Raindrops in Merlot

Rain Drops in Merlot

By J. Lenora Bresler

3-22-2021

The merlot in my glass trembled. I watched as rings of miniature waves emanated from its center. Then a giant dollop of a raindrop caused a huge crater in the tiny lake, throwing the lush, dark purple liquid up and over the rim, landing as a spreading stain on the once crisp, now wilting white napkin on which the glass rested. I looked up in defiance at the suddenly darkened sky. Magnificent Notre Dame to my right, the sonorous Seine to my left, and me in the middle of an onslaught of chilled rain that had assaulted me like a vindictive robber, snatching away my chance to revel in the perfect tableau I had created for myself.

A moment ago, I had been sitting there in a Paris bistro, sipping wine, my fingers caressing the rough edges of a crusty baguette, inhaling fragrant cheeses arranged artistically on a small wooden platter, and marveling that there really were mimes in striped pants performing on the street corner and music truly was wafting from an unseen source. Now, I watched as two amateur artists ran awkwardly, heads bent low, their easels jostling precariously at their sides as they tried --unsuccessfully-- to shield their would-be masterworks.

I didn’t try to escape the rain like those around me. It would do no good. The onslaught had come so suddenly that I was already drenched, my wispy sundress now molded to my skin, no doubt showing every unflattering bulge I had hoped the flowing material would conceal. As I tipped back my head, the little red beret I had secured so coquettishly on my head fell into the widening puddle beneath the table at which I sat. A waiter, crouching under a small canopy over an opened door, signaled for me to join him, but I waved a dismissive hand as if shooing away an annoying fly. It was to be for me a complete defeat, and so, I sat there and let the enormity of it pour over my body and seep into the recesses of my heart.

Everyone says Paris is the City of Lights and Love. Alas, I had found neither during my brief stint. Work had brought me here and work was to take me away just as quickly. I was here to do research, hoping to find enlightenment about a rare painting that the auction house for which I worked back in Boston had acquired. I had found no answer to the questions despite days of monotonous study. Yet I had been determined to make the most of what little opportunity I had to experience enchanted Paris, so I had squeezed each spare second I had, slipping into last tours of the day and forcing tired guards to hunt for me in the recesses of museums well past closing time. Paris’ beautiful architecture had done its job well, promising evocative backdrops for romantic stories, but the adventures I had thought to remember for the rest of my life had failed to materialize.

And so, I sat, in the rain, at a bistro table on my last night in Paris. I looked at the merlot again. Better drink it quickly, I thought, before it is completely ruined. Sacrificing good bread and flavorful cheese is a tragedy, but relinquishing the purple ambrosia that seemed to embody everything I had desired for this night was a sacrilege even my depressed state could not abide. I grabbed up the glass, and lifting it toward the unloading heavens, toasted without words, and drank it down in one giant gulp. Not delicate, not feminine, no savoring the bouquet or letting it rest on the tongue. No, it was a gulp. I slammed the glass down so hard on the table that the stem broke. I laughed wryly as I placed the remaining portion of the glass gingerly next to its severed base. An appropriate ending, I thought, and began to rise.

I was startled when a man’s arm brushed mine, reaching across my breast to pick up the broken glass. I fell backward in the chair. My head snapped up and I saw dark eyes in a thin, handsome face, merry, laughing eyes that seemed on the brink of telling a wonderful joke. In one elegant gesture, he threw the glass to the pavement. It shattered but surprisingly made little sound on the wet cobblestone.

The man smiled warmly and said something in French. Seeing my confusion, he moved back a step, straightened, and translated into English, “It is a French proverb: It is the fate of glass to break.” It was clear that, to him, the statement was apropos of my situation. To me, it was indecipherable nonsense.

I was shocked by all this, of course, but curious. The man was attractive in a vibrant way, like a painting that uses all primary colors, but in dazzling and unexpected ways. There was nothing sordid in his behavior, nothing challenging or off-putting. A word sprang to my mind -- inviting -- like an whimsical invitation you pull from a plain envelope and upon seeing it, you draw a quick little breath of pleasant anticipation, happy to have been asked and pleased to be able to say yes. I found myself knowing immediately that I could trust this man. He squatted beside me, his face coming even with mine for a moment, then he leaned down to pick up my sodden beret and glanced up at me, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. He considered me and chuckled, wringing my hat as one would a dish towel. I was about to tell him there was no need because it would only become wet again in the downpour when I realized that the rain had stopped. He saw me turn my head upward and must have guessed my thought. When I looked back at him, he winked, and silly as it is to say, it felt as if we had shared an intimate moment. Then he placed the beret squarely back on my head.

“You look adorable, you know,” he said in perfect English as he rose. There was no hint of French accent in his voice. He sounded 100% American.

“You haven’t paid yet,” he stated, tipping his head in the general vicinity of the waiter.

“No,” I confirmed, but even before I had, he reached into his pocket and withdrew several bills which he threw onto the table.

“Will you walk with me?” He asked, offering his arm in the kind of old-fashioned gesture I loved.

“Well,” I hesitated even as I rose to take his arm. This is dangerous, my mind told me, and yet, somehow, I knew it wasn’t. I had an undeniable sense that it was alright. It felt safe, but I also reminded myself to stay in wide-open public places.

We walked along the Seine, pausing now and then but mostly occupied with learning about each other. Minutes stretched on as the mugginess of the warm August evening combined with body heat to dry our clothes. My mystery man was named Paul. He was a contractor working for the summer on a project for a firm in his native Pennsylvania. He, too, was returning to America the next day.

“I hope you won’t think this too bizarre,” he said as we paused to admire the lights of the city reflecting in the river. It shimmered like a diamond road. “But I was watching you.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly wary.

“Not stalking you, that’s not what I meant. I had never seen you before you walked into that café. I just happened to see you and I watched as you sat down and ordered and had -- well, started to have -- your dinner.”

“Not such a terribly interesting thing for you to watch, I imagine,” I said, nervously fluffing my drying hair with my fingers.

“Terribly interesting, actually,” Paul said, leaning against the river wall, his other hand curled gently around my elbow. “You know, you are very, well, I hope this doesn’t offend you. I hope you won’t mind my saying,” he fumbled.

“What? Go ahead and say it. Nothing can be as bad as standing here imagining what you are trying NOT to say about me,” I laughed.

“You are very . . . open.”

“Open? What do you mean by open?”

“Oh, no, I can see where your mind is going! Au contrair, me capitan! No, no, I don’t mean easy or anything like that. I mean it in the most respectful way -- transparent, I suppose is the better term. I felt I knew exactly what you were thinking, precisely what you were feeling.”

“Well, I guess I am pretty easy to read. I’m not very sophisticated. Naïve and simple, I guess.”

“No, no. You misunderstand me entirely. You are definitely NOT those things. It was precisely because you ARE sophisticated and complex that you were so interesting to me. Because despite all that, I just felt I knew you. I could sense what was going on with you at that moment. And, frankly, it felt a lot like what I was feeling, too.”

There was so much possibility in what he had just said that I decided to ignore it for the moment.

“Just why did you break my glass and what was that proverb?” I asked.

“It was something I heard last week. At work, we were talking about motivation and sayings like ‘Attitude Determines Your Altitude’ and ‘Attitude is Contagious.’”

“And ‘if you can dream it, you can do it,’” I added.

“Exactly,” Paul said. “Well, one of the contractors, who is from Cannes, quoted that French proverb.”

“It is the fate of glass to break.” I recalled. “What does it mean?” I asked.

“He said that it means that people have a definite purpose. Maybe someone is meant to be a great architect or to write a book or perhaps to have a beautiful experience. They can sense they are meant for it, but as long as it remains undone, it will be frustrating for them. Until it happens, all that can be said is that they have a propensity for it and even a desire for it, but it is merely a disposition and not a fait accompli.”

“That seems sad to me,” I muttered.

“Oh, no!” Paul hastened to explain. “It is a great comfort while one waits. It means that when you yearn for something, it is a good indication that you are meant to have it, and that one day you will. Glass seems fragile but we can’t know for sure until it breaks.”

I shook my head. “It’s a strange phrase to use to say something really beautiful, I think.”

Paul’s laughter was like little bells gently set to music by a passing breeze. “Yes, I guess it is strange, but it seemed appropriate under the circumstances. Regardless, my lady,“ he said, playfully taking my hand and bowing over it like a Tudor cavalier. “If you don’t like the French way, we’ll forget them and go with the Jewish tradition.”

“You mean the thing about crushing a glass during a wedding ceremony?” I asked.

“Precisely. I have a Jewish friend who got married last year. Apparently breaking glass there means two things: Sure conviction that the union is right and assurance that it will last as long as it would take to try to repair all the glass shards.”

The moment paused on the air as if daring anything to disrupt the quiet solemnity it had seemed to take onto itself. Paul and I looked at each other. At that moment, the sounds of the city became very prominent to me. I heard the swell of a jubilant crowd in a nearby café, and as Paul leaned in to kiss me for the first time, we both heard a glass break.