La Comedie Stephan
Manage a Trois
Paris. Stephan and I have just dropped his mother at her nursing home.
“It’s the first New Year’s you don’t have to drive back to Sceaux,” I say. “We should get a drink.”
“Follow me,” he says, striding ahead.
I speed up and link arms. It surprises me that he knows where to go.
Le Bouquet d’Alesia. Has he ever been here? Not that I suspect he’s involved with another woman, besides his mother.
We take chairs, side by side, facing the sidewalk at one of the shiny red round tables in the glassed-in patio.
A waiter wearing a spiky blue wig pours Moët into flutes. Stephan and I clink.
“Look into my eyes,” I say.
His glance is like a peck on the lips.
“Yours has more bubbles than mine,” he says.
I can’t tell if his tone is playful. I puzzle over what, if anything, he means by this comment. We’ve lived together sixteen years; I shouldn’t have to read into what he’s thinking.
The champagne eases sweet and dry.
Chill out, Debra. No wonder he calls you spoiled.
He’s spending 15 Euros on each glass.
You’re in Paris, for God’s sake! City of romance.
Not that I expect we’ll get drunk and start making out. Ain’t gonna happen.
Stephan and I aren’t married. Now that the passion has dimmed, is companionship enough to bond us?
I remind myself that I spent many dateless New Year’s Eves before meeting Stephan, resolve to accept our relationship for what it is and get over my jealousy of his mother.
I should feel compassion for Esther, who is not immobile but too frail to live on her own. She detests the coiffured ladies corralled in wheelchairs in the main salon of the Maison de Retraite.
When the three of us are out together, she clings to her son’s arm and I walk several paces behind them.
I’ll convince myself that Stephan doesn’t take sides.
Take supper this evening, our first meal, just the three of us, in the new rental. The family apartment in the suburbs has been sold, too much to keep up now that no one has lived there for several years. This pied a terre is for Esther’s clothing and for her two sons to stay in when they visit her. Stephan’s brother comes from Nantes, a few hours away. Stephan, from New York City — where he supports me.
Esther sits between us, on one side of the small, square black table that used to be extended when her husband was alive. Stephan and I face each other. He divides each dish into three equal parts. Terrine of scallops. Chanterelles and asparagus in puff pastry. He is clearly trying to please us both.
So I should feel pleased. Right?
The bells of Saint-Pierre-de-Montrouge chime nine.
Revelers pause at the traffic light on their way to midnight’s possibility.
I’m not in the mood to observe people younger than us.
They will fast forward soon enough.
With an urgency that is not celebratory, a couple Esther’s age — late seventies — come into view. Tall and bulky in his down coat, the man must have once made an imposing impression. Now his walk is slow, labored, as if he hardly has the strength to hold himself up. His wife shuffles him to a chair on the sidewalk directly in front of our table; I watch them through the patio glass.
The man’s back is to me. His wife would probably like to sit; stands at her husband’s side to protect him. They don’t speak. She puts on his hood and he lets her.
What could she possibly say to her husband at this moment that would change the way he feels? They may both be afraid he won’t make it through the night.
I’d like to bring the man water and put the glass to his lips. I restrain myself from jumping up to find the waiter.
Stephan doesn’t understand what makes me want to get involved with strangers.
The wife catches my concerned expression and smiles with her mouth but not her eyes.
I’d like to believe that our brief exchange comforts her.
A middle-aged woman, about my age, drives up. I assume she’s the couple’s daughter. Walking unaided to the car, the man shrugs off his hood. He still has some life in him. His wife helps him into the front seat. She takes the back seat like I do in France.
Stephan is in the driver’s seat. Esther sits next to him, even though she’s a foot shorter than me. I have to twist my head to sightsee out the side window. When I complain, Stephan says: “Manage.”
Several hours from now, I’ll be reading in bed. A cheer will rumble through the rolled-down metal window shutters. I’ll tap Stephan on his shoulder. A dry kiss. He’ll grumble that he’s just fallen asleep, turn his back and I’ll tuck the blanket over him.
It’s time to accept that I can’t see the road ahead.
