A Paris Affair by Rosnay Tatiana de

Author:Rosnay, Tatiana de [Rosnay, Tatiana de]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781466877399
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

THE WOODS

Lamblike lovers become wolfish husbands.

—ISAAC DE BENSERADE (1613?–1691), Poem on Their Majesties’ Consummation of Marriage

It is a cold November evening and a light rain is falling over the woods. Cars move slowly down damp paths, tires hissing on the asphalt, coming and going and coming again, their headlights picking out the leafless trees and the figures who stand on the sidewalk, hips swaying, lips pouting, provocative. Behind a steamed-up window, hungry eyes. A car stops, the window is lowered, the prostitute leans down, and the age-old business of the woods begins again. She utters a few words. The man nods. The prostitute walks around the car, heels tapping the concrete. She opens the passenger door and sits down. Then the car disappears into darkness, in search of a quieter side path.

It is an evening like any other evening in the woods. The rain and the cold do not dampen the desires of these nocturnal prowlers for their regular fix of venal love. She looks at her watch. Eleven thirty. At midnight, she will go home. Another half hour to endure—so, three or four blow jobs, at €20 or €25 apiece. With a little smile, she watches as a metallic blue sedan passes for the fifth time, one of those family cars in which she so often ends up, with a baby seat and boosters for kids in the backseat. From behind the windshield, a man in his early thirties looks out at her, his expression almost fearful, his jaw clenched. She smiles at him, not too flirtatiously. You have to be careful with first-timers, because they have a tendency to flee. The car stops a little way off. One of her colleagues sets off, breasts exposed in spite of the grim weather. “Stop!” she shouts. “This one’s mine.” She moves toward the car. The window is lowered. She crouches down. He doesn’t know what to say, what to ask for. He clears his throat, but no words emerge. So, in a gentle voice that seems to surprise him, she intones the same words she repeats fifty times a day, a night: “Twenty for a blow job, fifty pour l’amour.” He doesn’t dare meet her eyes. She knows all too well what her own face must look like at this time of night, in artificial light, after a long, hard day’s work. But she also guesses that this man has not come to these bare trees, after his own day at work, in search of beauty and freshness. She knows he will not remember her face. “Blow job.” A whisper. She walks around the car, opens the door, sits down. His hands are still gripping the wheel tensely. “Take the second road on the right,” she says, in the same gentle voice. He follows her instructions. The car enters a dark pathway. The sky is barely visible between the crisscrossing branches above. She politely asks for her €20. Startled, he searches his pockets, becoming agitated and switching on the ceiling light.

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