Without Reservations by Alice Steinbach Read Free Book Online Page B

prints.”
    I had read about Monet’s collection of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Japanese prints, and of their influence on his work. “Are you an artist?” I asked, forgetting my resolve to not ask him personal questions.
    He smiled. “No, I am a businessman.”
    “Do you live in Paris?”
    “No, but I come to France two or three times a year.”
    He seemed not to mind my questions. Still, he asked me nothing about what I did or why I was in France.
    As he spoke, I studied his face. It was a handsome face, slightly weathered and somewhat impassive. Except for his eyes. They were the eyes of a man who possessed wit and intelligence and, Ithought, a certain sadness. I was drawn to what I saw, or imagined I saw, there.
    In the hour or so it took to reach Giverny, Naohiro and I talked mostly about Paris. About our favorite streets—his was the rue de Nevers, a street I did not know, and mine the rue du Bac; about the squares we thought most beautiful—place des Vosges for him, place Furstemberg for me; the open-air markets we liked—one on rue Daguerre, the other on rue de Buci. On one thing we agreed: that the best view of Paris was from any one of the bridges that crossed the Seine. Particularly the Pont Royal or the Pont-Neuf. As we talked I could see that Naohiro knew Paris far better than I did.
    In our conversation we exchanged little about the personal details of our lives, but, I realized later, what had been said revealed a good bit about what we each responded to in the larger world.
    Finally, I asked: “Is there someplace in Paris that is special to you? That you might suggest I visit?”
    “Yes,” he said, without hesitating. “Sainte-Chapelle. You must go there to stand in the light.”
    His answer surprised me. I had been to this medieval chapel on the Île de la Cité to see its famous stained-glass windows, but had never thought of “standing in the light.” Although I’d dutifully studied the architecture and used my guidebook to decipher the stories in the windows, I realized I had never actually placed myself there, in the moment, in the light. But I did not tell Naohiro this. Why, I’m not sure. Instead, I said, “I will definitely put Sainte-Chapelle on my list.”
    We sat in silence for a few minutes. Just when I began to feel awkward about the silence, he asked, “And what place is special to you? That I might visit?”
    Unlike him, I felt self-conscious about answering, as though hewould somehow judge me by my selection. Nevertheless, I knew what it had to be. “Père-Lachaise Cemetery,” I said. After a pause, I added, “You must go there to stand in the past.”
    I told him about the Sunday I’d spent at Père-Lachaise, walking beneath the trees, picking my way up the crowded hillside through the tilting statues, searching for the graves of Colette and Proust, two writers I admired. I’d found Colette easily but had no such luck in locating Proust. And I told Naohiro of how, just before leaving the area where Proust’s grave was marked on the map, I’d come face-to-face with a gravestone engraved ALIX STEINBACH , 1880–1961. Although I had no idea who “Alix Steinbach” was, it pleased me that someone with a name so close to mine was now residing in Proust’s neighborhood.
    “I feel at home in cemeteries,” I told Naohiro. “When I was little, my grandmother would take me on long walks through the cemeteries near our house. We’d read the tombstones and figure out from the dates how old the people buried there were.” I laughed. “I think it’s how I learned to add and subtract.”
    Naohiro nodded, but said nothing. I was not surprised. What could he say? I didn’t expect him to understand, as most people didn’t, my choice of a cemetery as one of my favorite places in Paris.
    We sat in silence until the train arrived at Vernon, a village three miles from Giverny. At the taxi stand, Naohiro suggested sharing a ride to Monet’s house. I agreed.
    When we got to