I met him on my second trip to Versailles, a sidebar on a business trip to Paris for my editor. One cannot take in the town with one visit or even, as I soon learned, with two. This time I booked a room instead of rushing back to Paris at the end of the long day of touring. I was killing time in the Americanized lounge of my Americanized hotel, avoiding the need to use my well-worn pocket translator, when he caught my eye. In hindsight, he’d purposely positioned himself on the bar stool, facing the wall-to-wall mirror, and stared at me as I sipped my chilled martini. Hours later, in my bed, arousing feelings I’d long forgotten, he told me how the thought of that clear cold gin sliding past my red lips and down my throat had driven him nearly mad with desire. I flushed, and we began again.
I don’t even know if Charles was his real name. Probably not. He claimed to be on holiday but avoided answering when I asked where he was staying. I didn’t press. I sensed he’s wasn’t the type to allow prodding. He said he owned a tech company in Bordeaux, but his daughter managed it most of the time. When I asked if he had her photo, he scrolled through his phone but couldn’t find one he liked enough to share with me.
“Why are you here?” he asked, changing the subject. We’d come down to the breakfast buffet in the café and were eating like runners after a marathon.
I paused, the ready reply on my tongue like a lyric from a well-worn song. But out slid something else. “I’m bored,” I said. “I’m bored with life, with living, with breathing and eating and talking, and all the other crap that comes with it.”
“I know. I lapse into ennui now and then. It’s the curse of the times. I make my living from people who’d rather scroll through games on their phones than live their lives. They’re addicted to the simulated hunt, the win, the automatic link to the next game without having to decide whether or not to play another round. They can barely help themselves.”
“So what do you do when it strikes?”
“I play live games.”
“What do you mean, live games?”
“I people-watch. I bed beautiful women. I travel around, see what I can get away with. Then I go back to work and try to build what I’ve learned into a programmable version of life.”
I should’ve been aghast, should’ve felt like a pawn on a board, a meme on a screen. Instead, I was intrigued, jealous of his curiosity, since I thought mine long gone.
“Do you ever get in trouble?”
“Sure. But no matter where I’ve gone, the police are corrupt, and I’ve been able to buy my way out of the petty so-called crimes I’ve committed. As for the beautiful women, well, you tell me.”
“Can I play?” I blurted out, sounding to myself like a six-year-old child.
“You already have played. You just didn’t know the name of the game. But seriously, you didn’t answer my question. Do my intentions trouble you? There aren’t enough game points in the world to buy my way out of hurting one as lovely and intelligent as you.”
“No, I’m good. I want to play. Let’s call it ‘Bonnie and Clyde’ or ‘Charlotte and Charles.’” I pressed my hand to his face. He hadn’t yet shaved, and I caressed his silvery blond stubble. Grasping his hand from across the tiny café table, I kissed a couple of his fingertips as I explored his blue-green eyes. “Please?”
“Stop! All right.” He pulled away from me and sat back, frowning. I didn’t expect that. “But if we get caught, you’re on your own. It’ll be too easy for you if you know you can get away with whatever comes of your adventure. It’s not only about winning. It’s about consequences, too. Sometimes serious consequences.” He dropped his serviette on the table and stood up. “Let’s go for a walk.” On his way out the door he collected a large folded tourist brochure from the concierge desk.
“Do exactly as I say. Ask no questions. See that young fellow in the jeans and brown sweater?”
“Yes, I see him.”
He leaned into me like a co-conspirator. “Walk over to him and ask if he has the time. Tell him the battery on your phone died, and you’re late to meet a friend. Sound a little distressed, but act friendly. And whatever you do, don’t look at me. Keep your eye on the mark.”
“The mark?”
“Yes, that’s what they’re called. I’m going to lift his wallet. And you’re going to help me.”
I was too jazzed up to care about consequences. I took a few deep breaths while I mentally practiced my speech, hoping the young man spoke English. Most here did. He was absorbed looking at a framed street map posted on the corner of the building. I walked up to him, clutching my mobile.
“Excuse me. Do you have the correct time? My darned phone is dead, and I’m running late to meet a friend.”
He turned and smiled at me. Eager, innocent face. Probably a student. Looking up, he pointed at a clock on the church tower across the street. “Ten-fifteen,” he said.
“Oh my. Duh. Well, I never know if those things are fast or slow or even working at all. But if you say so.”
“Trust me. I know it’s correct. Hey, are you American?”
“Yes. Sorry, I’m so late. I really have to be on my way. Thanks.” I nearly ran back to the hotel where Charles was waiting for me in the lobby.
“Let’s have another coffee,” he said, leading me into the now deserted restaurant. Smiling, he ordered us each an espresso and a Frangelico. “You did well.”
I sat, still a little shaky, but strangely proud of myself as he took the mark’s denim wallet from inside his folded brochure and placed it on the table between us. How had he pulled it off? I didn’t need to know. I exhaled deeply and took a sip of the syrupy hazelnut liquor. Then another. Totally turned on, I could have jumped him right there in public.
He casually scanned the room to be sure we were alone. Then he removed a wad of Euros from the wallet, put them on the table, and slid them toward me. I put them in the roomy side pocket of my long, loose jumper, never taking my eyes off his face, his mouth. No purse. I traveled light.
“That was a practice round,” he said. “Are you ready for more?”
“Teach me everything you know,” I whispered, leaning closer.
He laughed and stood up. “Two or three more times and then, you’ll see, the thrill will wear off. It’s not like we have to do this for a living. But, before it does wear off, let’s go back upstairs.”
Sated, showered, my adrenaline soaring, I felt like his protégé in all things physical. I put my tee shirt and jumper and sandals back on while he sang in the shower, a soft, sexy French baritone. He stepped out of the tiny stall that barely contained him, dripping, smiling. Well, I’d thought I was sated. An hour later we were finally ready to roll.
“Let’s get to work,” he said. We walked outside in the muted mid-afternoon sun and I almost missed seeing him drop the denim wallet into the gutter.
“Let’s go to the palace. So many tourists. So many marks.” I tried to sound competent.
“Yes, but so much competition. And no, there are lots more CCTV cameras there than here on the streets.”
So we followed his proven routine three more times—in a residential neighborhood, then a busy retail area, finally the train station. I varied my plea for assistance, sounding more credible, to myself at least, with each successive caper.
Then, suddenly, I was spent. I just wanted to sit down, lie down, rest for a few minutes. I had to let the roaring in my ears dissipate. We found a bench outside the train station, and I perched on its end, elbows on my knees, head lowered in my hands.
“Are you okay, Charlotte?” he asked. “You haven’t eaten since early breakfast, just coffee laced with booze.”
I felt my mobile vibrate in my pocket. It was Rachel, my editor. Ten years my senior, she allowed me a long leash, but suffered no excuses. I had to take her call.
“Just checking in to see if you’re still working for us. I’m sure he’s hard to part with, but we do have a ‘zine to run, girl.”
“What do you mean? I’m just taking a couple of vacation days while I’m here. And, actually, I’m doing some side research on a piece you might like.”
“Right….” Rachel drew out the word, elongating it like a snake. “In Paris. It better be good.”
“It will be. Trust me.”
“Well OK, I know you. Stay safe. And, chop-chop, be back by Friday morning so we can lay out the next issue. I need you here.”
Her girlfriend attitude went only so far. It motivated most of us who worked for Women of the World to over-deliver for her, but it was hard to maintain that girlfriend confidence if you let it fray. It would be game over. This one, anyway.
I looked up at Charles. The sun was at his back, and all I could make out was the outline of his head. His face blurred into a mask I’d seen before, too many times, on too many men. He was right: the thrill wears off. I’d been on a bender with him, drunk on adrenaline. How could I break it to him that the party was over?
I didn’t have to.
“You have to get back to work,” he said. “The ultimate excuse.”
“I’m afraid it’s not,” I lied. “An excuse, I mean. Let’s go blow our stash, eat an extravagant meal, get smashed, have a farewell fuck.”
The café was empty but for us. The staff paid us full attention, too full for comfort. While our server decanted the wine, Charles explained how the snails in our appetizer were hand-picked in the wild in France, then starved before they were refrigerated into forced hibernation to optimize their sensuous texture. How the artisanal mushrooms beside our veal entrée were grown in the darkest soil, rich in manure, to complement their pairing. How the veal itself was a cruel meal, sliced from a tender young calf that gave its life for us.
I wasn’t sure if his graphic culinary lesson was designed to further mentor me, or to distance us. It offered too much information. Listening to him, I had to force each swallow down with the pinot noir he’d poured for us. I began to cry.
“When are you leaving?” he asked, smiling sadly.
“I have to rebook my flight. There’s a nonstop that departs early afternoon tomorrow.”
“And tonight?”
“It’s ours.”
In the morning I walk to the train station to catch the coach back to Paris and then connect to my flight. It’s drizzling, a gray morning. Umbrellas sprout everywhere. They remind me somehow, disgustingly, of mushrooms.
sad/song, collage by gaye gambell-peterson
Author's Comment
In my corporate life, I spent a lot of time in France, and one of my favorite haunts between business meetings was the town of Versailles. Strolling amid the grandeur, I could easily imagine guest lists so long the staff had to create their own adjacent farm to provide them with meals, the carriage rides through square miles of lush gardens, extravagance everywhere. Waiting for the C Train that took me back and forth from the town to Paris, I also took in the current-day denizens and tourists whose lives were far more mundane than those in the era of Louis XIV. Those imaginings led to this story.
Through her search for newfound purpose in her seventies, author Karen Roberts discovered that voices of encouragement were difficult to find among the popular paradigms of aging: decline, withdrawal, and disengagement, among them.
This workbook presents a remarkable opportunity to unlock a fulfilling and purposeful later life stage.
What’s Included:
- Thought-provoking discussions on aging, gender, and culture
- Interviews with eight inspiring women who overcame challenges and pursued their passions later in life
- Engaging questions to help you reflect and grow on your journey.
- Unique experiences and wisdom that women bring to the later years
Patricia Ann Bowen has authored a medical time travel series, a collection of short stories, and a serialized beach read. Her stories have appeared in anthologies and numerous online publications. She's taught short story writing, and leads a critique group of short story writers for the Atlanta Writers Club.
Alison Jennings is a Seattle-based poet and artist who taught public school before returning to poetry. She’s had a mini-chapbook and over 100 poems published in numerous journals—including Cathexis NW Press, Mslexia, Poetic Sun, Red Door, Society of Classical Poets—and was a semi-finalist in several contests. For more about Alison, click here to go to her 
gaye gambell-peterson, octogenarian, dances with two muses--collage and poetry. Her collages are widely displayed in the St Louis region, often with a poem alongside, and also serve as companions to the poems in her chapbooks: pale leaf floating and MYnd mAp. She gets enough positive attention to keep both dances going.
Very lovely. I like the photo of Alison. It is very natural and just as she is in person.