Suzanne

"I'm looking at the easel, wanting to start. You have gone to the corner shop for espresso and fresh croissant to bring back. I am trying to concentrate, but there is pain in my lower belly that means my egg is releasing. Last night, we had especially wild sex and I am still full of your hot spunk..."

I pressed down on the hand cupping her breast. "You could go to your studio this minute and paint that. All in tones of gray. 'Suzanne in Paris, Conceiving Andrew's Child.' "

She turned into me, crying softly and burying her head in my shoulder. "We have to go."

* * *

One of the themes in my novel was the struggle between modernity and history. The hero's close friend and college roommate is a junior architecture professor at Penn, who got embroiled in that city's historic preservation battles.

Charles de Gaulle airport, all tubes and moving walkways and labyrinths, seemed a failed exercise in modernity. Too much art married to technology, and too little practicality. Despite this, we found our way to the train and headed into the city. There were puffy clouds threatening rain later, but the sun and shadow on the city spires and monuments was marvelous.

We were sitting side by side in a half full RER traincar. Suzanne nudged me and whispered, "Do not look right now, but across the way is the French brassiere you are going to buy me."

Across from us was a smart looking woman about Suzanne's age, with a five or six year old boy who was sitting quietly at her side, which an American kid his age certainly would not have been doing. I nodded at the boy and smiled at her. Suzanne helped with a "Bon garcon."

The mother smiled back and gave us a quiet "Merci." She was trim and had firm breasts. The kind a child bearing mother would own. The bra under her blouse was apparently soft and thin, cradling her breasts, not pushing them up and out. The nipples made their presence known with a nice dimple in the surface of the blouse. I imagined Suzanne in her place, with the French brassiere and our little boy. My hand stole to hers and pressed us together.

"What are we going to do about my butchering the language?"

"When we are out, Madam will deal with the problem. You will remain discreetly silent."

The woman across the aisle was laughing and Suzanne slipped over to ask directions, which were provided in excellent English. Her name was Simone and she made a point of glancing at me and whispering, "He does not look like a butcher?" which reduced them to a giggling fit.

The conversation included reference to Suzanne's bra problem, which widened Simone's eyes as she looked at her chest and then at me and blushed. Followed by scribbling, which I assumed was the address of the fancy store where my supply of Euros would decline rapidly.

We were arriving at the station when a final whisper brought an exclamation, "Oui! Amoureux de Paris!"

Simone and young Henri guided us out to the street and pointed. Suzanne took my hand, laughing. I felt supremely foolish. Fifteen minutes inside France and the glamorous women had left me in the dust.

"Simone says it is almost a mile to the apartment. Shall we walk?"

The walking was terrific. "What was that Paris is for Lovers bit?"

"I told her we were here so you could get me pregnant."

"Did I pass inspection?"

"Oui."

"Tomorrow, we will shop. Not just for me. I have the names of two men's stores that Simone says will dress you like a local. I think your name in Paris should be Marc. Doesn't that sound masculine and moody?"

I kissed the back of her hand and said, "By the end of the day tomorrow, we will be invading the trust fund."

"Oui."

She gave me a sideways look and said in French, "Marc, it is for our child to be."

"Il y aura punition."

Her eyes stared. "Where did you get that?"

"This is a city of S&M delights. I have been reading up."

"I suppose you are going to poke around and find a sex shop?"

"Of course, the better to string you up."

She nudged me with her hip, "Go right ahead. I will inquire about a sharp stiletto."

We were puffing up a hill as we arrived at the address of the apartment Suzanne had rented. She rang the bell next to the little sign for the building manager and the lock buzzed.

Inside in a narrow hall was a fiftyish woman with a smile. "Bienvenue."

I lost track of the rapid conversation, but followed them up three flights of stairs. Apparently, there was the world's smallest elevator in the corner at the entrance, but it was unreliable and prone to stopping between floors for long periods.

Amazingly, the room was on the top floor and did have windows on the north side. The paint was more beige than gray, but neutral all the same. Suzanne couldn't stop smiling. The landlady handed her some papers and said to stop in if we needed anything.

Suzanne knocked me into the middle of the bed and bounced hard on my chest. "We are here! It is perfect! Andrew! I can't believe it."

She kissed me and beat on me, letting off steam. "Oh, this is such a good idea!"

She straddled my hips and wiggled her bottom on the place where I was getting hard. "All because you used that French word for knocking me up."

"No eggs for a while?"

"No. I stopped taking my pills a week ago. Maybe two weeks before your swimmers can find anything. Maybe longer."

I pulled her tight and said, "Are you ok with this? We don't have to..."

The kiss was swift and hard. "We are going to fuck like bunnies. If it works, fine. If it doesn't, we will start over when we get home."

She wiggled on me. "Are we...?"

"No. Too much exploring to do, especially on a day like this. Let's clean up and go walking again."

We strolled hand in hand downhill to the Place Pigalle station of the Metro, which shortly let us out on the Left Bank, where we could amble along the Seine, soaking up Paris like other tourists. The bulk of the Musee d'Orsay was in front of us, a railroad station converted into a cathedral of art as only the French could do.

"It really is romantic, Andrew." She leaned against me.

"I thought it was Marc?"

In the middle of the promenade, she shamelessly turned into me with a hot, wet kiss. "Yes, Marc, it is always you in my dreams."

We stood in the sun on the riverbank, the Louvre in the distance on the other side, thinking about art and being alive on a summer day in the midst of faded empire. Suzanne whispered, "Just hold your lover like this forever..."

I had deliberately left my guide at the apartment, not wanting to be noticed as a clueless American any more than I already was. But Suzanne had her small shopping guide and said, "We have to cross the river and find the Rue de Rivoli shops."

She looked at me. "You promised." Her grip on my hand was firm, guiding us to the Pont Royal bridge and across the Tuileries gardens. I was the one who had started the talk about French lingerie, but she now had the fever, and pointed to the guide, where three stores were described, each prefaced by three dollar signs. She pointed to one and said, "This is the one Simone mentioned."

She saw me flinching and said, "Just one fancy set. Just one. I have to go home and lord it over Mom."

She had on a wonderful lavender dress with flowers. Just the thing for a fancy lingerie shop. I pinched her bottom and said, "Oui, une lingerie."

She frowned. "You can't be Marc until we work on that accent."

"I can go with you and say nothing. Or I can go across the boulevard and sit on that sunny bench."

"You will make me nervous in the shop. Go sit." She laughed.

I was dozing when a sweet voice said, "Marc, dear, they say my card has exceeded its limit, even though I was very careful. The bill was only eight hundred euros."

I jerked awake to find her laughing wildly. She sat sideways on my lap and applied a kiss.

"Scared you, didn't I?" She held a receipt in front of my face which totaled ninety-eight euros.

"She was very nice. Said I needed one set for parties, and one for everyday. See, I am your bargain lover!"

She needed another kiss. I said, "I rather like the set you wear for painting. There doesn't seem to be anything covering your skin at all..."

She was already in the spirit of Paris, kissing my face, pulling my hair, and paying no attention to anyone around us. I tried to think of something to do that wasn't crude and boorish.

"You are fading, Andrew. The book says we must not nap the first day. We have to walk in the sunshine to reset our body clocks."

"I know a way of resetting your clock that does not involve sunshine..."

She slapped my face lightly. "Andrew! You will never get to Marc until you are able to woo me in French. You must practice. I will send you to the coffeeshop while I paint. I'm sure the pretty young waitress will be alarmed by your first attempts. If you are lucky, she will help."

We moved slowly through the gardens toward the Place de la Concorde. My attention was on the Arc de Triomphe in the distance when she shouted, "Andrew! Behind you!"

As I turned, a dark shadow lunged for the lingerie bag in my hand, but she had warned me in time and he tripped over my foot, going down hard and missing the bag. Others had seen and whistles sounded.

Suzanne was mad and kicking the thief, who curled on the path. I got a knee in his back as a policeman arrived with handcuffs. After some rapid French, he was led away, uttering what must have been a string of oaths.

Suzanne pressed herself to me, the precious bag between us. "You saved my undies! How noble!"

"You kicked him pretty hard. You mean to model those for me, don't you, brave one?"

"Darn right. Let's go back before any more thugs think two Americans are an easy mark."

A stop at a corner cafe a block from the apartment turned into lunch. The hard apple cider was crisp and cold. The flakey croissant sandwich melted in my mouth. The tiny chocolate sweet that the waitress brought with the check was perfect. I looked at the twenty euro total and Suzanne whispered, "No tip. That's just on there for tourists."

I sat on the squeeky bed and watched the lavender dress come off, along with the travel underwear. Her look was dark and bold. I gestured her forward to me. She shook her head, long hair flying, and flexed her hips. I rose slowly and she backed carefully, still shaking her head. I lunged and she dodged, unsuccessfully.

She squirmed in my arms, rolling us over and muttering sarcastic oaths in French. I still had my clothes on and had a sudden thought. Sitting up, I forced her over my knees where the curvy behind could be attacked.

"If we are trying to stay awake, let's ask the landlady if there is an artist supply place nearby."

"I'm not getting molested just this minute?"

"I have to get my own supplies... From the sex shop."

She straddled my legs and kissed me hard. "Smell that? I need to use the bidet, like a proper French woman."

I stood in the doorway, watching as she squatted over the fixture. "It's like sitting on a bubbler!"

"I want to see the everyday underwear."

She handed me a towel and a small squirt bottle of eau de toilet, which had mysteriously appeared in the lingerie sack.

"If I am going to cohabit with a handsome man who intends to make me enceinte, certain places must incite the male!"

Back in the lavender dress, she looked and smelled wonderful. Maybe we could postpone the enceinte business.

The woman downstairs had a cousin who ran an art shop, which was three blocks away. Suzanne's hand was on my neck, alternately pulling my hair and massaging my muscles.

"I could have done a semester here in college. I'm glad I didn't. Better to have someone to enjoy it with."

"Even if his French is atrocious and his hands are rude?"

She stopped me for a kiss, right on the sidewalk. Parisians brushed by as she whispered, "Yes, even after that."

The cousin looked to be in his Eighties, and the shop had the look and smell of a place that might have sold brushes and paint to Impressionists. Suzanne carried on a lively conversation with the shopkeeper. A bigger and bigger pile rose next to the cash register.

She turned to me, "He says you need to go in the back to help with the easel. I'm going to be renting it."

She added, "He doesn't take credit cards but says we can give him as much cash today as we have, and the rest tomorrow after we find an ATM."

As we made our way back up the incline of the street, there was no mistaking what was happening. The artist was leading, with a broad smile and two heavy bags. The lackey was behind, with a large easel over his shoulder. Suzanne was getting bright remarks from passersby. I was getting sympathetic looks and a few laughs.

We passed a market and I thought to come back for supplies for a light supper. The journey up the stairs in our building was stumbling and punctuated by my oaths as parts of the easel snagged in parts of the stairs.

My suggestion about a quick trip back to the market resulted in a list of items in French. The artist said she needed time to set up, so I should not hurry.

The store was a strange mix of international brands in their European packaging, and what must be standard items, many unlabelled, from French sources. I found everything and took a chance on a twenty Euro bottle of chablis. I held it out to the woman at counter with raised eyebrows. She shook her head, returned it to the shelf, and handed me a dry Reisling for ten Euros more. "Bon vin," she declared, looking at my collection of cheeses.

When I entered what had now become an atelier, the artist was in her smock, having already mounted a twenty-four inch canvas that was getting its white base coat at this very moment.

I handed her a glass of the crisp wine and asked, "The ten by twenty in Courbet style is next week?"

I got a quick kiss in passing as she unpacked more paint. "Marc, I'm growing attached to you. We may have a future."

I lay on the bed, laughing quietly and knowing there would have to be another trip to the market for more wine. I was certain she was naked under the smock, and if I stared long and hard, she would be vexed and chase me out. I fixed two crackers with perfect Brie and took one to her. She set it close to the easel and continued her work.

Mumbling I would be back shortly, I left quietly and told the woman in the store, pointing at the wine shelf, "Tres bien." I held up three fingers. The labels on the new bottles were entirely mysterious, but she was now my sommelier, and I paid with a smile.

When I returned, Suzanne had her sketch book open, and was working with the pencils I had given her. Quick strokes were outlining the street scene as it was when we made our way to the art store. I pretended to be a mouse, not even cracking a cracker. From time to time, she would glance my way, her concentration obvious. I tried to imagine the next few days. If she was really captured by art in Paris, I needed to be very scarce around the studio.

I exited silently once more and crept down to the landlady's door. She gave me a smile and asked how she could help. In my halting French, I explained that Madam needed complete privacy when she was painting, and was there another room, perhaps, that I could use to do my own writing during the day?"

Taking a key off the wall, she led me outside and down a flight of stairs from the street level. Inside was a small room, with various stored items of furniture. She said what sounded like, "Try it tomorrow and see if it will do," and handed me the key. On the way out, she pointed down the street and said, "Cafe ecrevain." I wondered if an American with a laptop would be summarily thrown out, and decided to find out in the morning.

By the next day, the passion of our arrival had flown out the window. Suzanne was hardly awake when her warm body next to me went tense. She gazed across the room at her efforts and muttered to herself. I was already dismissed.

Accompanying males have some marginal uses, however. Madam's servant returned in a few minutes with petit dejeuner, otherwise known as continental breakfast. She sat next to me on the bed, munching happily and saying, "Andrew, I can't thank you enough for getting us here and pushing me to start painting."

"The landlady has given me a storeroom to write in during the day. You need solitude for the art to come forth."

"Oh, my art is going to come forth. I certainly hope so. Where is this room?"

"Just down from the street entrance. There is only the one door. If I am not there, she pointed me to a writer's cafe down the street. If you need anything, quickest would be to summon me by phone." I tickled her side.

She kissed me and said, "I am back in art class, and the instructor is telling us about setting the mood for art. I don't remember him saying, 'Go to Paris and lock yourself in an attic,' but look at me!"

"This was the guy who got fired for pinching one too many bottoms?"

She laughed and said, "Yes, and go away now...without pinching my bottom. You can have lots more than that later."

Unexpectedly, I did. At five, she showed up at my room in a nice dress and said, "Take me for a drink." Her eyes crinkled in a smile and I knew progress had been made.

I ordered champagne, hoping we were back to lovers routine. She smiled and said, "I want you. That was not nice last night. When I misbehave, you must make my derriere red!"

"Oui, madam." I gave her my dark and devilish look.

We were in a bistro, where the menu had what we would call appetizers. Suzanne held my hand and said, "Neither of us had lunch, did we?" I shook my head.

"Let's have some of these and then get more food from the market. There is a hotplate in the room. We will be awake in the night anyway."

"We are not staying in a permanent drunk like famous American expats?"

"No. If you behave, I will tell you a secret."

I kissed her hand like a true Frenchman. "I am perfectly behaved."

"I am going to do several excellent paintings of Paris scenes. You are going to make me pregnant, and when we get home, they will be a down payment on a house for our babies."

"My god. I thought this was a fling. If you are doing serious painting, I had better get busy on serious and saleable writing."

"Yes. Soon, I could be carrying twins. You never know."

As we headed toward the market, I don't think I had ever anticipated sex like I did that night. I was positively tingling from head to foot. I reached over and pinched the delectable behind of my woman. "Did the art instructor ever get one of the students in his bed?"

She looked at me, laughing loudly, "No, I don't think he did. He knew a lot about art, but almost nothing about how to attract a woman."

"What about marriage? One time, you said it wasn't necessary."

"My mother is the nosiest person alive. I have it figured out. When I am three months pregnant and we have the house, the two of us are going to visit and dump the marriage, the baby and the house on them all at once!"

"And I am to stand tall and firm, backstopping you at every turn?"

She stepped into my arms, the third time in two days she had us blocking the sidewalk. "You are such a sweet guy, Andrew. I think I am going to like being married to you. And that is saying a lot. For years, I swore to my roommates I would never marry and surrender my independence."

I kissed the lips again and moved us along to the market.

In our makeshift studio atelier, she busied herself with two American style sandwiches while I was allowed to view the work in progress. The strong charcoal lines were there, and painting of buildings had commenced. A few very light pencil marks where bodies would go.

I wasn't sure whether to make a comment or not.

She delivered a sandwich and a beer. "It's all right to say something. I've heard lots of criticism over the years. Goes with the territory. In the beginning, you cry a lot."