Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) Read Online Free

make you a drink before dinner, madame ?”
    She
shot me a disparaging look. I glanced over at Paul, and he looked back,
defeated. He lazily thrust his hand in the air as if he barely had the strength
to lift it.
    “One,”
he said.
    “Whiskey,”
she hissed. “No Scottish swill.”
    I
looked for a bottle with a label all in French. “Is this one okay?” I asked.
    “Two
ice cubes, and a little vermouth.”
    I
knew that she meant a Manhattan. I was not going to point out the name of the
drink. “I’m sorry, madame , we don’t have any more ice right now.”
    “Well
that’s perfect. Of course you don’t.”
    “Will
you take it neat?” I asked.
    “I
think I’ll have to.”
    Our
guest was a cartoon of herself. We were doing our best to hide our amusement,
but I noticed Janie snicker. I slid the concoction toward the woman, who took
an expressionless slip.
    We
sat in silence for a few seconds. Janie and I exchanged a few silent words. I
thought that we could inhale the Esprits de la Nuit and move on. The
evening’s enjoyment beckoned and we could feel ourselves wading into bizarre
waters if we stayed longer.
    Madame
von Hugelstein didn’t say a word. She stared off in another direction, perhaps
viewing a corner of her mind that was alien to us. Or, she was doing the same
thing we were: avoiding eye contact. I decided to accelerate the exchange.
    “Well,
we were about to go get some dinner …”
    “Victor
was a good man,” she spat.
    I
sighed, seeing that she didn’t care about our dinner.
    “I’m
sorry, who is Victor?” I asked. At the moment, I didn’t know whether I actually
cared or just wanted to finish the conversation quickly.
    “The
bartender here, of course. You’re standing on hallowed ground!”
    “Where
is he?” I asked. “We heard this place has been closed for a while. Did he
quit?”
    “No,
no,” she sighed. “He has probably run off with some tramp.”
    “Oh,
uh, okay. Were you two close?”
    “Absolutely,
but it’s been a few weeks,” she said, still avoiding direct eye contact.
    Janie
and I shared a look again.
    “Are
you from the neighborhood?” I asked.
    “Yes.
I live a few streets down. I am an opera singer.”
    That
explained the downright melodic sounds of her outburst as she entered the room
minutes earlier.
    “Oh
wow, that’s great,” I said trying to lighten the situation.
    “Pete
plays a little piano,” Janie added.
    “Well,
not really. I am a writer. Well, a journalist, really.”
    The
woman didn’t react.
    “Give
yourself some credit, baby,” Janie replied. “He’s better than he says he is. He
was in a rock band once.”
    “Well,
we only played one gig. It was freshman year of college,” I answered. “Still,
it was a good place. For Indiana.”
    “I
don’t know where that is,” the opera singer mumbled into her drink.
    “It’s
in the middle of the U.S.,” I answered. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure that I caught
your name. It was Madame von …?”
    “Hugelstein.
Trudel von Hugelstein,” she said with a nod but without a smile or kind tone.
She bit into the second half of her last name and emphasized the shteen .
    “von
Hugelstein? Is that German?”
    “I’m
French, asshole!” she struck.
    “I
apologize.” There was a little more silence.
    “Victor
knew that I was French the day that I met him.”
    “I’m
sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking,” I said, back-peddling.
    She
took a sip of her drink.
    “We
were in love. Or, at least I thought we were in love.”
    Here
we go, I thought. Janie shot me a look.
    “She
was in love with the bartender here before he took off,” I whispered in English.
    “No,
I think I got it. Bummer,” Janie commented, slowly stirring her Esprit de la
Nuit with a short straw.
    Trudel
picked up her drink and stood. “It’s amazing how terrible this place has become
in just a few weeks. Look at all this dust.”
    I
hadn’t noticed it. Everything looked clean to me.
    “What
kind of bartender are