Pisco on the Quai de Montebello by Julian Gallo

Pisco on the Quai de Montebello

It’s the third time this week he saw her, sitting on her small stool in front of her portable easel painting the view across the Seine. The first two times he’d seen her he just walked past, but now he’s intrigued, and he stops walking and peers over her tiny shoulders to have a look. It looks like the same painting she’d been working on the prior two days, a view of Notre Dame, the autumnal trees, and vines which cascade down over the wall on the right bank. There’s something a little Cézanne about it, well executed with an interesting color pallet. Her hands are small but not delicate, her skin a little dry on the back of her meaty hands, strong hands but incredibly adept when handling the thin paintbrush. Her hair is long and black and pulled back into a loose ponytail, revealing her striking native features, with furrowed brows over her narrow dark eyes, so deep in concentration she isn’t aware she’s being watched. She can’t be more than five feet tall, he figures, and her navy blue slacks are a bit snug around her hips and thighs, and the thick grey sweater wrapped around her torso looking one size too large for her diminutive figure. She pauses a moment to wipe her brow with the back of her hand, never once taking her eyes off the point across the river which she is painting, then continues her work, focused, and oblivious to her sole audience. 

​Instead of moving on, as he had done the previous days, he decides to sit on the edge of the quai, his feet dangling over the water, and smoke a cigarette and watch her work. It’s a fine autumn morning, cool and breezy, the kind of Paris morning where he loves to just be out and about, heading nowhere in particular. He looks across the river, only occasionally turning his head to watch the woman painting. The crow’s feet around her eyes and the deep laugh lines etched around the corners of her mouth reveal she’s perhaps in her forties, a good ten to fifteen years younger than himself. There’s something pleasant about her, though he can’t quite put his finger on exactly what it is. He watches her for some time before she finally notices him, peering over the edge of the painting and fixing her dark eyes on him. She holds his gaze for a moment, then returns to the task at hand. 

​He decides to walk over to her, again taking up position behind her to study her work-in-progress. She senses him there now, and looks over her shoulder at him for a moment, smiles, then returns her attention to the painting. 

​It reminds me of a Cézanne, he says. 

​She looks at him and smiles but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know if she understands English but he feels compelled to talk to her anyway. She adds a little color, then gently places the paintbrush down, wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. 

​Thank you, she says. 

​You speak English. 

​Un poco, she says, smiling, her eyes fixed on his. 

​Where are you from? 

​Peru, she says, but I live here now. 

​She stands up and stretches into a yawn. She’s tiny, barely up to his chest. She turns to face him, wrapping her big sweater around her torso.

​Are you an artist? 

​No, he says. Just an art lover. Your work is very good. 

​Thank you, she says with a smile. I try to paint every day. I’ve been working on this one for the past few days. It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it? 

​You can’t beat the view, he says, taking a drag off his cigarette and turning his gaze towards Notre Dame, which is still under reconstruction from the fire which nearly destroyed it. I walk this way each morning, he continues. I’m staying in a hotel nearby. 

​So you’re just visiting. 

​Just visiting. I come here at least once a year, if I can. 

​You are from the United States? 

​New York, yes. He extends his hand. I’m Michael, he says. 

​Teresa, she says, taking his hand. Her hand feels dry, strong, though small enough to virtually disappear in his grip. 

​I have friends in New York, she says, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes. I used to live there but now I live here. 

​I envy that. 

​She smiles, pulls her sweater tighter around her torso. 

​Cold, she says. 

​It’s not too bad. 

​She reaches into the pocket of her sweater and removes a half empty bottle of pisco. She unscrews the cap and takes a drink. 

​Would you like some? 

​Before he can answer she pours a shot into the cap, nearly to the edge, and hands it to him. He carefully raises it to his lips and drinks it in one gulp. He feels the effects almost immediately as the liquor glides down his throat and warms his chest. He hands the cap back to her. 

​You like it? 

​I like it, he says. I’ve had some before. I used to have a bottle. A friend of mine had given it to me for Christmas once. 

​A Peruvian friend? 

​From Lima. 

​I’m from Huancavelica, she says. It’s in the mountains, then I moved to Lima to attend the university. Your friend, from Lima, was she born there? 

​Born and raised, he says, but she lives in New York now. 

​In the mountains. Not that this means anything to him but he recalls how his friend Jacinta always talked down about those who came from the more rural regions. They were uncouth and illiterate, were often employed as servants for the more upper middle class families, were often treated as second class citizens, which he always found rather puzzling. Jacinta had grown up with servants who were from the mountains and she told him her family would never socialize with them. She claimed to have done so and was often put down for it. It was all strange to him but where someone was from didn’t matter. Jacinta always revealed some sort of class bias whenever she talked about her upbringing, though she always saw herself as some kind of radical. He wonders what Jacinta would think of Teresa had she been there with him, how much of these ridiculous social issues would assert themselves. 

​Teresa pours another shot of pisco into the cap and hands it to him. He doesn’t want it but he takes it anyway, acknowledging the gesture of friendship. He tosses it back, again feels the warmth in his chest. He knows he shouldn’t have anymore. It’s starting to go to his head. He hands the cap back and before screwing it back on, she takes another healthy swig from the bottle, then screws on the cap. 

​My husband said I drink too much, she says, putting the bottle back in the pocket of her sweater. I don’t think I do. I don’t normally carry a bottle of pisco around, but on mornings like this… 

​You live here with your husband? 

​I’m divorced, she says. 

​There’s something a little sad about the way she says this, her eyes momentarily distant, gazing into some realm in the past. There’s something sad in her eyes, a sort of yearning, a broken heart that hadn’t yet healed. When she returns to the present, she gazes up at him, her eyes playing about his face, as if she were searching for something. She turns to look at her painting, studies it. 

​I’ll let you go back to your painting, he says. I didn’t mean to interrupt. 

​No, it’s okay, she says. I appreciate you taking an interest. I think I’m done for now. 

​She begins to pack away her paints and brushes, then touches the painting with her fingertip. 

​It’s dry already, she says. I work with acrylics. Oil paint takes too long to dry and I don’t have the patience for all the cleaning involved. 

​She picks the small painting up by its edges and places it inside the box, then breaks down the portable easel. When she’s finished, all that remains is a small wooden box. 

​Would you be interested in seeing my work? 

​I would love to, he says. 

​I live not far from here. 

​She folds up the stool and rests it on the cobblestones, removes the bottle of pisco from her pocket and takes another sip. Then she pours another shot into the cap and hands it to him. He gulps it down, though he doesn’t really want it. 

​Thank you, he says, but that’s it for me. I’m starting to feel it. 

​He picks up the stool and she grabs the portable easel by the handle, starts walking towards the steps to the street above. 

​Thank you for helping me, she says. It’s not far. 

​The sky is a bit more overcast now and the wind has intensified, blowing the autumnal leaves around their feet. She walks beside him, her hair now multiple black tendrils blowing in the wind. She’s as small as a child, her gait rapid, three steps to his every one. He’s feeling more of the effects of the pisco now, a little dizzy as he climbs the stairs behind her. 

 

 

. . . . . . 

 

 

Her apartment is at the end of a bend on Rue de la Bûcherie, on the third floor above a café with a small triangular plaza framed by a row of trees, all of which are in full autumnal bloom. As she searches for her keys, he looks around the quaint out of the way corner and realizes he’d seen it before during one of his morning sojourns around the Latin Quarter, not far from his hotel. He envies her even more now. To be able to live in a place like this… 

​She opens the door and he follows her inside the darkened vestibule, then up the narrow staircase to her third floor apartment. It’s a small apartment with three windows facing the small plaza outside. He walks over to the window and looks down at the row of trees and the small garden across the street. Teresa opens the windows to allow some fresh air in, then places her portable easel down near a stack of paintings which take up one entire wall of the small living room. It’s a rather sparsely furnished apartment, without many luxuries, and everything, save the bedroom, is all in one room. She removes her sweater and tosses it on the room’s lone easy chair, near the full wooden easel she has set up in the corner of the room, along with all her paints and supplies. 

​Take off your coat, she says. Would you like some coffee? 

​Coffee would be great, thank you. 

​He watches her as she makes her way into the kitchen, which is just a small corner of the main room. She’s a lot thinner than her bulky sweater made her look, though not a thin woman. Robust, with thick short legs and strong wide shoulders. She undoes her ponytail and her silky black hair cascades down over her shoulders, almost reaching the small of her back. Then he turns his attention to the paintings she has stacked up against the wall, most of which are no larger than sixteen by twenty, all various Parisian landscapes and street scenes, all very Cézanne. 

​These are great, he says. Ever try selling any of them? People would love these.

​I do, she says. Once a week I go to Montmartre and sell them in the Place du Tertre. It’s how I supplement my income. The rest comes from my ex-husband. 

​She pours each of them a cup of coffee and places them on the kitchen table. 

​You can smoke if you want, she says. I don’t mind. Use the saucer as an ashtray. 

​She sits down and watches him walk over to her, again her eyes playing about his face. There’s something about him she trusts, though she isn’t quite sure why, isn’t sure why she would even invite a total stranger up to her apartment in the first place. She feels strangely at ease around him, though perhaps a little shy and insecure. Her ex-husband’s words echo in her mind — You’re too trusting, naïve. That’s why you’re always disappointed in life. You expect too much, even from me. Was he that kind of man, she wonders? He doesn’t seem to be. He seems lonely, traveling by himself so far from home, as lonely as she is. 

​He sits down and removes his pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. 

​Go ahead, she says. I’d like one too, if you don’t mind. 

​He passes her a cigarette and lights it for her, then lights his own. The coffee is strong and black, the way he likes it. He glances at the Bialetti on the stove, the same one he owns. 

​How often do you sell your work? 

​Some days are better than others, she says. It’s mostly tourists, though. I don’t have any serious artistic aspirations. I just love to paint. I gave up my dreams of being a real artist after I got married. My husband didn’t think it was practical. 

​You are a real artist, he says. 

​I appreciate that. 

​Where’s your husband now, if you don’t mind me asking? 

​I don’t know, she says, then takes a long drag from the cigarette. I’d rather not know. He wasn’t a good man but it took me a long time to understand that. 

​I’m sorry to hear that. 

​I know I don’t know you but you seem like a kind man. Are you? 

​I guess so, he says, a little confused. I think everyone thinks they are, right? Everyone is a hero in their own story. 

​There’s an aura about you, she says. One of kindness. You’re lonely, like me. 

​He doesn’t know what to say and watches her, again her eyes drifting off to somewhere in the past. 

​I really don’t have any friends, she says. I spend a lot of time alone. Painting is the only thing that keeps me going. Without it, I don’t know what I’d do. Are you lonely? You are here by yourself, correct? 

​I don’t think about it, he says. I like to travel, and I love Paris in particular. 

​Are you married? 

​No. 

​Were you ever married? 

​No, he says, again a little confused. I never met the right person, I guess. 

​So you’re lonely, she says, then sips her coffee. It’s nice when two lonely people encounter one another, don’t you think? What do you do for a living? 

​I used to work for a publisher, he says, in New York, but I lost that job. It’s a very volatile business. 

​Oh, so you love literature. 

​I do, but the publisher I worked for didn’t handle literature. It was business publications. Not very exciting but it was a decent living before they sent me packing. I’ve been kind of kicking around the past few weeks, trying to figure out what my next move is. 

​So you came to Paris. 

​I always do whenever I need time to get away and think, he says. 

​This brings a smile to her lips, a warm smile, almost child-like. Her eyes continue to play upon his face in a way which is starting to make him uncomfortable. 

​How long will you be in Paris? 

​Another two weeks, he says. 

​She doesn’t say anything and sips her coffee, takes one last drag from the cigarette and stubs it out on the saucer. 

​Maybe we can spend some time together, she says. 

​He doesn’t know what to say at first, studies her as she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture he finds somewhat alluring. 

​Sure, he says. I don’t have any specific plans. 

​Have you been to the museums? 

​Many times. 

​Maybe we can take a day and go to one of them — but not the Louvre. It’s too chaotic for me. Makes me anxious. 

 

 

. . . . . . 

 

 

They meet the following morning at the same spot on the Quai de Montebello. It’s a much colder morning, the sky overcast with a threat of rain. As he waits for her, he paces along the quai, looking out across the river, then coming to a stop where she had set up her easel the previous morning, trying to locate the point of view of her painting. When he thinks he finds it, he looks across the river, recalling the work she’d done, and he thought she’d captured it beautifully. 

​He doesn’t see her walking down the stairs, now dressed in a light brown leather three-quarter length coat, black slacks, and a brown wide brimmed hat, her black hair long and silky down across the front of her shoulders. She watches him staring across the river, pensive, smoking his cigarette, and for a moment she sees Renzo standing there. Renzo used to love this spot, often taking her for long walks on Sunday mornings, long before he changed, before he transformed into the man she’d come to despise. They’d walk hand in hand along the river, follow the quai all the way to the Pont de Sully, then back again, and keep walking to Pont Royal before going for coffee at their favorite café on the Boulevard St. Germain. He was a pleasant man then, attentive and kind, and his recent appointment as a translator at UNESCO was his dream job, which enabled them to live in Paris, secure a nice apartment on Rue Bonaparte, where she continued to paint in the extra room he suggested she use, that is, before he had a change of heart and thought her to be wasting her time, but that would come much later, after he changed, after he became a completely different man, the man she came to despise. She takes the stairs carefully, her little legs finding it difficult to navigate, holding on to the wall for balance until her feet find the cobblestones of the quai. She smiles, holding down her hat to keep the wind from blowing it away, and picks up her pace. 

​That’s when he turns and sees her, smiling from ear to ear, her little hands holding onto her hat, the waterfall of black hair now blowing in the wind. At first it’s hard to believe it’s the same woman he saw wrapped in her oversized sweater just one day earlier, swilling pisco from the bottle. They greet one another with a friendly kiss on the cheek, and begin walking down the quai, with no particular direction in mind. From his vantage point, it’s hard to see her face which is now hidden beneath the wide brim of her hat, and it’s only when she looks up at him can he see the color in her face, looking well rested and happy. 

​Renzo and I used to walk here every Sunday, she tells him. It was our favorite thing to do and we looked forward to it each week. 

​Renzo is your ex-husband? 

​The man who walked with me on Sunday mornings is the husband I like to remember, she says. He was different then. I really loved him. What a strong, handsome man he was, with those dark eyes, chiseled features, tall and lean, athletic, healthy. He was from Puno, considered Peru’s ‘folkloric capital’, a city on the banks of Lake Titicaca. He thought himself a poet, wrote mostly in Puno Quechua, but sometimes in Spanish, but no one was interested in his work so he gave it up, focused his talents on translation, which he eventually parlayed into a career, after relocating to Lima to attend the university. She didn’t meet him in Peru, but in New York City, at a party one of her friends had arranged. How smitten she was with him and he with her, and a romance blossomed almost immediately. He treated her like a queen. They soon moved in to a one bedroom apartment in the Jackson Heights section of Queens and together they pursued their individual talents while holding down regular jobs to make ends meet. He took on some translation projects, earned a little extra money, which came in handy, while she painted, sometimes entering her work in local art fairs, selling a few here and there but otherwise not having much success. It was a simple, quiet life, and their circle of friends was small. They lived in that apartment for about five years, then the opportunity to take a job working at UNESCO presented itself and he applied, not thinking he’d be chosen for the job. When he was informed he was, and they would have to relocate to Paris, Teresa was over the moon. To paint in Paris, she thought. The romanticism of it all swept her off her feet. 

​Are you still interested in going to a museum? 

​Maybe later, she says, returning to the present. I’d just like to walk for a little while. 

​They continue on down the quai, walking against the wind, not talking much. There’s a bit of awkwardness between them being virtual strangers, each not knowing what to talk about. It doesn’t seem to matter. They’re enjoying one another’s company, feel a little less alone. They keep walking down the quai, approaching the Pont L’Archevéché. She reaches into her pocket and removes the bottle of pisco, which is now three quarters empty, and unscrews the cap and takes a sip. 

​Would you like some? 

​It’s barely ten o’clock in the morning and she’s already drinking. This didn’t necessary mean anything but it is curious. That and the fact she carries it with her, and he wonders if this is something she does all the time, despite saying she doesn’t. 

​Why not, he says. 

​She doesn’t pour it into the cap this time and hands him the bottle. He only takes a little sip, for there isn’t much left. Again he feels the warmth of the liquor slide down his throat and into his chest, temporarily relieving the chill he’s feeling from the frigid winds. He hands the bottle back to her and she screws on the cap, returns it to the pocket of her coat. 

​Renzo was a poet, she tells him, or was. He stopped writing when no one was interested in his work. He wrote in Quechua, then tried to write in Spanish thinking he would have more success but nothing ever happened. It deeply disappointed him. 

​Poetry is a hell of a way to try and make a living, he says. I tried my hand at it too but I never had any serious literary aspirations. I wrote for myself, when the mood struck me. None of it is any good but I found them to be a release. Like writing in a journal. 

​It was very important to him, she says. I think his failure is one of the reasons why he became so embittered. They found an apartment on Rue Bonaparte and settled in. While Renzo set off for work in the mornings, Teresa would take her portable easel and wander around Paris, searching for the perfect spot in which to paint. There were no shortage of spaces, and at first she set up on the street close to the apartment, then eventually began venturing out around the Latin Quarter and its environs, finding the Jardin du Luxembourg to be one of her favorite locations. She loved Plein air painting, where she could enjoy the elements, be outside, and observe life taking place all around her. Before long she had produced a fairly substantial body of work and it was Renzo who suggested she try to sell them and make a little extra money. It was Renzo who suggested she go up to Montmartre and sell her paintings in the Place du Tertre, which he learned from a coworker is where all the painters went, though they mostly sell their work to tourists. One morning she gathered a few of her paintings, grabbed her portable easel, and took the metro up there, eventually finding the charming square hidden away in the shadow of Sacré-Cœur. She found it lively, inspiring, and she befriended a few regulars who also spent their afternoons around the square painting and selling their work. It was a dream life, one she would have never imagined as a child in Huancavelica, before the world opened up for her, before she ever realized it could. 

​She stops walking and gazes out across the river towards the Île Saint-Louis, towards the Église Saint-Louis-en l’île against the overcast sky. She’d never been to that church before. 

​Let’s cross the river, she says, pointing to the church in the distance. I’d like to see that church. 

​They cross the Pont de la Tournelle, the now spire-less Notre Dame covered in scaffolding to their left, the distant high-rise buildings to their right. The tide of the Seine is rather high, almost rising as high as the arch under the bridge. Teresa takes a moment to pause and look out across the river, towards Notre Dame and the thick grey clouds above it. She removes her bottle of pisco and again takes another sip, then offering it to Michael, which he declines. She takes one more nip before returning the bottle to her pocket, then turns to face him, smiling, her face partially obscured by her wide brimmed hat. 

​Life is funny sometimes, don’t you think, she says? I mean, before yesterday morning neither one of us knew the other existed, and here we are. 

​She presents the surrounding vista with a sweep of her little hand. 

​You don’t mind seeing the church, do you? 

​No, he says. I’d never seen it either. 

​Renzo used to say you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all, but he was never a religious man. He couldn’t appreciate it. Are you a religious man? 

​No, he says. 

​I had a feeling you weren’t, she says, then steps towards him, curls her arm around his, the brim of her hat pressing against his shoulder. She looks up at him and smiles. It’s like walking with a child, she’s so tiny. He feels like a giant next to her. 

​They cross the bridge to the right bank. Life is full of strange moments, he muses. Here he is, walking arm and arm with this tiny Peruvian woman in Paris, a woman who didn’t even exist just a few hours earlier. It’s the first time he had a woman, any woman, on his arm for as long as he can remember. He isn’t particularly attracted to her, but there’s something endearing about her, and in a strange way, he feels close to her, as if they had known one another all their lives. 

​She feels the same way, this stranger, this man she doesn’t even know, who she feels comfortable to walk arm and arm with, feeling no sense of danger or discomfort. Two souls who somehow found one another. What saddens her is she knows it’s temporary, that one day he will disappear, and she will be alone again, her portable easel, paints, brushes, canvases, and a bottle of pisco her only friends. One late afternoon she returned home from one of her painting excursions, feeling good about the work she’d done, and Renzo was clearly in a strange mood, sitting alone in the living room with the lights out, brooding, staring off into space. When she greeted him, he ignored her, so she thought it was best to just let him be and retreated into her studio. She wasn’t there more than a few minutes before she heard Renzo’s footsteps outside the door. She opened the door and he poked his head into the room, looked around at the paintings lined up against the wall. He didn’t say anything as his eyes scanned the room, then without another word, walked away, stepped into the bedroom and closed the door. Something about the expression on his face alarmed her. She knocked on the bedroom door, then entered, and she found Renzo sitting in the dark on the edge of the bed, staring out the window. Are you all right? He didn’t answer her. When she was about to back away from the door he looked at her and said, You’ve been working, I see, but what good is it? What’s the point? What do you hope to accomplish? She didn’t know how to answer him and again asked if he was all right. Just close the door, he said. I want to be alone. She does what he asked and returned to her studio, removed her new painting from the box and studied it. A view of the Pantheon from the foot of Rue St. Jacques. Then she heard the footsteps outside her studio again and opened the door. Renzo now had his jacket on and he walked down the hall without a word, then left the apartment. Something must have happened at work, she surmised, then returned her attention back to her paintings, though something bothered her. She went into the bedroom and looked around, didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. Then, just as she was about to leave, she saw a piece of paper on the nightstand. On it was a woman’s name — Yeva Nazarian, along with a telephone number. She felt a tightness in her chest, and wondered who the woman could possibly be. Someone from work? A business contact? She placed the paper down where and how she found it, then returned to her studio, but she could no longer concentrate. She retrieved the paper and called the telephone number. A woman’s voice answered. She didn’t say anything and hung up. Who was this woman and what was he doing with her phone number? She looked towards the front door. For the first time she realized how delicate a thread connected people to one another,  that it could be over as easily as it began. Where would she go? What would she do? She didn’t want to allow her imagination to run away with her. She was certain there was a reasonable explanation. 

​They arrive at the church and Teresa looks up at the spire, then crosses herself. Michael just watches her, her curtain of silky black hair spilling out from under her wide brimmed hat. She then begins walking up the stairs to the entrance of the church, looks back at him and gestures for him to follow her. 

​It’s a beautiful church, no different than the million others he’d seen. Teresa walks down the aisle towards the votive candles and digs out a coin from her pocketbook. She drops the coin into the collection box and lights a candle, crosses herself again, then bows her head in prayer. He just watches her, her face obscured by her hair and the brim of her hat, her little hands folded in prayer. When she finishes praying, she crosses herself again and genuflects, then looks around the church. 

​I always find peace in an empty church, she says. This one reminds me of a church in Lima. I used to go there all the time, just to sit and think. I was young then, confused, but I suppose I’m no less confused now. Age has a way of making things even more complicated. You think you understand more as you grow older, but all you realize is you never really knew anything.  

​He doesn’t say anything and watches her. 

​Do you mind if we sit for a little while? 

​He sits with her in the front pew, studies the ornate altarpiece and the incredible craftsmanship of the church’s interior. All built by hand, centuries ago. He wonders how the hell they did it. Teresa sits beside him with her eyes closed, her big hat now on her lap, her silky black hair hiding her face. He feels compelled to put his arm around her but he doesn’t, and instead allows his eyes to play upon her thick, lustrous hair. He wants to run his hand through it. He imagines it’s soft. He draws his nose a little closer to her hair and sniffs it, wants to rub his nose in it. Something comes over him, a desire to comfort her in his arms but he hardly knows her. How was it that he feels so connected to her? 

​She places a hand on his knee. He looks down at her tiny hand, which barely covers his knee. It’s dry, chapped, with tiny fingers, and her fingernails short and well groomed. He places his hand over hers and she turns her hand over, takes his hand in hers. She doesn’t look at him, sits there with her eyes closed, a little smile tugging at her lips. Then he allows his fingers to stroke the back of her hair. It’s as soft as he imagined it was, like silk. 

​She lets go of his hand, puts her hat on and stands up. 

​Come, she says. Let’s go. 

​They walk along the Quai de Béthune, back towards the bridge. It’s drizzling now, and a little colder. They cross back over the Pont de la Tournelle, then down the stairs to walk along the river. She reaches for his hand, takes hold of it. 

​It’s so strange, isn’t it? We hardly know one another. 

​I was thinking the same thing, he says, but I feel like I’ve known you forever but I’ve barely known you more than twenty-four hours. 

​She stops walking, removes the bottle of pisco from her pocket, takes a sip, then passes him the bottle. There’s only a drop left. He drinks it down. 

​That’s it, he says. 

​No it isn’t, she says, then opens her pocketbook and removes another pint. 

​He wants to say something but decides against it. What’s the point? She opens the bottle and takes another sip, then passes him the bottle. He takes another sip and hands the bottle back to her. 

​That’s enough for me, he says. I’m not much of a drinker and it’s starting to get to me. 

​She takes the bottle from him, screws on the cap, and places the bottle in her pocket. When they pass a garbage pail, she drops the empty bottle into it, then takes hold of his hand again. 

​I love walking here, she says. It’s so beautiful, isn’t it? She learned soon after who the mystery woman was, an Armenian singer who performed at a cabaret in Montmartre, and Renzo had been seeing her for quite some time. His increasingly volatile behavior, his insults, and his subsequent gaslighting could no longer sustain itself. He couldn’t lie to her anymore. He was no longer in love with her, had fallen in love with Yeva, and he wanted a divorce. Though she had suspected as much, it didn’t hurt any less. She didn’t bother to ask him how he met this woman. The details didn’t matter. Nor was she going to beg him to stay, try and work things out. Everything made sense now — his constant discouragement of her work, his insulting comments, his increased distance, his lack of sexual desire, the frequency of returning home at later than normal hours, his clandestine phone calls, his secretive texting, all of it. She felt foolish, devastated, as if he reached into her chest and tore her heart out by the root. How could he fall in love with someone else? They separated and he helped her find a new, cheaper apartment on the Rue de la Bûcherie and he moved in to a new apartment with Yeva somewhere in the 7th arrondissement, near his workplace. As the divorce was finalized, he settled on a monthly alimony payment, which would be wired into her account, and that would help sustain her. She picked up painting again, since it was the only way to keep her from sinking further down into the rabbit hole of despair. Then Renzo simply disappeared. She had no idea where he went, or if he was even still living in Paris, but so long as the alimony payments kept coming in, she no longer cared, or at least that’s what she kept telling herself. An intense period of insufferable loneliness ensued and she threw herself into her painting as a way to carry on. Over time, things settled down, though she was no less alone in the world. 

​When they reach the spot on the Quai de Montebello where they first met, she stops walking and looks across the river. 

​Let’s sit here for a little while, she says, then sits on the bank of the river, removing the bottle of pisco from her pocket. She takes another sip and hands Michael the bottle. 

​Michael takes a sip, feeling the affects going to his head now, and hands her back the bottle. She holds it in her lap and continues to stare out across the river. 

​It’s going to be sad when you leave, she says. I wish there was a way you could stay here. 

​Me too, he says. 

​When you get back to New York, what will you do? 

​I don’t know, he says. Look for a job, I suppose. 

​No one to go back to? 

​Not really. 

​See? You are lonely. 

​He doesn’t say anything and puts his arm around her, pulls her closer to him. She rests her head on his shoulder and takes another sip from the bottle of pisco, stares out across the river. 

 

 

                  New York City, May 2022

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Julian Gallo Julian Gallo is the author of 'Existential Labyrinths', 'Last Tondero in Paris', 'The Penguin and The Bird' and other novels.

His short fiction has appeared in The Sultan's Seal (Cairo), Exit Strata, Budget Press Review, Indie Ink, Short Fiction UK,

P.S. I Love You, The Dope Fiend Daily, The Rye Whiskey Review, Angles, Verdad, Modern Literature (India),

Mediterranean Poetry (St. Pierre and Miquelon), Borderless Journal (Singapore), Woven Tales, Wilderness House,

Egophobia (Romania), Plato’s Caves, Avalon Literary Review, VIA: Voices in Italian America, The Argyle, Doublespeak

Magazine (India), Bardics Anonymous, Tones of Citrus, and The Cry Lounge.

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