Pascal and Olga (II)

(Continued from Katia's Story, below)

Pascal had been traveling. He passed through Iraq and Turkey then stopped in Hungary. I never knew what he was doing. Maybe Katia told me and I forgot, but maybe she didn’t. It was a long trip. He had been on the road for months. He got sick in Turkey, or Iraq. Ate something or drank something he shouldn’t have. Got some bad disease that was eating at his liver and kidneys. Got sick, anyway. Recovered enough to head home, stopping in Budapest along the way. That’s where he met Katia.

They got married, which meant Katia could come with him back to France. As soon as she got her exit visa. But that would take months. So Pascal went back to Paris to get treated for his illness. And Katia waited for her visa in Budapest.

But she had a friend named Olga who had a student visa for France. Olga asked Katia if she could stay with Pascal when she got to Paris. Katia said yes. That was September, the year before I met Katia. Katia’s visa finally came through in July, and she got on the first train out of there. But when she showed up in Paris – surprise! – Pascal and Olga explained to her that they were together and she would have to find her own place. That’s where I came in, with my barely furnished apartment in Saint Cloud.

I sympathized with Katia, I really did. I’d been rejected before. An American girl I fell in love with when I first got to Paris left me for a French guy. I knew how it must’ve felt.

“That’s really sad,” I told her. “Should you go back to Hungary?”

“You don’t know what it’s like there.”

“I guess I don’t.”

I could tell from her body language – she turned sideways, gazing at me over her shoulder – she wanted me to take her in my arms and comfort her. But I wasn’t going to. She sighed when I didn’t respond, and stood up.

“Katia?”

“Yes.”

“That’s really sad. That’s really a sad story. And I feel really badly about what happened to you.”

“Yes?”

“But, I’ve gotta ask. I know this sounds bad, that I’m only thinking about myself, but –“

“Yes?”

“Are you sure he’s going to pay the rent for you?”

“Oh, but he has to. You understand. I came here. And he kicked me out of his house! And we were married!”

“Uh, but really, when you think about it – he doesn’t have to do anything.”

Here’s what I was thinking: This guy was brazen enough to trade out his Hungarian women, even though he was married to one of them. And now I’m supposed to count on him to come through with Katia’s rent money? Sure. He’s not gonna pay me. Fuck.

“Oh, he’ll pay,” Katia assured me.

“What if he doesn’t?”

“He will. You don’t have to worry.”

“OK. I’ll count on you to get him to pay.”

“He’ll pay. That will happen.”

“OK. I won’t worry about it, then.”

The next day I called Philippe from a pay phone at Censier-Daubenton, the Sorbonne's bunker-like complex in the 13th arrondisement, during a break from my classes.

“So Katia told me the story of Pascal and how he dumped her for some other Hungarian babe,” I said.

“You didn’t know? I thought I told you.”

“No, I didn’t know. You didn’t tell me.”

“Marie didn’t tell you that night we came over?”

“No, I would’ve known. I wouldn’t have been surprised.”

“Oh.”

“Is he going to pay the rent for her?”

“Oh definitely.”

“You sure?”

“That’s the deal.”

“Well, what if he doesn’t?”

“If he doesn’t, I’ll get Marie to intervene.”

That’s what I was hoping to hear. At least I’d have someone to turn to.

Pascal and Olga came over that weekend. Katia and I were sitting in the living room. They brought Katia some packages she had mailed to herself from Hungary. Olga had taken the same French classes I was taking the year before, so we compared notes on the teachers. Pascal and Olga didn’t sit down with us. Pascal handed me an envelope with Katia’s first month rent. It was a pretty uncomfortable scene. Funny thing: Olga was a stocky, short-haired blonde, and not very pretty. Why did he pick Olga over Katia? Maybe because he was ill and wasn’t in any kind of shape to manage his life. Maybe Olga just took over.

(to be continued)