“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.
Midge thinks it’s pretty optimistic of him to want to change the world so radically, particularly starting in the United States. Anti-communism is strong here, and most uneducated people lump socialism in with communism without a second thought.
“I think I’d rather be in France,” she says. “Is it true that the French don’t like Americans?”
“That’s easy to say when you haven’t lived through a war there,” Rene points out. He had still been a child when the war ended, but its effects continue to haunt the country.
Still, he speaks without rancor, and at her question, he laughs. “Why shouldn’t we? You are all far too loud and you have absolutely no taste,” he teases. “But in all honesty, I don’t think most people care that much. They dislike tourists, perhaps—but who doesn’t?”
It’s true, and she’s fortunate that she didn’t. What she experienced in America was bad enough, and that was mostly sacrifice, not a destruction of her home and society.
“I don’t like tourists either,” she agrees with a shrug. “So you plan to stay here after you finish law school?”
“That is the plan, though I do like to keep my options open. Now,” he lifts his eyebrows, “as much as I enjoy talking about myself, I wouldn’t be any sort of gentleman if I made this dinner all about me. So tell me, Midge, what’s something about yourself that you don’t share in your comedy routine?”
Why is she not surprised that the spotlight has been turned back around on her? Midge rolls her eyes playfully and takes a sip of the wine, contemplating his question.
“I hate peas,” she says, her tone as if she’s imparting some great secret to him.
If he wants a real answer, he’s going to have to deal with a few stupid ones first.
“Oh! Oh dear,” says Rene without missing a beat. He takes a sip of his wine and looks her over with mock-concern. “And is this aversion the result of some childhood trauma too terrible to share on stage?”
Midge nods sincerely. “I can’t believe I admitted it to you here tonight. It’s one of my darkest secrets, along with the fact that I read the New York Post.”
Technically, both of her admissions are true. Fortunately, she reads other papers as well.
"Oh, you mustn't speak ill of the Post. I recommend it to everyone," Courfeyrac says with mock-seriousness. "There's no better source of comedy in the entirety of New York City."
That produces a smile. “Where do you think my best bits come from?” That part, at least is a lie.
She settles back in her chair and looks at him for a moment. Her gaze turns to her wine glass on the table.
“I was actually pretty devastated when my marriage ended,” Midge tells him quietly.
On stage, she’s a pretty happy divorcee, and ultimately it was the right decision to make, but she was completely blindsided and lost when Joel cheated on her.
Courfeyrac hadn’t entirely expected Midge to answer, let alone to offer something quite so personal. Now that she has, he sets his wine glass down and props his chin on his hand. “Naturellement. Your jokes could never be so good if they didn’t have something real behind them.” He sits back. “Though for the record, he must be an absolute fool.”
That comment produces a small smile. “I think he regrets it, but it’s too late. He can’t un-fuck his secretary.” Midge has forgiven him enough that they can co-parent their children together, but she will never get back together with him.
Maybe this revelation will help Courfeyrac to understand why she’s hesitant about taking things further than dinner. She doesn’t want to be made a fool of again, even if it is just sex.
Midge takes a long drink of wine before speaking again. “Anyway… that’s something you probably didn’t know.”
“Well, you have risen like a phoenix from the ashes, cherie, and I hope he knows it.” He grins slyly and clinks his glass against hers. “Is it true that you only started performing after he left? Because personal tragedy aside, it would have been a shame if the rest of us had never been given the opportunity to enjoy your wit.”
“That’s true,” Midge confirms. “The night he left, I got drunk and went to The Gaslight and got on stage for the first time. I didn’t think I’d ever do it again, except that I loved the rush that it gave me.”
Courfeyrac’s smile is giving her a similar rush, and she hates that. He’s too smug. She can’t give him what he wants. And yet it feels like he’s dismantling her defenses brick by brick.
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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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Midge thinks it’s pretty optimistic of him to want to change the world so radically, particularly starting in the United States. Anti-communism is strong here, and most uneducated people lump socialism in with communism without a second thought.
“I think I’d rather be in France,” she says. “Is it true that the French don’t like Americans?”
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Still, he speaks without rancor, and at her question, he laughs. “Why shouldn’t we? You are all far too loud and you have absolutely no taste,” he teases. “But in all honesty, I don’t think most people care that much. They dislike tourists, perhaps—but who doesn’t?”
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“I don’t like tourists either,” she agrees with a shrug. “So you plan to stay here after you finish law school?”
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“I hate peas,” she says, her tone as if she’s imparting some great secret to him.
If he wants a real answer, he’s going to have to deal with a few stupid ones first.
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Technically, both of her admissions are true. Fortunately, she reads other papers as well.
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She settles back in her chair and looks at him for a moment. Her gaze turns to her wine glass on the table.
“I was actually pretty devastated when my marriage ended,” Midge tells him quietly.
On stage, she’s a pretty happy divorcee, and ultimately it was the right decision to make, but she was completely blindsided and lost when Joel cheated on her.
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Maybe this revelation will help Courfeyrac to understand why she’s hesitant about taking things further than dinner. She doesn’t want to be made a fool of again, even if it is just sex.
Midge takes a long drink of wine before speaking again. “Anyway… that’s something you probably didn’t know.”
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Courfeyrac’s smile is giving her a similar rush, and she hates that. He’s too smug. She can’t give him what he wants. And yet it feels like he’s dismantling her defenses brick by brick.
“Do you feel that way when you’re in court?”