POURQUOI

She’s late. She’s late, for a very important date–and I am that date. I’ve paced back and forth in front of Le Petite Moulin Rouge, a small bistro on a dead end street in Buffalo. It’s my favorite eatery. An old scarred upright piano sits on a corner platform. La Lille, a fading chanteuse who still charms me into spasms of pleasure, sings a few songs between nine and nine thirty each evening. I believe she warbles, trills for the thrill with no salary. The applause of the audience, never more than 20, buoys her spirit, keeps her alive as does the applause and the paper money put into her hands as she leaves the stage.

Ma cherie, Renee, isn’t in sight. I pace enough and go inside where I am greeted like le roi. My petite table is neatly set for two and I am upset enough to take the chair facing La Lille and letting Renee face the wall, if she ever gets here. The door creaks a little. Its sheer white dotted Swiss curtain rustles as my date enters. ‘Bon sir. Bon soir. Pardone’ moi,’ she giggles and rushes over to me. She is so irresistibly adorable I almost sweep her off her feet.

We need not select a wine. A perfectly aromatic Val de Daque awaits us. A taste is poured in my stem glass. I sniff it, watch the legs shiver, smell a slight hint of berries. I nod my approval. Les cartes are absent as dinner has been arranged. Escargot, lobster bisque, duck l’orange, pomme de terre, string beans au buerre, more than enough for two. We dine slowly with relish and desire. As I stare into Renee’s blue eyes, they sparkle. I lose control and drop my fork. We laugh.

At 8:45 the pianist enters, seats himself at his imaginary grand piano, and plays ‘La Vie en Rose.’ La Lille, wearing a long, simple black gown, grandly tosses her white feather boa around her neck and walks to center stage, no more than six steps. All flat ware is silent. No glasses clink. La Lille does not sing. The pianist looks at her, concern showing on his wrinkled brow. He plays her opening song again. La Lille stands still, looks directly into the single low watt spotlight. I, closest to her, see tears beginning to overflow her eyes. My compassionate Renee’ goes on stage, puts her arm around La Lille, and in her halting French, says, ‘Chant avec moi, s’il vous plait.’ My sweetheart sings one verse in English. La Lille repeats it in French, hugs Renee’, blows kisses to the surprised audience, waves and with great simplicity explains, ‘Je suis mal. Au revoir, Mes Amis,’ and leaves. Everyone is stunned. We applaud until our reddened hands ache. She does not come back. My perfect evening, my important evening, is still important. Our dessert, chocolate mousse, waits for us. We devour it, lick our lips, hold hands and talk about La Lille. Our waiter brings the check on a small black tray. He places it in front of Renee’. Without asking why, she opens her purse and takes out her charge card. As she places it on the tray, she screams, ‘What is that? What is that?’ I hand her the red velvet box. As I knew it would, the diamond ring fits her perfectly. The remaining diners stand in unison and applaud as Renee’ and I kiss.

Valet brings my car, my bride to be and I look back at the bistro and see La Lille behind the white dotted Swiss curtain, waving adieu.