Song of the Amorous Frogs – Part 4
A Paris Story of the 1920s
(This is a longer work of historical fiction - too long for a single post, so I’m serializing it in 6 parts, one every other day until finished. Apologizing in advance for so many emails. I promise not to make this a habit. You can read any parts you miss on my Substack space, RECOLLECTIONS, REFLECTIONS, FANTASIES, FICTIONS - and I’ll bring all the parts together there when done.)
VII
I saw Clem off at the Gare d’Austerlitz – watching the train puff and squeal leaving the station, until I could no longer see even a hint of it in the distance. And then I walked slowly, alone through the Jardin des Plantes, and back up the hill to our room, overlooking our garden, in our Paris – now all lonely places, since I was now alone in them.
But Clem would not be gone long. He said he’d be back as soon as he saw his father off – a week, perhaps. No matter what, he’d be coming back to Paris. And then we’d have the rest of our spring there, and our summer wherever we picked for les vacances, and then our fall, and after, in Paris. We’d start looking for an apartment as soon as he returned.
The next morning, as I lay alone in our bed, I heard the birds chirping, and fluttering through the leaves of the trees outside our window. The school children sang their morning songs. Madame Le Floch, standing on the marble porch across the garden, sang out the maid’s name in her high, harsh voice, “Françoise. Françoise, où-es?” I got out of bed and made our coffee – my coffee, one cup, not two – on our hot plate, and thought how long the day would be without Clem to share it.
But it was April in Paris, and Clem would be returning soon – as soon as he possibly could, and I didn’t begrudge his devotion to family – I felt the importance of family myself – but I also felt a chill, though the morning was warm, at my first day in Paris in weeks alone, without Clem.
When I finished my coffee, I took my sketch pad and walked down the hill, between Saint-Étienne-du-Mont and the Pantheon. The Eiffel Tower, thrusting elegantly into the soft spring sky, guided me as I walked down rue Soufflot – not stopping, this time, for coffee and croissant at our usual café, but nodding to our familiar waiter as I passed, who nodded back in his reserved, Parisian way. I crossed the busy Boul’Mich, bustling with morning traffic, and walked through the regal gate into the Jardin du Luxembourg.
I walked beneath the glorious chestnuts, bursting into bloom after a few days of warm sun, and passed the Medici Fountain off to my right. One night not long before, Clem and I had walked there together as the sun faded away. We saw a single pink rose floating in the water, like magic, since there was no rose bush from which it could have fallen. We’d been alone on the path, and to my surprise, and delight, Clem had taken my hand and twined his fingers with mine. I felt the flush of what must be love, of a sort, as I remembered it.
I spent the day alone, sketching in the garden. I sketched Bourgeois’s bronze L’Acteur Grec, with the dome of the Pantheon in the background. I sketched the basin with toy sailboats scudding over the rippling waters, as little boys with long guide-polls scurried after them around the stone basin rim. I sketched the Harde de cerfs by Leduc, the majestic beast with antlers flared out from his head like a spiky patinated halo.
I watched the men – the young and cocky along with the old and crafty – casting their pétanque orbs with deft twists of wrists at the courts on the west side of the garden, envying their comforting camaraderie. I thought perhaps I would take up pétanque, and join them one day. But not this day.
VIII
Though it seemed long indeed, finally the week passed, and I came back to our room after an early supper at Lilane – Madame and Chef both asked after Monsieur Clem, and sympathized that I must eat alone – to find a telegram slipped under the door: “Returning tomorrow. 2 PM train. Gare d’Austerlitz.”
That was all, but it was enough. That night, I hardly slept. But that night, excited anticipation disturbed my sleep, instead of the loneliness of the nights before. And in the morning I set out both our cups, in case he’d want a coffee when he returned that evening. I looked forward to brewing it for two again.
And so I was rushing through the Jardin des Plantes on the way to meet Clem’s train when I heard the amorous frogs and the title of my story came to me. Even rushed and excited as I was, I knew instantly that it was the perfect title. I smiled to myself with satisfaction at its rightness as I passed the Natural History Museum, where Clem and I had stood amazed one cold day as we took in the magnificent skeletons of the world’s great beasts arrayed through the vast gallery.
I crossed the chaotic boulevard and almost ran down the Quai d’Austerlitz, and up the steps and through the door, into the station. A glance at the board told me that Clem’s train had already arrived – early this time, when I would so much rather it had been at least as late as I was – and at a platform far at the other end of the station.
For whatever reasons, the great hall teemed that afternoon – perhaps it always did – and I dodged and weaved making my way to the platform listed on the board. By the time I reached it, the only arriving passengers remaining were a hunched old French woman, in a provincial brown coat and out-of-fashion hat, being lead by a spiffy boy of six or seven, perhaps her grandson, followed by a porter assisting with her three battered bags.
I looked in all directions for Clem, but he wasn’t there. In his eagerness at being back in Paris (and at soon to be seeing me, I hoped), he must have decided I’d missed his telegram, and wouldn’t be there to meet him. A bit disappointed, perhaps (?), but still eager, he must have struck out alone toward our safe retreat, on our idyllic garden, atop our impregnable hill, in our paradisical Paris. We may even have passed each other on different paths in the Jardin des Plants. Or he might have dashed into a taxi so that he could get there – get home – sooner. I considered a taxi myself, but decided that, with the crush of afternoon traffic, I’d make better time afoot.
My heart pounded, both from my almost sprint back from Austerlitz, and from anticipation, as I mounted the steps two at a time up to our floor. I had my key in my hand already as I reached our door, and had it in the lock fast as an arrow flying to a target.
“Clem!” I said as I turned the nob and opened our door.
But Clem was not there. Instead, I found another telegram, pushed under the door again, by Françoise, or perhaps Jérôme, the boy who helped with gardening or running errands or whatever else needed doing, and which a boy of 10 could be useful at. Once again, I tore it open.
“Not able to return as planned. More later.” That was all it said, but this time it seemed hardly enough. I wanted it to say so much more. There was so much more it could have said, though still it would probably not have been enough. I folded the paper and walked back down to the garden with it still in my hand. I sat in one of the garden chairs – like those the efficient women in the Luxembourg and the Tuileries rented for a few sous, rushing over as soon as you sat down, to be sure they got their due. There was no one to rush over in our garden. I sat alone there, until Françoise came down the marble steps carrying a bucket and mop, on her way to mop the black and white paving in our stair.
“Bonjour, Monsieur. Monsieur Clem n’est pas ici?”
No, Monsieur Clem n’est pas ici. I didn’t speak the words. That would have been too painful. And there was no need to say what was already so obvious, without words. There’d be time enough for saying things – and so many things to say – when he returned. Whenever that would be. For now, I sat silent in the garden, listening to the birds rustle in the leaves. Madame Le Floch leaned out a window above, and rasped out, “Françoise. Françoise, viens ici maintenant.”
And then looking down at me, she said, “Bonjour, Monsieur. Monsieur Clem n’est pas ici?”
“Non. N’est pas ici.” She was Madame, and Madame must be answered, no matter how painful, saying the words. “Peut-être la semaine prochaine.”
Maybe next week. Yes, next week for sure. And then Paris would be Paris again. Certainly it would.
The next day I went back to the Jardin des Plantes, not hurrying to the station as before, but to stroll alone, to pass the time until a solitary supper, a lonely night. I went by the basin where my title had come to me. But now, instead of the screech, I heard only quiet. The frogs seemed to have had their fill of love, for this year, at least. The grandmother and her granddaughter had gone. La saison de l’amour had passed. No doubt, there would be another season of love next year. And the year after. There always had been; there always would be. No doubt. And a year was not so long in the great scheme. A year made hardly a blip in the great scheme. And long before that, Clem would be back. Il le ferait certainement.
(This is a longer work of historical fiction - too long for a single post, so I’m serializing it in 6 parts, one every other day until finished. Apologizing in advance for so many emails. I promise not to make this a habit. You can read any parts you miss on my Substack space, RECOLLECTIONS, REFLECTIONS, FANTASIES, FICTIONS - and I’ll bring all the parts together there when done.)