Flakes of snow were falling from the sky. The white icy particles landed on the shoulders of his topcoat where they turned to tiny droplets of water. He stared somberly at the yellow roses. Yellow had always been her favorite and it reminded him of the description she had given of yellow. She had said that it was the color of warmth, unlike red or orange which conveyed a feeling of heat, or green which made one feel a coolness, and then there was the blues which gave her a sensing of icy cold. And she had said that yellow was the right color, in between, the comfort-zone that she and almost everyone sought.
Paris was lovely in the spring and of all cities in the world, the greatest for morning or evening strolls. Moving up, down, or across the streets was always filled with excitement because here one could experience almost anything that could be imagined. Almost every tree was adorned with blossoms and the bright green of the new growth of leaves. People sitting at tables on the sidewalks and, depending on the time of day, sipped either coffee, tea, or the fine wines for which the French were so renowned. Young lovers were everywhere walking hand in hand or arms around each other. They would stop, look into each others eyes, and then kiss. And those around them that saw their actions would smile and remember the sweet thoughts of like experiences of their own.
Each day as he strolled down the Rue d' Antoine, he saw her. She sat on a small folding stool in front of her easel. Occasionally she would raise her head to take in the visualization of what she was putting to the canvas that was before. Her brushes and knives would move to get this color or that color and mix them until she was satisfied that she had the right hue and then she transferred to the painting. He watched her each day, taking in the techniques she would use and watching the picture become more like the scene it symbolized. But he would also notice how her hair would dance lightly with the breezes and could even hear her humming as she worked. Her voice was soft yet had a spirit of it's own and for him it always brought a feeling of happiness. And each day he created new scenarios of her, and of her and him in his mind, though he never wrote them down.
The assignment in Paris had at first seemed intolerable to him as it took him from the hustle and bustle he had grown accustomed to in his daily activities and he could never understand why he had been chosen as an overseas correspondent. He had been working for the news service now for about seven years. It was what he had accepted as his vocation when reality had blunted his dreams of being a writer of novels and stories. He consoled himself with the fact that the world was just over filled with novelists and story tellers. The comfort of a steady job and secure income had trapped him, but he always knew that that dream lay dormant in his mind. And that perhaps one day it would surface again. Perhaps this was what had intrigued him about her and why he had become so attached to his trekking down each day to watch her. He felt that, like him, she had also had a dream, but unlike him she was living that dream and pursuing the one thing that she truly loved.
The night he met her a light rain was falling and as he did not see her on the rue that day he had been disappointed. He was covering an event that evening of an exhibit of several artists from the States that were displaying their works in Paris, some of which were being offered at a charity auction for some world-hunger organization or another. As he had snapped the studs in his shirt and fixed his cuff links, staring at himself in the mirror, he laughed and thought, "another boring evening with boring people". He was not overly fond of formal events and always felt out of place and stuffy. They held no excitement for him and he seemed to always be the first to leave and make his way back out into the streets and to a bar where he could at least be around people who seemed alive.
He took a cab to the Hotel Parisian. He arrived and first went into the lounge to have a drink and brace himself for the coming evening. He looked out at the lobby of the hotel and could not help but marvel at the beauty of the ornate architecture and decoration of this old and historical hostelry. But his duty called and he walked into the large ballroom where the exhibit and auction were to take place.
It was crowded with many of the most noted and recognizable of Paris citizenry. Though he knew who many of these people were, a responsibility of his position as a media correspondent, he really didn't know anyone as a friend or even more that just an acquaintance. Servers were carrying trays with finger foods and glasses of champagne.
And as one passed he took a glass of the wine then busied himself with view the art and sculptures that were on display. He could hear the "small-talk" conversations of the artists and the patrons though he tried to tune them out. He looked at the paintings and found none that sparked his interest. Across the ballroom a pianist was playing and he noticed that at least he was very talented and entertaining, though no one there seemed to be paying the least bit of attention to his efforts.
He panned around the room and suddenly stopped. The back of the head he saw was one he knew so well. He was certain of it for he had stared at it each day as he strolled the avenue. Certain it was her he scanned the paintings again. Perhaps she was exhibiting here too. But he saw no work that he recognized as hers. She seemed to be escorted by a gentleman as her hand was hooked through his arm and they were chatting with a small group of people. Conscious that he was staring, he still could not avert his eyes. Then, as though she could feel his stare and read his thoughts, she turned. It was the first time he had seen her full face. She had the most wonderful smile he had seen and her eyes seemed to have more sparkle than the crystal prisms of the chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. She unhooked her arm from her escort and started slowly walking toward him. Though usually cool in any situation, his heart raced with such intensity that he thought he could hear it's pounding, like a drummer in a parade. His mind raced over crazy thoughts that somehow she could read his mind and that she knew of the fantasies he had on the rue as he watched her at work each day.
Her smile did not falter as she approached him and she spoke. "Hello, have we met? It's always so nice to meet another American here who, like myself, is so far from home." It seemed like minutes, even hours passed before he found his voice and replied. "I don't believe I have had the pleasure. I am Sam. I am a foreign correspondent for the AP." He looked at her. She wore a simple gown of mint green which complemented her hair and eyes. She was lovely, with a smile and eyes to die for. Simple, unassuming and very beautiful. Her smile widened and she asked, "Want to know a secret?" He affirmatively shook his head and she replied, "I feel so out of place here, would you mind escorting me out on the balcony for a bit of fresh air?" And to this he said, "I would be honored."
They walked through the open doors out onto the balcony and stood at the railing looking over the Seine. The lights of the city were glimmering and on the surface of the water the muted reflections waved with the flow of the river. He could not help but notice that she seemed to be drinking in every detail of the scene that was in front of them. Relishing it as though it were a masterpiece, which indeed it was. They move to a table and he held the chair for her and then seated himself. She told him that she had been in France for almost a year. She was from the mid-west and after graduating from college with a degree in fine arts she had worked at a department store, saving until she could come to Paris. She explained that this was the city for painters and that she had always dreamed of being here, of painting, as so many other artists had before. She laughed and said, "So, here I am."
He told her of seeing her sitting on the avenue painting as he took his stroll each day to break the tedium of his ordinary routine. She smiled at this as if she had already known it before he told her. He could not help but wonder that perhaps she had noticed him too. They talked for quite a while though to him it seemed like only a few short minutes. He found himself so pleased to be in her company, and her to be a person so easy to be with and get to know.
The bell rang signaling the start of the auction and they returned inside. The donated paintings and sculptures were sold one by one. He was astonished at the prices that were being paid, but he also knew that there was much he had to learn about art. He did understand a bit about human nature and realized that in many cases the bids had more to do with that than with the actual value of the pieces being auctioned. Finally it was over and the patrons and artists once again began their social interactions, drinking their champagne and nibbling the pate.
Once again she came toward him and told him her friend must leave. She asked if he would mind terribly giving her escort home. Of course he was glad to oblige her and watched as she gracefully walked over to her friends , spoke with them then turned and returned to his side. Casually she slipped her arm into his and they walked over to the piano where the soft melodies being play seemed to be floating lightly in the air. Behind the piano was another balcony, a small one with potted trees and was somewhat shadowed by the huge columns of the entrance to the hotel. They moved out onto this balcony feeling the cool breeze of the late evening. As she stood next to him, he felt her sway to the music, and before he realized it she was in his arms and they were dancing. The one thing he noticed most was that she seemed so right there, his arm around her waist and hers on his shoulder. Her hand in his and their feet moving to the rhythm of the melody. For the first time since he had arrived in Paris he felt glad to be here.
He walked her to her apartment, and as they walked she took his hand in hers. It was more of a stroll than a walk as they chatted about themselves and about this and that, mostly small talk as they seemed to be relishing keeping company. She smiled and hummed the tune they had danced to. He didn't know what it was but as far he was concerned, it was the most beautiful song in the world.
When they reached her apartment she turned to him and said, "I am so glad that we met, this has been a wonderful evening." She smiled and they looked deeply into one another's eyes. He said, "The pleasure has been mine. Is it possible that we might see each other again? Soon? For coffee, dinner, lunch?" She replied, "Oh, more than possible, I expect it." And with that she smiled with her mouth as well as with her sparkling eyes. As she tuned to enter the door he said, "You haven't told me your name." In her soft and musical voice she told him, "Call me Gini."
His eyes opened as he heard the bell ringing in his ear. His first clear thought was, this better be important, waking me this early on a Saturday. Tentatively he lifted the handset and placed it to his ear. Suddenly he was wide awake and concentrating on every word. The soft, gentle sound of her voice had brought him to the reality of a new and glorious day. He could hear the birds singing outside his window, and the sounds of people alive in the streets. "it's such a lovely day, the sun shining and the sky so blue, that I was thinking...", he pressed the phone tighter to his ear, "I thought it would be such a shame to waste it. If you aren't busy I thought you might like to join me for a picnic?"
He said to her, "Gini, there is nothing I would enjoy more."
They took a trolley to the outskirts of the city to a small park. Finding a knoll that overlooked the Seine, he spread the blanket he had brought from his room and took her hand helping her to sit. She had brought a small basket which held a loaf of new baked bread, a block of Brie, slices of spiced summer sausage wrapped in brown paper, and a small carafe of red wine. He laughed at her when she rummaged through the basket discovering that she had failed to include cups or glasses. "We'll just have to pass the bottle." he told her.
"Only if you promise you won't disregard me as a lady." she laughed back at him.
"That is one of the few things in this universe that is impossible. Only one who is blind or totally ignorant could ever fail to recognize you as a lady."...She smiled at him, her eyes beaming.
They spent the entire day talking, basking in the sun and learning about one another. The more he learned the stronger his feelings became for her. He had met many people, but never anyone so unique and wonderful as Gini.
As the sun began to fade, casting red, orange and purple hues across the far off clouds, he stood, helping her up. He folded the blanket as she picked up the remains of their picnic and placed them into the basket. Taking his hand in hers she tugged him across the park to where they waited to catch the bus back into Paris.
When they stepped off the bus and moved toward her flat, he told her, "This has been one of the most beautiful days I can remember having spent in such a long time. Perhaps, if it pleases you, I could take you to dinner? After all we both must eat. That is if you have no other plans?"
She smiled and shot him a mischievous look and said, " Why don't we stay in for dinner? I'm no gourmet chef but I can find my way around in the kitchen. Besides, I'd like to keep you all to myself for the rest of the day. Sometimes I am selfish that way."
"What else can I say but, I'm yours Gini! For what it's worth." he replied.
He watched as she moved around in the small kitchenette of her apartment, fascinated by the grace and the economy of motion. They ate silently, listening to the radio. He could recognize the melody of the old rock standards that were playing, but the lyrics were in French. When they had finished, he stood, bowing he took her hand and as she stood he placed his arm around her waist and danced her into the center of the room. The tune was an old Peter and Gordon song from the sixties called World Without Love. Strange how his mind wandered to the trivial fact that he had once heard that Lennon and McCartney had written this song for them.
He placed his cheek against Gini's head and she pressed her face to his shoulder. In each other's arms they swayed until the song ended. She turned around, her back against his chest. As the crooning sound of Redding's Dock of the Bay flowed from the radio she took his hands into hers and raised them, placing them on her breasts. They were soft and tender and he began to caress them, and with the sweet fragrance of her hair filling his nostrils, he began to gently kiss her neck. He took his arms from around her turning her to face him again. Taking her face between his hands he bent to kiss her. A soft, sensual kiss, her lips yielding to his tongue as he pushed it between them. Their kisses were like fire as feelings of passion and desire coursed through their veins. He felt her body pressed against his own, her breasts against his chest and the points of her hips meeting his. He could feel the beating of her heart, in fact, fancied that he could hear it's pounding. His arms around her slipping downward and taking her buttocks in his hands, he pulled her fiercely against him as he kissed her deeply and passionately. Gini responded to his every move.
Without realizing it, they unbuttoned, unzipped and removed each others clothing until they both were naked. They touched, kissed and tasted one another with a wild abandon until she finally whispered in his ear, "Make love with me. Please? I need you so much."
And he replied, "Gini, I need you too, and want to be as close to you as two people can ever be."
He lifted her into his arms, kissing her as he carried her to the bed and gently placed her down and joined her. The passion they shared was the perfect kind.
Throughout the summer and into the fall the spent every moment possible together. He would watch her paint, staying back so he was not a distraction to her, but admiring her grace and skill. And for him, she had brought out that latent desire to write, not news or current events but creative words full of life and passion. His love her grew with each passing day as did her feelings for him. One would be hard pressed to find two people more in love than he and Gini. Their days were filled with adoring the other and their nights with the tender and passionate love they made. She was now his life, all he had ever desired, and so much more than ever he could have hoped for.
It was November when the wire came. He watched with concern as the tears streamed from her eyes. Her father was seriously ill and her family felt that she should come home at once. And like her family she feared the worst possible outcome.
Together they had made the arrangements for her flight home. She had packed the things she thought she might need and they had caught the bus to the airport. As she boarded the plane he drew her into his arms and kissed her tenderly. He put all the love he felt for her into that kiss.
He stood at the boarding gate watching the plane taxi away from the terminal then race down the runway and lift into the air. He stared at the sky watching as the plane grew smaller and smaller and then disappeared. He then took the bus back to Paris. Sometime during the night he was awakened by the strange feeling that something was wrong. Nothing seemed amiss so he fell back into a light slumber.
He had been in a state of shock since hearing of the disaster. He had learned of it while checking the AP wires at work the morning after she had departed for home. After checking the details he knew that his worst horrors were a reality.
As the snow fell he stared somberly at the yellow roses. Yellow had always been her favorite and it reminded him of the description she had given of yellow. She had said that it was the color of warmth....
