That Spring in Paris

by Ciji Ware

  A bitingly cold wind assaulted her ankles where she stood on Rue Bonaparte. She hurriedly approached a wrought iron gate placed in the institution’s tall walls that enclosed a massive, stone-paved courtyard. She had checked online to confirm that L’École des Beaux Arts had re-opened its doors after Friday’s attacks. She paused at the gate to take in the sight of the world’s most prestigious establishment offering classes in all variety of the practical and fine arts. Bicycles and motorcycles were lined against one stonewall, an encouraging indication that things were slowly getting back to normal. Just inside the gate, a gaggle of expressionless armed guards stood beside a small table where her handbag was thoroughly searched—another visible sign that the fatal melee at the cartoonists’ headquarters and the recent slaughter of so many innocent civilians less than a week earlier had prompted an all-out local response.

  Once past the security checkpoint, she slowly surveyed the series of arched corridors stretching in all directions and searched for a sign that might indicate where the administration offices were located. Pausing at an open door down one hall, she absorbed the sight of a live, nude male model posing with one foot on a riser, the object of attention of some dozen art students in a drawing class. In another room, she saw students standing in front of individual easels working on landscapes that Juliet assumed had been previously initiated out-of-doors at various locations in Paris and its environs.

  Riveted, Juliet realized she was holding her breath as she watched them paint. After some fifteen minutes, mesmerized by the scratching sound of pastel chalks some were using, as well as the pungent odor of linseed oil and paint other students employed, she asked sotte voce of a figure nearest the door for the location of a local art store where she could buy some sketching supplies.

  “I speak English,” replied a reed-thin young woman with dyed red, stringy hair and purple lipstick. She named a few art supply emporiums.

  “Do you have the Paris Metro app on your phone?” she asked.

  “No, but I’d like to,” Juliet replied quickly, and proceeded to click onto the App Store and downloaded her informant’s recommendation in a trice.

  “Bon!” the student said approvingly. She took command of Juliet’s phone and typed in the nearest metro stop to the school, followed by another, and brought up the names of the underground trains that would get Juliet where she wanted to go.

  “Would you do that for the American Hospital in Neuilly?” Juliet asked. “My friend, who’s a student here, was shot last Friday in the attacks and I want to know the quickest way to get there from here.”

  “Mon Dieu!” The young woman with the scarlet mane stared at her with alarm, her dark brown eyes lined with bold strokes of black eye pencil. “I heard today that there were several students from here who were injured or died,” she said, handing Juliet’s phone back to her after showing her the metro line from nearby St. Germain-des-Pres that ran to Ponte de Neuilly, a stop within easy walking distance of the American Hospital. “Is your friend going to make it?”

  “Yes, but it may be a while before she can paint again.” Juliet decided not to mention fellow student Jean-Pierre’s critical condition. Then she repeated the question that had initiated their conversation: “Can you tell me what you think is the best art supply store around here?”

  “Sennelier’s,” she answered emphatically. “It’s just around the corner... number three, Quai Voltaire. It’s over a hundred years old. Cezanne purchased his supplies there!” she said proudly. “I buy everything in that store, but it’s not cheap, which is why I mentioned the others when you asked. Sennelier’s is by far the best, though.”

  Juliet thanked her and glanced at her watch. It was too late to talk to anyone in the school’s administrative office, or to indulge in a shopping expedition for art supplies. Instead, she decided to head directly back to the hospital to see how Avery was doing. A half hour later, emerging from the metro, she proceeded down the Boulevard du Chateau to the American Hospital’s now-familiar front entrance off Victor Hugo where she’d originally collided with Finn.

  For several minutes, she remained outside watching a parade of visitors stream through the revolving door, wondering, despite her best resolve, whether Finn was in the building sitting vigil with Jean-Pierre’s family—and what condition Avery’s friend was in.

  “Focus!” she said under her breath.

  She was in Paris to tend to her friend. With renewed purpose, she strode toward the door, this time without her wheeled suitcase in tow.

  CHAPTER 9

  Juliet spent the next two days in Paris checking in with Avery between therapy sessions that dealt with both her physical and psychological issues. She did her best to cheer up her friend by smuggling in meals from her favorite bistros and visiting the huge department store, Galleries Lafayette, in search of a bottle of Avery’s favorite perfume, along with a pretty nightgown to replace the unflattering hospital smock.

  Meanwhile, Juliet struggled to keep the heating system in the attic apartment under control. It was either stifling or plunging into temperatures that were chilly-to-frigid by dawn’s light. On the fifth day of Juliet’s visit, Avery returned to her hospital room, exhausted from rehab, and slept for four hours, straight. After an hour waiting for her to wake up, Juliet slipped out of her room and took the metro to the stop nearest the Quai Voltaire. She soon found her way to Sennelier’s art supply shop.

  As she rounded the corner onto the street fronting the Seine near the Pont du Carrousel, a little gasp escaped her lips. Sennelier’s storefront rose before her in all its turquoise and gold painted splendor. The colorful front facade dazzled the eye with tall windows crowded with a rainbow of wares: chalks, packages of pastels, tubes of oils, tins of watercolors, paint brushes, and a number of fanciful canvases showing the range of colors to be purchased within its walls.

  To Juliet’s great relief, the fourth-generation proprietor, Sophie Sennelier, assisted her with her purchases of an array of pencils, pastels, a small watercolor set, and a good-sized sketch book—all of which Juliet was able to fit in her tote bag as the two women spoke a combination of French and English.

  That afternoon, after bringing lunch to Avery and watching her fall asleep, Juliet took her new art supplies to the green spaces of nearby Bois de Boulogne where she sketched for an hour and then made a side trip to see the iconic Arc de Triomphe. The next day she followed the same routine: she lunched with Avery in her hospital room and then found her way to Parc Monceau, an eighteenth-century gated green space surrounded by opulent mansions studded with belle époque monuments of prominent French writers and musicians. Everywhere she looked, there was one more breathtaking sight after another, and she could only imagine what the magnificent park would look like in the blush of spring. In contrast, the ubiquitous guards brandishing guns everywhere reminded her that the beauty of Paris had probably been altered forever.

  Almost as a kind of protest, Juliet braved the crowds in the later afternoon and took the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Gazing down, she was startled to be able to spot Finn’s barge floating serenely in the Seine on the river opposite.

  She even ventured into the 10th Arrondissement, wanting—yet fearful—to pay her respects to a particular scene of the November attacks, Le Petit Cambodge. The air was biting when she walked out of the Goncourt metro stop. She was taken aback to see that the restaurant where Avery and Jean-Pierre had been shot was a modest neighborhood eatery literally across the street from the St. Louis Hospital. Avery had described the crush of ambulances crowding the entrance leading to the emergency ward, a jam-up that had prompted her to beg the drivers to take her to the American Hospital, instead.

  Now, Juliet could only gaze at the restaurant’s boarded-up windows and cordoned-off sidewalk that was piled high with bouquets of flowers, candles, and all manner of tributes to the diners and staff who had suffered such grievous losses. Parisians, bundled against the cold, approached in small groups to add to the offerings.
Juliet stood frozen in place, her own arms filled with a bouquet of long-stemmed white roses that she’d bought at a flower shop en route. A well of emotion clogged her throat as thoughts filled her mind of Avery, pale in her bed, and Jean-Pierre, hooked to a ventilator in the sterile confines of the ICU. Then she considered the dead that were being buried this very day, and the other 368 wounded whose lives had been shattered on November 13th.

  Why? Why! her heart cried out.

  No answers came as she approached a spot to lay her flowery memorial beside the others. Her eyes blurred with tears, she slowly turned her back on the display and sought out the nearest park. Despite the November chill, sketching outdoors had the effect of calming Juliet’s turbulent thoughts and the simmering fear whenever she walked on public streets or entered a shadowed metro station where terrorists might strike again.

  On November 20th, the one-week anniversary of the attacks, Juliet called to speak to Jamie in person in the wake of a series of texts that grew increasingly insistent. On the phone, his voice conveyed his obvious anxiety to know specifics of Avery’s condition.

  “She’s doing better each day,” Juliet reported, adding, “and she’s really touched that you’ve been sending flowers and gifts so often. The doctors have told her that eventually she’ll be able to paint again and continue at L’École.”

  “That’s such great news!” Jamie exclaimed. “Can she talk on the phone yet?”

  “She’s still pretty fragile... and the nurses say I’m the only person they’ll let in for the moment. But seriously, bro, she did want me to tell you how much she appreciates everything you’ve had delivered to her hospital room.”

  “What about her parents? Have they come over?”

  “I don’t think they know anything.” Juliet paused. “She didn’t even want me to email them about what’s happened.”

  “Really? That’s crazy.”

  “That’s Avery.” Changing the subject, Juliet asked, “So how’s work?”

  “Same old same old,” Jamie replied, his voice taking on an exasperated tone. “You better prepare yourself for a call from Brad any minute now, demanding to know when his design director is gonna return home. Your week is up, he said when I got to work today.”

  “Has he asked about how Avery’s doing?” She already anticipated his answer.

  “Not once.”

  After her call to Jamie, Juliet headed back to the hospital. Twenty feet from Avery’s door she was flagged down by the friendly nurse she’d met on the ward the first day she arrived.

  “I have some sad news...” the woman began.

  Juliet sucked in a breath and shot a worried glance toward Room 203. “What’s wrong? Is Avery okay?”

  “No, no, it’s not her.” The nurse paused and placed her hand lightly on Juliet’s arm, her expression melancholy. “It’s her friend Jean-Pierre. He died about an hour ago.”

  “Oh, no!” wailed Juliet softly, her eyes instantly filling with tears.

  “As you probably know, he was declared brain dead earlier this week and, this morning, his family gave permission to turn off the ventilator.”

  “Oh, dear God...”

  The nurse nodded sympathetically, adding, “He slipped away a few hours afterward.”

  Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, Juliet murmured, “Does Avery know yet?”

  A voice behind her said, “We were waiting for you to return to the hospital before we told her.”

  Juliet whirled in place. Finn Deschanel had been sitting unnoticed in a nearby chair, awaiting her arrival. His aunt, Claudine, was also there, although she had remained seated, her face drawn and hollowed-eyed, as if she hadn’t been to sleep for days.

  Glancing from one Deschanel to the other, Juliet was immediately consumed with anxiety, wondering aloud how Avery would react to this tragic turn of events.

  “And the poor Grenelles,” she added, her voice wavering. “They must be just devastated.”

  Nodding, Claudine slowly rose from her chair. “They still haven’t left the ICU waiting room. They wanted to know if they could visit Avery and tell her about their son’s passing themselves.”

  * * *

  Juliet would never forget the scene of Jean-Pierre’s parents and grandmother entering Avery’s room and encircling her hospital bed shortly after Finn had walked in and taken the lead in breaking the news.

  Avery remained silent, her hands convulsively clutching the turned-down sheet. When the Grenelle family came to stand near the head of the bed, Jean-Pierre’s grandmother spoke slowly in French so Avery and Juliet would be sure to understand.

  “We know you were a good friend to him as well,” she began, her words etched in sorrow. “We’re proud that he gave his life trying to save yours. It gives some meaning to the terrible way he died.”

  Avery shook her head from side to side, her lips twisted, her fists pounding the bedcovers. “But I’m to blame!” she cried. “I invited him to that restaurant because it was cheap as well as good. I insisted we come to this hospital because of the pile-up of ambulances at St. Louis.” By this time, tears bathed her cheeks. “And because of all that, it probably meant he didn’t get the help he needed quickly enough and—”

  Finn stepped forward and interrupted in rapid English.

  “There was nothing that could have been done,” he insisted in a firm but gentle tone. “It could have happened at any restaurant in Paris. The doctors have told the family that Jean-Pierre received such fatal wounds when he was shot that he was virtually brain dead within seconds of the assault. It wouldn’t have made any difference what hospital he was brought to.” He gently placed a hand on her good shoulder, but his words sounded almost stern. “This is survivor’s guilt talking, Avery,” he said urgently. “If you truly want to help his family, let the Grenelles know you appreciate their coming here. Let them see you’re grateful for the sacrifice Jean-Pierre made to save your life.”

  Juliet felt Avery’s tortured glance seeking hers and she nodded encouragingly through her own tears. Avery shifted her gaze to Eloise Grenelle and sought her hand. In French she whispered, “Madam, I will never forget Jean-Pierre and how he saved my life.” Her eyes beseeched Jean-Pierre’s parents. “I will never forget how sweet your son was to me from my first day in class. I will never forget. Never!”

  And then Avery covered her face with her hands, shoulders heaving, and began to cry deep, wrenching sobs while the rest of those in the room gathered close, arms around each others’ waists, all with tears streaming from their eyes.

  Except for Finn, Juliet noted. He was dry-eyed, but she could see the pain emanating in his expression like a heat shield reentering space.

  The first one able to speak coherently was Claudine. After a rapid dialogue in French with her friend Eloise, she said in English to Finn, “I suggest you and Pierre go, now, to make arrangements for the funeral. Juliet and I, if she’s agreeable, will accompany Jean-Pierre’s mother and grandmother back to my apartment to make a meal.”

  Avery raised her head and Juliet knew instantly she couldn’t leave her. Before she could voice her concern, Claudine moved closer to the bed.

  “If I can get permission, Avery, do you think you feel well enough to spend an evening resting on my couch? My building has an elevator and we can take you by taxi and bring along a wheel chair to transport you back and forth.”

  Avery hesitated and then nodded. “I walked the length of a corridor today during PT,” she said, reaching for a tissue to mop her eyes.

  “You did?” Juliet said, amazed. Then she sobered, “But look, you’ve had a big shock. If you don’t feel up to it, I’m happy to keep you company here, and—”

  “I want to go!” Avery cried. “I want to be with you all.”

  Claudine rang for the nurse and insisted a call be made to Avery’s doctor, wrangling permission for his patient to spend a few hours in the bosom of her late friend’s family.

  “The doctor thought it would be the best med
icine,” whispered the kindly nurse who’d remained in the room. “Especially since Ms. Evans was able to walk on her own today. A week or two more, and she’ll be ready to go home and hopefully make a full recovery in six months’ time.”

  Juliet felt her breath catch. Six months... Who’s going to take care of her when I leave?

  And leave fairly soon she knew she must, given Jamie’s warning on the phone earlier today that Brad would soon demand she return to San Francisco—or else.

  * * *

  Juliet had never seen anything quite as glamorous as Claudine Deschanel’s apartment on Rue Jacob. Once past the outsized carved wooden door that faced the street, the entryway made her think she was entering a palace, with its ivory marble statuary, Corinthian columns flush with large, white stone block walls. Limestone flooring led to a brass elevator that looked nothing so much as a giant birdcage that rose at a stately speed to Claudine’s third-floor residence and opened into a black and white square-tiled foyer.

  “Welcome, my darlings,” Claudine greeted them in a hushed voice. She flung her arms wide displaying butterfly silk sleeves set into a wildly colored floor-length caftan that Juliet speculated might have been a Rudi Gernreich original. Her fingers and wrists flashed with beautiful jewelry, including an arresting emerald and diamond ring that Juliet couldn’t help but note with silent admiration.

  The walls of Claudine’s flat were painted a lush, butter yellow with matching silk drapes that hung from twelve-foot windows. Three crystal chandeliers dangled from a mammoth molded ceiling overhead, the curved surface replete with painted angels and cherubs gamboling across a robin’s egg blue sky.

  Claudine, Eloise Grenelle, and Avery had departed the hospital in the first taxi summoned, and by the time Juliet, Jean-Pierre’s mother, and sister Colette arrived, Avery had been installed on a damask-covered Louis XVI couch upholstered in the same sky blue shade as the ceiling. A cream-colored cashmere throw was tucked over the length of the patient’s body and she appeared half asleep.