Free Without Reservations by Alice Steinbach

straight track to a planned destination but now found themselves somewhere else. “Do you remember those early days?” I asked her. “How naive we were? And how ambitious?” I laughed. “It’s almost embarrassing to think about.”
    “Well, I’m still ambitious,” Susan said. “Just in a different way. And I suspect you are, too.”
    She was right. I
was
still filled with ambition. More mellow, perhaps, but ambition nevertheless.
    We sat talking about how your expectations change when you move into your fifties: about work, about love, and about a future that didn’t seem as endless as it once did. At a certain point in one’s working life, Susan and I agreed, the question becomes: what ultimately is one working toward? Personal achievement? Contentment? Wisdom? Retirement?
    “For me, it’s finally all about the work and nothing else,” I said. “Not money or prestige.” I made a face. “Although I wouldn’t mind a bit more money.”
    Near the end of our conversation Susan asked: “What is the one emotion that you would like to feel for the rest of your life?”
    I thought about it for a few minutes. “Hope,” I said. “With it, I guess anything’s possible. But without it …” My voice trailed off. I suddenly had thought of Naohiro. Hope? Or no hope? It occurred to me to tell Susan about him, but I didn’t. Something inside me wanted to protect the relationship from outside opinions or advice. At least for a while.
    I looked at my watch; it was almost two. I rose to go, telling Susan how much fun it was to see her again. We hugged and said good-bye, promising to get together for dinner the following week.

    As I walked along the narrow lane from Susan’s apartment toward the center of Montmartre, I heard my own footsteps following me like a carefree playmate on the first day of summer vacation. I listened as a small, buoyant voice said
School is out and I’m in Paris!
Halfway up the tree-lined path I stopped to watch a small gray turtle crawl beneath a bush edged with tiny yellow flowers.
    It reminded me of the turtles Grandmother and I used to see at Woolworth’s five-and-ten when I was little. Their shells painted in bright colors, these tiny turtles, perhaps fifty of them, crawled around in a glass tank. For about twenty-five cents you could buy one and they’d paint your name on it. I longed for a turtle named Alice, but no matter how pathetically I begged, Grandmother refused. It was cruel, she said, to paint living creatures; and, besides, the thrifty Scotswoman in her could not see spending money for something you could likely find in your own backyard.
    The sun came out. It filtered down through the leaves, creating a playful pattern of light and shade that danced before my eyes. The air smelled of lilies of the valley. As I walked beneath the canopy of trees, wrapped in the delicate fragrance, caution fell away. It didn’t matter that I had no idea which street led to the place du Tertre or to my Métro stop. Destination no longer ruled. My only map was that of free association: I would follow each street only as long as it interested me and then, on a whim, choose a new direction.
    Such was my happiness that only my poorly accented French prevented me from saying to a formidable-looking woman sweeping down her sidewalk,
Très jolie, madame!

    A chilly morning had turned into a warm, humid afternoon and the tourists crowding Montmartre’s streets looked wilted. It was time, I decided, to slip into a café for a cool drink.
    From the outside, the café on rue Saint-Rustique looked quiet and slightly mysterious. When I peered through the door I could make out very little in the dark interior. Although I had seen a number of bright, lively outdoor cafés along the way, somehow the slightly dangerous look of this place attracted me.
    I stepped inside and stood near the door, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark. It was cool, and the smell of beer hung pleasantly in the air.