionals – architects, professors, journalists. The conversation raced from one mouth to another, took detours, overlapped between speakers, hurtled headlong through interruptions and asides, never quite coming to rest. Rufus could half-follow it, but gave up on trying to put in a word. French conversation was like tennis played with the freedom of soccer. It went by fast, precise points lobbed across the room; it seemed to have no rules, yet somehow he was always breaking them.

Micheline cut through the thicket of politics, finance and culture to rescue her American friend. And so, Rufus, the girls? She swept the room with a grin. You can't believe this guy and women. Back in New York, it was a revolving door at his place.

He felt the rooms' eyes on him. This was something the French could appreciate. Well... he began. He wasn't used to giving rundowns of his adventures to a roomful of strangers. I did run into an old girl friend. From when I was a student.

'Ah, Rufus. Never one to waste time.

And then I met this young student with Manny. She's fun. Daughter of a diplomat.

A diplomat? You're going upscale, Rufus. Micheline was almost serious.

Only two? Cédric raised his eyebrows (which even in repose looked skeptical). You're slipping.

So are we going to meet either of these Dulcineas?

One, maybe. The new one. He didn't really have to explain about Magda. We can all have dinner if you like.

You're going to introduce me to your friends?

It's not like I'm ashamed of you.

She leaned forward and kissed him. You'd better not be. She skipped off the couch towards the toilet nook and closed the door.

Her purse was sitting open on the coffee table. Her French ID card lay on top of the coin purse, keys and other bric-à-brac in it. Idly, Rufus picked it up, wondering how bad the picture would be.

The picture, showing a flash-shocked but smiling Gabrielle, was as expected. But not the name: Mrs. Gabrielle Meunier. He held the card, rereading the words, trying to work out what they might mean.

Gabrielle saw him before he heard her. Her mouth fell open. Then she smiled. Oh, you saw it, eh? I should have told you, but it hasn't really come up. A few years ago I married a friend so he could get his papers. She took the card, put in her purse and snapped it shut. We see each other about once a month.

Damn. For a moment there I was worried.

"Bête." She leaned forward to kiss him.

It was barely two weeks now, but already he had trouble believing how much she'd done that first afternoon. He enjoyed her cool, bare body against his, her struggle to keep silent as he moved in and out of her. But it was all very cozy and domestic. Not at all the orgy he'd expected.

Magda was in New York, visiting her sister. So he didn't have an alternative this week. Not that, to his own surprise, he minded. He found himself settling in with Gabrielle. It didn't hurt that she offered to fix dinner for Cédric and Micheline, instead of their going out. You can cook too?

You can't imagine the things I can do.

A navarin of lamb with string beans and mashed potatoes. Îles flottantes of meringue in vanilla cream.

Gabrielle could cook indeed. She also knew how to charm. Not that Cédric or Micheline required much effort. For all their understated intellect, they were always fun company. Cédric was less a flirt than any man Rufus knew, but he lit up ever so slightly when Gabrielle stood close to him and laughed at his every remark.

So you lived in Africa? Micheline said. We have some friends who were there for years. You'll have to meet them.

That would be fun, said Gabrielle. Oh, excuse me! She ran into the kitchen.

She's charming, said Micheline. Rufus was glad his friends liked her.

Be careful, said Cédric. You'll end up like Seymour. Seymour was his best friend in New York. He ran a club where Rufus used to play.

Seymour only looks like he's more stable than me, said Rufus. You know his engagement fell through?

No!

"Mais oui. He keeps saying he wants to find a nice Jewish girl, but each time he does, something goes wrong."

Still, said Micheline, You look pretty happy right now.

Do I? He saw Gabrielle coming out of the kitchen with the coffee tray, the picture of the perfect young wife. "I'll have to