An Improbable Pairing Read online

  Lunch turned into a two-hour feast of choucroute: various pork sausages in casings of different shapes and sizes, fresh sauerkraut, boiled potatoes, a hot grainy mustard, and lots of Alsatian draft beer from large, extremely cold, wooden barrels. Andre ordered for Scott, and the young American was glad he had. In the most French of ways, they discussed, argued, and dismissed each other’s opinions of the food being consumed.

  “Leon, you know the frankfurters are good here but better at Chez Julien,” Andre said.

  “You are completely wrong,” Leon retorted. “These frankfurters have a thin casing, so the interior is more succulent and seasoned to perfection. I think you may be losing your palate or perhaps your mind. But the sauerkraut is better at Chez Julien.”

  “No, no, the sauerkraut is better here,” Andre said. “They use too much juniper at Julien.”

  “It’s not the juniper you taste,” Leon said. “It’s the combination of peppercorns and bay leaf.”

  “Bay leaf in sauerkraut? It’s better in a stew,” Andre said.

  And the conversation continued, each man with his particular preference for a restaurant, dish, and preparation specifics.

  Scott didn’t know whether he would regret it, but he asked anyway: “On the ship, I had occasion to meet a woman whom I believe lives part of the year here, in Paris: the Countess de Rovere—”

  “You met the Countess de Rovere on the ship?” Andre asked.

  “Yes, it was quite by coincidence,” Scott said. “She’s very beautiful and quite nice, too.”

  “My dear boy, you are a master of understatement,” Andre said. “Why do you think every eligible male in France and Italy chases her?”

  “Oh, I guessed she would be very popular. Everyone seemed to like her.”

  “Do we detect a little hint of infatuation?” Leon asked slyly.

  “Yes, my friend; you don’t start modestly, I see,” Andre said.

  Scott was sure his feelings showed, but Andre and Leon relented when he changed the subject. He liked them both. Andre was a generous host. The two seemed so French or, at least, French as Scott imagined it in Gallic stereotypes. Andre’s copious thatch of coarse hair had just the right amount of gray at the edges, and his bushy black eyebrows danced in unison with the conversation’s ebb and flow. Leon, fair in complexion, was more studied in response, but, with a minimum of inspiration, primed to convulse in genuine laughter, Andre’s co-conspirator in joviality and camaraderie.

  The two Parisians spoke with amazing speed. Dependent on the conversation, their speech was often laced with a salty French slang. Scott lamented his basic book-learned proficiency and how hard this casual street argot would be to adopt. Andre’s sage advice: acquire a French lover.

  By the time dessert was ordered, the men had retreated into a kind of half French, half English that admirably fit their personalities and professions as observers and arbiters of culture. It seemed to Scott that Andre and Leon knew how to find joy in the simplest of pleasures.

  As lunch came to an end, Scott thanked them for their hospitality. Andre assured him that he was welcome to call him on his next trip to Paris, which he hoped would be soon.

  AS SCOTT WALKED BACK TO THE HOTEL, HE THOUGHT ABOUT the countess and her vaunted desirability. Depressed, Scott realized his worst fears had been confirmed—he’d probably made a fool of himself. Andre and Leon surely thought him presumptuous to even dream that a young, inexperienced man such as himself would have a chance with the countess. And yet . . . Scott remembered that the countess would be visiting her mother in Paris. Her mother probably lived in the 7th, 8th, or 16th arrondissement. The George V, Scott’s hotel, was situated in the 8th arrondissement; could the countess be wandering about nearby? Scott scoffed at these foolish notions; such a coincidental meeting was unlikely to materialize.

  No, he told himself; wait. They’d both be in Geneva at the end of October. But Scott couldn’t seek her out without a reason. Perhaps he would call upon the countess to ostensibly notify her that he’d found an apartment. Scott was certain he needed to stay in touch, to be available should the countess choose to make the first romantic move. Scott laughed wryly; to think his mother often accused him of being impatient. Little did she know his patience depended on the prize.

  seven

  HIS BRIEF VISIT AT ITS END, SCOTT TOOK A TAXI TO Gare de Lyon, Paris’ train station for all southern destinations. From there, he’d head to Geneva and school. Overburdened with two large train cases and several pieces of hand luggage, he hailed a porter; between the two of them, they found the right platform, and Scott boarded the train.

  Scott sat alone in his first-class compartment, waiting for the train to depart. The conductor shouted instructions in a stentorian voice and slammed the carriage doors shut. The train lurched and then moved forward, steadily gaining speed.

  The door to his compartment was pushed open (and not too daintily, either). A young woman entered, dragging a kind of duffel bag behind her. She wore a loose-fitting, light grey turtleneck with a cowl collar; corduroy pants in a distinctive mustard color; and beautiful boots of delicate black calfskin. Her unblemished olive skin bore no makeup, and her long black hair was pulled into an easy ponytail. Though pretty, the young woman wore an unpleasant scowl, appearing intent on settling in her side of the large compartment without the slightest acknowledgment of Scott’s existence. Her aloofness hinted at an exotic origin and dramatized her almond-shaped eyes.

  The trip to Geneva, around six hours, was a long time to ignore someone three feet away. The young woman managed it exceptionally well until the outskirts of Dijon, the halfway point. The conductor, making his rounds, alerted passengers that the dining car was open. Scott, having not understood the conductor quite so well, simply followed her to the dining car. Though the young woman requested a table for one, the maître d’ seated them at the same table.

  “Would you prefer if I sat in the bar?” Scott asked in his schoolbook French.

  She flinched, shifting in her seat, frowning, negotiating with herself. Did he mean to make her uncomfortable?

  “No, please sit down,” she replied in flawless English.

  “It’s no problem; I can sit elsewhere if you like.”

  “No, really. I’m sorry. I’ve just been thinking.”

  “Must be something serious. War and peace? You’ve been thinking for the last three hours.”

  She laughed. “Several days, actually.”

  They ordered, she a fines herbes omelet and he scrambled eggs and fresh fruit. Silent again, the young woman pushed her food around the plate without eating much of anything. Occasionally, she blotted the corners of her eyes and shifted her disinterested gaze to the passing scenery.

  “I don’t mean to pry, but you seem upset,” Scott asked. “Want to talk about it?”

  She sighed and drew up her shoulders and let them fall back into place in a world-weary shrug. “I don’t know you.”

  “All the better,” he said. “I don’t know you either. Plus, I’m an expert.”

  “An expert?”

  “Sure. I’m a man, I’ve been in love, and I’ve been cheated on.”

  “How did you know I had man troubles?” she asked, curiously.

  “I told you I was an expert. Besides, what else could take days to consider?”

  As their conversation progressed, the young woman’s mood lightened considerably. Moving back to their compartment, they caromed through the swaying train, Scott opened the doors to each connecting car. On the way, the young woman—Solange—told him about her man trouble. Solange was French and Persian; her boyfriend had been from a highly respected French family. They’d been seeing each other for a year when his parents decided the couple was becoming too serious and demanded the relationship end. Either their son lost the girl or forfeited his funds. In a fortnight, while Solange was in Deauville with family, her boyfriend had found a new, more acceptable girl, one who would not trigger his disinheritance. When Solange returned
, he informed her they were through.

  At first, Solange couldn’t believe what he was saying, but the young man didn’t leave any margin for hope or negotiation. Though he’d couched his termination of their relationship in less pecuniary terms, Solange and those close to the situation were clear on the whys of his actions: money. Her solution was to flee Paris for Geneva, where her mother lived part of the year.

  Though Scott suspected the boyfriend’s parents had perhaps had a more socially acceptable young woman in mind, Solange didn’t—and couldn’t—seem to grasp that her mixed ethnicity might have been at least part of the parents’ rejection.

  Scott, however, was from the Southern part of the United States and familiar with discrimination. Charleston was certainly not Paris or Geneva, and this was his first introduction to European discriminatory practices, biases that he would come to learn were based more on ethnicity and nationality than on skin color. He could see from Solange’s mix of sorrow and anger that this discrimination, if it were indeed that, had exacted a bitter toll. He felt her pain; prejudice was one of the reasons he had left the South for school in Europe.

  Sitting next to her, unable to read her face, Scott sensed Solange didn’t really want advice. Besides, it was probably too soon for him to offer any. Scott restrained himself during each embarrassing stretch of silence; sometimes giving another person time to regroup, he reasoned, was the best help one could offer.

  After what Scott was certain was a supreme effort at composure, Solange finally asked him about himself. Under the circumstances, he gave an abridged version. As he talked, she began to relax again, even laughing at some of Scott’s lively recounting of Parisian predicaments: getting lost one afternoon in the small streets of the 5th arrondissement and ordering what he thought to be veal (veal kidneys; he’d managed to choke it down nonetheless). He could have gone on and on.

  When Scott turned the conversation to her life, Solange responded openly. She was perpetually traveling to the best places in France, Switzerland, and Italy. There was no mention of school or a job; her long-range plans extended at most to a few months hence and, even then, to where the snow might be best in February.

  The longer they spoke, the more Scott began to think of Solange as the French version of Millie, or as the younger countess. This pleasure-filled, upper-class lifestyle—one lacking in work- and achievement-oriented goals—was foreign to Scott. Of course, he was aware of the differences between European and American cultures. These three European women were preoccupied with the best ways to enjoy a life of leisure, luxury, and entertainment. Edward and Sarah Stoddard, although well off, would never have permitted their son a life of such idle luxury. Self-made, Scott’s parents embodied a pragmatic approach to life; they had agreed to fund his studies in Geneva only after demanding clear benchmarks of achievement. The understanding: these standards would need to be maintained for Scott’s financial support to continue.

  The two young travelers grew so intent on their conversation and getting to know each other that, when the conductor announced their upcoming arrival in Geneva, they were surprised. So soon? On the spur of the moment, Solange offered Scott a lift; his hotel, she explained, was on the way to her home on the Rive Gauche, Geneva’s left bank. Her mother would be at the station to meet her, Solange said, and an additional passenger would be no trouble at all.

  When the train pulled into the station, Solange wrestled her duffle bag from the compartment while Scott signaled a porter to help with their bags. Together, they exited the bustling terminal, and Scott was glad to have Solange’s guidance. Businessmen bustled by in crisp suits; conversations in a cacophony of languages buffeted his ears; bicyclists whizzed by, their baskets filled with fresh fruit, French baguettes, and flowers. Close to the station entrance, Scott spotted a silver Mercedes parked at the curb; next to it waited a chic woman, whom he immediately identified as Solange’s mother. Dressed in a dark blue gabardine skirt and white silk blouse, yards of gold chains encircling her neck, and matching caramel calfskin pumps and handbag, this elegant creature was clearly the French branch of Solange’s family tree. Though he’d been in Paris only a short time, Scott had keenly noticed how French women of every age seemed to project an air of nonchalant sophistication.

  Solange greeted her mother affectionately. “Maman!” she exclaimed.

  “Salut ma cherie.” Mother and daughter embraced before turning to Scott.

  “Scott Stoddard, let me introduce my mother, Madame Pahlavi,” said Solange. Scott swallowed hard. Pahlavi? From newspapers, Scott recognized the Persian royal name—the shah of Iran was Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi. Iran’s Pahlavis were a very large family, full of multiple generations and many branches, and knowing what he did of Solange’s life, the shared surname couldn’t be coincidence. Scott bent over the woman’s proffered hand and stammered, “It is my pleasure, Madame.”

  “Maman, Mr. Stoddard is a student and new to Geneva,” said Solange. “He was so kind to me on the train. May we give him a lift? He’s staying at the Beau Rivage.”

  “Of course,” Madame Pahlavi said graciously. “It’s no trouble.” She gestured toward the driver, who loaded the luggage into the car. Within minutes, they were pulling away from the station.

  “Mr. Stoddard, do you have a place to live while at the university?” Madame asked.

  “No, but someone mentioned the old town,” Scott said.

  “Yes; definitely the old town, because you will be going to class in the buildings there, and parking is difficult,” Solange said.

  “But the landlords know this. When they find out you’re American, the price might go up.” Madame Pahlavi advised. “The landlords know they don’t need to negotiate. Nevertheless, when you find something you like, take it.”

  Taking the young American under their wing, the women chattered genially about Geneva until reaching Scott’s hotel. Before he made his goodbyes, Solange wrote down their Geneva address and telephone number, recommended a number of restaurants, and extracted Scott’s promise to stay in touch.

  eight

  NO CHAMPAGNE AND TRUFFLES ON SILVER AWAITED Scott at the Beau Rivage. His room was musty, filled with antique furniture, and decorated in chintz. But rather than sharing a communal shower down the hallway, he had been given one of the rooms with an en suite bath. The hotel, though luxuriously old, fit within his student’s budget. And there was a beautiful view of Lake Geneva.

  In the days after arriving, he registered at the university and tried to find a furnished apartment that was convenient to school. As Madame Pahlavi and Solange had warned, housing—particularly furnished apartments in Geneva’s old town—was in short supply. Scott’s unfamiliarity with the city made apartment locations doubly difficult to decipher.

  Thankfully, the young American made friends easily. He’d struck up a conversation with the hotel concierge, an Italian named Fausto who had learned his English from GIs. Fausto was immensely helpful in making appointments and, after a few weeks and many wild goose chases and dead ends, Scott finally found a suitable walkup. Located on the third floor of an apartment building in the oldest quarter, near his classes, it was perfect. He masked his pleasure, happy to have remembered Madame Pahlavi’s advice and worn the less expensive and more rumpled of his suits for the interview. The landlord, who considered himself rather crafty, mentally sized up Scott’s financial status. Shuffling around, he hesitated, then re-started, shuffled some more, and finally offered, “Six hundred Swiss francs.” Inwardly, Scott smiled; he was certain the landlord had imagined this was the highest figure Scott would pay.

  Without hesitation, he answered, “Unfortunately, six hundred francs is a little more than my budget.” He thanked the man, sadly said goodbye, and turned to leave.

  Before Scott had reached the door, the landlord countered: “What about five twenty, including utilities?”

  “Five hundred, with utilities, is what I had in mind,” Scott said.

  “Okay, we agree,” the land
lord said. “We have a deal.”

  Scott took the plunge and signed a twelve-month lease. Though the school year lasted nine months, and that amount of time would have been ideal, most landlords had already figured that out. Fortunately (and what the landlord didn’t know) was that the apartment rent was less than ten percent of Scott’s monthly allowance. That number was the happy result of Edward Stoddard’s unintended generosity and a favorable exchange rate. Scott’s father had arrived at a monthly stipend through conversations with friends who’d lived in Europe; in an uncharacteristic error, however, neither Mr. Stoddard nor his acquaintances had taken into account the difference in the current exchange rate versus that of the past. It hadn’t taken Scott long to realize that, for a student without the usual responsibilities of family and taxes, he was quite well off, even if he had been an executive.

  The apartment consisted of a foyer, small bedroom with an adjacent bathroom, spacious living room, and a small kitchen area. Furnishings were sparse: a dining table à deux, couch, coffee table, bed and nightstand, and bookcase. For student quarters, the accommodations weren’t horrible, but he couldn’t imagine entertaining someone like the Countess de Rovere in this spartan room. Ever mindful of his means, Scott wanted to preserve his funds. Rather than spend on a more luxurious apartment, he wanted to enjoy some of the other pleasures he’d imagined and coveted: travel, fine clothes, gourmet dining, and nightclubs.

  AS SOON AS THE TELEPHONE SERVICE WAS ACTIVATED IN HIS apartment, Scott bit the bullet and called his parents. His mother answered, and he settled in for a chat.

  “Your father and I had hoped you would call sooner,” she said reprovingly. “It’s been two weeks since we’ve spoken with you.”

  She asked about the courses he’d be taking, whether he’d made any friends, and if he were homesick. Cut from the same sturdy cloth as her husband, Sarah Stoddard expected definitive answers. To please his mother, Scott often embellished his replies.