Coq au Vin by Charlotte Carter Page A

kind spring air. Through the traffic, across the noisy boulevards and the narrow streets we went, not talking at all. We were heading back to the apartment to clean ourselves up, and inevitably to make love, before going to meet Gigi for dinner. Life was so good it almost scared me.
    Almost. There was no need yet to feel the gods were about to lower the boom on my perfect life. Because of course life wasn’t perfect. I had not found Vivian. Indeed, I had not come within a mile of finding her—not a single lead—and it was starting to eat me up inside. I’d be happy if Gigi turned up even the slightest little piece of information.
    Back in the safety of the little love nest on rue Christine, I took a nice nap in the afterglow of afternoon sex. Odd how afternoon dreams are the worst, but afternoon fucking is usually the best.
    Around seven that evening Andre and I pulled into virtually matching outfits: black jeans and white shirts. Each checking the other out and gaining assurance that we looked really cool, we left the apartment and caught the metro at St. Michel, heading for the bistro in the Bastille where Gigi liked to eat.
    The place sure had the right smell. Onion and rosemary, rabbit and scallops, sweetbreads and hundred-year-old cheese and rich red wine danced around my senses. I searched the noisy, plain room for Gigi, but he had not yet arrived. We took a table, the burner under my appetite suddenly cranked up to red alert. Andre and I were devouring olives when I caught sight of Monsieur Lacroix, the lovely Mamselle Martine in tow.
    We had a sensational meal. And I bet there wasn’t another foursome like us in the place: Gigi and I doing most of the talking as he reported on the people he’d asked about Aunt Vivian; Andre looking a little uncomfortable but gamely trying out his newly mastered French idioms on Gigi; and Martine, who clearly thought Gigi’s mission was preposterous, barely speaking at all but commanding and drinking wine as though—well, as though she was paying for it.
    â€œWe are fairly sure your aunt is not in the life,” Gigi pronounced.
    Well, that was nice to hear. Aunt Viv, as far as Gigi could determine, was not currently a streetwalker. I stole a quick glance at Martine, who was guffawing.
    Martine seemed as eager to show off her rather good English as Andre was to master colloquial French. “So what is this story?” she said expansively, helping herself to more wine, “the two of you are playing what? That… jazz? ” She formed the word as if it were something gross she had come upon in the refrigerator.
    â€œThat’s right,” I said. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like jazz?”
    She shrugged. “It is useless. Anyone can play popular music.”
    â€œOh really?” I said mildly. Oh really? Is that so, you charmless whore? “What sort of music do you admire, Martine?”
    â€œZe blues,” she answered immediately.
    Andre and I exchanged looks. I had to admit, his was more amused than mine.
    â€œPeople are always speaking about these jazz men,” Martine said dismissively. “How brilliant they are, how sophisticated. I say ‘shit’ to sophistication. The only real American music is the blues. Can you and your man with his silly little girl’s pigtails do what John Lee Hooker does? ( Jean Lee Ookheir , she pronounced it actually.) Do you have his pain? Do you have his cri de coeuri Or Lightning Hopkins (Op-keens) ? No! You can play your childish ballads all you want, but you will never make anyone feel the way Muddy Waters did. No. You have no feeling compared to them. No soul. I do not care how black you are.”
    What could I do? If I got up and bitch slapped her, which was what she deserved, it was going to cause no end of trouble. Somebody might panic and call for help. Gigi might pull out of the deal and leave me right back where I started. Or, just as likely,