“Sir? Sir? Excuse me. Sir?”
“Allogenic not allergenic; antigen not antibody; lymphocyte not lymphoma,” I mumbled aloud before realizing I had been dreaming. I opened my eyes to see an attractive young woman peering down at me.
“What?” She definitely wasn’t part of my dream.
“I’m sorry, sir. We’re approaching Orly and you need to fasten your seatbelt. And place your seat in the upright position.”
The stewardess was smiling, but her tone was serious, so I quickly obeyed. I turned and watched out the porthole as the plane began its descent over the green checkerboard of fields and forest. I could just begin to make out a city skyline in the distance when the landing gear clunked into place and the lush green countryside was replaced by suburban style housing developments and highways. From the air, it could be home.
But this wasn’t home. This was France. And the skyline was Paris.
“The City of Lights. The City of Love.”
“Excusez-moi?”
I turned to the woman sitting beside me, realizing I must have spoken aloud. “Paris.” I motioned to the porthole. “They call it the City of Love?”
“Oui, monsieur.” She smiled warmly. “Paris est la cité de lumieres et la cité de l’amour.
I leaned back in my seat. Cité de l’amour.
L’amour? Yes!
Despite my inability to speak French, I managed to get through customs fairly easily. It wasn’t quite as easy to hail a taxi in the bedlam outside the airport terminal, but eventually I was able to get one of the distinctive red and black Peugeots to stop for me. I tossed my bag onto the rear seat and tried to read the directions I had written on a scrap of paper to the driver.
“Americain?” he asked, without turning his head.
“Yes…ah…oui.”
I assumed his grunt meant to get in, so I did.
Traffic from Orly into the city was just as bad as people had warned and we moved at a snail’s pace. I glanced at my watch several times until I noticed the driver’s scowling reflection in the rearview mirror, followed by his speeding up and then slamming the brakes, throwing me back against the seat.
I sat back, wondering why I’d timed my arrival so that I had to go directly to the theater. My intent was to be a surprise, but the surprise would be ruined if I arrived late, or missed the concert entirely.
It was important that I be there and important that I not be a distraction on one of the most important days of her life. Of my life. Of our lives. I was often described as dependable, bookish, brainy, boring. But tonight I was going to prove that I could be spontaneous; even romantic.
Romantic? Yes!
“Monsieur?” The driver roused me from my daydreams. The taxi turned onto a narrow street and stopped abruptly.
“Le Theatre des Champs Elysees, Monsieur.”
“This is it?” I looked up the street, not much more than an alley. This couldn’t be the Champs Elysees.
“Monsieur dites le Theatre des Champs Elysees.” The driver sighed loudly and pointed to the building.
I looked where he pointed and realized it did look like the photographs I had seen, so I took a roll of bills from my pocket and handed him a few. When he said nothing more, I got out and grabbed my bag. Seeing the sign that indicated the building was the Theatre des Champ Elysees, I followed an arrow that pointed to the Billetterie.
The young woman seated inside the small booth jumped when she saw me headed in her direction.
“Ah! Le médecin!” She scurried over and opened the door next to the booth. “Venez avec moi.”
I followed her through a maze of long dark hallways, stowed my bag where she directed, and then headed up narrow stairs and into a room.
Just as I started to sit down, a tall dignified man with a thick mane of white hair came in. “Ah, le médecin.” He offered his hand. “Mademoiselle still does not know?”
I nodded, thankful the Maestro spoke excellent English.
“The concert starts momentarily. You should wait here until you are able to hear the musicians finish tuning and the audience applauding my entrance. Once it gets quiet…” He opened the door and motioned for me to step out into the hallway.
“Those curtains.” He pointed across the hall. “What do you call it? Box? There is a box for you. Mademoiselle will be focused on the music and should not see you. Once she is finished I will tell her to look up. Then, you will have your surprise.”
The conductor turned to leave. “I would imagine that there will be quite the celebration tonight, oui?”
Celebration? Yes!
I waited in the small windowless room, just as I’d been instructed, and once the tuning ended and the audience applauded, I walked across the hall and sat down. There she was, sitting among the other musicians on the stage. I’d never seen her look more beautiful, and I’d never been more in love.
I was certain everyone in the concert hall must have heard my heart pounding when she stood, carried her cello to the front of the stage, and sat down. She took her bow and looked to the conductor. This was it; the first performance of her own composition. She had confided her joy and fear in her letters and a recent phone call. I’d done the best I knew to reassure her, but I now could see the fear on her face. Then she began playing and it disappeared. And she was magnificent.
I and everyone in the hall jumped to our feet when she finished. She stood, acknowledging the accolades. The conductor whispered to her as the applause died down and she looked up towards me. And I saw joy.
Joy? Yes!
The moment the concert ended, I slipped through the curtains and began running down the hallway, not having a clue how to find her. I turned into the first stairwell I saw and there she was, tears streaming down her face as she jumped into my arms.
“You came. You came,” she repeated over and over as I held and kissed her.
She finally broke away and led me to the lobby where I smiled stupidly and stood with her as she accepted congratulations and introduced me to fellow musicians, dignified and obviously wealthy patrons, and other friends and well-wishers. I didn’t understand a word they said, but it was obviously they had all heard about “le docteur en médicine”.The other members of the orchestra invited us to join them for dinner, but she said that she wanted to show me the city. Once we were outside she confided she didn’t want to share the evening with anyone but me. Grabbing my hand, she led me up the Avenue Montaigne to the Avenue des Champs Elysees, then stopped and pointed up the broad boulevard.
“The Arc of Triumph. Beautiful.” I murmured as I pulled her close and tried to kiss her. “But not as beautiful as you.” I looked around. “Where is the Eiffel Tower?”
She laughed. “You must call them l’Arc de Triomphe de l’Etoile and le Tour d’Eiffel.”
I pulled her closer. “Show me the Tour Deefell, and then…”
“We have to take Metro. It’s on the other side of the river. But so is my…Do you have a room, Brian?”
I laughed nervously. “I…no. I thought…I…” We’d practically lived together in New York. “I had assumed…You said your roommate moved out.”
“Of course you’ll stay with me. We’ll go to the Tour d’Eiffel and then I’ll…” She laughed enticingly.
Once on the subway, we took advantage of an empty car, making up for our long separation while trying to bridle our desire until we got to her apartment. Eventually she said we were at our stop, grabbed my hand, and practically dragged me up the escalator.
We exited onto a busy street and she dropped my hand and spun around. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it Brian? Paris at night? It’s…”
I grabbed her hand. “Where is it? The Eiffel…I mean the Tour Deefell?”
She turned and ran, pulling me behind her. We ran up the street I later learned was the Avenue de la Molle-Picquet and past the Jardin du Champs de Mars. She pulled me into a stairwell and ran up several flights, then out onto a balcony. I was completely out of breath when we finally stopped.
“There it is Brian. Le Tour d’Eiffel.” I turned and looked at the brightly lit structure in the distance and then back at her. She spread her arms and spun around; love, romance, celebration and joy exuding from her. And I knew.
I knew. Yes!
I reached into my breast pocket, pulled something out, and spoke her name.
“Teri? Teresa?”
“Is that what I think it is?” Her voice was quivering as she stopped spinning. “Is that?”
“It is.” My voice was shaking, too. “Will you?”
She leapt into my arms.
“Oui!”