Perfidia | Page 7

The view was spectacular: the width of the Seine and the ancient Hotel de Ville to the north, the thrusting spires of Notre Dame behind me, the ancient, winding streets of the Latin Quarter on my right, the elegant 17th century mansions of the Ile Saint-Louis straight ahead.
A crowd of thirty or forty tourists listened from a discreet distance. I saw the blonde woman from the train there, closer to the musicians than the rest. She'd piled her coat and handbag at her feet; her short dress showed off a slim body and strong legs.
It was her feet that held my attention. She was moving them in an East Coast Swing pattern, rock-step triple-step triple-step, covering just enough ground to make her hips sway. I recognized it as a sort of international distress signal that meant, "Dance with me."
I was still deciding whether I should answer when the musicians wrapped up "New York, New York" and started the Benny Goodman classic "Don't Be That Way." It was more than I could stand. I walked up and offered her my left hand. She held up one finger, stashed her purse and coat next to the piano, then came back and took my hand and smiled, revealing a faint, ragged scar on one cheek. I turned her to face me, put my right hand on her back, and danced her out to the center of the bridge.
She was lively and responsive, picking up my leads but also feeling the music, shifting effortlessly between six-count and eight-count patterns, never losing her smile. It was one of my favorite songs, and the sun sparkled on the river and gulls circled the bridge, crying out in pleasure, and I recognized it as one of those rare moments that you know are perfect even as they're unfolding.
"I'm Frank," I said, when the song ended. "You're a great dancer." Then I caught myself and asked, "Est-ce que tu parle anglais?"
"Sandy," she said. "And I am English."
"Manchester?"
"Originally. London now. Good on you--most Americans can't tell Scots from Welsh. And you're a good dancer, too."
"Thanks." The band laid into "Moonglow." "You want to try again?"
After "Moonglow" they played "In the Mood," maybe the Miller band's most enduring hit.
"Why are you laughing?" Sandy asked.
"Glenn Miller," I said. "I'll tell you later."
Two other couples were dancing now, and the musicians hammed it up for us, the clarinetist pointing his instrument straight up at the sky, the pianist kicking away his stool to play standing up. They stretched the song for extra solos, but I still wanted more. When they finished I dipped Sandy low and held her there for a second or two, and then we were all applauding, and I threw a five-Euro note in the clarinet case, and then they rolled the piano away and it was over.
"Wow," Sandy said. "That was fantastic. Do you fancy a coffee or a drink or something?"
We crossed over to Ile Saint-Louis and I had to resist an impulse to take her hand. "What are you doing in Paris?" I asked.
"A week's holiday. Ending tomorrow, sad to say. Then it's the train and back to the Oxford Street Marks and Sparks." She looked over at me. "That's--"
"I know. Marks and Spencer. I've been in that very location."
"You're quite the world traveler, aren't you? Here on business?"
I told her about the wire recorder and Glenn Miller while we stood on line for takeaway hot chocolate at a hopelessly crowded caf??. I was still feeling the intimacy of the dance and saw no harm in talking about it. When I got to the part about the prostitutes and the drunkenness, I could see her expression change.
"But that's perfectly awful," she said. "What do you mean to do with this thing?"
"Auction it off, probably."
"Wouldn't there be a scandal? I mean, the man was a war hero."
My romantic fantasies were fishtailing away, and I was angry at myself for losing my head so easily, for assuming that moving well together meant anything more than that. "Our government lied about Glenn Miller, just like they lied about the weapons in Iraq."
She shook her head. "I can't abide hearing people talk about their leaders that way. It's so disrespectful."
I felt myself losing my temper. Political arguments always ended up reminding me of my own helplessness. What was my one vote compared to the power of PACs and big money special interest groups, to corporate campaign contributors and the media? I drank off my hot chocolate and threw the cup away.
"It was great dancing with you," I said, and meant it. "I've got to go."
I started to walk away, but she grabbed my arm, her fingers remarkably strong. "Wait."
I stood with my hands shoved in my pockets. She ignored my defensive posture and put her arms around my waist and