Boxing with Hemingway

By D H. Robbins

Boxing with Hemingway

by D.H. Robbins

How much must a writer sacrifice of himself for the ghost of his genius? Quentin Flynn moved from Greenwich Village to Paris on a quest for a talent that had plagued him through his feckless, yet successful career as a pulp novelist. Through his search to find a new literary style, he

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Robbins
• Release date: Apr 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781736765418

D H. Robbins

David (D.H.) Robbins has been actively writing fiction for nearly 30 years. His first novel is a family saga centered around the 1960s, "The Tu-tone DeSoto" (2014), introduces eight teenagers growing up in Iowa during the veiled turbulence underlying The Kennedy Years (1960-63). His second novel, "Chamelea" (2017), is set in New York City in 1963-64. His third, "The Weight of Indifference" (2019), takes place in San Francisco and Vietnam during the counterculture years (1965-68). His fourth Novel, "Boxing with Hemingway" (2022), is set in Paris, Hollywood, and Vienna during the mid-1920s. His fifth novel, "2028" (2022), is an account of an America during the demise of democracy under an Autocratic regime.He has also created and produces a five-part lecture series, "The 1960's-Revisiting a Crucial Decade." Robbins has taught learning module design and has recently taught a fiction-writing course/workshop. He now facilitates a casual monthly online writers' group. Robbins was born in Darien, Connecticut, and currently lives in Simsbury, Connecticut where he lives with his wife, Kate, and Gypsy, his Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.

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Contents

Contents

Part 1 1924-1925

Chapter 1 The Vanishing Man

Chapter 2 La Fille de Milwaukee

Part 2 1926

Chapter 3 Finding Sarah

Chapter 4 The Grey Piano

Chapter 5 Giverny

Chapter 6 The Inevitability of Mademoiselle Stein

Chapter 7 L’ Apartment

Chapter 8 The Client

Chapter 9 Hugo

Chapter 10 The Chill in La Closerie des Lilas

Part 3 1927

Chapter 11 Watercolors

Chapter 12 The Mystique Behind the Mask

Chapter 13 The Curse of Desire

Chapter 14 Two Women; Two Days

Chapter 15 In Berlin

Chapter 16 Bourbon and Coffee

Chapter 17 Meeting Scott

Chapter 18 Boxing with Hemingway

Chapter 19 Common Protocols

Chapter 20 Monique

Chapter 21 Independent Women

Chapter 22 The Make-over

Chapter 23 Baptized by Hollywood-land

Chapter 24 Evidence of Quentin

Chapter 25 Fat Chance

Part 4 1928

Chapter 26 Les Deux Magots

Chapter 27 Lovers and Friends

Chapter 28 Le Rayon de Soleil

Chapter 29 Quat’z’Arts

Chapter 30 Unwound

Chapter 31 Solace and Renewal

Chapter 32 Dry Lightning

Chapter 33 The Vienna Woods

Chapter 34 DuRande’s Next Victim

Chapter 35 Monique’s Dilemma

Part 5  1929

Chapter 36 Emotional Poverty

Chapter 37 Blinded by Love

Chapter 38 The Long Farewell

Chapter 39 The Uselessness of Despair

Chapter 40 The Death of Dada

Chapter 41 A Death in Montparnasse

Part 1

1924-1925

Chapter 1

The Vanishing Man

Quentin –

New York City — September 4, 1924

First, I lost my writer’s edge, and then its center, like a swirl down the drain. I was a prostitute writing to deadline for a publisher-pimp as I conjured up my horror and suspense potboilers. Clement Klein, my editor-publisher, had no taste. His only requirement was that I turn out a book a year to make the spring list. Two would be better, and none of them needed to be any good. But this morning I had made up my mind.

From Clement’s cluttered office twelve stories up, Times Square was a dense chaos of advertising billboards that competed for attention: Maxwell House Coffee: Good to the Last Drop!; Chevrolet Motor Cars: Quality Cars at Quantity Prices; Arrow Shirt Collars:Follow the Arrow and You Follow The Style; Camel Cigarettes: I’d Walk a Mile for a Camel; The Unchastened Woman an upcoming movie starring Theda Bara, looming here in slatternly repose. In four hours, the billboards would light up to lend Times Square some of its legendary glitter.

For Pete’s sake, Quent! Paris? Clement groused.

Yeah. Paris, I told him.

You can't do this to us, dammit! he sulked, and then took a pull from the leather-bound hip flask he kept filled with Four Roses Bourbon. He offered me a sip. You have a contract.

I waved his offer away. I can afford to break it.

I can’t believe you’re serious about doing this all of a sudden. Why don't you go home, take a nap, and forget you ever came up with this cockamamie scheme. He lit a cigar and made a scene about shaking out the match. Maybe go to the tropics for a week to air out.

I glanced at the feeble sway of the potted palm in a darkened corner of his office. Its scraggly fronds caught the swells of breeze from the squeaky, rotating fan on his desk. I thought his idea was good — maybe I should take a trip to the Caribbean — on my way to France. Anyway, he went on, about your contract. We can sue.

Sure, go ahead.

You’re not going to buy your way out of this, friend. Not this time, not after your next book has already been announced.

I will finish it on the way over and send the script back with the ship’s return trip. You’ll have it in plenty of time to hack it up anyway you want, I told him, then lapsed into thought. I don't care. I was surprised at how much it hurt to admit that.

Paris. For God’s sake, Quent. Why Paris? You don't even speak French.

I don't need to. I reasoned I could communicate to those around me through my art. And I heard that they were mostly Americans and Brits over there, anyway. I just need to get away from all this clutter and these…expectations.

"You mean never write another horror story? You’ll lose your followers. Hell, we’ll lose your followers. They love you."

All four of them. They’ll get over it.

Damn you, Quent! Where are you gonna settle in Paris, before it drives you crazy enough to return here?

I gazed out the window at here. There was a time when I thought this city was mine. Since the end of the war, though, New York had sped up. I looked out and down at Broadway. The city’s sounds: a cacophony of bleating klaxons; clanging and grinding of construction machinery, and the clatter of elevated and subterranean trains rose from the street through the open office window. The warm gusts also carried the faint sting of exhaust fumes to add to the left-over redolence of cigars and yesterday's tuna and onion sandwich permeating the close air of Clement’s office. The black roofs and yellow hoods of the taxicabs knotted the congestions of traffic wending its way around some street trolleys.

I squinted at the scene as though trying to filter it out. Even the allure of Greenwich Village had become artificial. The tourists from uptown had found their way down to the Brevoort Hotel Café on 8th Street, to get drunk and talk of art well past midnight. That place used to be a shrine of pompous debauchery for us creatives. Now, none of it was any good anymore.

I'm going to Montparnasse.

Among the starving artists and all that literary pretentiousness eking out a living there? I fanned away his cigar smoke, which only stirred up the heat. Now I know you're ribbing me, Quent. Phew! You had me going there for a minute. He took another swig.

I’m not kidding, Clement.

"But all the way to Paris? My God, man, if it’s pretentiousness you want all you have to do is go a few blocks north to midtown. There you can drink away with those self-important literary bullies from The New Yorker who sit around in the Oak Room of the Algonquin criticizing other writers."

Too close to home, I decisively told him. I’m going to Paris, and that’s all there is to it.

Aren't we paying you enough?

It isn’t about the money. You know that.

Oh, right. It never was about the money with you. Look, just forget about going, okay? There can be only one Scott Fitzgerald in this business. Until he drinks himself to death.

…and only one Maxwell Perkins, I retorted.

His expression fell into dismay. At least I brought you out of the pulps and into a known publishing company. One that gives your work the respect it deserves.

Sorry, Clement. I didn’t mean that. You are a good editor.

He twiddled his pen as he gazed thoughtfully at it to avoid looking at me. I can't imagine you living in some cold-water garret over in God-knows-where.

Neither can I. So, I’m selling my place on Christopher Street. I’ve bought a big farmhouse on fourteen acres in Giverny.

"Of course you have. Where the hell is Giverny?"

It’s in the nicer outskirts of Paris.

He looked sadly at the pen, then put it down. Of course it is. He jabbed out his half-smoked cigar in the over-stuffed ashtray. You know what, Quent? I don't think you’re starved enough to pursue the freedom you need to endure as a literary talent among all those emaciated bohemians.

I need this, Clement.

He raised his gaze to bore into me. ‘Need’ is often not practical. What about Mikey? Are you going to put him in an orphanage or something before you leave on this solitary quest of yours?

You haven't seen Michael since he was six. He’s now eighteen.

Same kid.

He’s coming with me.

What about Evelyn? Maybe she’ll have a change of heart and come back to you.

The thought of Evelyn having played me for a fool sent a torrent of shivers down my back. She would never come back to me any more than she would leave that stockbroker she married so suddenly two months before. She had traded away her free spirit for the safety of a practical life. And to think I came that close to branding her as Mrs. Quentin-Flynn-Number-Three.

I don’t want her to come back.

Clement shook his head in resignation. You're ruining everything for yourself, Quent.

We’ll see.

I noticed his eyes had begun to glisten over. Don’t forget to write.

Oh, I won’t, Clement. And this will be a fresh start in a new place. I’ll be writing something new. Something different. Maybe even something good

Well, Quent, I meant don’t forget to write what you owe me.

It will be done. I’m calling it ‘The Vanishing Man’.

That’s appropriate, he said. So, you’ve already made your reservations? Have I, and your career here, become just footnotes?

"Of course not, Clement. You may be many things, but never a footnote. Anyway, I plan on booking passage tomorrow on the Ile de France. I'll send my manuscript back on its return trip, like I said."

I’m holding you to your book, mister. We’ll be firming up our Christmas list in a month. Your reader-fans are depending on you.

Correct, Clement, that they are. All three of them.

I thought there were four.

While we were conversing, we lost one.

Yeah, he muttered dourly. Me.

I was meaning myself, I said. But then again, I realized I never was a fan.

Chapter 2

La Fille de Milwaukee

Sarah—

Montparnasse, Paris —October 15, 1924

Sarah Feldman shifted her deceptively fragile body in the café chair at a sidewalk table of Le Café Rotonde. She sipped the remains of a concoction of Pernod laced with creme-de-menthe, then shuddered as the slice of a chill intruded upon the fickle October warmth. She looked toward the intersection of the Boulevards du Montparnasse and Raspail.

The traffic was sparser than yesterday afternoon when she had first arrived in Montparnasse. A few motorcars, mostly little Renaults and Citroens, weaving around the chunky taxicabs, passed by through the glisten of newly fallen rain. She watched two horse-drawn wagons totter along, laden with produce soon to be sold from the street. She closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet fragrances of the passing produce mingling with the soft odor of horse manure. For a moment she lolled her head back to take in the rare morning sunlight breaking through the dissolving cloak of Parisian drizzle and fog. Then the ah-WOOO-ga! of a nearby klaxon jarred her back into the moment.

She yawned as she fixed a cigarette into her long holder and lit up, unaware that the couture of Paris dictated that a woman should never smoke in public view outside the bars and cafes. But Sarah had just arrived from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, so who was she to care?

The waiter approached her with purpose, and she lifted a perplexed glance at him. "Je vais bien, merci. Je n’ai besoin de rien," she said.

He cringed at her Americanized butchering of his native tongue. I understand you do not need anything, mademoiselle, but I am here to remind mademoiselle that she is smoking a cigarette.

Oh. She reached for her packet of Lucky Strikes. Would you like one?

"Absolument non, merci! But in France women must not smoke in public. You may do so only indoors."

She slipped a twisted expression back at him. But I don’t want to go indoors. It’s too nice a day.

"Oui, that is for certain, the waiter agreed, but you are not wearing a hat."

"As I said, it’s a sunny and warm morning, so I don’t want to wear a hat. Mais merci, garçon, for your concern."

A woman outdoors in Paris must always wear a hat.

You are being ridiculous, monsieur! she flared back at him. Some patrons at adjoining tables began to take notice. "I will wear a hat when and where I choose. And today I choose not to! C’est conversation est terminee! She rolled the stem of her empty glass between her thumb and forefinger. Now, I guess I shall have another, after all. Will you please bring me another Pernod with a dribble of creme-de-menthe?"

The waiter hardened his expression. "Non, mademoiselle. I will not!"

Oh, bollocks, mate! said a Brit from the next table. Bring the girl her drink, and whilst you're at it, I’ll have a Gilbey’s and tonic, no ice.

The Maitre d’ showed up stiffly behind the waiter. "Est le soir bien, ici?"

"Cette femme a refuse de porter in chapeau porter, et elle fume une cigarette," the waiter told him.

The Maître d’ leveled a fierce look down at Sarah. Mademoiselle, you must not smoke out here. And it is custom in Paris for a woman to wear a hat!

Hooray for you, missy! said a fellow American from a nearby table, as he stood to come to her aid.

It is customary. All women must follow French custom when in Paris, the waiter told them.

The Brit stood to join the others. Sarah noticed the smudges of paint on his fingers and the rims of his nails. He must have been an artist like her. That’s the issue with you infernal Frenchies. Too many bloody customs!

Yeah, said another American who had joined them. It’s like y’all livin’ in th’ eighteenth century, still. He, too, had paint-smudged hands, and some green paint blots on the frayed collar of his grey shirt.

Sarah, emboldened by those around her, squinted a hard gaze at the Maître d’ as she stood. If I can’t smoke and have to wear a goddamned hat when I don’t want to, then I’ll take my business elsewhere.

Then, you are all invited to leave, the Maitre d’ fumed.

And leave we shall! said a woman who had been sitting with the Brit, as she stood and doffed her own hat.

Come along, mates, said the Brit painter. Let's go to that place across the street. Who’s with us?"

I am, said the American painter. Let us vacate these damned premises!

Another Britisher joined the fray and herded the group of ten across the Boulevard du Montparnasse toward the sparsely-populated Le Dome Café.

__________________________________________________

Before she sat at one of Le Dome’s outdoor tables, Sarah summoned a waiter. "Excusez-moi, monsieur. Est-ce que ca va si je fume et que je ne porte pas de chapeau, ici?" she asked slowly, trying not to botch her pronunciation.

He must have heard the American twist on her French accent. Hell, lady, I don’t give a damn. Smoke away.

Her lips blossomed into a feline smile. You’re an American!

He nodded and winked. Lowell, Mass.

She turned to the others gathering around her. Six of the eleven of them were already soused, and it wasn’t yet noon. Hey, all! It’s okay. He’s American! She took a seat, and the rest followed her lead at surrounding tables. Two of them joined Sarah at her table: a gaunt, swarthy Latin, and his friend, a young boy-woman with bobbed hair. She was dressed as a man in a dapper blue business suit. A blue fedora cast her diminutive features in shadow.

Sarah settled in her seat as she listened to Stairway to Paradise trickling out from the Victrola in the shadows of the bar. Now, that’s better, she told her tablemates, and then ordered her Pernod and creme de menthe concoction. She slipped a cigarette into her holder and lit it.

You are fascinating to me, said the Latin, while his frail boy-woman friend sat beside him, still and silent as a prop.

And you are who? Sarah asked.

I am Carlo, from Milan. I design graphic posters. And you are whom?

Who. I’m Sarah from Milwaukee. I’m a painter.

Carlo’s smile conveyed a warmth of understanding. Is not everybody around here? Are you any good at your art?

She returned his smile without quite matching its authenticity. The best one I know. And what you do, are you any good at it?

I hope so. It appears that I and Cassandre are the two best graphic designers in Paris at this time. His friend nodded in agreement.

The waiter placed Sarah’s drink before her, along with Carlo’s cognac and his friend’s rosé wine. And who are you? Sarah asked her. Carlo’s friend remained silent as she puffed out her lips in a semblance of a smile.

Anton-Marie does not speak much, Carlo told her. She functions as my muse and my djinni.

Sarah winked at him. Your own genie. How lucky for you.

He looked at Anton-Marie. Yes. I do not know what I would do without her. Anton-Marie placed her hand on his knee. A gentle gesture. "And you, mademoiselle. You must have a muse of some kind.

She lowered her eyes into a sad, faraway look. I did. But he left me in the middle of the night a couple of months ago. I haven’t seen him since, which is why you find me in Paris. She directed her gaze at Carlo. And please call me Sarah, and not ‘mademoiselle.’

Sarah, he echoed.

Yeah. Sarah. That’s me.

Very good, Sarah. And while you are in Paris, I will serve as your muse until you find a more suitable one.

She grinned at him. You’ll do fine, Carlo.

Part 2

1926

Chapter 3

Finding Sarah

Quentin –

Montparnasse — March 28, 1926

Clement wasted no time publishing The Vanishing Man, but my dubious reputation as a pulp novelist arrived in Montparnasse before I did. Once, in Le Closure de Lilas, a bistro where writers worked as they sipped their café au laits, I noticed someone reading The Vanishing Man, while making faces at the pages. He then glanced over at me, and I quickly turned away. He had looked vaguely familiar, but then, in Montparnasse everyone looked familiar. And vague.

Soon after that, I changed my pen name to Q. M. Flynn. A pocket of French authors at Le Parnasse had taken to calling me Quem, most likely because the Q.M. had offered a pronunciation challenge. I liked that and changed my nom de plume again to Quem Flynn. I had an idea that someday I might just shorten it to Quem.

Since our arrival, my son Michael had taken his musical talent to The Ginger Cat American Café, an intimate club. There, paid a pittance for playing back-up piano, he nurtured his skill and even performed some of his own arrangements. He soon became known in a few select circles — mainly homosexual ones.

Then came that March afternoon, as I sat trying to nurse another bourbon at Le Dome, when I first noticed a woman sitting alone a few tables away, sipping a green-colored Pernod. She sported a tousled, black page-boy cowl of a bob with straight-cut bangs that cupped her cherubic face. She took a lazy drag from a cigarette stuck in her long ivory holder. Her expression conveyed a certain sadness, hidden behind a tight-lipped attempt at pride.

I saw her again a few weeks later sitting in a booth at Le Select American Bar, engaged in conversation with another patron. A third, a frail woman wearing men’s clothes and an oversize fedora slouched in the bench across from them. I decided I would walk past them and toward the bar on the pretense of ordering another drink. Some music came from the little stage off in a corner. It was I’ll See You in My Dreams, though it was hard to make out over the surrounding din. Finally, with my courage up, I made my approach.

"Bonsoir. Comment-allez vous, ce soir?" I said as I stopped, then faltered in the throes of an awkward moment: I just stood there expecting something else to happen.

"Can I help you, monsieur?" The woman who had captured my attention finally asked. Her voice sounded dry; hardened from smoking.

"Ah! Vous et Americain."

Yeah. And your French stinks worse than mine used to.

I smiled. Well, I’m just learning.

Sit and join us, her conversation partner said in an Italian accent.

My heart sank when she told him: It’s okay, Carlo. He was just passing by. She looked softly at me. "N’est pas, monsieur Americain?"

I felt defeated to my core. "Uh, oui."

Nonsense! the one she referred to as Carlo said. Here. Sit and drink with us.

I glanced at the sardonic woman as though seeking her approval. She shrugged her shoulders. What the hell? Sure. Carlo’s buying tonight. It's his party.

I edged my way into the empty spot next to the frail, silent one. A celebration? I asked Carlo.

Oh, yes, he said. I just got a full year’s work from Le Bon Marché.

Congratulations. Who is he?

She tightened her expression as she cast me a dry look. "It. Le Bon Marché is the finest department store in Paris. You really are just off the boat, aren't you?"

I tried to rationalize what it was about me she pretended not to like. Uh, I don't get into Paris much. Just here to Montparnasse.

Okay, she said. "Well, Montparnasse is in Paris, so, yes, you are in Paris. She patted a stray fall from her bob into place. So, who are you? You’re certainly not dressed like a starving artist. Are you an agent, or something?"

No, thank you. I’m a novelist.

Be nice, Carlo warned her. Please excuse our friend, here. She is having a bad day.

Her reserved smile seemed cruel, and her glance darkened. I’m the resident pessimist. I always have a bad day. My name is Sarah, by the way. This one sitting next to me is Carlo, and his silent friend next to you is Anton-Marie, his muse. So, now, what’s your name?

Q. M. Flynn. Also known by a few around here as ‘Quem’.

Sarah thought for a moment, then came to an awareness. You’re Quentin Flynn, the novelist?

Unmasked, I cast my eyes downward. You know my work?

"Well, yeah, I know of it, I guess. I recognize you from an author picture I saw. Word’s gotten out that you’re here, and your Vanishing Man is making the rounds. So, I guess you’ve not really vanished, after all." She was slurring her words. It was approaching midnight; that hour when everybody still awake in the Fourteenth Arrondissement was on their way to being drunk and would leave them staggering around the streets until dawn.

Would I know this book? Carlo asked.

Probably not, I told him.

A waiter appeared at our table to save me from the conversation. Carlo ordered the round.

Sarah glared at me with a one-eyed squint. One of my writer friends once told me about your family. Don’t you own half of Brooklyn, or something?

Well, maybe a quarter of it, I said. It wasn’t that far from the truth. But that was seventy years ago, when my grandfather had a lot of farmland in Flatbush, when it was easy and cheap to own. He just had the good sense to hold on to it. How do you know that? Are you from Brooklyn? How come you know so much about my past life?

Word of wealth travels fast around Montparnasse. Some of us want to know who to tap for a loan we have no intention of paying back. Not me, though. Anyway, just because you own Brooklyn…

"I don’t own it," I said.

…doesn't mean the world ends there. The news from New York sometimes makes it out to Milwaukee where I’m from. Or was. Now I’m from here. She inhaled languidly through her cigarette holder.

Brooklyn? In New York City? Carlo asked. Your family owns all that?

Only a small piece of it.

Sarah’s lips turned up in a half-smile. You see that, Quentin? Now your family secret is out and has spread as far as Milan. Wasn’t that easy?

I'm sorry, I said. Can we just talk about Montparnasse instead of Brooklyn?

Touchy subject, hunh?

I was becoming annoyed by her arrogance. No. Just a tiresome one.

Are you going to take me to dinner tomorrow, Quentin? she asked.

Why? Because you think I’m rich?

No, Quentin. Because I think, like me, you’re an artist in search of yourself. And I’m getting just drunk enough to ask you.

Chapter 4

The Grey Piano

Quentin –

Montparnasse — April 8

Except for an over-sized red cloche-hat and sequined-heeled shoes, one of the waitresses was completely naked as she meandered through the smokey maze of the crowded night club. She looked more emaciated than pretty. The muted clamor of voices over the clinking of glasses echoed throughout the room. The effervescence was as much in place here as the mauve, silk-flocked wallpaper. Cigarette, cigar, and marijuana smoke hovered throughout. Such was the draw of The Ginger Cat American Club.

Michael sat at the grey piano on the raised circular stage in the center of the room and played Five-Foot-Two, Eyes of Blue. He was accompanied by a combo of two trumpets, a clarinet, a trombone and a banjo and the raucous singing of the drunks clustered around his piano. The chanky-chank of Dixieland music was spiked by a sizzling tempo from the snare-drums and hi-hat cymbals somewhere off in the gloom behind them. Michael’s piano-playing made the tune recognizable.

That was my son, already niched into his crowd in Montparnasse. I was a little jealous over his small sphere of fame. I’d been drinking, and sulking, more since realizing I hadn’t written a bloody word since I’d arrived in Montparnasse.

I glanced over at Sarah, who seemed distracted. I watched her stick a cigarette into her holder. That’s an interesting wand you’ve got there.

This? She held it out to examine it as if for the first time. Yeah, I guess it is.

Tell me how you met Carlo and Marie-Anton. And what is it about her? She seems so…mute.

Later, Quentin. She drew her lips smug. You know? ’Quentin’ — that’s an odd sort of name even for a poor little rich boy. Like ‘Fauntleroy’. Did your parents not like you, or something?

Worse than that. They didn’t know I existed.

She shook her head. Like I said: ‘poor little rich boy’.

She summoned the naked waitress to order another round. The waitress’s little tits shimmied to her practiced giggle as she took our order. She then disappeared toward the bar, with my gaze following her. The tight globes of her small buttocks jittered with her little steps.

Interesting view, there, Quentin?

I jolted my attention back to Sarah. Ugh. Sorry, Sarah. You know. Men are....

"Oh, yes, indeed. I do know how men are, Quentin."

I settled back into our conversation. You can call me, ‘Quem’. Most of my friends call me that.

Ah, I am your friend, now, is it? She lit her cigarette and took a long inhale. And yet we’ve barely met. She exhaled a silky stream which floated up into the darkened void toward the tin ceiling to mingle with the hundred years of secret memories it held.

I tried harder to touch her willingness to like me. We aren’t friends?

She targeted me in her sights with a glare. Okay. We can be friends, she decided. But you might regret it. Okay, then, I shall call you ‘Quem’. I heard that’s what they're all calling you, anyway, around here.

They?

Some of the literati rabble of Montparnasse.

"Oh, them, I said. A tray of drinks crashed to the floor, and the topless waitress who had been carrying it slapped a patron. So. It’s just another night at The Ginger Cat."

How did you ever find this place? I’ve been in the Fourteenth for over three years, and never knew it existed. I find its aura… she paused to search for the right word, beguiling.

My son works here. That’s him playing the piano.

She squinted at the baby grand among the glittering jam of instruments surrounding it. Those around the piano now blustered along with Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby! in a mangled cacophony of intonations and volumes A beautiful Negro man sitting on the bench close to Michael cast him furtive glances. That’s your son? he looks old enough to be your…I don’t know. She bore another suspicious gaze into me. "How old are you?"

I despised that question. Forty-two. I was married once — well, twice, but the second one was too short to count. I was drunk when it all happened.

Are you still...?

Drunk? Or married? Not yet, and not now, but twice was enough. I thought about how close I'd come to marrying Evelyn until she found her stockbroker — a total opposite of myself. He was safe, she had told me in her parting sentence. Her going left me with the belief I might have actually loved her Maybe that's why I’m here.

Um. Sarah sipped her green Pernod. Me too. Funny how people like us escape from our harsh realities in America by floating across the Atlantic to this Bohemian amusement park.

You?

Me, what?

How old are you? For an odd second, I caught myself bracing for her answer.

Oh. I’m twenty-six. Last month. She stared longingly at the smoke drifting up from her cigarette. Her lips eased into a solemn smile. Born with the century.

I felt a tingle of relief. She had looked much younger. A belated happy birthday to you.

Why, thank you, daddy. Anyway, I am here because someone punched my heart out. I couldn’t spend one more day in the American Heartland, or at least within five-hundred miles of that damned galoot. Her tone belied the truth; it sounded as though she still missed whoever she had left. Anyway, I came here to get away from all that, then ended up starting this whole thing in Montparnasse. She held out the glittering holder and stared at her cigarette. All because someone wouldn’t let me smoke a cigarette.

Really? How did that happen?

Two of my Jack Daniels’s and one of her Pernod concoctions later, she finished telling the story of how she had liberated the avant-garde spirit which now defined Montparnasse. …so, for a while, the originals here thought of me as something of a legend. Now that Montparnasse is starting to become an artist’s tourist attraction, nobody remembers, and that’s okay with me.

I knew she had to be