"And such a costume is considered...inappropriate?" Courfeyrac quips. "Nothing too exciting--well, I have a new roommate. There's this fellow in a few of my classes, Marius is his name, who had some sort of terrible falling out with his grandfather and had nowhere to live, so I told him he could sleep on my sofa until he sorts himself out."
“Considering that there’s a school uniform, yes,” Midge replies. “Everyone thought everyone else was helping him get dressed. Turns out none of us were.” Life with kids.
“That’s kind of you. I hope you’re not going to charge him rent for a sofa, though New York is a place where you could get away with that.”
The taxi drops them off outside of the restaurant and Midge puts her hand on Rene’s arm as they walk in. Time to see him work all of his social angles.
Courfeyrac chuckles. “Well, school uniforms are absolutely hideous, as a rule. He was probably the most fashionable boy in his class.”
Midge’s children are, at best, an abstraction to the young man. Their existence has never been a surprise to him, and he doesn’t see them as an obstacle to his flirtation. But to him, they are anecdotes more than people, and stories more than dependents. He certainly doesn’t think about what motherhood might mean to Midge.
He takes her arm as they leave the cab and walk to the restaurant. “Naturally not! What do you take me for?” he says, mock-offended, and then turns to the maitre’d. “Reservation for Rene Courfeyrac, Monsieur.”
Midge loves her children but feels like a terrible mother quite often. She’s out most nights of the week, so she’s not there to tuck them in to bed or read them stories. She loves them, of course, but she loves her career too. Balancing both of them is a puzzle that Midge hasn’t solved yet.
“An entrepreneur?” Midge asks jokingly. The maître’d leads them to their table, which is in a quiet little corner of the restaurant. Midge wonders if that was planned too.
“Now you really are trying to insult me,” Courfeyrac quips as they are led to the table. The waiter pulls out Midge’s chair for her, hands them menus, and disappears quietly and efficiently, as only waiters in expensive restaurants can.
Once he’s gone, Courfeyrac peers over the menu with a smirk. “Well, isn’t this terribly romantic.”
Perhaps she shouldn’t call a socialist an entrepreneur. Rene is, at least, taking it as the joke that Midge intended it to be.
She glances up at him over the top of her menu. “Is that what you wanted?”
Midge has no idea what he wants and it’s quite frustrating. All signs would point to him trying to woo her, but to what end remains a mystery. If he wants to fuck her, he should just say so.
Courfeyrac chuckles and lowers the menu with a boyish shrug. “Not on purpose.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “I think the friend who got me the reservation is trying to make me look good. Or possibly this is his idea of a joke.” He rolls his eyes. “Do you like it?”
“The restaurant?” Or the joke? She takes a look around. “It’s very nice.” Everything looks tastefully done, of course. There are candles on the table and abstract art on the walls. “Your friend must be very supportive of your personal life.”
Her eyes drop back to the menu. “I’m going to let you pick the wine,” Midge says. No point in arguing with a Frenchman about wine. “A red, please.”
“Who am I to argue with the lady?” says Courfeyrac, already running his finger down the wine list. When the waiter returns, he orders a bottle of Syrah from Provence, quipping, “A taste of home, forgive the indulgence. I grew up not very far from this winery, if memory serves.”
“I was going to ask where you’re from. Provence?” Midge says, trying to have a conversation while deciding what to order. “That’s in the south of France, isn’t it?”
Despite her mother being a Francophile, Midge’s own knowledge of France is limited.
Lucky for Midge, Courfeyrac has grown used to answering questions about French geography, and he only smirks briefly at her question. "Yes, in the south--near Marseille, to be exact, in my case. As a general rule, I don't believe in nostalgia, but when it comes to wine--" He offers a 'what can you do?' sort of shrug.
“More’s the pity. Paris has infinite charms, but there’s nothing like the South in the summertime.”
He folds his hands in front of him and leans forward slightly. “Because nostalgia is a trap. It tempts a person to long for the past when they should be looking towards the future. See here, ask anyone who says ‘things were simpler back then’ when, exactly, ‘back then’ was, and their answer will inevitably encompass the time they were a child. Quod erat demonstrandum, the world was simpler because they were a child, not because it was in better in some measurable, objective way.”
“I can always go back,” she says, leaving it at that. Midge isn’t asking for an invitation, of course.
“Aren’t you a philosopher?” Midge teases with a smile. “What if it’s not about things being better or simpler, but just about wanting to return to a time when you were happy? Being an adult isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“But that’s exactly it,” Courfeyrac says with growing exuberance. “People make assumptions about the world, even decisions about other people’s lives, based on their childhood happiness.”
Courfeyrac is briefly interrupted when the wine comes, transforming into someone polite and mannered as they go through the ritual of tasting and approving the bottle.
Then he's back at it. "Besides, not all childhoods are pleasant, even those that people may remember fondly."
It’s fascinating how Rene can switch from speaking about something so philosophical to being so genial with the waiter about the wine. It reminds her that he’s a law student, not just some silly Frenchman trying to woo her with words and wine.
“I haven’t thought about that,” Midge says. “If I’ve ever made decisions based on my childhood happiness, I certainly didn’t realize I was doing it.”
She raises her glass of wine to him. “What are we drinking to, Monsieur?”
“Freud would say we do all sorts of things because of our childhoods without realizing it,” says Courfeyrac with a grin. Psychoanalysis isn’t something he actually puts much stock in. “But it’s less about individuals. When governments act in nostalgia, that’s when the real trouble starts.”
He swirls his wine around, considering. “How about this-“ he holds out his glass, “to devestatingly charming new friends.”
“L’chaim,” she replies, clinking her glass against his, then sipping the wine. Midge nods her approval. “Good choice.”
“Freud would also say that you want to fuck your mother and that cocaine is good for concentration.” A wry smile. “Do you think the American government is nostalgic for twenty or thirty years ago? The war? The Depression?” Not particularly happy times in the history of this country.
cw: mention of antiblack violence, outdated language
“Twenty years? Perhaps not. But thirty or forty?” He shrugs and gives his wine glass another swirl. “I think that plenty of people on both sides of the Atlantic would like to forget the war entirely so that they could return to a time when women didn’t want jobs, colonial subjects knew their place, and—when it comes to this country—Negros could be lynched with impunity.”
Well, that’s sobering. Midge puts her glass of wine down on the table. Rene’s serious side is certainly on display tonight. Did they ever decide if this was a date or not?
“I hope Kennedy doesn’t want that,” Midge says quietly. “Otherwise, I’ll be upset that I wasted my vote.” She brightens slightly. “Did I ever tell you that I made Jackie Kennedy cry once?”
It’s hopefully a change of topic without making it completely obvious that that’s what she’s doing.
Almost immediately, Courfeyrac realizes that he has gone just a little too far. He does that sometimes—allowing his enthusiasm to push him past the line of what might be considered appropriate for any given situation. He doesn’t always care, of course, and often even enjoys the shock he can bring to people’s faces.
But tonight, he is trying to charm Midge, so he takes the hint.
“I think you may be more optimistic than I am about what a millionaire from Boston can do with the presidency, but I sincerely hope you’re right, cherie.”
All right, he mostly takes the hint.
But he lets the subject shift, raising his eyebrows. “And here I always assumed she was not allowed to cry, or show any emotion besides placid contentment. What did you do, Midge?”
She doesn’t mind discussing serious topics, although there is a time and a place for them. Tonight, it’s probably better to keep things light.
She finds that she likes the way that he says her name. With his accent, it sounds like ‘Meege’. “I made several jokes about unfaithful husbands that must have hit home,” Midge says with a raise of her own eyebrows. “Not my intention.”
The waiter returns to take their order and Midge goes first. “Coq au vin.” Yes, it has bacon in it. No, they’re not going to discuss that. Be glad she didn’t go for the steak, Rene.
“Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t,” says Courfeyrac with a laugh. He isn’t entirely sure he believes her—how, after all, do you unintentionally stumble into a faux pas like that. “But you’re leaving out the important bit: how did you end up performing for the Kennedys in the first place?” While he’s polite enough not to say it, he has to wonder how one goes from a gig like that to performing at a seedy nightclub.
As for dinner—well, Courfeyrac doesn’t know a damn thing about Kosher dietary restrictions and doesn’t blink an eye at her order. “Contre Filet Roti, s’il vous plait,” he says, because he is a show-off.
Also because he speaks fluent French. Hopefully the waiter does too. Midge offers him a little “Merci” before he leaves.
“It wasn’t!” Midge says, her face full of indignation. “I mean, it wasn’t my intention to make her cry.” Jokes are always intentional. She gives a shrug at his question. “Susie knew somebody and they wanted a comedian for the fundraiser. The guests were all women, so…” Clearly, she was the best choice.
“How did you end up in the United States for law school?” It’s something she’s been wondering about for a while.
“A lot of people ask me that,” Courfeyrac says. “Americans are so very fascinated with France. Don’t misunderstand me, I love my country. But France thinks it’s the center of the world, and it hasn’t been for hundreds of years.” He shakes his head. “No, America is the center of the world now, for better or worse. No one who truly wants to change the world can afford hanging around Europe these days. So here I am.” He spreads his hands.
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uniform, yes,” Midge replies. “Everyone thought everyone else was helping him get dressed. Turns out none of us were.” Life with kids.
“That’s kind of you. I hope you’re not going to charge him rent for a sofa, though New York is a place where you could get away with that.”
The taxi drops them off outside of the restaurant and Midge puts her hand on Rene’s arm as they walk in. Time to see him work all of his social angles.
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Midge’s children are, at best, an abstraction to the young man. Their existence has never been a surprise to him, and he doesn’t see them as an obstacle to his flirtation. But to him, they are anecdotes more than people, and stories more than dependents. He certainly doesn’t think about what motherhood might mean to Midge.
He takes her arm as they leave the cab and walk to the restaurant. “Naturally not! What do you take me for?” he says, mock-offended, and then turns to the maitre’d. “Reservation for Rene Courfeyrac, Monsieur.”
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Midge loves her children but feels like a terrible mother quite often. She’s out most nights of the week, so she’s not there to tuck them in to bed or read them stories. She loves them, of course, but she loves her career too. Balancing both of them is a puzzle that Midge hasn’t solved yet.
“An entrepreneur?” Midge asks jokingly. The maître’d leads them to their table, which is in a quiet little corner of the restaurant. Midge wonders if that was planned too.
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Once he’s gone, Courfeyrac peers over the menu with a smirk. “Well, isn’t this terribly romantic.”
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She glances up at him over the top of her menu. “Is that what you wanted?”
Midge has no idea what he wants and it’s quite frustrating. All signs would point to him trying to woo her, but to what end remains a mystery. If he wants to fuck her, he should just say so.
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Her eyes drop back to the menu. “I’m going to let you pick the wine,” Midge says. No point in arguing with a Frenchman about wine. “A red, please.”
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Despite her mother being a Francophile, Midge’s own knowledge of France is limited.
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Settled on what she wants to order, Midge puts the menu down on the table. “Why don’t you believe in nostalgia?”
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He folds his hands in front of him and leans forward slightly. “Because nostalgia is a trap. It tempts a person to long for the past when they should be looking towards the future. See here, ask anyone who says ‘things were simpler back then’ when, exactly, ‘back then’ was, and their answer will inevitably encompass the time they were a child. Quod erat demonstrandum, the world was simpler because they were a child, not because it was in better in some measurable, objective way.”
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“Aren’t you a philosopher?” Midge teases with a smile. “What if it’s not about things being better or simpler, but just about wanting to return to a time when you were happy? Being an adult isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
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Courfeyrac is briefly interrupted when the wine comes, transforming into someone polite and mannered as they go through the ritual of tasting and approving the bottle.
Then he's back at it. "Besides, not all childhoods are pleasant, even those that people may remember fondly."
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“I haven’t thought about that,” Midge says. “If I’ve ever made decisions based on my childhood happiness, I certainly didn’t realize I was doing it.”
She raises her glass of wine to him. “What are we drinking to, Monsieur?”
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He swirls his wine around, considering. “How about this-“ he holds out his glass, “to devestatingly charming new friends.”
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“Freud would also say that you want to fuck your mother and that cocaine is good for concentration.” A wry smile. “Do you think the American government is nostalgic for twenty or thirty years ago? The war? The Depression?” Not particularly happy times in the history of this country.
cw: mention of antiblack violence, outdated language
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“I hope Kennedy doesn’t want that,” Midge says quietly. “Otherwise, I’ll be upset that I wasted my vote.” She brightens slightly. “Did I ever tell you that I made Jackie Kennedy cry once?”
It’s hopefully a change of topic without making it completely obvious that that’s what she’s doing.
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But tonight, he is trying to charm Midge, so he takes the hint.
“I think you may be more optimistic than I am about what a millionaire from Boston can do with the presidency, but I sincerely hope you’re right, cherie.”
All right, he mostly takes the hint.
But he lets the subject shift, raising his eyebrows. “And here I always assumed she was not allowed to cry, or show any emotion besides placid contentment. What did you do, Midge?”
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She finds that she likes the way that he says her name. With his accent, it sounds like ‘Meege’. “I made several jokes about unfaithful husbands that must have hit home,” Midge says with a raise of her own eyebrows. “Not my intention.”
The waiter returns to take their order and Midge goes first. “Coq au vin.” Yes, it has bacon in it. No, they’re not going to discuss that. Be glad she didn’t go for the steak, Rene.
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As for dinner—well, Courfeyrac doesn’t know a damn thing about Kosher dietary restrictions and doesn’t blink an eye at her order. “Contre Filet Roti, s’il vous plait,” he says, because he is a show-off.
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“It wasn’t!” Midge says, her face full of indignation. “I mean, it wasn’t my intention to make her cry.” Jokes are always intentional. She gives a shrug at his question. “Susie knew somebody and they wanted a comedian for the fundraiser. The guests were all women, so…” Clearly, she was the best choice.
“How did you end up in the United States for law school?” It’s something she’s been wondering about for a while.
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