A selection from
Karen Propp
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PROLOGUE: PARIS, 1997
The July we suspect that my husband's prostate cancer has returned, I am seven months pregnant. We go to Paris. Late at
night, we walk the dark, lit-up streets to forget that Sam might
soon die.
We fashion a schedule to accommodate idleness. We rise at
about ten, bathe, dress, breakfast in the hotel's country-curtain
dining room. Each day we set out for a different section of the
city, to wander and see the sights. Midafternoon, we return to our
hotel and sleep. By early evening, we are out again, traveling by
Metro to one of Sam's guidebook restaurants, where dining takes
several hours.
We put our faith in French cuisine. Food, we hope, will impart
divine curative powers. Food, we tell ourselves, is better than sex.
We take the Metro to Alain Ducasse. A photo of me standing
beneath the art nouveau station arch in the 16th arrondissement
shows me wearing a black sequined dress. My belly is tremendous. I am gripping the wrought iron rail as if on a sinking ship.
At the restaurant, tuxedoed waiters seat us at a round mahogany table in a room painted with trompe 1'oeil book-filled
bookcases. We discuss; we confer; we advise. That's the thing
about Sam and me: We use up our decision-making capacities on
momentous choices like whether to have truffled potato soup
with leeks or tart of young lettuces and tomato confit.
I take a photograph of Sam at the end of that rigorous dining
experience. He slumps lazily in his chair, his legs spread in re-
pose, his starched napkin flung casually on his lap, an easy grin
on his bearded face. Neither a big nor a small man. A
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