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After dark the pleasant Etienne gave me a lift in the tiny Peugot to the Left Bank. He and his family had been the perfect hosts though it was nothing I expected. When I called a few days earlier I was hoping to meet with them for lunch to say “Bonjour” or something. We didn’t speak the same language but yet we communicated. Etienne smiled and gave me a note with their address and a key to let myself in later. “Rive Gauche,” he said and pulled away down the street into vapor.
“Now what.” I said out loud to the vapor. My costume was blue jeans, a black tee and pointy cowboy boots. The day had been a marvelous ride and continuous meal. I realized I had not a clue where I was so I wandered and dropped into a few clubs and had a few drinks and listened to live jazz. In August everyone is on vacation in Paris I was told. I caught a taxi and went back to Sacre-Couer by the light of the full moon and lost track of time continuing to walk the deserted streets—lost. I passed a street where I saw small lights on the fronts of old buildings.
In the middle of the block, attempting to remain aware of my strange surroundings, placing one pointy booted foot in front of the other, a young Catherine Deneuve type blonde suddenly appeared through an opened wooden and glass front door. She was carrying bread and stopped and stooped directly in front of me at the curb side. I came to a stop with my pointy toed boots parallel to the other. I watched as the woman in a short skirt broke the bread into chunks on the sidewalk as though she were feeding pigeons that weren’t there. She didn’t look at me while I watched her breaking the bread from a dry but not very crusty loaf for what seemed like a very large loaf. Finished, she stood and turned without seeing me and walked back through the door into the building. Without moving my pointy boots I turned my head and watched her through the door and when she disappeared through the door my eyes continued along the building and the curtains were opened—through the large window I saw what appeared to be a bar. I focused back on the door, and without any hesitation walked through the door. What appeared to be a sitting room with couches and comfortable chairs was through the door—the bar was through a small arc to the right. Behind the bar was a young Catherine Deneuve as a brunette—several wooden stools lined the bar. The bar was empty let alone the Blonde who was setting out a fresh small banquette on a tray on the bar and the Brunette behind the bar. I sat on a wooden stool next to the tray of food. I recognized Dewars White Label Scotch on the back bar and remembered that it had always given me a headache in recent years. The Brunette approached where I sat and smiled. The Blonde was arranging the small banquette. “Dewars—neat.” I said. The Brunette placed a high ball glass in front of me on the bar. She brought the Dewars and filled the high ball glass to more than half.
“How much?” I asked.
“A thousand francs,” she answered.
“A thousand francs?”
“We will both make love to you on the bar.”