Octave

Chapter One

     The smell of croissant would be the least thing I would expect in a Friday morning. It's not like it's a no garden-variety in France-- I just deem black coffee and a copy of Libération more suitable for six-o'-clock's. I pattered across the stale feel of the old wooden stairs which made my tiptoes sound like tramps.

     "Good morning!" my wife called from the kitchen. With a Moulin Rouge leaflet on her left hand and a L'anglais au Français book on the right, you'd think she's merely another American tourist asking for directions.

     "It's bonjour," I blurted. "A true French citizen never says 'good morning'."

     "Of course," she said, scanning her booklet from page to page. "Define bonjour. Hello. Good morning. Pleased to meet you--"

     "'Pleased to meet you' is not a translation of bonjour," I laughed. "It's 'je suis tres heureux de faire votre connaissance'."

     It was a typical fall in October. I loved the quaint feel of our new home; it was something, finally, Daphne and I mutually agreed on. The setting was exceptionally fit for two. The breadth of the garden was what caught my wife's attention, while I myself got into the intimate feel of the interior. It wasn't exactly the place we dreamed of starting a new life on, but we're flexible. Besides, it was perfect.

     I sat down and took a bite. The croissant wasn't salty enough, which only added to the list of the hitches I needed to face for the next twenty-four hours. Of course, I hate it when my croissants turn terribly bland. Just as I would hate life without any diversion-- which points out to my wife.

     I met Daphne in Germany, back when everything was still earthbound. I never knew something could turn up this swell and change my life; I have never seen myself gravitating towards anything so replete with so much joy. How her intelligence coincide with her ignorance, I don't have a clue, but it's what enticed me, of course, besides from her ocean eyes under the golden waves of her short, curly hair. She's literally into everything-- which is probably why she has demanded into changing nationalities from Irish to French. A bit of a run-of-the-hill, but I could tell she's improving.

     "Your phone is ringing," my wife said. I got caught off with how the day broke off crisp and goldenrod, I didn't notice Piano Concerto No. 3 in D Minor playing in the background. Or was I too busy contemplating about the bread?

     "It's not ringing," I complained as I reached my phone from my coat pocket. "It's producing music! It's Beethoven, for heaven's sake."

     "No, sweetheart," my wife said. "It's Rachmaninoff."

     "Whatever," I said as I pressed my mouth against my phone. "Bonjour, Claudius Montagne speaking."

     Dead silence thundered. I squinted at my wife indecently. "Jacques," I mouthed.

     I could clearly hear my boss's indignant smirk over the speaker. "Having a good time in Paris, I see?" Richard Jacques, whom I expected to be preeminent and all-knowing, asked all of a sudden.

     "I live in Paris, sir," I said abruptly. "My wife and I recently moved. You ought to know that, sir. I left you a bunch of e-mails."

     "E-mails," he laughed. "This is not 1970."

     "There weren't any e-mails until 1971, sir."

     "Oh, shut it!" he exclaimed, clearing his throat afterwards. "I called for business plans. I thought you'd like to confer."

     I paused. "Over the phone, sir?"

     "I expect more from a scholar like you, Clyde," he replied. "Do you think it would be professional if we were to discourse business matters over the phone?"

     "No, sir. Not at all."

     "Good," he confirmed. "I hope you're not too busy with newly-wed matters, no?"

     "Not at all," I said. "Are you in Calvados, sir?"

     "Montrouge," he cleared. "Don't you think this old man could use some vacation? How does 4 p.m. tomorrow sound? Le Café Tournon?"

     "Of course, sir. I'll be seeing you."

     "Great," he said. "Congratulations to you and Meredith, by the way."

     With a forceful croup he hung up, leaving me with a thank you and a my wife's name is Daphne, not Meredith unsaid.

     Daphne stood by the door, waiting for my countenance for assent to appear. "Well? You'll be leaving tomorrow, I expect."

     I took a deep breath, and with a satisfied grin, threw myself on the dingy sheets on the couch. The flowing smell of fruitfulness made me eager to start the first days of our being together as husband and wife with so much verve. I've never been happier.

     "I'm sure you'd want to leave the house tomorrow, too."

     Her tousled expression asked for clarification.

     "You know what this space needs?" I said as I shed the taupe paint off the wall.

     "Everything."