The young woman arrived first,
then the young man. They did not kiss
or shake hands, their sleek features
unbroken by any recognition I could see.
His dark navy blue tie pulled aside
and carelessly knotted.
A quarter inch of white shirt visible
at the wrist and tight at the chest
the way a towel clings to a swimmer
emerging from a pool; the unwrinkled
suit unphazed by the cramped cab ride.
It was obvious both were known
and liked by the waiters.
I sent them a drink, she lifted a white
chrysanthemum hand and smiled directly
into my eyes.
You expected them to dance well,
to know about fine art and car racing.
I lowered my head, Paris and Anais
appeared; she was an illustrator
for a magazine; her fat blue fountain
pen marking across butcher paper
or even a table cloth when driven
by an idea. We danced at a cellar club
named The Yellow Dog that Sings.
Sundays we rented bicycles;
she hitched a ride hooking my belt,
skirt billowed and rapid fire English
lavished on the summer air.
In the flower district we drank hand
squeezed orange juice poured over
a fist of ice.
I slept late and worked afternoons
selling American bonds.
We lived in a Faubourg Saint Germain
flat. She favored black sweaters,
gray skirts that matched the color
of her leather crafted high heels.
We shopped together for my linen
summer suit at Dior; he made each
patron wear a tie and we purchased
two pictures from his art gallery;
in the evening we said good night
to each other and to our pictures.
I went with Anais for her fitting
at the Coco Chanel store, a maroon
jacket almost Japanese.
The war had not yet begun,
Chanel not yet a traitor to France.
It was the last year
being Jewish hardly mattered.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem