The Sixth Station(105)
He didn’t even say how great you look. He is a giant horse’s ass.
“Oh, this is fine,” I said, slipping onto the velvet bar stool next to him.
“Johnnie Walker Blue, I presume?”
“You presume wrong.” I asked the bartender for a Belvedere martini, straight up, dry, lots of twists.
“Thanks for the duds. They fit.”
Stop looking for a compliment, big pathetic American! Fat-girl-without-a-date-for-the-prom syndrome strikes again!
“I’m glad of that. There are quite fine shops in Carcassonne.”
“I doubt that’s why you call it home.”
“Do I?”
We sipped our drinks in a strange, slightly uncomfortable silence. When I finished mine he said, “They are quite relaxed here in terms of réservations pour le dîner, but I’m sure you must be hungry.”
“You made reservations? How did you know I’d show up?”
Immediately after saying it, I felt myself flushing with embarrassment. I mean, I had shown up looking like Anna Wintour meets Lady Gaga. Obviously this somewhat dubious look required effort and, worse, caring. Yusef was polite enough not to answer.
“So then, where are we going?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.
“Does it matter, and would you know even if I told you?”
“Wow. You really know how to charm a girl.”
“I wasn’t aware that I was attempting to do that.”
Son of a bitch!
“Yes, you are. Okay? Is that settled?”
He laughed and put his arm lightly around my back as he led me out of the hotel’s side entrance nearest the bar and into the cobblestone street. He grabbed an umbrella from the bin, and we walked out into the rainy night. He held the umbrella in one hand over us and put his arm around me with the other to keep me upright on the cobblestones in those giant heels.
He pointed to the beautifully lit city walls and said, “One of these towers housed the Catholic Inquisition in the thirteenth century. It is even now called the Inquisition Tower.”
“Real knights and all that…”
“Actually, in 1142, an extraordinary thing occurred here. All the Christian tenants of the Jewish landowners donated their lands to the Templar Knights. Carcassonne became their stronghold.”
“There were Jews here in the twelfth century?”
“Yes, in the whole Languedoc area, from Montségur to Carcassonne to Rennes-le-Château—all were populated with Jews. It’s the source of the Magdalene chalice legend.”
At that point, we ducked into a little place not one hundred and fifty feet from the hotel. It was an underground restaurant that probably hadn’t changed since the Templars downed brews there.
We ducked our heads to get into the tiny front door. The fire was lit and music was playing on an antique stereo system complete with a turntable.
“I like the music here.” He stopped, closed his eyes, and smiled. “Arturo Sandoval. Nobody ever did ‘I Can’t Get Started’ like that man.”
Such a strange guy!
“Old—very old school—all the way, huh?”
“Not necessarily. But sometimes I think I only got as far as Jovanotti and Paolo Nutini music-wise.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
Touchy bastard, aren’t you?
He led me to a table in the back, and we sat down in the half-filled place. There was a banged-up piano in the corner, but no one was on board.
Immediately a bottle of Bordeaux was brought, along with panier de crudités, fresh vegetables, including a huge bulb of gorgeously fragrant anise, plus some bread, and a little bit of pâté.
He addressed the woman who brought the food, rising and kissing her warmly on both cheeks.
“Chère Madame, je vous présente mon ami Alazais Roussel.”
“Non! Il ne peut pas être!”
“Oui!”
With that I stood and Madame Cheri kissed me on both cheeks and then on my hand, tears springing to her eyes. She backed away, rubbing her hands together and mumbled what sounded like words of thanksgiving—in any language—and retreated into the other room.
“Don’t bring the ladies around much? She’s very grateful that you seem to have what looks like a date.”
He grinned, and I saw the very cute gap in his front teeth. “Don’t fill up too much on crudités. The food here is exquisite.”
“But you come for the music.”
“Definitely,” he said, filling our glasses, clinking mine. “To a good hunt.”
“Oh, jeez.” Just as I was beginning to feel slightly ridiculous all done up in the black Chanel dress, the Prada spikes, the red sweater, and a face full of tarty makeup—as if on cue—a very sexy song started playing. Well, in fact it was exactly on cue. Clearly in this place, they knew what this guy liked. I slipped my sweater off. Suddenly I felt embarrassingly warm.