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“You’re a romantic.”
I take a step back and start walking again, winding down the narrow alley, past more cafés with wooden shutters and scents of wine-braised meats and yeasty breads.
“I am. I admit it. I’d like to think that if someone I loved needed help, I’d come back day after day until I knew they were okay.”
He smiles, and we turn randomly down another cobblestone alley drenched in shade and cool gray stone.
“You’re constant,” he says.
I shake my head. “Constantly unexpected.”
He smiles and then stops in front of a great black arched double doorway. Above the door is the carved face of a man and stone scrollwork. On a plaque above the shuttered window is an inscription for Heloïse and Abelard. The plaque claims they lived here together.
“TheHeloïse and Abelard?” I ask.
“You know of them?”
“Who doesn’t?” I ask, frowning at the stone house. “I prefer the doves.”
Max raises an eyebrow. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Don’t you?”
He considers this, rubbing his chin in mock thought. “Let’s see. What do I prefer? Saving my love from starvation or ... falling in love with my young student, and when she gets pregnant, secretly marrying her?”
“Don’t forget the castration,” I say, smiling sweetly.
“Bloodthirsty.” Max’s eyes narrow. “See, this is what I mean. Passion led to castration. Abelard and Heloïse had a passionate affair. She got pregnant. They secretly wed. Abelard got his testicles sliced off. Heloïse was sent to a convent for the rest of her life. They exchanged letters for years but never saw each other again. How sad is that? I’d rather keep my testicles, thank you very much.”
“I don’t know,” I say, pondering the plaque. “Perhaps he thought it was worth it.”
“Trust me. He didn’t.”
I smile up at Max. “Are you sure? Maybe the sex was really, really good.”
“Would you live in a convent for the rest of your life for one night of passion?” Max asks.
Because of the line of his brows and the serious bend of his mouth, I take my time considering the question. Would I spend the rest of my life locked away for one night with someone I loved beyond reason? Someone I considered the other half of myself?
“Yes,” I decide. “I would.”
Max raises his eyebrows.
“I don’t think it was just sex or just passion. I think it was more. If I got to experience thatmorefor even one night? Yes. I think the light of that one night could burn bright enough to make all the other remaining nights seem like day.”
For a long moment we both stare at the house Abelard and Heloïse supposedly shared their love in. And then I pull Max along the road and we continue winding across the Ile de la Cite.
Around every corner there’s a surprising sight. The sunlight escaping the shadows of a cloud to glint over the gold-tipped fence outside Sainte Chapelle. And once inside, the lower chapel with its vaulted ceilings that reminds me of lying in the grass at night under a canopy of stars. And then in the upper chapel, where the sun streams through a sea of stained glass so that it feels as if you’re standing inside a rainbow, trying to catch your breath.
We catch the time at the oldest clock in the city. It’s nearly 1 p.m. So Max closes his eyes, spins us around, and picks a direction, and we stumbled happily into the cutest café I’ve ever seen. It’s an old stone house on a narrow street, with a profusely blooming wisteria covering the walls and climbing to the roof. The purple blooms fall like grape clusters from the vine and the lovely spring smell fills the street. There are café tables outside, spread among potted flowers.
Max can’t resist the sweet butternut soup with hazelnut chips and the terrine with porcini mushrooms and pistachios. I can’t resist the frites soufflés, which are golden twice-fried potato wedges, perfectly puffed and perfectly delicious.
Max carries the food in a take-out bag and I carry the bouquet of freesias, now hanging a bit limp in my hands. We walk west along the Seine until we finally reach the end of the island, and below, there’s a green triangular park with chestnut and maple trees and a few benches.
“There,” I say, pointing to a large weeping willow with its boughs bending over the Seine. “I want to go there.”
I’m just not sure how. We’re high above the little park. The stone bridges with their arches spanning the water connect the island with the rest of the city. Tour boats with tourists enjoying the sunshine and the spring weather sit on the top decks and snap photos as the boats chug past. The sound of cars rushing over the bridge and music echoing in the stone tunnels bounces to us. Birds in the maple trees sing, and there’s the sound of laughter from a group of tourists leaning over the river.
