Two weeks after her arrival in Paris, Lena had become a regular at La Bohème. She went there every morning for a breakfast of coffee, croissants, and orange juice. After that she either headed to the library or stayed at the bistro typing away on her laptop and refueling on the barista’s delicious-smelling brews. On most days, she cleared the premises by noon, when the shop assistants, builders, and white collars working in the neighborhood arrived for lunch. She often returned in the late afternoon for dinner.

Before giving the monopoly over her nourishment to La Bohème, Lena had made sure to check out the available alternatives. But her forays into the neighboring eateries turned out to be disappointing.

At the first place across the street, she was served green beans overcooked to a sickly shade of gray. She ordered a medium steak at a more expensive restaurant a few blocks further down the street. The steak was served raw, and then reluctantly taken back to the kitchen to be returned a good half hour later, thoroughly burned.

The last place she tried had decent food and the wait wasn’t too long. But as she ate, she became witness to a heart-wrenching scene. An ostensibly pregnant woman had walked in and pleaded with the maître d’.

“I’m sorry, monsieur. May I use your bathroom?”

“Are you a customer?”

“No, but—”

“The bathroom is reserved for our patrons.”

The maître d’ turned around and walked away, leaving the woman stranded by the entrance. She shifted from one foot to another, her face contorting in discomfort as she scanned the room for a more sympathetic waiter. Lena rushed to the counter and got a token—the open sesame to the toilet door.

“I’m transferring my bathroom entitlement to her,” she told the glaring maître d’ and handed the token to the woman.

Lena resolved then and there that the establishment didn’t deserve her business.

La Bohème, on the other hand, was free of such nonsense. Its food was delicious and its service quick. Its proprietor and staff were friendly for Parisian standards. Better still, they provided a constant stream of entertainment.

There was the Adonis, of course. Lena still didn’t know his name—he never introduced himself, and he never asked her name, either. So, she continued to identify him as Adonis, even though the moniker was beginning to sound ridiculous. He had gotten into the habit of stopping by her table to exchange a few words about this and that, which made her feel like a valued patron. At least this was her official explanation of why she enjoyed those little conversations so much.

After a few days, they’d established they were both finishing grad school and writing their theses. Adonis told Lena he was almost done and shared a few time management tricks.

Yesterday afternoon when he threw her a friendly “how’s that thesis coming along”, she replied with pride she’d written more than half.

“Well done!” he cheered, and Lena felt her cheeks warm with pleasure.

If I were a cat, the entire café would hear me purr, she thought.

He placed a cup smelling of coffee and chocolate on her table. “This cappuccino is on me. You deserve it.”

She shook her head, “No, please, you shouldn’t do this. I’m happy enough with your verbal encouragements.”

“Oh, but it’s nothing. If it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll rephrase it. This cappuccino is on the house—more precisely, on Pierre, the owner of the bistro.”

He winked and added, “Pierre has no clue he just extended his generosity to you, but I can guarantee when he finds out, he won’t mind. He values education highly.”

“Well . . . I suppose it would be rude of me to refuse a drink offered by the proprietor.”

“He would be scandalized.”

She raised the cup. “Here’s to Pierre—the champion of education, a generous boss, and an all-round good man.”

“Amen,” he said.

Then, there was the blue-haired waitress. Most of the other regulars called her Jeanne, and she knew their names as well. She’d greet the old lady who came for her daily espresso with a “Mme Blanchard, how is that knee today?” and actually stop to listen to the answer. She’d inquire of the gray-suited office rat, “Did your business trip go well?” She seemed to know about the patrons’ families, their work (or the lack thereof), and health. She certainly knew their culinary preferences, which made her order taking remarkably efficient.

Lena couldn’t wait for the day Jeanne would greet her with a “Hi, Lena! The usual?”

She had also spotted a goofy fellow who had his dinner at La Bohème every day. His wild curls and huge thick eyeglasses—the kind ugly ducklings wore in movies before their transformation—hid most of his face. On top of this, the guy was extremely thin. His T-shirt hung from his wide but bony shoulders in a two-dimensional way, like a shirt on a clothes hanger, with no noticeable relief anywhere along its length. His arms were so skinny that were he a woman, Lena would have bet he had anorexia.

Did men suffer from anorexia?

Mr. Clothes Hanger appeared to be Adonis’s buddy. He also seemed to be carrying a torch for Jeanne—if his lingering looks and repeated clumsy attempts to strike a conversation with her were any indication. Unfortunately for him, Jeanne didn’t take the slightest interest in his person, except how he liked his coffee and his steaks.

The third waiter Lena liked to watch was a black-haired Spanish guy, Pepe. He had the body of a matador—elegant and compact. It was a shame, really, that his shapely frame was too small for today’s male beauty standards. He had a goatee, beautiful black eyes, and a charming accent. He flirted desperately with every fair-haired girl who passed through the café, even though the girls didn’t flirt back with him.

Once Lena heard him ask three German girls having beers next to her table, “What are your names, lovelies?”

“Brunhilde,” one of them said with a sweet smile.

“Irmtraud,” the second said with an even sweeter smile.

“Hildegard,” the third said, her smile so big Lena worried the corners of her mouth would tear.

Pepe looked from one girl to the next, lips moving as he tried to memorize their unlikely names. This sent the girls into a prolonged fit of the giggles that finally drove him away.

Pepe didn’t attempt to flirt with Lena, who was exceedingly grateful this particular gentleman preferred blondes.

* * *

“Having trouble with the writing?”

Lena looked up. Pepe the Matador stood by her table, shaking his head in sympathy. “What if your nails don’t grow back?”

“Oh,” she said, jerking her hand from her mouth. “How observant of you—Pepe, right?”

“Yes, and you are?” Pepe replaced Lena’s empty cup with a steaming frothy blend.

“Lena. I live in this building, as it happens.”

“I figured as much. Are you a friend of Rob’s? I see him chatting with you whenever he has a spare moment.” Pepe smiled innocently and gave her a suggestive wink.

As Lena marveled at how he could accomplish such a paradoxical combo, her brain registered that Rob was Adonis.

“No, I am not a friend of Rob’s. In fact, I have no clue why he stops to chat with me.”

“Don’t you?” Pepe gave her an are-you-dumb look. “Let’s see. If I were you, I’d assume he liked me. But what do I know?” He shrugged and headed to the kitchen.

Lena’s thoughts scattered like beads from a torn necklace. Could Rob really like her? He did chat with her a lot, almost every time he had a spare moment. But what did he find in her? With his looks and charisma he could have any girl—any gorgeous girl. Could he have found out she was an heiress? But then, he wasn’t the kind of guy to pursue a girl for her money . . .

She blew out her cheeks. This was ridiculous. For one, she had no idea what kind of guy he was. She tried her best to concentrate on her work. But as if on cue, Rob walked into La Bohème. He wore a basic white T-shirt and faded jeans. Hidden in her corner, Lena ogled him in a most shameless way. Her gaze feasted on his narrow hips and flat stomach, then traveled up his well-muscled arms to his broad shoulders, caressed his firm jawline, and drank in his intelligent hazel eyes.

Rob sauntered to the counter, his every movement infused with easy masculine grace. When she finally lost sight of him as he disappeared behind the door marked STAFF ONLY, she could feel her heart racing and her cheeks burning. How stupid! She should know better than to drool over the first handsome stranger she met in this town.

He’s just a pretty boy, offered the familiar sensible voice in her head.

Boy, he is pretty, retorted a voice she’d never heard before.

In the face of such blatant sauciness, her sensible self kicked below the belt. A pretty boy who will break your heart, given the chance.

Bingo. Lena blinked as her pulse slowed down and color drained from her cheeks. A broken heart was a messy business. Was the pretty boy really worth it?

Nope. Especially not now. She was finally over Gerhard, really over him. Her soul was filled with a sense of freedom she was beginning to seriously appreciate. She’d nearly forgotten how it felt to jump at every phone call, and to spend hours debating if she should make a move, or if her boyfriend was still into her. Gerhard had never been given to excesses, but a few months ago Lena started to suspect he cared more for his Labrador than for her. In March she began to wish he’d just dump her and put her out of her misery. But Gerhard was in no hurry to end their relationship. And she didn’t have the guts to do it herself. Which was when the idea of a research trip to Paris turned into a plan to move there.

Lena closed her laptop and waved for the check. She wanted to leave before Rob emerged from the staff room and shattered her resolve. This newfound freedom of hers, this unattached bliss—it was too precious to throw to the wind. She should protect it at any cost.

Especially when all she had to do was stay away from a handsome Frenchman named Rob.

* * *

Vanves was one of the Parisian suburbs where Tsvetaeva found refuge during her long French exile. It was residential and dull. Lena wandered through its streets, trying to imagine how they looked in the 1920s when Tsvetaeva lived here. Those years weren’t a happy time for the poet. She was separated from her friends and her husband, struggling to provide for her children, and unable to publish her work. She was stuck in French suburbia, too bourgeois to return to Bolshevik Russia and too poor to move her family inside Paris. A fish out of water.

It was midafternoon when Lena fetched her laptop and settled in La Bohème to work on the translation she’d started the day before. It wasn’t a difficult poem, with one notable exception: the word careless. In Russian it implied a bit of recklessness, a touch of irresponsibility, and a dash of sweet silliness. All at once. Lena hadn’t been able to find a good French equivalent yet.

She ordered her third café crème—desperate times required desperate measures—opened all her thesaurus apps and dived in.

Rob stole a glance at Lena. She sat at her favorite table, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, eyeglasses on her forehead. He rubbed his neck. Should he finally introduce himself, now that he’d spent over a week blathering to her about everything and nothing? The dilemma had weighed on his mind for a couple of days now. On the one hand, he and Lena were clearly reaching a critical point in their acquaintance when people learn each other’s names—or go their separate ways. Actually, they were already way past that point. Had he spent half that time with any other girl, he would’ve found out not only her name, but also her phone number, her favorite music bands, and probably the flavor of her lipstick.

On the other hand, this was not a normal situation, at least not to him.

Talking to Lena is a job, Rob reminded himself for the umpteenth time.

Sure, and her being cute as a button is entirely beside the point, a sardonic voice in his head retorted.

He looked at her again. Her hand rummaged through her handbag—no doubt for her glasses—while she squinted at the laptop screen, oblivious to the world.

It’s just a job to pay my tuition, Rob repeated his mantra. I can’t screw this up.

He approached her. “I believe what you’re looking for is on your head.”

Communication had become so easy between them. One little remark would lead to another, and before they knew it, they would be knee-deep in an animated discussion about polar bears or Daft Punk. This time round, they ended up analyzing the latest twist in a TV show they both liked.

“I must say I didn’t find that turn of events entirely plausible,” she said.

“I agree, but I don’t think the director’s goal was to be plausible. It was to take everyone by surprise. Including himself.”

“Sorry to barge in on your cozy chat, but your time’s up.” Jeanne made big eyes at Rob and then turned to Lena. “This young man’s coffee breaks have been stretching beyond what’s decent since you began to frequent the bistro. He’d better get a grip before Didier tells the proprietor.”

She held out her hand. “I’m Jeanne, by the way, Rob’s sister in arms—or, rather, in plates. And you are?”

“Lena. Very pleased to meet you, Jeanne.” Lena shook hands with her and then turned to Rob. “So you would be Rob, then?”

He tried to sound nonchalant. “Robert Dumont at your service. Sorry for not having introduced myself earlier.”

Jeanne rolled her eyes. “Aren’t we all incredibly well-bred and courteous? Please accept my sincere apologies for being such a spoilsport, but you are expected inside, Rob. Duty calls. More specifically, the mop.”

Rob gave Lena a quick nod and headed to the kitchen. They had officially met now. It was inevitable and perfect for his purposes, but it somehow made his little deal with Boris a touch more unsavory.

* * *

In the cab from the train station to her place, Lena replayed her eventful day. Her meeting with Professor Rouvier had gone well, and she had left his office with lots of good advice on how to revise her thesis. After that she had a coffee with two classmates. Just before she left the university to visit Ivan and Marta, she ran into Gerhard. They greeted each other and then just stood there, not knowing what to say. The thing was . . . she didn’t have anything to tell him besides the academic stuff they’d discussed over e-mail. Lena wondered at how just a month ago she thought herself in love with him. Her feelings were so completely gone it was hard to believe they’d been real.

Distance is a truly powerful medicine, she thought. A little distance and time was all it took to free her heart of Gerhard and wipe him from her mind. Or was that all? If she was completely honest with herself, could she vouch that a certain Frenchman had nothing to do with it?

By the time she got home, it was around nine in the evening. After the mandatory call to her father to inform him she’d returned safely, Lena went down to La Bohème for a quick bite.

There wasn’t a single vacant table, inside or outside. She was about to leave when she heard Rob call to her.

“Hey, Lena, over here!” He was having dinner with his scrawny pal and a pretty woman Lena hadn’t seen before.

As she approached them, Rob pulled out a chair for her. “Come join us. I’m a free man tonight. Started earlier so I could keep them company for dinner.”

His friends smiled, the guy with enthusiasm and the woman tightly. Lena began to say she didn’t want to intrude, when Clothes Hanger stood up to exchange a cheek kiss with her. “Hi, I’m Mat, Rob’s flatmate. And this is Amanda. We all study together, and these two are poised to graduate top of the class.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Amanda waved “hi” without standing for a bona fide greeting. “And you are?”

“Lena. I live in this building.” She mouthed thank you to Rob and sat down.

“That’s it!” Mat clapped his hand on his forehead. “Now I know why you look so familiar. I’ve seen you here before.”

“You’ve got this tiny rustic accent. Are you from Switzerland?” Amanda asked.

Lena smiled. “You have a good ear. I’m from Russia, but I’ve lived in Switzerland for the past seven years.”

“Russia! How exotic. And what brings you to France, Lena?” Amanda asked.

Jeanne arrived to take Lena’s order, interrupting Amanda’s questioning.

When she left, Rob nudged Lena to look at Mat, whose gaze was locked on Jeanne, lapping her up as she walked away. “Mat here has been desperately in love with Jeanne for—um, let me see—an eternity? But she won’t go out with him. She prefers her bad boy biker. It’s a very sad story.”

Mat turned to face his friend. “Rob, what makes you think I can’t hear you when I’m not looking at you?”

“Touché,” Rob said.

Mat sighed. “I must sound like a total loser to you, Lena. I guess I am.”

“Most certainly not,” Lena said.

“Believe me, I’ve tried to move on, like, a hundred times. I try every day, as a matter of fact. But she’s bewitched me. Must be that lip piercing. It does something terrible to my brain chemistry.”

“You are so messed up, my friend,” Amanda said. “Have you considered seeking professional help?”

Lena was looking for something comforting to say, when she saw the old man sitting at the table next to theirs. She winced. “Oh no, not him again.”

Today, he was wearing cream trousers and a well-ironed blue shirt with a silk cravat tucked into its open collar. He had pointy shoes and a thin white mustache. He was dining in the company of a boy in his late teens, probably his grandson. Lena had nicknamed him GLL—the Geriatric Latin Lover. He was the plague of the bistro, the harasser of waitresses, and an embarrassment to whomever he dined with.

Jeanne approached his table, a notepad in her hand. “Has monsieur chosen his dessert?”

“No, monsieur hasn’t,” he replied, then looked Jeanne over, smiled a sleazy smile, and winked. “Can we ask the chef to put you on the menu?”

Lena couldn’t believe her ears. This was worse than the previous borderline comments she’d heard him make. And then he winked again, this time at his grandson. The boy looked so utterly mortified that Lena half expected him to dip under the table and put his head between his knees.

“Oh, but there’s no need to bother the chef,” Jeanne said far too sweetly. “I’m already on today’s specials. It’s written on the chalkboard over there.”

She pointed, and GLL instinctively turned and squinted at the chalkboard.

Jeanne gave him a few seconds then said, her voice full of sympathy, “Is it too far for you to read? Or maybe too close? You must need a new prescription for your glasses.”

GLL had now turned to glare at her. His mouth twitched.

Jeanne continued. “What a bummer, old age . . . You hang in there, monsieur, it will all be over soon. You just wink like that a few more times, and poof! No more eyesight issues or any issues at all, for that matter.”

GLL looked like someone had hit him with a sledgehammer.

But Jeanne wasn’t about to give him a reprieve. “So,” she said, all businesslike. “Will you be ordering now, or shall we continue exchanging pleasantries while other customers wait to be served?”

“Canwehavethecheck, please?” the boy mumbled. He cleared his throat and repeated more distinctly, “Can we have the check now, please?”

“Sure—I’ll get it right away! No dessert then, I guess.” Jeanne produced a disappointed sigh and turned on her heel, finally allowing herself to smirk.

Mat, who’d followed Jeanne’s repartee as keenly as he would have watched Jesus walk on water, broke into a triumphant grin. “Did you hear that? Can you see now why I can’t put this woman out of my mind?” He began to clap.

Lena found herself wishing she had a friend like Jeanne—ballsy, witty, cool. She expected Jeanne to acknowledge Mat’s enthusiasm, but the waitress walked right past him without a glance in his direction.

Lena’s phone rang and Rob startled. His stomach clenched when he glimpsed the caller ID.

“Sorry, I have to take this,” she said and moved away a little.

The conversation was hushed but not enough to be unintelligible. Lena summarized her Geneva trip and said, “Daddy, how about I don’t go to Moscow in July, and you visit me in Paris instead?”

Her father didn’t appear to have jumped at that idea, because Lena was resorting to heavy artillery. “The climate here is great for my heart. And the summer is much milder than in Moscow . . . Come on, Dad, please? We can visit the Loire castles.”

Either the castles or the heart nailed it, because Lena beamed and said, “You’re the best! And early August is perfect.”

Rob texted Boris an hour later, after Lena had gone home.

It wasn’t that difficult, after all, was it? He’d just made the fastest money he’d ever made in his whole life.

If only he could get rid of the foul taste in his mouth.