Part 1: Meetings
I was walking in some of those narrow streets on the left bank of Seine. It was late the evening, and I had finished the work that brought me to Paris and was just soaking in the atmosphere of the city. I heard a voice speak close in my ear:
"Pardon, monsieur. Où est l'hôtel Ritz?"
"Désolé, mais je ne parle pas français," I answered automatically, as I turned to look who had spoken.
I saw a thin woman of medium height with dark brown, almost black hair that fell just beyond her shoulders.
"Oh--English, then?"
Her voice carried the very faintest trace of an accent--so faint that it was hard to place. German or Dutch, maybe.
"Oh--yes. Where do you want to go?"
"The Ritz--I seem to always get lost on this side of the river."
I started to describe the bridges to look for.
"Would you mind terribly --I mean if you aren't busy--could you just show me?"
As she was talking I had a minute to catch up with the situation. I realized that I had initially mistaken her age. Although she could not have been much more than thirty, I had taken her for older. I realized that she was wearing clothes of the very best style of thirty years ago. They were apparently new and clearly expensive, but the mismatch in age gave the queer impression of an older woman.
As we walked, she asked what brought me to Paris.
"Work--I'm an IT troubleshooter. My company sends me around to various cities when something breaks that the locals can't handle."
She smiled.
"And do you like traveling so much?"
"Oh yes--I'm learning about all kinds of different places..."
As we chatted, we found ourselves at the Ritz. I had walked by it a few times, but had never been inside--its prices weren't exactly within my per diem.
"I insist that you accept a drink in thanks."
Her voice was subtly different--more authoritative.
The doorman seemed to recognize her, and when we sat down at a small table in the corner, she lifted a finger slightly.
To my surprise, the waiter arrived almost immediately with two glasses filled with a rich amber liquid.
"They know my order, here, you know--it's one of the reasons I come back. Cheers!"
I followed her motion, raising the glass to my nose. A rich smell, laced with hints of peat and seaweed, filled my nostrils.
"I mostly stick to the Islay single malts--have you tried them before?"
I pretended a knowledge of Scotch well beyond my actually experience of a mistaken order of a double Glenlivet in college.
She continued to quiz me on my life, my job, my travels. Several times I tried to redirect the conversation to why she was in Paris or what (if anything) she did. But she always responded with a silvery laugh and another question of her own.
I let her guide me in the time appropriate for consuming a scotch, neat. After our glasses had been empty for a bit, I began to make noises about needing to get up early for work. Not that I was anxious to leave such a mysterious companion, but after all, I was just the navigator.
"Well, I can't have you being fired and lose the chance to meet up with you again sometime, can I?"
So saying, she took a small notepad from her handbag, together with what was soon revealed to be a fountain pen. She wrote a number on on the paper, tore it out of the pad and gave it to me.
"Keep in touch, my dear."
Part 2: Missed connections
That paper ate a hole in my mind, I must confess. After two days I couldn't resist and sent a text inviting her to a bistro I had found.
"Thanks darling--but I'm not in Paris any more. But tell me next time you are over here in Europe."
And so started a series of text messages. Two or three times, I tried to connect with her on various trips, but since I didn't know where she lived or what she did, the chances of anything coming out of this seemed remote.
At the same time, she was getting to know me at least fairly well. Dating history (not much since Clara left me two days after I proposed, and she accepted), work, school, everything.
One day, she asked about art:
"Ever bought something at Sotheby's?"
On an IT consultant's salary?
"Since you will be in London, can you collect something for me? You can give to me when we meet up."
How could I say no?
I was sure they were going to call security on me when I walked to the auction house's front office. But they were exceedingly polite.
"Ms. Naomi has been waiting for this for a long time--thank you for taking it to her."
And I walked out with a small, heavy, package wrapped in brown paper.
"Did you get it?"
"Yes..."
"Did you look at it yet?"
"Oh--I didn't think I was meant to."
"Of course you may--you might find it...educational."
It was a small painting of a woman in modern riding dress, holding a riding crop over her head with both hands. Her hips were jutting out to one side, with the crop held to the other. She looked like a woman you would not want to cross.
"Why *this* painting?" I asked her.
"Oh--it just spoke to me."
"So you like horses?"
"Not particularly."
Part 3: A second meeting.
I started to send her my travel plans further in advance when I could. Finally, she answered that she would be in London the same evening that I would.
We met around 9 for a late dinner at a small restaurant of her choosing. It was an odd place. No sign advertised its presence, and the furnishings, while of the highest quality, were dated and used. But no one would question the food or the service--I had a perfectly cooked steak, accompanied by a red wine that I had never heard of, but would have been happy to drink for the rest of my life.
I was cutting a piece of steak when Naomi asked:
"Have you asked for that promotion yet?"
The question surprised me, and my knife slipped, drawing a drop of blood on my left hand.
"Oh dear--let me help..."
For the first time since I had met her, I heard a note of excitement in her voice. As she used the napkin to clean the cut, I saw her finger collect a drop of blood. When she brought that hand across her lips for a moment, the drop vanished...
"You really should talk to Carl--you're doing two people's work and getting paid for three-quarters of one person."
Said with a knowing smile and wink: Even if she couldn't have been more than four years older, she somehow always made me feel young, inexperienced, naive.
I gave the painting into her keeping.
"Who knows--maybe I'll find something similar for you to hang in your bedroom."
