IF EVER I SHOULD LEAVE YOU

It would surely be in Paris in the Lurch.

IF EVER I SHOULD LEAVE YOU...

Paris 1961 Chapter 1

SUZANNE WHITE

WHEN FIRST I MOVED TO PARIS, I WAS 22. I had left little behind in the US - little that I missed. But there was Peter Stone, the handsome Buffalo boyfriend who still lurked. Peter had been stationed near Paris during military service and had fallen in love with it. Suddenly, one day in my tacky little hotel in la rue des Ecoles, I got a letter (On flimsy blue airmail paper. It was 1961.) Peter was coming to see me in Paris. He needed to decide if he wanted to marry me or Bunny Goodyear. I felt intruded upon. But in a kind of left-hand manner, I was flattered.

Back in Buffalo, this guy, Peter Stone was what my mother used to call "a good catch". He was non ethnic,  handsome, well-spoken, mannerly and employed. Back there he would often take me out to dinner at a chic, dark little supper club with a piano. After dinner, he would sing - often Broadway tunes. Peter had an almost professional voice so the performance was always a pleasure for me and the other diners. The song he chose to call "our song" was "If Ever I Should Leave You"  from the Broadway Show Camelot. It was sung by Robert Goulet in the show.  Peter's rendition was not Broadway perfect, but close.

Anyway, Peter came to Paris where Ooops! We had to share a bed. Of course the bed had the kind of overslept-in mattress with a deep ravine down the middle where inevitably, no matter how each tried to stay on his or her own side, their bodies would collide in the night. That first night my skinny body and Peter's fit, muscly, athletic body collided plenty. But no hanky panky ensued. We would both turn over and scramble back to our respective sides.

At 22, I was still working things out in the sex department. In Paris, there were endless gentlemen to assist me in my quest for the perfect bonk. I had already tired out a few. But they didn't pass the mustard. They pumped and humped till spent. I acquiesced and counted the flies on the ceiling. But no matter how long or hard or tenderly they pumped, I never had the shadow of an orgasm. So with Peter, the collisions suited me fine. There was hope. I was ready to try a homegrown bonk in Paris. But, to my chagrin, Peter was not. On one occasion, at about dawm, when I groped his boxer shorts, he recoiled and said a firm no. Next morning over breakfast in bed (even funky hotels did them) he explained. He was Catholic and was saving himself for the wife he would choose.  

That evening after we had visited Fontainebleau where Peter had been posted during his Army duty, we decided to go to Montmartre to try to catch some action in the clubs. By pure chance, we found a small café bar with a piano. We drank Gimlets and as soon as the piano was free, Peter sat down and played and sang. He regaled the young French people gathered around the piano with ultra American stuff like "Oh What A Beautiful Morning" and "Surrey with the Fringe on Top".

While Peter was busy singing, I was being chatted up by a tall Swede with that kind of wispy blond hair and chiseled features Scandinavians are so good at. His name was Lars. Like all traveling Swedes, Lars spoke perfect Swenglish. "Vould you Vant to take a motorcycle ride vit me?"  I had seen lots of young people racing around town on everything from Vespas to really powerful motorcycles and was keen to try. Lars took me out to the sidewalk and showed me his bike. A Norton. I sensed it went very fast. "You vill like to ride?"  He asked. What could I say? I said, "Yes".

I stepped back into the bar where Peter was now belting out "our" song. "If Ever I Should Leave You."  I didn't interrupt him. Instead, I scribbled on a cocktail napkin,  "I am off on a motorcycle ride with a Swede. See you back at the hotel."

Peter left Paris the next day, went back to Buffalo and married Bunny.  Then, years later... to be cont'd. If Ever I Should Leave You