The InvisibleBridge

“You’re new here,” she said. “What is your name?”

“Andras Lévi,” said Andras, with a slight bow.

She repeated his name twice, as if to commit it to memory. “A pleasure to meet you, Andras Lévi. Thank you for seeing about the car.” She climbed inside, drew her coat around her legs, and closed the door.

As he watched the cab make its way down the quai de Gesvres toward the Pont d’Arcole, he found himself replaying the brief script of their conversation. In his mind he heard her saying très heureux de faire votre co

He worked all night without pause and managed to stay awake through his morning classes. Then he fell asleep in a corner of the library and didn’t wake for hours. When he did, he found a note pi

The Blue Dove Café was a good half-hour walk up the boulevard Raspail and across the Latin Quarter. Andras was the first to arrive; he took a table at the back, near the bar, and ordered the cheapest thing on the menu, a pot of tea. The tea came with two butter biscuits with an almond pressed into the center of each. That was why students liked the Blue Dove: It was generous. In the Latin Quarter it was a rarity to receive two biscuits with a pot of tea, much less almond biscuits. By the time he’d finished the tea and eaten the biscuits, Rosen and Polaner and Ben Yakov had arrived. They unwound their scarves and pulled chairs up to the table.

Rosen kissed Andras on both cheeks. “Gorgeous moustache,” he said.

“We thought you were dead,” said Ben Yakov. “Or at least in a coma.”

“I was nearly dead.”

“We took bets,” Ben Yakov said. “Rosen bet you’d sleep all night. I bet you’d meet us here. Polaner abstained, because he’s broke.”

Polaner blushed. Of the three of them he came from the wealthiest family, but his family’s kingdom was a garment business in Kraków and his father had no idea how much things really cost in Paris. Every month he sent Polaner not quite enough to keep him clothed and fed. Acutely aware of his growing debt to his father, Polaner couldn’t bear to ask him for more. As a child of privilege he had never worked, and seemed never to consider taking a job as a possible means to ease his situation. Instead he ordered hot water at cafés and patched his shoes with thick pasteboard left over from model-building and saved extra bread from the student dining club.

With his pocket full of bills, Andras knew it was his turn to buy everyone a drink. They all had tiny glasses of whiskey and soda, the drink of American movie stars. They cursed the Hungarian government and its attempt to remove Andras from their company, and then toasted his new role as the courier of actors’ love notes and the walker of actors’ dogs. When the whiskey-and-sodas were gone, they ordered another large pot of tea.

“Ben Yakov has an assignation tonight,” Rosen a

“What do you mean, an assignation?” Andras said.

“A rendezvous. A meeting. Possibly romantic in nature.”

“With whom?”

“Only with the beautiful Lucia,” Rosen said, and Ben Yakov laced his fingers and flexed them in mute glory. A hush fell over the table. They all revered Lucia, with her deep velvet voice and her skin the color of polished mahogany. At night, alone in their beds, they had all imagined her stepping out of her dress and slip, standing naked before them in their darkened rooms. By day they had been shamed by her talent in studio. She didn’t just work in the office; she was a fourth-year student, one of the best in her class, and it was rumored that Mallet-Stevens had particularly praised her work.

“Cheers to Ben Yakov,” Andras said, raising his cup.

“Cheers,” said the others. Ben Yakov raised a hand in mock modesty.

“Of course, he’ll never tell us what happens,” Rosen said. “Ben Yakov’s affairs are his own.”

“Unlike Monsieur Rosen’s,” said Ben Yakov. “Monsieur Rosen’s affairs belong to everyone. If only your ladies knew!”

“It’s the city of love,” Rosen said. “We should all be making love.” He used the vulgar word for it, baiser. “What’s wrong, Polaner? Do I offend?”

“I’m not listening,” Polaner said.

“Polaner is a gentleman,” said Ben Yakov. “Gentlemen ne baisent pas.”

“On the contrary,” said Andras. “Gentlemen are great baiseurs. I’ve just finished reading Les Liaisons Dangereuses. It’s full of gentlemen baisent.”

“I’m not sure you’re qualified to enter this conversation,” Rosen said. “At least Polaner had a petite amie back home. His Krakovian bride-to-be, isn’t that right?” He pushed Polaner’s shoulder, and Polaner blushed again; he’d mentioned a few letters from the girl, the daughter of a woolens manufacturer whom his father expected him to marry. “He’s done it all before, whether he likes to talk about it or not,” Rosen said. “But you, Andras, you’ve never done it.”

“That’s a lie,” Andras said, though it was true.

“Paris is full of girls,” Rosen said. “We should arrange an assignation for you. One of a professional nature, I mean.”

“With whose money?” Ben Yakov said.

“Didn’t artists at one time have benefactors?” Rosen said. “Where are our benefactors?” He stood and repeated the question at full volume to the room at large. A few of the other patrons raised their glasses. But there was not a prospective benefactor among them; they were all students, with their pots of tea and two biscuits, their left-leaning newspapers, their threadbare coats.

“At least I have a job,” Andras said.

“Well, save up, save up!” Rosen said. “You can’t stay a virgin forever.”

At work he ran from one task to another like a sous-chef assisting in the preparation of a twelve-course meal, each task ending just as another was begi