by Ciji Ware
Finn hesitated before answering. “That’s the Mosquée de Paris, the center of the city’s Muslim community.”
Juliet despised that her intake of breath was audible. She allowed her gaze to drift to the top of the ornate building where there was a small parapet.
“So there are Muslim calls to prayer, right here in the heart of Paris?”
“Yes. And there’s also the Arab Institute, over there.” He pointed off to his left. “It was founded thirty-five years ago by twenty Arab countries with the intention of fostering cultural links between the Arab world and the West. I’ve heard that there are ten centuries of incredible Islamic works of art in there.”
“But you haven’t been to see it yourself?”
It was Finn’s turn to inhale deeply. “No. Not yet. But I hope one day I’ll... be able to.”
For some reasons she couldn’t explain even to herself, she sought Finn’s hand.
“Me, too. Someday. I have to fight the instinct to judge all Muslims by what happened here.”
Finn turned to face her. “One of these days, we’re going to have to accept our differences and stop trying to persuade the other side which religious sect and lifestyle is ‘best’.”
“And we’ll have to get over our fear of each other when it’s not warranted.”
“Someday,” Finn agreed soberly, and squeezed her hand before he released it.
The pair spent as much time as they could endure strolling through the cold, soggy gardens with little but bare branches in view, and then coping with the steamy temperatures of the numerous hothouses that stood throughout the acres of botanical gardens. After an hour, Juliet pointed to an exit sign in one of the largest of the glass structures.
Finn laughed. “Had enough horticulture for one day?”
She nodded, although when they emerged into the gardens once again, the sun was just breaking through the clouds overhead.
Juliet said with a laugh, “If you paint landscapes, you’ve got to learn to draw trees and flowers and so forth, but it would be much better to study such things in the spring.”
Finn glanced at the plants nearby that were dripping with moisture. “Well, then... I hope that means you’re planning a return trip?”
Juliet gave a little shrug. “Fingers crossed...”
“Since it looks like those clouds are moving east, how about we head for the Luxembourg Gardens where we can grab some food in the café and hope the weather improves even more?”
Juliet was embarrassed to admit how much more comfortable she felt once they had left the “Arab Quarter” and entered the Luxembourg Palace grounds that were surrounded by ancient gateways and criss-crossed with carefully laid out gravel pathways, precisely-trimmed trees and hedges, and sumptuous statuary.
“Do you suppose we’ll all get to the point where we can understand and appreciate and respect our differences?” she asked.
“You mean between the Arab world and the West? God, I hope so... but I will never respect killing innocent people as a way of saying ‘We’re right.’”
“That goes for both sides, agreed?”
Finn pulled his eyes from the distant trees and regarded her for a moment. “Amen to that,” he said. Then, he pointed the way down a hedge-lined gravel path towards an enormous fountain looming on their left.
By this time, the sun had fully emerged from behind large, puffy white clouds. Raindrops glistened on a long, double row of trees, prompting Juliet to try to imagine how magnificent the gardens must look when the thousands of plants and flower beds were in full bloom.
“You’re right. I have to come back here in spring,” she murmured as she absorbed the beauty of the peaceful haven in the heart of the city. “Do you mind?” she asked Finn, pulling her sketchpad from her tote bag to make a quick drawing of the de Medici Fountain where their wanderings had led.
“Of course not,” he said. He pointed to a pair of metal chairs next to a stone rectangle that encased a pool of water. At its end stood an imposing columned fountain with gigantic classical metal sculptures, tinged green with time and moisture.
“You have the de Medici Fountain all to yourself today,” he said. “It’s got to be a good fifteen degrees warmer than yesterday, so I’m happy just to sit here and relax.”
Juliet was surprised by how Finn’s presence didn’t unnerve her as she began to draw, even when he snapped a picture on his mobile phone of her hunched over her sketchpad. The statues, water features, and foliage began to blossom beneath her pencil, almost as if by their own accord. A wave of exhilaration came over her as each stark winter branch she created spread out on either side of the magnificent waterworks, the bareness beautiful in its own way, despite the leafless trees and empty urns. Yes, she thought, I can still draw freehand—but can I paint? That was still to be seen.
“We never got that coffee,” Finn noted when Juliet snapped shut her sketching pad and filed it and her drawing implements into her tote bag. “How about ending our explorations at Place St. Sulpice, with a quick look into the church that took a century to build? There’s another nice café there on the corner.”
When Juliet caught her first glimpse of the double row of columns flanking the front of the magnificent St. Sulpice, she understood immediately why this was one of Finn’s favorite churches in all of Paris. The winter chill increased a few degrees when they entered its shadowy depths, but her spirits were warmed by the votive candles nestled in red glass containers that glowed like garnets in every niche along the walls.
A sudden, loud chord rumbled deep from the bowels of an organ whose pipes took up an entire wall of the mammoth structure. The booming, reverberating sound rang out, followed by a skittering of expert fingers practicing for an upcoming service.
Without exchanging a word, Finn and Juliet moved toward a chapel on their right filled with a large rust and white-colored striated block of marble topped by life-sized, mournful angels weeping over a Madonna figure holding a dying man in her arms.
Finn nodded toward a clutch of long tapers. Handing one to Juliet and keeping a second for himself, they lit the wicks from the same flame on the offertory stand and placed the slender candles, side-by-side, into metal holders. Finn took her hand while they both gazed, mesmerized by the pair of golden lights dancing before their eyes.
“For Jean-Pierre and those who died November thirteenth,” Finn murmured. “May they rest in peace.”
“For Jean-Pierre, his family, dear Avery, and all of France,” echoed Juliet. “May they—and the rest of us—find solace in the coming days.”
For several minutes they stood silently holding hands before the flickering flames. Finn dropped a few coins into the donation box and stepped back, pointing to the walls on both sides of the chapel.
“Painted by Delacroix, pretty close to when he died,” he whispered.
Both gigantic paintings were full of winged angels and mere mortals doing battle with all manner of slain foes.
“They’re beautiful, but a little too violent for my mood right now. Can we get that cup of coffee?”
Finn led her from the church to a small café on the corner of the square where they ordered two café crèmes and a pastry to share while young men selling the cartoon publication Charlie Hebdo wove in and out of the small tables where they sat. Juliet felt her heart lurch slightly when Finn dug into his pocket for change and pointedly bought a copy of the very magazine that prompted the year’s first terrorist attack against those involved in its publication. She glanced around nervously, but no one appeared to respond to his rather overt act of defiance.
“I think you are becoming an expat very much like your Aunt Claudine,” she said under her breath.
“Good. At least I hope so. Can’t let the bastards get you down.”
With only half her coffee yet to drink, Juliet began to worry that she’d left Avery alone too long.
Finn quickly reminded her, “As she, herself, said to you at the restaurant the other night, she’ll ha
ve to wrestle with her devils after you’re gone, and so each of you giving the other some space while you’re still here might be a good idea.” He paused, and then added, “And besides, we’re having a pretty good time together, wouldn’t you say?”
Startled, she lowered her eyes to her coffee and nodded. “Yes, I’d say we are.” She looked up to meet his gaze, “But I keep wondering. What particular devils are you currently wrestling with these days, Finn? I see your light on in the wee hours most nights.”
Finn placed the magazine on the small table and gave a short laugh. “What are you doing awake, may I ask?”
“Well, I still think I get more sleep that you do. But when I do wake up, you’re always awake, too. I hope it’s not because I’m staying on the barge.”
Now it was Finn’s turn to stare into his coffee cup. “Even when you’re not there, it’s a toss-up for me whether it’s better to sleep or to stay awake.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I told you about how this PTSD thing can bring on nightmares, and God knows, I’d rather not expose you to the uproar.”
“Oh, Finn... please tell me you’re not staying awake while I’m there to avoid having a bad dream?”
“Well... it’s been on my mind,” he admitted. “The other problem is that when I do fall asleep, sometimes I wake with a start at the slightest sound and—as you witnessed—I’ve been known to dive for cover, which isn’t very convenient, since my bed down below is built-in and nailed into the floor. I can make an awful ruckus, hitting the deck.”
Juliet realized he was trying to make light of his problems regarding sleep. She found herself strangely overcome by a fierce desire to offer something... anything... by way of comfort. However, before she could think what that might be, he cracked a rueful smile. “You’ll be pleased to hear, though, that I actually think I’m making some progress. The good Doctor A has taught me deep breathing techniques and ways to switch away from certain reoccurring thoughts. Sometimes, I listen to classical music in my headphones all night, and I’ve even got a white noise machine I use. All kinds of high-tech stuff like that.” He picked up his coffee cup and took a long draught. “I’m even part of a PTSD sleep study, no less,” he added with mocking pride.
“That’s great, Finn. I mean it,” she said earnestly.
“Well, there’s a vet who got his MD degree after he left the service and is now a professor at Harvard. He’s been involved in some new studies.”
“Like what?”
“Ones that show that—in addition to the psychological damage that results from witnessing harrowing events in combat—”
“You mean like being shot down in a rescue helicopter and seeing other soldiers die?” she asked pointedly.
“Yeah, traumatic stuff like that. This Harvard guy and his team are developing more sensitive magnetic resonance imaging—you know—MRI brain-scan machines that show there is more subtle, ‘unseen’ damage that is done by the physical, concussive sound blasts that explosions and crashes can cause.”
“Wow... you mean that just hearing and being near an explosion, even if a soldier isn’t hit by flying objects, can cause damage to the brain?”
“And not just to soldiers and airmen. Anyone who either gets his or her head hit, or is exposed to thunderous sounds may experience what the Harvard guy calls ‘brain disconnects.’ The latest theories are that the brain’s neuron receptors become jolted and out of alignment, so to speak, and so the brain signals—the synapses—are no longer able to link properly between the receptors. And if that happens, the synapses can’t make the rapid connections they do in normal brains. It could cause malfunctions of anything from memory, to motor skills, to areas of the brain that process the emotions.”
“That’s totally incredible!” exclaimed Juliet. “So there may be hard-to-detect but real damage to the mechanics of the brain that doctors couldn’t measure before, and not just the flight-or-flight emotional reactions to reliving traumatic events?”
Finn’s relieved expression told her he was grateful that she appeared to grasp the nuances of the new research.
“Exactly. Both emotional and organic issues may be at work for some poor bastards... or in other people, just one type or the other. It’s all about having the correct diagnosis and better brain scans.”
“This is amazing! So PTSD can have both physical as well as emotional causes—and sometimes both? Do doctors and the Veterans Administration agree about the findings?”
“A few do, but for most—not yet. It’s just starting to filter through the medical system,” he said with a shrug. “Until recently, if the docs didn’t see blood or something gross on a scan, the injury didn’t exist and they wouldn’t commit to treating it. All this new evidence indicates that maybe three to four hundred thousand troops that served in the Middle East may be having problems that haven’t been correctly or completely diagnosed, but are caused by concussive events on the battlefield that are resulting in these ‘brain disconnects.’”
“Well, I sure hope this new stuff takes some of the onus off the poor vet,” she declared. “Nobody thinks a guy is cowardly if he has diabetes or high blood pressure.”
“But real men don’t get spooked by back-firing cars, remember? Trust me... it’s highly embarrassing.”
“Most people have never experienced the kinds of events that military folks like you have who’ve fought this fifteen-year war, so it’s moot.”
“You want to tell that to my father?” Finn said with a bitter laugh. “It’s an easy bet that most of the generals are the last to want to know because the implications are huge—and would cost a lot of taxpayers’ money to try to fix.”
Juliet leaned into the small table, rattling their cups. “Look, Finn, you’ve shown a lot of courage, just admitting you have a problem, and even more guts, seeking help by way of going to the American Hospital. And, just so you know, if a nightmare makes you scream at night while I’m on board the barge—so be it. It is what it is.” Then she grinned at him. “You don’t scare me.”
“You’ve been lucky so far.”
“I kinda know what you’re talking about when it comes to nightmares, though.” She began to relate that her brother Jamie had admitted that merely editing video war games had begun to make it difficult for him to have a full night’s sleep without the disruption of horrifying dreams.
“But is that really possible?” she wondered aloud. “Could just seeing violent images be causing his sleep problems?”
“Does he edit the sound, also?”
“Yep. And lots of it. And the sound effects are purposefully loud and scary.”
“Well, who knows for sure, but it could be that the loud sounds assaulting his ears through his headphones, as well as the images, are affecting him. I’d love to talk to that brother of yours sometime. And so would my shrink, I bet.”
“You may soon have a chance. He wants to spell me helping out with Avery and come to Paris during the holidays to look after her for a while.” Juliet raised an eyebrow and continued, “It’s pretty clear to me he likes her. More than likes her, in fact. He’s called or texted me every day to find out how she is.”
Finn grinned. “Well, that’s nice to hear, and it will be good to know she’ll have company over the holidays. They can be rough spent alone.”
Juliet experienced a sense of unexpected relief to see that Finn didn’t appear the slightest bit upset to learn that Jamie might be attracted to Avery. Not that she, Juliet, had any claim on the man, she reminded herself sternly. After all, she would soon be headed back to San Francisco with no idea when she might ever return to Paris.
What a depressing thought that was...
Juliet sat up straighter and silently vowed she would find a way to return to study art. And if Finn Deschanel was still on his barge as a newly-single man when she did find her way back, all the better...
She was startled by Finn’s interrupting her train of thought.
“Juliet? Did
you hear what I said? Be sure to tell your brother he’s more than welcome to bunk with me when he gets here... that is, unless he and Avery will be—”
She laughed, mentally shaking herself out of her daydream. “I don’t even know if Avery has any idea my brother has serious designs on her. But I’ll be glad to tell Jamie that—at least when he first arrives in Paris—I can highly recommend L’Étoile de Paris as a great place to land!”
“Be sure to warn him about the nightmares, though.”
Juliet met his glance and they were silent for a long moment. “I will let him know,” she said finally, her heart aching for the generous-spirited Finn. “And believe me, he’ll completely understand.”
CHAPTER 13
The early evening skies were clear by the time Finn and Juliet walked from the café, up Rue St. Père, turning left on Rue de Lille and, fifty feet later, found themselves in front of the large wooden door at number seven. Juliet thanked him for a wonderful day of sightseeing and her first sustained chance at the Luxembourg Gardens to use her new sketchbook.
“I think I’ll rustle up something for Avery’s dinner on her one burner and then head back to your barge later, if that’s okay? I only have a few more days here and—”
“Sounds like a good plan,” he assured her. “I’ll leave the door to the pilothouse open in case I’ve headed to bed, or if I go out to catch a movie or something.”
For a split second, Juliet yearned to grab his hand and head for a movie, too. Something fun. Something to take her mind off everything that was weighing her down. A casual evening with this nice man who stood just inches away was exactly how she longed to spend the evening. She sighed inwardly. Duty called.
“Okay, then. I’ll see you later,” she said, leaning forward and impulsively kissing him on both cheeks, European style. She felt him linger a second with his lips returning the kiss on her left cheek before he leaned back and bid her goodbye.
“Give my best to Avery,” he said, “and call me if you don’t feel like riding the metro back to Passy. I can meet you half way... I can always use the exercise.” His lips curled into a crooked grin and, with a wave, he turned and strode down the street in the direction of the Eiffel Tower.