Free Women with Men by Richard Ford

laid it on the table beside the phone.
    “Yes?” Joséphine said. “What…” She paused, then resumed. “What do you like to do with me? When do you like? What?” She was impatient.
    “Anything. Anytime,” Austin said, and suddenly felt the best he'd felt in days. “Tonight,” he said. “Or today. In twenty minutes.”
    “In twenty minutes! Come on. No!” she said and laughed, but in an interested way, a pleased way—he could tell. “No, no, no,” she said. “I have to go to my lawyer in one hour. I have to find my neighbor now to stay with Léo. It is impossible now. I'm divorcing. You know this already. It's very upsetting. Anyway.”
    “I'll stay with Léo,” Austin said rashly.
    Joséphine laughed. “
You'll
stay with him! You don't have children, do you? You said this.” She laughed again.
    “I'm not offering to adopt him,” Austin said. “But I'll stay with him for an hour. Then you can have your neighbor come, and I'll take you to dinner. How's that?”
    “He doesn't like you,” Joséphine said. “He likes only his father best. He doesn't even like me.”
    “I'll teach him some English,” Austin said. “I'll teach him to say ‘Chicago Cubs.’” He could feel enthusiasm already leaching off. “We'll be great friends.”
    “What is Chicago Cubs?” Joséphine said.
    “It's a baseball team.” And he felt, just for an instant, bleak. Not because he wished he was home, or wished Barbara was here, or wished really anything was different. Everything washow he'd hoped it would be. He simply wished he hadn't mentioned the Cubs. This was over-confident, he thought. It was the wrong thing to say. A mistake.
    “So. Well,” Joséphine said, sounding businesslike. “You come here, then? I go to my lawyers to sign my papers. Then maybe we have a dinner together, yes?”
    “Absolutely,” Austin said, bleakness vanished. “I'll come right away. I'll start in five minutes.” On the dark suede wall, under a little metal track light positioned to illuminate it, was a big oil painting of two men, naked and locked in a strenuous kiss and embrace. Neither man's face was visible, and their bodies were weight lifters’ muscular bodies, their genitals hidden by their embroiled pose. They were seated on a rock, which was very crudely painted in. It was like Laocoön, Austin thought, only corrupted. He'd wondered if one of the men was the one who owned the apartment, or possibly the owner was the painter or the painter's lover. He wondered if either one of them was alive this afternoon. He actually hated the painting and had already decided to take it down before he brought Joséphine here. Which was what he meant to do—bring her here, tonight if possible, and keep her with him until morning, when they could walk up and sit in the cool sun at the Deux Magots and drink coffee. Like Sartre.
    “Martin?” Joséphine said. He was about to put down the phone and go move the smarmy Laocoön painting. He'd almost forgotten he was talking to her.
    “What? I'm here,” Austin said. Though it might be fun to leave it up, he thought. It could be an ice-breaker, something to laugh about, like the mirrors on the ceiling, before things got more serious.
    “Martin, what are you doing here?” Joséphine said oddly. “Are you okay?”
    “I'm here to see you, darling,” Austin said. “Why do you think? I said I'd see you soon, and I meant it. I guess I'm just a man of my word.”
    “You are a very silly man, though,” Joséphine said and laughed, not quite so pleased as before. “But,” she said, “what I can do?”
    “You can't do anything,” Austin said. “Just see me tonight. After that you never have to see me again.”
    “Yes. Okay,” Joséphine said. “That's a good deal. Now. You come to here.
Ciao.
”
    “Ciao,”
Austin said oddly, not really being entirely sure what
ciao
meant.

6
    Near the Odéon, striding briskly up the narrow street that ended at the Palais du Luxembourg, Austin