A Lost Friend

A LOST FRIEND

            The last time I saw Marise was in Paris during the spring of 1971.  Something happened then that is still not clear in my mind, or at least what I have left of my mind.  Something that, to this day, I cannot forget.

            Winter stayed long that year, reaching well into May, leaving mounds of dirty snow in shaded areas of the city.  A chill even pervaded sunny days, making one feel uncomfortable and a bit uneasy since, with the anticipation of warmth, there lurks a fear that it may never come.

            What prompted me to take the walk down the street where I met Marise, I cannot recall.  Fate may have decided to add spice to my ordinary existence, though I can’t determine whether the fickle sister of Life intended the enigma to last so long.  Like the road less traveled, had I decided to return to my room instead of taking a brisk walk, perhaps the story would have turned out differently.

            The morning started at the Brasserie Balzar on Rue des Ecoles.  With the final cold of winter still clinging to the air, I sat inside Le Balzar so I could view the sidewalk activities as well as what was happening inside.  As long as I can remember, I had been a voyeur.  Not the clandestine fanatic who finds fantasy in peering through the half-open shades of unsuspecting lovers or lithesome young lovelies, but rather, in the mold of the French voir from 

which the word is derived.  An observer.  A “watcher.”  Enjoying what went on around me using my eyes and my mind.  

       After finishing my demitasse, I paid the waiter and made my way into the bustling streets.  Education had brought me to Paris originally in 1967 when I took classes at the Sorbonne to further my studies in French Literature and savor a taste of the Parisian lifestyle.  I returned for the typical reasons that cause many young men to seek adventure in their youth - to find myself and resolve my identity and perhaps my destiny.  Was I an American yearning for the lure of the Continent or a Frenchman trapped inside?  Like the Steppenwolf, I felt a dual nature and could not decide which one was truly me.  Unlike the Steppenwolf, I had abandoned my wife of seven years, two young sons, and a Golden Retriever named Irish to pursue the adventure.

            The walk from Le Balzar had brought me to Boulevard St. Michel.  No reason for being here, I thought, until I spotted the Libraire Joseph Gibert and remembered that I needed some utensils for a story I was writing.  Once I arrived at the establishment, I walked in and headed toward the appropriate section.  It was crowded for 10 AM.  I looked around and saw a salesgirl finishing up with another customer.  Without hesitation, I seized the opportunity to procure the required commodities by putting myself at her disposal.

            “Bonjour, mademoiselle.  J’ai besoin de quelquchose et peut-etre vous avez ces choses don’t j’ai besoin,” I spouted.

            “What things do you need?” she asked curtly, a half-smile or sneer gracing her otherwise uninspired countenance.

            “J’ai besoin d’une livre de cheval, une demie…”

            “Please, please!  I don’t understand a word you are saying!” she replied in an exasperated voice waving her arms like a person trying to ward off demons.

            “Oh, I’m sorry.  Don’t you speak French?”  I said with a straight face.  My humor fell on deaf ears as the sneer-smile drooped into a full-fledged frown.  I decided that I liked her!  At that point, the feeling did not appear to be mutual.

            I tried again.  “OK, OK, let’s start over.  I’ll speak English.  Please provide me with a spiral notebook, a half box of typing paper, four ball point pens, two three-ring binders, and a burrito with jalapeno sauce, no onions.”  I smiled in triumph at my impeccable English.

She gathered the goods and then asked what a burrito might be.  Now, I had her in my ballpark.

“A burrito,” I explained, “is a small Italian burro.”  She seemed confused.

“I think we don’t have those,” she apologized.  “We have Sarducci’s Italian and English Dictionary, though,” she offered as a substitute.

“No, thank you.  But I will settle for a quiet dinner with you at Harry’s Bar.”  Again, she looked confused.

“What is this Harry’s Bar?” she queried, the frown disappearing and an air of interest replacing it even though her arms remained folded in front of her. 

“It’s an exquisite dining establishment,” I replied.  “We can enjoy a fine meal, perhaps a Croque Monsieur, a side order of pommes frites, and a vintage rouge probably aged for two to three weeks.  Or even a Bloody Mary!  I hear they are the best at Harry’s!”  I laughed as a smile finally found its way to her face.

“Vous etes fou, vous,” she laughed.  “You belong in an insane silo.” 

“Asylum.  Insane asylum,” I patriotically corrected her English.  My name is Alex.  Alex Dimages.  And you are…”

“Je m’appele Marise.  Marise Devinette,” she responded.  “OK, where is this Harry’s anyway?”

“It is on Rue Daunou, not far from Place Vendome.  Vous le connaissez?” I asked.

“Yes, I know the street,” Marise confirmed.

“Meet me there about 9 PM and we can have a good time.  If nothing else, you can get a free dinner out of it,” I bartered.

Again she laughed.  “OK, I will see you then.  A bientot,” she waved as I made my way to the checkout.  

2

            I sat at the bar and ordered a glass of the house rouge, the inexpensive red wine served at most restaurants and brasseries in Paris and, I’d venture, most of France.  Frank was the bartender, a transplanted American who sought his identity and found it in Paris at Harry’s.  I 

had gotten to know him during my stops at Harry’s, usually nursing one of their excellent Bloody Mary’s.  He was a cherub who had gotten along in years.  His chubby cheeks and inflated abdomen belied his size, making him appear larger than he was.  His legs tapered down from his chest, conjuring up the image of a child’s toy top, or two pears joined in the middle at their widest ends.  Like a cherub, he always had a smile on his face, or at least near the surface.  In our conversations, I found him to be a person of progressive thought, that is, ideas following in logical order as opposed to circular reasoning.  His smile hid a loneliness that only unmarried, 

middle-aged males could understand, although the same smile could laugh at the world of conjugal obligation and its inherent trait of eliminating the fruits of impulse and spontaneity.  He was honest and sincere yet possessing a sense of humor that accommodated most any situation.  If there was a quality he may have lacked, it was ambition to achieve success in the material world.  However, in ambition’s purest sense, to achieve a modicum of contentment in life, he had succeeded. 

            “What time is it, Frankie?”  I thought to ask since I was expecting Marise.

            “A little after nine,” he answered after pulling at my arm and looking at my watch.  “Are you waiting for someone?” he wanted to know.

            “Yes.  A girl I met today at the bookstore.  Her name is Marise and she has a beautiful smile, auburn hair and a sense of humor once you can find it,” I explained.

            Frank nodded his head and pointed toward the front of the bar.  “Almost like that young lady wandering around,” he replied.

            I swiveled on my stool and turned to see Marise.  “Over here, Marise!” I waved.

            “Go meet her, you clod!” Frank was quick to interject.  

            “You look very nice, Marise,” I gushed once I reached her through the crowd of people.

            “You look the same as you did before,” she countered with a smile and a look-over suggesting she noticed I hadn’t changed clothes.  “You see, I found this Harry’s.”

            “And I am glad you did!  Let’s sit at the bar and I’ll introduce you to Frank, the bartender and a friend of mine,” I babbled.

            “That is good you have friends,” she poked again and laughed. 

            I laughed as well, feeling comfortable with her as we proceeded to the bar where she met Frank.  She ordered a glass of rouge and we toasted.

            “To new beginnings,” I offered as we clinked glasses.

            Suddenly, a nearby drunk began to harass Marise, wondering aloud why such a pretty girl would be with such a twerp.  As the ogre continued his harassment, I went to confront him.

            “Excuse me, sir, but that is uncalled for.  If you bear any hostilities, why not pound your head against a wall.  It shouldn’t do any harm except maybe to the wall.”  I went back to my seat, staring back at the bewildered goon.  Soon, a defiant glare replaced his bewilderment.

            “Why, you’re a wee type of a twerp to be so feisty!” he roared.  “I’ll do as I damn well please!” was his retort as he took a large swallow of ale.  I turned my back to him, trying to ignore his tirade.  It didn’t work.

            “You little whore master!  Why she’s nothing but a whore!” he raged guzzling the rest of his beer then holding his stein menacingly.

            “She may seem undesirable to you, friend, but she’s a lady to me.  Please apologize to her,” I said standing now with my hands clasped in front of me facing the rather large individual.

            No sooner had the words left my mouth when the ogre swung the mug with a roundhouse right that arched over my head as I ducked.  Hands apart, I sent two straight punches to the middle of his chest and I heard a thud on the floor and him gasping for breath.  I bent over, grabbed him by the hair, raised his head with one hand while pushing a smile on his face with the other, and turned to Marise.

            “You see, he’s sorry Marise.  Forgive him.” 

            The next thing I knew a couple others jumped on my back coming to the ogre’s support.   

            “Wake up Daddy.  It’s time for work,” they said.  I cleared my eyes and there were my two boys shaking me and my wife standing impatiently with my robe.

            “Another dream, Alex?” she asked knowingly as I nodded.  “Which one is this?  The Orient Express or the date at Harry’s?” she asked in a monotone.

            “Harry’s,” I garbled.

            “Good, because Frank’s going to be here in about fifteen minutes to pick you up for work.  I’m sure he’ll want to hear more about how he’s still an unambitious bartender looking for meaning in his life.”

            I gazed at my wife as she kept on with her diatribe.  Too bad she wasn’t more like Marise.  I drifted back to dreams of Marise and her smile that had bridged the years between then and now, a lost friend indeed, wherever she may be.