At Le Comptoir, Continued
Agnès Madrigal
What happens when a woman imagines the lives of others at a wine bar in Paris? What does it say, not about those people across the bar, but about her? And where, for a writer, does fiction and non-fiction collide? This draft follows a fictional story inspired by the Galérie Vivienne in Paris. This second part of the story can be read alone below, or after the first part, which is available to read here.
Glasses of wine are more and less filled, the narrator notices. Can the same be said about their lives? Photograph by CK Stock Photo
Kate opens her eyes. They are still there. The middle-aged couple across the bar, the beautiful woman with her golden hair and jewelry, the professorial man with his worn blue sweater. He is staring at Kate through the large lenses of his glasses, scrutinizing her. She smiles weakly, unlike the woman who sits at his side, who smiles broadly, unfiltered. Does he know, does he surmise that Kate has figured them out, untangled their little secret—their affair—that they surely felt was concealed in the big city of Paris that swirled about around them with its traffic, its disaffected persons, its attractions?
He cannot know. Still she feels guilty—and silly—for making up such a story, for pasting it upon them as they sat innocently, unsuspectingly at Le Comptoir, only by happenstance finding themselves across the bar from a bored writer. Kate watches them again, after the man turns from her, turns back to the woman, to the glasses of red wine between them, full again, as the bartender has poured more from the bottle that they share. It might not be an affair. There are other stories. It could be a new marriage, a second marriage perhaps. And the big sparkling diamond ring that seems outside the man’s budget? It could have been a family heirloom. There could have been more money at another time. Or there was still money, lots of it, and it’s merely concealed by the shabby sweater, the messy hair, the out-of-date glasses.
She must stop it, Kate thinks, cease projecting this story upon them. Is it her story? Does she fantasize it from her own marriage, made lackluster only after so many years? From her sudden fleeing to the city on the other side of the world to be by herself for a week? No, she thinks, she is faithful. Didn’t she prove it only the other night, when the man approached her at another bar, noticed her own wedding ring and chose to ignore it, made his intentions abundantly clear. In spite of his good looks, the amicable conversation, she had declined. She had not even had to think about it for even a moment. Wasn’t that something? She had not been sure until that moment of the strong, unbreakable bond she had with her husband, her husband she had vowed to always love, and she did.
“Does he know, does he surmise that Kate has figured them out, untangled their little secret—their affair—that they surely felt was concealed in the big city of Paris that swirled about around them with its traffic, its disaffected persons, its attractions? He cannot know. Still she feels guilty—and silly—for making up such a story, for pasting it upon them as they sat innocently, unsuspectingly at Le Comptoir, only by happenstance finding themselves across the bar from a bored writer.”
—Agnès Madrigal, from a first draft of “At Le Comptoir, Continued”
Why, then, this story? This story superimposed upon these others, the man fingering one of the slender gold strands around the woman’s long neck, fishing the pendant out from between her breasts, and looking at the gold coin, turning it over and around in his hand. Longtime couples didn’t do that anymore, Kate thinks, watching closely. Unless, she counters, it is a new necklace, one they bought earlier in the day or earlier in the trip, in one of the glossy shops near the Madeleine. But do longtime couples buy new jewelry together? Her husband had not bought her something in many years. She was comfortable with that, comfortable as she was with their casualness, the plainness they had quietly slipped into many years ago. It was calm, placid. She found she even liked it. She had not been looking for anything else and, in fact, worried instead that he might.
Her friend Julia joined her, in new shiny black flats and a magenta scarf spun around her neck. Julia’s hair was newly cut, still with its wonderful black corkscrew curls. Kate ordered more wine, wine for them both. They talked and, out of the corner of her eye, Kate continued to watch the couple, as the wine in their bottle lowered, as they ordered small plates piled with bright red and thinly sliced meats, little cups spilling over with fat olives. Eventually, she watched them make the motions of persons about to leave. He asked for “l’addition,” pulled his wallet from his pocket, as the woman put on her quilted autumn jacket, gathered up the crisp shopping bags from the floor beside their stools. As they said good-bye to the bartender, each caught Kate’s gaze again. The woman smiled as she had before. The man looked puzzled as he did before, also worried. Kate said “au revoir” and smiled at them both.
The couple shared a bottle of red wine, the blood-colored liquid rising and lowering in their glasses as they conversed affectionately. Photograph by Studio OMG
She did not want them to leave. She wanted them to be there, always there, at the bar, touching one another as they did, speaking softly, sometimes whispering into one another’s ears. If they were there, behaving as they did, then there was a balance, a harmony in the world. Kate could continue on in her marriage the way it was. Julia could find new love post-divorce if she desired it. With the couple there, there was love, rosy and warm, suffusing the world with a tenderness. With the couple gone, the room grew cold. Kate noticed again the dense mahogany woodwork of the grand counter that formed a parallelogram in the middle of the space; the long shelves filled with wine bottles, many rising so high up that there was a ladder on each wall that could be rolled and climbed to reach them; the dangling brass lamps with white glass shades reminiscent of old gas lamps that might have been a feature of the original building; and the other lights, higher up, the bluish pinprick lights that had caught upon the woman’s ring, causing it to dazzle.
They had to leave soon, too, Kate and Julia. They had tickets to the ballet, perhaps the couple was going there, also? Perhaps she’d see them again, cuddled together in one of the red velvet boxes. Maybe they would see her, too, would recognize her from the bar and wave to her across the theater. She could imagine them doing that. She could almost see them in the other box above the painted carvings, the woman would glow, announcing herself against the other persons in the other boxes, the plain persons, the boring persons—all the unfair adjectives there were to apply to everyone else when compared to her.
“She did not want them to leave. She wanted them to be there, always there, at the bar, touching one another as they did, speaking softly, sometimes whispering into one another’s ears. If they were there, behaving as they did, then there was a balance, a harmony in the world. Kate could continue on in her marriage the way it was. Julia could find new love post-divorce if she desired it. With the couple there, there was love, rosy and warm, suffusing the world with a tenderness.”
—Agnès Madrigal, from a first draft of “At Le Comptoir, Continued”
As Kate and Julia left Le Comptoir, Kate remembered the staircase. She wanted to see it, the beautiful spiral feature that once led to the home of the first private detective—he had inspired some of her writing years ago, she had read about him in a book about Paris. He lived in this building later, after he had been disgraced somehow; Kate could not remember the complete story. The bartender explained, in slow French, how to find the staircase, and Kate and Julia traced the directions with their footsteps on the mosaic floors of the arcade.
When they entered the lovely little hollow, there was the sound of scuffling, and before the couple could take notice, Kate saw them again, there at the base of the stairs, embracing, kissing, the man with his hand inside the woman’s tight black skirt. Kate was about to turn away, to leave the staircase without seeing it properly, to leave them without causing embarrassment, when the woman saw her and gently pulled herself back, away from the man, pushing down his arm, forcing it out of her skirt. The man’s big glasses had fallen from his face. His hair had been swept from his forehead, presumably by the women’s fingers. He looked directly at Kate and he said, “Kate?”
Kate stumbled. She tried to piece the man together. All of the parts of the man in the bar reconciled with the other man—Erik—one of her old colleagues from an earlier job at a publishing house in another city, in the other country. She had not seen him in several years so he was older, larger. His hair was longer, grayer, and his skin was pastier—all these little insults life placed upon the aging body. “Erik,” she said. She did not know him well, but she knew him enough. She knew about his wife at home, a woman named Melanie, and about their two kids, probably entering adolescence now, she thought, as she ran the math through her head.
Erik attempted to compose himself, apologize, but Kate knew he needed something more now. She saw the band on his finger, the same band he had those years before—she recognized it by its carving, something they’d had made in New Mexico, she even remembered. Now he needed alliance, secrecy, those same attributes he had with the blonde woman, who still smiled on the scene sweetly, in spite of her unmatched ring, which, up close, shone all the more brightly. Yes, with his hair pushed back and his gleaming forehead revealed, he was clearly the man she knew in New York, where his hair had been neatly cut, where he wore suits and ties from not the most expensive places, and where he lived in Brooklyn Heights, with his bride and their little kids. What was he going to say to Kate now?
This story continues and concludes here.