By the time I get out of the shower he is awake. "I'll be home late," I say. He says okay. As always, I am curious. "What do you do all day?"
As always, he says, "this and that."
"It must be hard for you," I say, "I'm gone all day, and you don't have a job."
"I have a job."
"Oh?"
"Making you happy."
"That's sweet, but don't you get bored?"
"No."
If he won't admit it, what can I do? "It would be easier if you spoke French," I say. "Why not take lessons?"
"That's a good idea," he says.
I leave the apartment. Isabelle, the concierge, is rolling out the garbage cans. We exchange greetings. In an effort to be friendly, I say, "I'm trying to persuade my husband to take French lessons."
"But he speaks French very well," she says.
What is she talking about? "He does?"
"I heard him," she says.
"You heard him?"
"When his friend dropped him off."
"His friend?" I hate repeating every word but she must be mistaken. He doesn't know anyone in Paris. Has he met someone?
I know so little about him, we have known each other such a short time. Marry in haste, repent in leisure. The words come back to me.
I cross avenue de Villiers, turn right on Jouffroy. The door to the bakery on the corner stands open, but for once the aroma does not make me want to stop and buy a croissant. I remember thinking I saw him one day on Boulevard Haussman in a shiny new car like the one the concierge described, but decided I must have been mistaken. Now I am no longer sure. I want to return home and ask questions but keep going. I don't want to be late. From Jouffroy it is a straight shot to the office at Pont Cardinet.
I join the other employees assembled in the courtyard. At nine, the bus pulls in, and we board. I sit next to Lou behind the driver. The bus pulls out, up avenue Jouffroy and onto boulevard Malesherbes.
"Can you imagine an American company taking us out just because we made our deadline?" she asks.
"Executives," I say. "Not working stiffs like us."
"Oliver was disappointed husbands weren't invited," she says.
"How is Oliver? Is he happy in Paris?" I ask.
"Who wouldn't be?" she counters.
"What does he do all day?"
She sighs. "Visit museums. Sit in cafes."
"Aren't you worried he'll get into trouble?"
"What kind of trouble?" she asks. "Oh."
I see that she understands. It is one explanation. But why didn't he tell me he speaks French?
"You haven't been married very long, have you?" she asks.
"We got married just before I came here."
The bus stops. A mob surrounds us. "A strike," Lou says. "I do believe they're enjoying themselves." I agree. "Did you hear about the murder?" she asks. "I should say assassination."
"No, who got killed?" For some reason, the news upsets me.
"That politician," she says.
"Monsieur Secnazy," I say. "What happened?"
"A lone gunman," she says, "they say they have no idea who did it. Of course they know. He was asking too many questions so they got rid of him."
Our destination in champagne country is an hour away. I spare little thought for the green and bronze countryside rolling by. I have too much on my mind.
The bus pulls into the champagne house at Venoge. The weather is much colder here than in Paris. A guide takes us on a tour of the cave, but I pay scant attention. I am too busy wondering who my husband is. After the tour, it is time for lunch. We troop into an underground room like the great hall of a church, tapestries on the walls instead of stained glass windows. In the center of each table stands an ice bucket containing a magnum of champagne, Venoge's Brut Cordon Bleu.
Waiters fill our glasses with champagne, and, when each magnum is empty, it is removed and another placed in its stead. I feel like getting drunk and drink too much.
"Pol Roger was Winston Churchill's favorite champagne," the waiter informs us as he pours more champagne. "In the dark days of World War Two, he said, ‘in victory we deserve it, in defeat we need it'."
"Oh, look," someone says. "An accordion player." I remember the night my husband and I walked into a street dance, an accordionist playing dance music, and we joined in with the other couples. I wonder if it will ever happen again.
I return home to an empty apartment. Too empty. I run to the bedroom and open the door to the armoire where we store our clothes. The breath I have been holding escapes with a sigh. His clothes are still there. His suitcase is there.
I hear the sound of a key in the lock, and the door opens. "You're home," I say.
He is not alone.
I ignore the other man. "The concierge tells me you speak French," I say.
"I was going to tell you," my husband said.
"What's going on?"
The other man answers for him. "If we tell you," he says, "we'll have to kill you."
He smiles. It is a joke. I think.
"What are you doing in Paris?" I ask.
Before he can answer, the stranger says, "Come on, let's go out to dinner. My treat."
I realize no more will be said about my husband's mysterious vocation.
"Is that your car?" I ask, pointing to the sleek black number parked at the curb.
"Yes, but we don't need a car," he says, "we're going to your favorite restaurant."
As we walk around the corner to rue Messionier, I wonder how he knows that the Bistrot of the 17th is my favorite restaurant. I consider how little I knew about the man I married, what other surprises are in store.
