Chapter 2

“And so are the denials,” I replied. “The world is a tough place right now. France is doing all it can, but it can’t take many more, not this year anyway. There are other countries that could—one North American country comes to mind, and it’s not Canada—but I think we are nearing our limit.”

We continued to work that afternoon, a Friday, with the hope of finishing up with all these reports in a week or so. If we finished the reports a few days early, it might mean we could extend our vacation by a few days. On a cold and cloudy afternoon in January, the thought of a few extra days in sunny Spain can be a powerful motivator.

“Where do you want to go for dinner before we go the opera tonight?” Margaux asked me as we finished up for the day.

“Probably our usual, the one right across the street from the indoor mall. That way we’ll have only a short walk to the opera house, rather than having to get on the subway. It seems to me that most of the subway stations in Paris smell of urine, and that can be all the more disgusting after a meal.”

“Offensive to your high-class sensibilities?” laughed Margaux.

“You don’t have to be high-class to dislike the smell of urine. It’s disgusting. I wish they would clean the stations once in a while, not to mention chasing out the homeless.”

“And send them where?”

“I don’t care! Just get them to stop pissing in the subway stations!”

I don’t remember what we had for dinner that evening, but I do remember our conversations. Margaux asked me why I didn’t search for a man when we were at the opera. We had season tickets, so we were there a number of times in the course of a year.

“How many young guys do you see there?” I asked.

“Well, not many. That’s probably because the season ticket holders tend to be wealthy. And not many young men have made their fortune yet.”

“And don’t tend to like opera.”

“You’re right. Not to mention, many of the men at the opera are opera queens.”

I laughed at that remark. “Yeah, that wouldn’t work for me, would it? The right plumbing, but they’re not interested in a woman.”

“Perhaps you could take one home for the night and change him.”

“Hah! And how would I do that? Stick his finger in a wall socket and shock him?”

“Perhaps you could use your feminine whiles on him. You can be quite persuasive with the younger guys.”

“Honey, I’m not wasting my feminine whiles on a man who just wants dick. And are you calling me a cougar?”

“Well, you do seem to like younger guys.”

“So what if I do? I’m an attractive woman of thirty-five, and I look younger than that. Why would I want to be around an older guy who’s like an old Greek urn—he can’t stay upright. The fact that he’s got money isn’t enough for me.”

“Okay then, so you’re not going to meet a guy at the opera. But maybe you should keep the possibility open. The bassoon player in the orchestra is kind of cute.”

“You mean the tall bearded one? No, not my type.”

“But you have to have big hands to play the bassoon. It’s a big instrument. You know what they say: big hands, big…”

“Oh, just stop. It’s time to go if we’re going to get to our seats before the lights dim.”

We walked quickly to the Opera House. “This building always takes my breath away when we come here after dark,” I said to Margaux. “The sheer opulence of it is overwhelming.”

“Well, it was built during the 1870s at the time Napoleon III was completely doing over central Paris, with the wide boulevards we know today. Being just down the street from the Louvre, it was meant to be an eye-catcher.”

And it certainly is. The gargoyles, the marble columns, the gilded statues, the grand staircase, the chandelier, the stage that can hold 450 people—there isn’t another venue quite like it. Like many other Parisians, I eschew the new opera house built in the 1980s and prefer to come here.

We quickly walked up the grand staircase to our balcony seats overlooking the orchestra pit. We barely had time to glance at our programs before the lights dimmed and the overture started. As always, the first act of Carmen was intense and amazing. I smiled when I remembered that, at the opera’s premiere in the 1800s, fathers covered the eyes of their daughters and escorted them out of the theatre when the cigarette girls emerge from the factory and begin flirting with the soldiers. Today we think nothing of it. The curtain rained down on the first act and Margaux and I went down the staircase for a glass of wine during the intermission.