An Improbable Pairing Read online

  Scott was glad she’d spoken of her father’s restaurant association. His fascination with Europe extended to its food, and he was enchanted with Marlyse’s running culinary commentary on the menu: Wiener schnitzel, potatoes, mixed salad, flan, and a nice Dôle (a red wine from French-speaking Switzerland). Scott ordered the veal with morel sauce, a salad, and apple strudel. The warm fire, satisfying food, and light, fruity wine helped reduce barriers, and by the end of the meal a more casual conversation was flowing.

  As he paid the check, Scott took a chance. “Would you like to go dancing?” he asked.

  Marlyse looked thoughtfully at her watch. “It’s not too late. Okay, but where?”

  “I was thinking we might go to Club 58.”

  “But don’t you need to be a member to go there?”

  “You do,” he said.

  Marlyse had never been to Club 58, and so to see the room, Scott took a table against the wall. They sat on a banquette; it was half past eleven o’clock on a Friday, the most important night of the week. One expected to see a lot, as the good-looking, well-dressed crowd was ready to have fun. Scott ordered a bottle of champagne. The band began playing a slow song, and so he asked Marlyse to dance. As they swayed to the music, he could detect a certain formality in her movements that was not entirely unexpected.

  Marlyse was pretty, and dancing allowed Scott the chance to touch her: pressing his hand into the small of her back, holding her hand in his. Her black dress, with its simple cut, meant he could appreciate her figure and admire the slenderness of her arms. As the first song turned into a second, he pressed her closer. She didn’t pull away—almost imperceptibly, she pressed back.

  At the end of the evening, Scott took her home. Marlyse hesitated at the door, just long enough for him to give her a kiss, on the lips no less. She didn’t push him away; happy and surprised, he guessed she’d had a good time.

  THEIR NEXT OUTING WAS A LUNCH DATE. SCOTT TOOK Marlyse to the Café de la Paix; luckily, it was a beautiful day for dining al fresco. The restaurant’s large terrace, tables set with yellow linens and fresh flowers, overlooked the Arve and, in the distance, Mont Blanc, Europe’s highest mountain, and the Alps of France’s Haute-Savoie. Scott’s favorite table took advantage of the view and proximity of one of the space heaters, which took the chill off when eating outdoors. Scott noticed Marlyse’s outfit; she was turned out in a kneelength tight skirt and burnt orange sweater and shawl. She’d put some thought into what she wore for lunch, and he appreciated the gesture. The demure Catholic schoolgirl uniform was taking a break.

  The solicitous maître d’ took their order—steamed trout, lamb chops, and a crisp white Dézaley wine—and Scott noticed Marlyse seemed a little nervous, quite unlike her mood from their last date. Perhaps that was it, Scott thought. Maybe she wasn’t sure she wanted to continue the mood.

  Marlyse seemed to be reading his thoughts. Smoothing her napkin, she looked down into her lap. “I may have had too much to drink the other night,” she said primly.

  “Did you? Why, I just thought you were having fun,” he said.

  “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” she said.

  As Scott leaned forward to assure her he had only the rightest of ideas, he heard a familiar voice.

  “Scott, ça fait longtemps, dis donc. Where have you been?” It was Jean. Those mischievous eyes lighted on Marlyse, and his already infectious grin widened. “Never mind,” he quipped quietly in Scott’s ear as the two friends shook hands. “I see where you’ve been.”

  “Let me introduce you to Marlyse Richter, a friend from school.”

  “Enchanté, Mademoiselle.” Gesturing toward Scott, Jean said jokingly, “You need to be careful of this one. Scott, let’s get together. I miss seeing you.”

  “I’m sorry, Jean. I’ll call next week.”

  Marlyse’s little pout told Scott that he had some explaining to do regarding Jean’s teasing remarks. He explained that Jean, who knew everyone, had taken him under his wing when he’d first arrived in Geneva, introducing him around at all the clubs, showing him all the right places, including weekending in Paris. Still Marlyse was hardly satisfied. Scott found her reaction a bit mystifying. They’d had two dates (well, almost two). Perhaps Marlyse wanted him all to herself. Or maybe Marlyse was simply more at ease with the students like herself and Scott than with Jean, who came from another milieu.

  thirteen

  SCOTT AND MARLYSE CONTINUED TO SEE ONE ANOTHER outside of classes, enjoying meals, exploring Geneva, and becoming better acquainted. On one evening, they chose the Hotel Richemont to eat at the Gentilhomme, a bastion of elegance and fine dining. Scott had never seen Marlyse look more beautiful. Normally, she wore simple clothes and flats (what he thought of as her schoolgirl uniform), but tonight she was in heels and a figure-hugging emerald green dress. Two small jade studs pierced her earlobes, and Marlyse’s simple updo accentuated the length of her bare neck. Her eyes sparkled as they talked, and Scott was captivated, watching her lush, crimson-colored lips move.

  After checking their coats, they entered the hotel’s bar for a quick aperitif. The bar, always crowded, was no exception that evening. Nevertheless, Scott spotted the Countess de Rovere almost immediately, at a small table, surrounded by several friends. She saw him, too, and Scott was glad that he’d overdressed—a crepe black suit, white shirt, and a silver-gray tie in a half-Windsor knot—for his dinner date with Marlyse. As usual, the countess was stunningly put together, in a fashionable Chanel dress, the black fabric’s dark richness all the better to set off the requisite strand of pearls. He was achingly aware of her sophisticated beauty.

  “Scott Stoddard!” the countess trilled from across the room. “Come here and say hello!”

  Leading Marlyse through the throng, Scott wended their way toward the countess’s entourage. He introduced the two women:

  “Countess, my friend, Mademoiselle Marlyse Richter. Marlyse, may I present the Countess de Rovere.”

  Good evenings were exchanged, and the countess introduced her friends. “Scott, every time I see you, you are with another beautiful girl,” the countess exclaimed. Marlyse cut Scott a sideways glance, and he detected the faint beginnings of a familiar pout.

  Leaning close to Scott’s ear, the countess whispered, “I thought you were going to call me.” And then, turning back toward Scott and Marlyse, she commented, “Well, I’m in Geneva until Christmas, and then Gstaad for the ski season. You are welcome to visit me, and please—bring Mademoiselle Richter.

  “Thank you, Countess. Very nice of you.”

  The maître d’ announced their table was ready, and Scott was relieved to escape before she made any mention of his last beautiful girl, Solange. Luckily, the countess and her entourage soon lit elsewhere. One thing was for certain; he’d detected a tone of pique, and that meant he still held the worldlier woman’s interest. He’d deduced correctly—the Countess de Rovere was accustomed to eagerness; she expected men to be taken by her—and his nonexistent call nettled. Yes; he couldn’t appear too eager. Besides, he was with Marlyse.

  After they ordered, Marlyse remained quiet. He was sure she was curious about the countess. A revealing frown showed that her thoughts were leaning toward jealousy and suspicion, and Scott fully expected an interrogation. While a compliment of sorts, the countess’s teasing comment about him always being with a beautiful woman had stung Marlyse. . . just as the countess intended. She didn’t miss many opportunities to score points against an opponent.

  Marlyse fired the opening salvo: “You seem to know a lot of people.”

  “The countess is a friend of a friend I met on the ship coming over from America.”

  “For a friend, she seemed a little offended that you haven’t called.”

  Ah—so Marlyse had heard. Scott chose to deny and seem oblivious. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly. “When she’d asked before, I told her I thought calling would be an imposition.” Marlyse practically rolled her eyes at him
.

  “Scott, you are so naïve. Though she’s older and so much more sophisticated, anyone can see she clearly has an interest in you.”

  “I hope she likes me. But really, I don’t want to be the poor lonely foreigner who calls begging for lunch or dinner.”

  Again, Marlyse scoffed. “Scott, she’s not worried about lunch or dinner. A woman knows,” she said.

  Another woman, another pointed comment about the countess’s interest. Could everyone see? Scott deflected, hoping to close the conversation. “Maybe that’s why I’ve never figured one out—a woman, I mean.”

  “Don’t try to be funny.” Marlyse fixed him with a no-nonsense stare. “Tell me; are you interested in her?”

  On this dangerous ground, Scott ducked. “Now you’re funny. Of course not,” he lied.

  Scott’s carefully planned evening wasn’t working out. His chance meeting with the countess and her provocative comments had driven distance between him and Marlyse. Any conversation they had was clipped, Marlyse’s smile gone, and her appetite uncharacteristically lost. She denied anything was wrong, denied that she was acting differently toward him, but he could see she was jealous. And understandably so. Scott was clearly infatuated; the older, worldlier woman was intimidating; and Millie, Solange, and Marlyse had all three sensed that the countess was targeting their beau and friend. Scott groaned inwardly. Would dating a more appropriate girl—one his own age and of similar social standing—be any less complicated than calling the countess, whatever might happen? He’d thought a relationship with Marlyse would be easier to navigate, and perhaps it would’ve been without his feelings for the countess. Marlyse was treating him as if he hadn’t any options. But Scott was going to make the call, and soon, before the countess lost interest (or patience).

  After their desultory dinner and during the taxi ride back to her place, Marlyse did not relent. She pouted, cajoling Scott about his intentions regarding the countess. And Scott knew that anything he could say would worsen the situation. There was no way to logically disabuse her of suspicions about the countess’s interest, and he worried that his expressions might inadvertently reveal his own unrequited passion. Therefore, he remained silent, which seemed to accommodate them both.

  PUTTING THOUGHTS OF THE COUNTESS ASIDE, SCOTT WORKED hard to make amends with Marlyse. He felt bad about the ruined date and hoped to repair their relations; she was, after all, one of his few university friends. A few days later, Marlyse agreed to come to his apartment, and after her first visit, the ice was broken. They were back to their easy conversations. She then came regularly, sometimes to study in the quiet of Scott’s apartment. As time passed, she’d arrive after dinner just so they could be together.

  The girl who accepted that first brief kiss on her doorstep had blossomed into a more passionate young woman. Soon, those evenings of convivial togetherness included more intimate moments. In the afternoons and early evenings, Scott and Marlyse found themselves engaged in passionate make out sessions, kissing, touching—and always stopping just short of where they both wanted to end. While Scott wasn’t exactly Casanova himself, he knew she was even less experienced. As Scott became surer of his desires, he sensed an ambiguity of feeling, a fear of losing control, as Marlyse contemplated the act of love.

  She distanced herself, offering excuses as to why she couldn’t come over. “I think I might be coming down with something,” she’d say. Or, another time, “I need to study alone. I need to concentrate.”

  There were many excuses.

  She wasn’t telling him everything.

  Marlyse lived in one room of a large apartment on the top floor of a pre-war building. Her landlord, Madame Giradet, was a Swiss widow of some means and little nonsense. Her temperament found expression in her ensemble: a bare face, tight perm, and brown, high-top lace-up shoes (never count on a flexible disposition from a woman who wears overly sensible shoes). Madame Giradet’s colors of choice for her wardrobe were gray, dark gray, and even darker gray.

  This somber woman had assumed the mantle of Marlyse’s in-residence parent-away-from-home. From the beginning, Scott had had to endure Madame Giradet’s lightly veiled disapproving looks and comments. His defects were based on the old woman’s dislike of foreigners, and he was certain that, when he wasn’t around, Marlyse was getting an earful. Heaven forbid that the American should take advantage of young Marlyse. Along with Madame Giradet’s xenophobia were traces of jealousy toward the young and a general sour misanthropy.

  Scott’s suspicions were soon confirmed. One evening when he was picking up Marlyse, Madame Giradet invited him into her salon. “Monsieur Stoddard,” she sniffed, “I believe that Marlyse’s parents would want her home earlier than is your habit.”

  Scott smoothed the waters, politely assuring her that he’d return Marlyse in a more appropriate timeframe. But he wondered—would Madame Giradet’s antipathy persuade Marlyse to stop seeing him? Or would the old biddy go so far as to intercede with Marlyse’s parents?

  fourteen

  MARLYSE SURPRISED SCOTT BY PROPOSING THEY pick up prepared food, have dinner in the apartment, and listen to some music. He thought it a lovely idea, as he’d wanted her to hear the new Beatle’s release, Please, Please Me, he’d picked up when passing through London.

  After class, they stopped in at Manuel’s, where they bought an assortment of small bites—canapés, some cheese, chocolate—and a bottle of Meursault. Back at Scott’s apartment, dinner was spread out on the coffee table in the middle of the living room. Turning on the phonograph, they spread a blanket on the floor and sat, sipping wine and listening to music. The mood changed as the night wore on; playfully feeding each other canapés as Johnny Mathis crooned Chances Are, Scott became mesmerized by Marlyse’s mouth as she savored each bite. Her sensuous enjoyment was almost like sex itself. Did she realize the effect she was having on him? Scott reached for Marlyse and held her close. He kissed her long and slow, gently probing her lips apart with his tongue until her arms encircled his neck, pulling him closer. Her body writhed against his, and Marlyse gave short, muffled moans with his every touch. This, then, was the time; this time, neither would be left wanting, and their lovemaking was urgent and satisfying. Afterward, Scott felt a serene, almost surreal exhaustion, and they stayed wrapped in each other’s arms for a long time. When the record player stopped, they still didn’t move. Tenderly pulling the blanket over them both, Scott cradled her in his arms, preserving the sweet feeling.

  OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, SCOTT WAS SURPRISED TO LEARN that intimacy changes everything—and not always for the better. Marlyse had become distant. After that blissful evening, a week went by before Scott saw Marlyse again, and she acted as if he’d hurt her in some way. He tried to tenderly nudge her back to a better place, but she would have none of it.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked gently. “Marlyse, please tell me—why are you pushing me away?”

  At first, she wouldn’t answer, but he held her close and waited. “We shouldn’t have made love. It was wrong. Everything’s happening too fast. We should’ve waited until we were married. Or at least engaged. I’m Catholic, you know,” Marlyse said tearfully.

  No amount of reminding her of their affection made any difference whatsoever. Scott saw she was suffering from a bad case of guilt and drowning in a sea of self-inflicted punishment. He’d understood she was inexperienced, but could she really have this much guilt about premarital sex? It was 1963!

  Scott was floored at what came next. Marlyse said, “Maybe we need some time apart. Maybe we need to think about what we really want.”

  Later, when he called, Madame Giradet answered the telephone, and he could hear Marlyse in the background, whispering: “Tell him I’m not here.”

  Scott guessed that Marlyse was using deprivation of her presence and affection—a well-worn tactic (one Scott was using himself, with the countess)—to force him to see it her way. How could he have been so unaware? Scott berated himself for this predicament; he’d
been so focused on their enjoyment of one another that he’d not realized Marlyse’s more traditional feelings. She believed what they’d done was wrong, and he’d never thought they’d marry. Could she be holding back, outlandishly hoping to push Scott toward marriage, simply because they’d been to bed together?

  Marlyse and Scott had had tentative plans for him to travel to Basel sometime before Christmas to spend the holidays together. Although they hadn’t spoken of it, he presumed the invitation to visit her family was off. Lacking any precision of details or a direct withdrawal, his punishment seemed to stretch on indefinitely.

  AS THE HOLIDAYS CREPT CLOSER, SCOTT HAD TO ATTEND TO other pressing matters. He’d signed a contract to buy an Austin-Healey, which he was to pick up in Rotterdam. The car would be available at the Dutch free port any time after the seventeenth of December, and so he needed to travel from Geneva. He and Marlyse were still at an impasse. If this were to resolve before their planned holiday, he calculated less than a week to mend their break.

  For days, Scott attempted to contact Marlyse. After several unreturned telephone calls, he purchased a ticket on an overnight sleeper. When Marlyse finally called, she didn’t seem as upset as she had been when they last spoke. Scott was grateful for the truce; he’d missed her. When he reminded her of his obligation to pick up his car in the Netherlands the next day, Marlyse realized he was leaving. There was a long pause, and then she emotionally wished him well; she hoped he’d have a nice Christmas. The holiday, then, was off. Scott tried again; he asked if they could get together to talk. Again, Marlyse adamantly said it was no use right now. He became resigned—their relationship was over.