The Speakeasy
by Barbara Diggs

Pathetic. You are so pathetic.

The words whipped through the wind, blew all around me. I readjusted the shoulder strap of my computer bag although it didn't need adjusting and walked grimly on.

Sad, sorry, foolish girl. Turn around.

A few more steps and I would be there.

Don't go. It's wrong. You know it's wrong.

I pushed open the door to the cafe and was shoved inside by a final contemptuous blast of wind. The door closed heavily behind me. Before I had time to think, arms of heat encircled me, pulled off my hat, and pushed my suddenly temporizing feet toward the long metallic counter. The man waiting behind the counter watched my approach with cool eyes. I took a deep breath and, trying not to fidget, spoke the code words:

"Je voudrais un caramel macchiato. Grand."

The man eyed me carefully. "Votre prenom?"

"Barbara."

"Un caramel macchiato," he yelled to the apron-clad workers behind him. "Barbara." One worker desultorily scrawled my name on a cardboard cup, and another thrust a stainless steel pitcher underneath a hissing spout. Just like at home. This place wasn't any more exotic in Paris than back in New York - just more secretive. No one in Paris ever admits to coming here, except to say they'd been once, when it first opened, purely out of curiosity.

Everyone is lying, of course. One goes to Starbucks - but one doesn't talk about it.

I paid the usual exorbitant sum for the coffee and joined the little group assembled at the other end of the counter, near the condiment stand. As we waited for our names to be called, we looked everywhere but at each other; distant, guilty smiles playing on our lips. We were all Americans, I knew. No matter how long Americans live in Paris, we never lose the reflex to smile at strangers, even those we're trying to ignore.

"Sad, isn't it," murmured a voice next to me. I turned to see a woman, around forty or so, in long wool coat, expensive-looking leather boots and a sea-green silk scarf that was tossed about her throat with such careless confidence, I knew she'd been living here for awhile. Like me, she had a black computer bag weighing down her shoulder.

"What's sad?"

"The way we slink in and out of here as if we were doing something illicit."

I laughed in agreement. "It's the new speakeasy," I said. "Only with less criminal consequences and more social ones."

The woman smiled. "Exactly. But why is that? Italians go to Italian restaurants in Paris; Greeks go to Greek places. Nobody faults them for going to restaurants from their countries. But if you're an American looking for a little comfort, you're instantly accused of being..."

"... a Happy Meal junkie..."

"...or a globalization-monger..."

"...or an American."

We chuckled darkly. I looked at the woman with surprise. I liked her.

"Whee-net! Petit latte!" A small cardboard cup was plunked down on the counter.

The woman grimaced as she moved forward to collect her latte. "They always mangle 'Gwyneth'," she said, returning. Gwyneth swung her computer bag off her shoulder, leaned it against the base of the condiment stand, then removed the plastic top on her cup to add a dash of cinnamon to the latte. She took a sip.



"No French cafe could do this," she said, sighing with pleasure. "Frankly, I think the French cafe is overrated."

"You become jaded after awhile," I acknowledged. "One gets tired of the surly waiters pretending not to see you -"

"...and the cigarette smoke, thick as fog..."

"...filthy, sticky floors even outside the bathrooms..."

"...the cramped tables... miniscule chairs..."

We paused and then, as if on command, turned to stare out of the windows at the avenue de l'Opera, which was just beginning to bustle with morning rush hour traffic. The sun had broken through the clouds and its cold white light poured over the massive soot-stained buildings that lined the avenue, magically transforming them into luminous monuments of pearl. We stared, captivated.

"Of course," I confessed, quietly. "I'd do practically anything to be able to stay here forever bullshitting about French cafes."

"I know," said Gwyneth, smiling at me. "I would too. It's worth it."

"Bah-ba-ra!" My macchiato was ready. I retrieved the coffee and placed my computer bag next to Gwyneth's as I picked up a packet of sugar and shook it. We remained by the condiment stand, sipping our drinks in companionable silence.

"Well," Gwyneth said finally, draining her latte. "Maybe I'll see you here again sometime." She grinned. "I won't tell anyone if you won't."

I laughed. "I never saw you here in the first place."

We both laughed. I watched Gwyneth pick up my computer bag and sling it onto her shoulder.

"A bientot," she said.

"A bientot," I replied.

After Gwyneth left, I took my macchiato and her computer bag and moved over to a plush amethyst-colored sofa, pulling the bag onto my lap. I unzipped the case just enough to pull out this morning's edition of Le Monde, and to get a glimpse of the other contents of the bag. I smiled. I let my gaze drift toward the man behind the counter - Emmanuel - and gave him an infinitesimal nod. The exchange had gone well.

I had been instructed to read the newspaper for ten minutes before moving on, so I opened the paper and took a long pull at the macchiato. I felt buoyant. All my ambivalent feelings about the job were gone. With women like Gwyneth in the business, it couldn't be all bad. Plus, the money I'd earned would keep me comfortably in Paris for several more months.

Settling into the sofa, I took another swig of the macchiato and very nearly purred. Tasted like luscious, mocha-flavored clouds. Perhaps, if there was time, I would go for a second. I might as well indulge, after all - seeing as I was already here.