Paris Once More: Marisol Novels

By Lawrence Rose

An improbable romance blazing across Western Europe and the West Coast.  Marisol, the French wine heiress, has more needs than one might imagine. Does she "have it all"? Only with the American musician, crazy romantic and "second tier handsome" Steven in her life. Their wonderful, lyric romance is not all Michelin Stars,  and love in many forms. It is a suspense-filled trial for them both and for their eccentric cadre of friends and enemies centered on the history of her family. Nazis! Collaborators in the Holocaust. And also centered on his growth through her love and ministrations.  Fly from Lyon to the Champagne District, to Toulouse, to San Francisco... all the while it is THE BEST. Only the best.

 

They meet by chance in a bistrot in the First, spend the afternoon in the Luxembourg, some music shared...then on to her art-filled home in Lyon.  And then? It could happen!  Perhaps it did. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lawrence Rose
• Release date: Jun 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201213190

Lawrence Rose

Lawrence Rose's papers say advanced degrees in Geochemistry and advanced degrees in Music Performance.  He weaves these together in most of his works. From New York to Oklahoma to San Francisco, he has lived an adventurous life in research and in concerts! Later, he is settled into Paris and Toulouse, and now in Medellin, Colombia! 

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark. The information in this book is distributed on an as is basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental."

Copyright Lawrence Rose, 2019

Acknowledgements

THANKS TO NOVELISTS Hilarie Simon Gottlieb, Barbara Corrado Pope, and Byron Edgington, the three who kept encouraging me to join the club and who convinced me that writing fiction is very great fun. Their advice step-by-step was vital.

Thanks to Dana MacLeash for seconding the opinion I had about Marisol through her incisive critiques and editing.

Thanks to the Pacific Mozart Ensemble and the life in beauty that they shared with me for 35 years.

Joan, Rob, Lauren and Sean back there in California who gave me nothing but love. And the Taylors, our partners in Emma.

Thanks to Martin Velez and Angela for listening to the story as it was forming. And Gerard Pothoff, Susan Ondrovic, Patrice LaVertu, and Betsy Johnsmiller for reading chapters.

Et à Hector Berlioz et Théophile Gauthier... immortels..

Dedicated to my life travel partner,

Beatriz Elena Vélez,

and to all my friends in France, especially to the memory of

Edmée Sichel-Dulong.

PART ONE - LA SAISON NOUVELLE

Ch 1  Bistrot Palais-Royale

Ch 2  Lyon

Ch 3  La Casa Marisol

Ch 4 The Blue Picasso

Ch 5  The Quest for the True Fondue

Ch 6  Going Home

Ch 7  The New World

Ch 8  The Anniversary Concert

Ch 9  We Could Make It

Ch 10 The Storm

Ch 11 The Reception

Ch 12 Toulouse

Ch 13 Tatiana

Ch 14 Who was she?

Ch 15  Across Spain

Ch 16  Tio Marcel

Ch 17  In the Valley of the Aude

PART TWO September Songs

Ch 18 The Proposal

Ch 19 Rocamadour

Ch 20 We marry

Ch 21 Torrealba

Ch 22 Paris

Ch 23 In Moonlight

Ch 24 Château Thierry

Ch 25 Reims and Bruges

Ch 26 Passy Again

Ch 27 Claire Visits Lyon

Ch 28 The Conference

Ch 29 Pacific Shore Comes to Lyon

Ch 30 Alicante

Ch 31 Mansion Against the Storm

Ch 32 Burkina Faso

Ch 33 To the Museums

Ch 34 Brocéliande

Ch 35 Canal du Midi

Ch 36 Trent and Mersey

Ch 37 Carcassonne

Ch 38 Jeffie

Ch 39 The Unknown Isle

Paris Once More

Return, Return my beloved !

As a flower removed from the light

My very life is shuttered

When taken from your smile!

...Théophile Gauthier

PART ONE - LA SAISON NOUVELLE

CHAPTER 1 Bistrot Palais-Royale

The cab from Hell hit me. Nicked my hand that I in panic put out to somehow fend him off.  I’m sure the grinning bastard was trying to kill me as I ran across the boulevard fronting on the Opera. I remember his wet teeth, and his cab’s number. Paris, crazy-land, pedestrian death zone. Horns and rudeness, scowls and assorted finger gestures thrust into the spring air.

After the awful, stinking Parisian winter which lasted through May, I thought they would and should be a little more pleasant in the June air. No. All I felt was uncaring vehement aggression. The streets were deadly! Again, I was late for another meeting, another fruitless stuffy office meeting.  And my hand ached.  Something busted?  I felt the finger bones.  No just a red mark turning black and blue. But this was better than the negotiations I just suffered through.

ONLY, Monsieur, in the MORNING, Monsieur. These self-important, self-indulgent, so-called ‘impresarios’ were nothing grander than tour arrangers but put on the most obnoxious snooty attitude. Nothing would interfere with their three-hour lunch behind their grandiose Second Empire oak doors and their Armagnac sipping until nightfall.

Four mornings shot, wasted afternoons...and nothing. Are you interested in a tour of South America? Bogotá?

I came representing my professional They believed I could handle myself with the tour arrangers. I promised my friends a French tour. Provence. Failure.  Nothing..

The chorus Board trusted me to get results. They thought me ‘dynamic’, perhaps attractive. Women liked when I sang to them. The women on the chorus board pushed the men to appoint me the rep to Paris. But this meant nothing to these bigshot guys in their airless offices near the rue Scribe. Charm didn’t work.

The French wanted a bribe over and above and off the record..  Clear as certain, they needed to be greased.   

I failed. After all, really only a second tier tenor and a schoolteacher, how could I have really hoped to be successful? What did I know about greasing these guys?

I was small time.  At home,  I eked out an unimpressive living by singing with some small opera choruses, in paid gigs in churches, some pick-up solo work, and by teaching music at Berkeley High part time. I had a nice group of private voice students as well.

But, so what? That meant nothing.  Didn’t even mean much to me.

I couldn’t break through. I didn’t know their code. No...I failed, and it was my fault.

I needed to take the rest of the day for thinking about  soothing my hand and my ego and the call I would have to make to the chorus board back in California.

Maybe I could pay them back.  I t would take a few years!  And all our prep by phone and email and DHL, expensive, was for nothing. When I showed up in France it all went down the drain. I worried about saving face more than about the money.

Boulevard Haussmann, with its rush, shoppers, noise, and death-dealing taxis, did not allow me to think about where the money for ‘installments’ would come from or anything else. I needed to breathe. The black air pollution from the buses was choking me.  I needed to get out! Rent  a car and take off for Bruges? Or a marijuana and gin fest in Amsterdam. Anything to get out of there.

But now maybe lunch, an aperitif. ...A whisky.   

...

In a cab I crossed towards the Seine to a favorite bistrot in the First, near the rue de Rivoli. The bistrot, Le Palais-Royale, full of locals and a few tourists opened invitingly under its red awnings and gilt-edged windows. I thought of it as home, a friendly place where I thought they might remember me from last time.  I guess not.  

From the doorway, greeted by the manager, I could see only one seat at a table in the far interior. As I walked back, I started to think, No, not there. Not that seat. You’re looking good, Steve, tan slacks, blue blazer, soft shirt, I said to myself. But...Look at her!

Across the small table a woman sat, poised, pleasantly looking around. She had perfectly cut rich blonde hair, blue eyes, dressed looking smart and professional in her tailored French blue linen business suit, totally elegant, and a white silk bow at her neck completed the ensemble. She wore her hair back off her face, tied in a French curl, with another small white silk bow. Her elegance spoke of education and money.

Way above my station, one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen, her lips in a bit of a pout, cheekbones perfectly accenting her large eyes.

She began sipping a kir. I straightened my blazer, pulled my collar into place, stood straight and walked confidently towards her. But! Impose myself on this beautiful woman? My hair OK? I tried to wipe the stress off my face, practiced a sweet smile.

Am I going to be embarrassed, rejected? Maybe I should go down the block to find a seat somewhere else. And, she couldn’t be alone, no way. Impossible, but I went to the table. I could be charming, I thought, I hoped, and so I took a chance.

Bonjour Mademoiselle. Comment allez-vous? So formal. May I join you? It’s the only seat and...

She looked up, studied me, showed practiced French disdain. Vous êtes américain? Quel audace! Some Nerve.

Then like a sunrise she smiled warmly, almost laughed., Of course you may. Please.

Amazed, a bit stunned by her friendliness, and her playfulness, I sat across from her trying not to stare, but her blue eyes captured mine. I introduced myself. Steven Dunning. How are you? In France adding ‘California’ could make all the difference. Yes, I’m an American, from California.

We shook hands politely. With a nonchalance born of her breeding, I am Marisol, Marisol de Froissart. I am very pleased to meet you. I am in Paris on business. You are a tourist, non?

De Froissart... A noble family? I had heard the name before.

No, not this time, I stammered, smiling weakly trying to gear up my French. Not a tourist. I’m trying to negotiate a tour for my professional chorus for next summer. Provence perhaps. I’m a singer with the San Francisco Opera also a teacher of music. I of course padded my resume a bit.

Marisol exclaimed, A musician. Opéra! A singer? Merveilleux. I am here doing some legal necessaries that can only be taken care of in Paris. Mais, I live in Lyon. Do you know it?

I smiled my most authentic smile. I like the Rhône Valley very much. Very beautiful. Lyon, I attended the Opera and the Symphony there. Yes, I’ve been to Lyon and Avignon, Orange too. I have some friends in St. Jean de la Croix, a small village? Near Pierrelatte? Vous la connaissez? You know it? They’re Parisians, some originally Americans, who decided to move to the country. One was a music student of mine, Jeffie York, so we keep in touch.

Yes, a delightful town. The old castle sits very strong and picturesque. Steven, where are you from in California? Tell me a little.

I’m from San Francisco. Have you visited? I didn’t have to ask. Of course, she had.

Ah, San Francisco. Et Napa. The wines. Oui? I adore your city. ‘Suis enchantée. I visit Napa on business, but I go back for pleasure at least once every two years.

I knew the name de Froissart. No, I would have remembered meeting her! I certainly would have remembered that. And I was a member of the Mondavi Museum in Napa. Maybe there? No, I knew the name from somewhere else.

...

The small talk continued very pleasantly over lunch. Marisol did everything to make me feel at ease. She graciously asked if we could continue our conversation in English. We smiled. I didn’t take offense. I smiled sheepishly and she grinned. No Steven, your French is very good, but maybe we will do better in English, non?

As we ate, I became very bold, and I called her by her first name. She had already used mine so I guessed it would be OK. And it became TU, ... the pronoun used by friends.

Being my delightful tenor self came easily with her. I felt like we had always been meeting here for lunch.

As she got to know me a little more, and when I felt pretty sure she thought I was a good guy, I asked, and to this day I don’t know where I got the courage, Marisol. I have an appointment at six near La République. After lunch you might be free? We could pass a little time?

She met my gaze. Looked quizzical. Smiled. Did I flatter her? She was flattered, or she pretended to be. Well, she hesitated, Thank-you. I am not sure. She thought a little more. Looked at her watch. But, yes, I can make a little time. It will be a pleasure, Steven. Thank-you. I am free. Only an hour or two. A walk perhaps? It would be pleasant this afternoon in the Luxembourg, Non?

Yes. Thank-you. The Luxembourg would be perfect. My eyes shone. An hour or two. And to spend it with this wonderful beautiful woman! Born tenor lucky. And, she picked one of the most beautiful and romantic parks in all of Paris for our brief time together.

...

Luxembourg! The fountains in full display with great plays of water shooting white and high into the afternoon sky delighted us as we walked in. Many of the Parisians drifted towards the tennis courts near the entrance to watch a match. This left us not alone but still in a more private space, fronting the Palais de Marie de Medici, across the circular pond where well-dressed kids sailed their toy yachts being very nautical under the care of their Maman. Les Gosses riches de Paris...

We sat a bit away, alone, on a bench in the deep green shade of a great plane tree. I could smell her light Vétiver parfum, a deep subtle spice.

Le Jardin de Luxembourg, the French Garden par excellence, had everything ordered, with nature made to do the logical thing, with balance and geometry. Shadows from the towering clouds in the bluest of skies moved across the face of the Renaissance palace as we sat, alone.

We chatted for a few minutes about the kids and how cute they could be at such play, and how loving their parents were to bring them to the park. Look at the mignonette in the sailor suit. Marisol smiled.

Then Marisol turned to me now with a smile tinged with a touch of playful wickedness. Alors, you say you are a singer. Now you must show me. Prove it! Right now. Une chanson, if you please, mon cher Steven.

She gestured for me to stand in front of her with a deep bowing and flourished wave as if introducing a great star. Her laugh at that moment was full of life, direct.

I thought quickly. Should I beg off? Or be brave? I needed to warm up, the jitters would be intense. My throat dried up. My breath came short. Yes, the jitters! Can I get out of it? She surprised me with her request for me to sing for her here in the park.

I chanced it. The rewards, even though only fantasies, far outweighed the risks. There were other times with other beautiful women when...

Yes. Fauré’s little masterwork, ‘Lydia’. It could be beautiful even if unaccompanied. Yes, that song could make me brave it.

The leaves and twigs crunched under my feet. The spring air smelled of lavender from the planting beds. The rocking of the children on the swings across from us would be the tempo. Marisol’s beauty, her liquid gold hair, my choice of this song all were right...the words, except for the name... all about her. They fit her perfectly and expressed my mounting feelings for her as well.

I stood. Did a funny mock contorted silly bow. That did away with my jitters, like laughing at myself often did. My eyes bright, my posture leaning into her, thinking of the perfect woman, acting with my face, posture and inflection as I had been trained to do over many years, I looked into the deep wide eyes of Marisol and began to sing in my best French accent.

‘Lydia, sur tes roses joues,

Et sur ton col frais et si blanc,

Roule étincellant l’or fluide

Que tu dénoues...’

Lydia on your cheeks like roses

And your neck fresh and so white

Comes rolling your hair of liquid gold

Sparkling as you untie it....

All delight comes from Thee.

I love you, o my love,

The light that is life is the best.

Forget the eternal tomb.

O, Lydia.

Let your kisses like the dawn shower upon me,

Like the kisses of doves.

O Lydia, give me back my life that I might die

In Thee. In Thee forever.’

The sweet classical melody filled us in the warm garden afternoon. I stood in front of her continuing the thought of her, breathing her, though the song had ended. My eyes were fixed on hers. She sat being quiet and slowly averted her eyes, didn’t move. She breathed deeply. She looked up at me. She liked it. More than that. I look back and can only say she was ‘taken’ by it. And I was ‘taken’ by her. Only three hours of being with her... and then the song, that lovely little song. I was taken.

Please, Steven. Come sit by me. Looking into my eyes with affection, she knew I had chosen ‘la mélodie’, a hundred years old, with such a poem especially for her.

Étienne, Si belle, mon cher. You are so kind, charmant, singing for me. Une chanson divine. Fauré, oui? She was kind. I knew how overly sweet the sentiment was even in French. I feared it to be too much. And I knew that she must have thought rightly that I charmed more than one woman like this. But she didn’t seem to care.

‘Lydia’ is your song, Marisol. 

It is our song, she replied. She said it as if she wanted it to be true but didn’t believe it would be. I saw a sadness in her. I saw it when I dedicated ‘Lydia’ to her.

She knew the time for her to leave had come.

Mon ami, cher Étienne. Je le regrette, I am sorry, but I must go now. Dommage. Our time together, certainly splendid! Thank you. Your song... mine? I looked at her, saying with my eyes, Do you have to? Really? Please don’t go.

She caught my disappointment, looked at me again. She took a quick breath. And for the rest of your time in France, what will you do? I told her of my plan to drive north through Belgium.

An idea crossed her face, her eyes brightened again. Maybe you will come visit me instead, Oui? Come south. To Lyon? Nous irons partout! We’ll go everywhere. She brightened even more. We will be great friends. Oui? Perhaps best friends, non? She invited me to see her again with an open womanly joy.

"Will you come to Lyon, soon? You must, before