Chapter 2: Mr. Curiosity
Days passed, and without work or a place to indulge her musical gift for an income, the days passed by slowly and in simple agony for Isabelle. She spent little time in her room, and the majority of the days' long hours walking up and down every block within five miles of the hotel, searching out clubs, bars, and pubs for a stage that would be open for her, somewhere she could go to make a living with her guitar. The problem wasn't her voice or the fact that she was an American in Paris, in fact that widened eyes and gained enough smiles for any one girl to be fond of. The problem was that east Paris was overflowing with one woman acts no different from hers. Every other girl under the age of thirty on this side of the city dreamed of making it big, or at least making it long enough to pay rent.
"You're sure you don't have any openings, at all?"
The gruff man behind the counter of La Barre Jaune, in the back alleyway of a street near the Opera house, shook his head regrettably. He left her with a promise to call the hotel where she was staying if he found he did have a performance opening or even a need for a waitress sometime soon. Isabelle thanked him, finished her beer and took off for another street, another prospect.
It didn't take long and the walk was a brisk one from across the square of Champs-Elysees. There was music pouring out of the darkly painted and dimly lit pub when she shuffled around the corner in her well worn boots and white cotton dress. A breeze blew through her messy honey locks, resting them on her bared shoulders just as she tugged on the handle of O'Sullivans, a charming sort of Irish watering hole. The air inside was smoke filled and smelled of dried hops and barley. The walls were painted a commanding green and black. The floors were wooden and thoroughly scratched from the legs of chairs and the obvious popularity that had yet to arrive in the early Tuesday evening. All of it covered Isabelle in a strange sort of comfort, as if she were coming home, but to no home she'd ever known before.
"Are ye drinking or drowning, lassie?"
Her eyes turned from the walls of aged photographs and Celtic heirlooms to the bar, where a tall, crimson haired man stood with a flashing grin, wiping it down.
"Actually," she began as she stepped towards him, her arms resting on the back of a barstool. "I'm new to the city. I'm a singer." His black eyes followed her with brightened approval as she concluded. "I'm looking for a somewhere to play. Do you need anyone?"
He sighed in genuine regret, "Fraid' not, lovely. We 'ave a house band, just me and few o' me buddies."
"Oh, I see." Isabelle smiled and pushed her hair behind her ear as she turned for the door again, "Thank you, all the same."
Her hand was on the doorknob when the sound of a distressing voice rose above the cackling of a small crowd in the corner of the pub. It wasn't the same voice as the man from behind the bar, but a similar Gaelic inflection remained, one flavored by a few other cultures. She could sense this even before she turned.
"Wait just a minute, Miss."
She did, and as her boots shifted back and her eyes lifted from the tired drape of her golden hair, Isabelle felt certain that somewhere in the world, there was a higher power, one capable of path crossing and star matching. For how could there not be, when he stood there, the man with the strong Irish arms to match his shy oceanic voice, his coal doused eyes splintering her into a million pieces with one smiling glance.
"You're the girl from th' hotel yesterday, am I right?"
Isabelle gulped with a nod.
"Tried t' kill me with that guitar o' yours."
"I did apologize for it."
"Aye," he laughed with a savoring final drag of his cigarette as he crushed the butt into an ashtray on a nearby table, walking closer to her. "It must be some hell o' an instrument though. It's the only thing t' ever force me straight off me boots."
She smiled at this and shook her head, still apologetic, the way Roux found her most fascinating. "I'm sure Dylan is equally as sorry for the pain he caused you."
"Dylan? Ye named it?"
"Of course," she replied as though it were an act of second nature.
"You're American. Must be named for ole' Bob then."
"Wrong. Dylan was my grandfather's name. He's the one who taught me how to play."
Roux felt his heart bubble over with something comfortable in her response, something that took him back to his own childhood, his own grandfather in Limerick. He smiled and leaned near the doorway, attempting to put an ease to her leaving, trying just to hold onto her this time.
"So, grandfather's name was Dylan. Wot' on earth can yours be?"
A teasing grin crossed her face as Isabelle tried to move through the door and was stopped by his eyes alone. "What use is my name to you?"
"I need a pretty name for me new five string, o' course."
She laughed and leaned on the opposite side of the doorway, eyeing him carefully, "Touché."
"On guard, Miss…?"
"Taylor. Isabelle Taylor."
Somewhere lost in her eyes and the scent of her body surrounding him, Roux whispered a mere, "Perfect," and watched as her face lit up with humor. He caught himself from falling into her again, this time at his own fault of sensual imbalance. "Isabelle. Mind if I call you Izzie?"
"Why would you do that?"
"Well, because there's nothing formal 'bout this place. An' you need a place t' sing don't you?"
"Yes, but I--"
"But ye wot'? Weren't expecting t' have to share a stage?"
Isabelle inhaled deeply and turned her face through the pub towards the stage, where twinkling lights and antique Irish beer signs served as decoration enough. Then when she felt the warm breath of the man coming ever closer to her in the doorway, she turned back and stared up at him nervously.
"I'm not sharing a stage with you. I'm sorry, but I sing alone."
Roux grinned in complete fascination at the sound of her voice and the light in her eyes.
"Tell me something, Izzie." He gained her full attention with the name alone, "Don't ye need the money t' hold onto this free-wheeling little adventure o' yours through Paris? Don't you need the job? A place t' sing for a few Euros a night?"
"Yes," was her clear cut response as she watched both of his hands settle on the wall beside her head, his face coming ever nearer to hers in the dark corner. "Then why not give it a shot with me? Why not take a chance, lassie? I promise I can swing a rather pretty tune."
The radiance on his peppered tongue of hidden journey's and ventures was what made her fall even deeper into his gaze and his breath and his closeness without so much as a single touch. She stared up at Roux with widened eyes, eyes that were opened for the first time in far too long. She saw no more of the small town, southern girl she once was when she noticed her reflection in his blackened eyes. She didn't see Isabelle Taylor, the knobby kneed girl with muddy ankles and a troublesome curiosity. And what gave her the most hope of all, was that she saw no trace of Dirk or the potential for further agony or heartbreak in his eyes. That was what decided her mind in the matter.
"Fine, I'll give it a shot." She whispered low with a tight smirk up at him, "If you'll at least just tell me your name."
Roux's smile brightened in an instant as he stood tall, providing her with breathing room again. There was something so simply intriguing about her, something that no European woman had ever once touched upon in his travels. She was unpretentious, but classic at the same time. She could be funny without trying and serious when she didn't seem to want to be. And the way her eyes lit up with the slightest of awkwardness or nervousness, made him want to throw his arms around her and never let go. Isabelle had stolen his entire functioning process with only minutes of her acquaintance into his world.
"Name's Roux," he finally replied with a soft hand to shake. She did, steadily, as though she had been taught by a long line of tough American men, men she named guitars after, and most likely trucks and boots and anything else worthy of her simplistic lifestyle. "An' I'm thinking you should bring this virtuoso Dylan o' yours in for a little test run t'night."
"A test run?"
"Yeah, you know," he teased with a single wink. "T' see how well we harmonize together."
Of all the things she wanted to say to that, of all the things she wanted to do at the very mention of it, Isabelle held back with numb tongue and a trembling hand on the cool iron doorknob. She was willing to give the prospect of a duet a chance. She was willing to give O'Sullivans a chance. She only hoped it wasn't so completely obvious that she wanted nothing more than to give Roux his fair chance just the same.