Love Me in Paris

by D Pichardo-Johansson

  By the time she emerges from the bedroom, fully dressed, to start day six, I have coffee, croissants, and cheese ready, which I’ve scored from the café-boulangerie across the street. “Good morning.” She yawns. “Breakfast already? This is better than my hotel!”

  I pull out a chair and have her take a seat at the white kitchen table. “You know my rules. We’d better fill up so we don’t have to stop and spend time eating for a while. And we should pack a lunch, so we won’t spend money on food until dinnertime.”

  She tastes her breakfast and treats me to one of her delighted expressions again. “Wow!” She moans. “How am I ever going to go back to Folgers and Wonder Bread after this?”

  I press my lips to suppress a smile. Did I mention I envy Sophia’s joie de vivre? The same way she makes that ecstatic face whenever she tastes something good, she makes a whole variety of elated expressions when she sees something beautiful. And her willingness to find beauty everywhere is tireless. She has to take a picture of every interesting image she sees. She has to stop and smell every single flower we find.

  Damn it. I’ve bragged so much that this trip is about me becoming exactly that: carefree and able to live in the now. For crying out loud, I stopped working and I’m splurging my savings on a year-long trip. How much more “in the now” can I get? Yet being with Sophia reminds me how far I have to go. She’s the real deal when it comes to being in touch with one’s feelings. She seems to be made of a different material than I am.

  Maybe I’m just dead inside.

  Maybe the day of the shooting I survived physically, but not mentally.

  She studies me a little too intently as I drink my coffee. “What?” I ask.

  “You’re amazing.” She drops the words like the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve never met someone as clever and organized as you. I envy you.”

  The smile I’ve been fighting breaks free. It’s like she’s read my thoughts and is trying to make me feel better. “Well, thank you.”

  She takes another sip and looks around. “Where are Karla and Eric?”

  “They’re in London for the rest of the month.”

  Sophia’s expression drains of life, and her fingers turn white around her coffee cup. “You mean,” she begins tentatively as a look of horror stains her face, “they weren’t here last night?”

  Chapter 10

  Sophia

  The awareness that Trevor and I are alone in this apartment lands as heavy as a cathedral’s dome on top of my chest. It’s jolting to realize we slept mere feet away from each other. To think that minutes ago I was completely naked, showering in his bathroom, and we didn’t have the buffer of another person in the place.

  Last night I retired to Trevor’s room after it became obvious that trying to convince him to let me take the couch was a lost cause. I was so tired after our day I barely managed to scribble a couple of paragraphs in my journal and then fell into a coma. Had I known that he and I would be sharing the apartment alone, I wouldn’t have been so fast to accept his invitation.

  It’s not that I don’t trust him. After the past few days of intense touring together, I feel like we’ve known each other for much longer than we do. And he has made no attempt to hit on me whatsoever. Seriously, that flirty nature I noticed when we first met has vanished. If I didn’t know he’s also making an effort to remain celibate for this year, my womanly pride would be hurt.

  Again, it’s not that I don’t trust him. The problem is that I’m afraid he might be… too much temptation for me to handle?

  The self-vow doesn’t spare me from spiked hormones. And I admit Trevor does strange things to mine. It’s not his fault, he’s super-handsome, smells divine, and sounds amazingly smooth when he’s speaking French—come on, I’m only human. And that’s not even mentioning we’re walking around in a gorgeous, romantic city where every few steps there’s a couple making out in public—that’s no stereotype, but truth—planting ideas in my mind.

  For the past few days I’ve poured myself into this pilgrimage of stunning sites while watching him from the corner of my eye. He’s such a steady, serene presence to be with. He never complains, even when I know he’s tired. He’s like my personal bodyguard who walks ahead of me dispersing the crowds with his larger body, so I can follow in his wake and move freely even in the most crammed places. He’s the solid hand holding mine every time I risk taking a wrong step, such as when we climbed the spiral stairs to the top floor of the Sainte Chapelle. He alternates his aloofness with genuine interest when I share bits and facts I’ve learned from my audio guides. And then there’s that clever and practical brain I flat-out envy. I keep saying that I’m trying to prove to myself I can be proactive and independent. Well, seeing him in action is a reminder of how far I am from becoming a person truly in control of her circumstances.

  In summary, he’s striking, I’ve been having too much fun with him, and I’m starting to admire him as a role model. If I’m not careful, I risk getting a bad crush on him. Nothing good can come out of that when I’m committed to celibacy for six more months.

  Not to mention the fact that I’ll never see him again after this trip.

  “You’re giving me the weird look again. Like I’ve mutated into a platypus or something,” he deadpans.

  I play with my napkin to hide the tremor in my fingers. “Sorry. I… I didn’t realize your roommates are gone. I was… looking forward to some bonding with Karla.” I clear my throat and rise from the table. “Which reminds me… I have to make a phone call to check on a friend. Excuse me.”

  I rush back to his bedroom and lock the door behind me. Afraid that he might hear me talk, I step out onto the tiny balcony and dial the girls conference video call. A few moments later, Mia’s sleepy face and swollen eyes appear on the screen. From the glow in the dark stars on the wall behind, I can guess she’s still at Chloe’s apartment in Chicago. Shoot. I forgot it’s 2:00 a.m. there.

  “What the hell is going on?” Mia yawns.

  “Sorry! This is kind of an emergency. Are you still with Chloe?” Chloe emailed me yesterday to update me about Iris’ speedy recovery from surgery and her plans to return for a longer visit in the next couple of weeks.

  Mia has stumbled out of bed and seems to be walking somewhere. “Yes, but she’s sleeping on the couch. She thinks my cell phone’s Bluetooth waves will melt her brain or something. Chloe! Wake up, Sophia’s calling.”

  Besides the darkness in Chloe’s living room, seeing the girls in their pajamas—Mia’s black lacy slip and Chloe’s tie-dye batwing nightgown—gives me a wave of homesickness. It takes Chloe a few moments to wake up and then I make my consultation. “Girls, I’ve spent the week touring Paris with Trevor and he hasn’t made any move or insinuation. But just now I found out that when he invited me to crash at his place because I didn’t have a hotel to stay in, he neglected to tell me that his roommates were gone and we’d be alone. Should I be worried?”

  Did I really just say that? Gosh, I am such a yokel!

  “Whoa, slow down! You’re sleeping at his place?” Mia blinks grogginess away from her eyes. “Are you out of your freaking mind? That guy is obviously going to pass you the bill later.”

  “Oh, stop it!” Chloe nudges Mia away, then runs her fingers through her incredibly long black hair, freeing it from her ponytail and untangling it. “If he had dirty intentions she would know it by now; a woman can sense when a guy is a sleaze.”

  “Not Sophia!” Mia snorts. “Any minute, he’s going to say something like…” She makes a low-pitched voice. “‘Uh, I need to test if my mattress is bouncy enough. Would you mind helping me by getting in bed with me?’ And she’ll buy it.”

  “No, no!” I say, almost desperately hopeful. “He made no attempt to charm me last night. He even gave me his bedroom and slept on the couch.”

  Mia shakes her head adamantly, making her shiny ombre waves bounce; how can her hair look so good when she just woke up? “That’s how they get you to l
ower your guard!” Her gorgeous features contort with worry. “Babe, you know I’m a reformed slut. I know every single trick men pull to get a woman in their bed. I’ve pretended to fall for all of them. Making you believe they don’t want you is the oldest trap in the world!”

  I’m getting more worried by the moment. Maybe I should never have agreed to let Trevor come with me to Annecy.

  “Wait, stop.” Chloe’s fingers wind her own hair into a braid. She wrinkles her pointy nose the way she does when she’s hatching a plan or “invoking Universal Intelligence.” “We have established that this trip is all about Sophia taking risks and learning to trust her instincts.” Her dark eyes focus on me from the screen. “You know, he can’t make you agree to anything you don’t want.”

  “Uh… unless he’s a predator,” Mia warns.

  But no, Trevor doesn’t strike me as dangerous in any way—except for being too attractive. The truth is that I’m not afraid of him, but of myself.

  “Maybe the Universe is trying to challenge you,” Chloe continues, arriving at the end of her long braid. “This is your chance to prove to yourself that you’re in control of your life; it’s an exercise in embracing your power.”

  I remain silent for a moment, allowing Chloe’s words to sink in. “I think you’re right.” Peace and determination grow inside me. “Nothing will happen unless I give in. And the whole point of this trip is proving to myself that I’m stronger than I used to think I am.”

  And it’s decided. I’m letting him join me on my trip to the Alps.

  Chapter 11

  Trevor

  The past few days since Sophia moved into the flat, we’ve retraced her parents’ journey and then some. We finished their seven days of routes and now, with time to spare before our trip to Annecy, we’re touring on our own. It’s not easy to reconcile our different tastes, but we’re starting to develop a system of taking turns; I go with her to a place I wouldn’t have considered before, and she agrees to follow me into an attraction I recommend.

  It’s working well. I’m making it to sites that are new for me, such as riding a cable car to the white church of Montmartre. At the same time, she’s exploring places outside her parents’ itinerary, such as the observatory at the Montparnasse building, with its great view of the city. Even if she adamantly refused to explore the Lovers’ Street to tour Le Moulin Rouge cabaret, I’ve agreed to take a day trip to Versailles when we return from Annecy (33-35).

  Persuading her to move beyond her parents’ routes is the right thing to do. She’s idealized their relationship too much, and I’m worried she’ll be disappointed when she can never find the love she thinks they had. Come on, there’s no way a couple could be so in love as she says they were after almost two decades together.

  Right?

  Since rain clouds the forecast today, we decide to stay indoors, in a museum. Sophia, of course, wants to go back to the Louvre; she says you never finish seeing it. When I veto it, arguing I need a break from antiquity, she proposes the D’Orsay museum, for impressionist art, or the museum of modern art. I choose modern art…

  And regret it immediately.

  If the Louvre made me feel like an uncultured swine, this museum makes me feel like a dim-witted turkey. I’ve never seen such horrendous drawings being passed off as art. Come on, I can do better than that! My two-year-old nephew can do better than that!

  Sophia, as usual, tries to find a saving grace in them. “The artist made an interesting choice of contrasting colors,” she offers in front of a painting of some rainbow-colored zombie-rabbit carrying an unconscious rider on its back. In front of a blob of blue and gray paint, she graciously says, “I think this painting isn’t trying to portray an image but a melancholic feeling.”

  I squint at the so-called art, remembering the time when my mother brought home a book of 3-D pictures. Reportedly, you had to stare at it cross-eyed and then the images were supposed to come out at you, but I never got it. And today I’m not getting it either.

  But if the paintings are hopeless, the so-called sculptures are worse. Like a room just filled with large wooden blocks; or a display that’s, literally, a broken mattress and a bunch of trash. In less than an hour, I’ve given up and all I’m doing is making fun of the exhibits trying to crack Sophia up. She flounders for a while, biting her lip not to laugh and valiantly defending her cause in favor of art.

  Until we run into an empty bulletin board containing only one pushpin and I solemnly declare it the best art piece in the entire museum. Sophia loses it, and soon we’re laughing our heads off, unable to stop.

  “Maybe this ‘art piece’ portrays the problem of loneliness in the world,” Sophia offers, drying tears of laughter.

  I click my tongue and shake my head, studying the empty board. “No, it’s obviously an allegory of focus.”

  We’re still goofing around when we arrive at the cafeteria. “I don’t dare sit,” Sophia announces as she waves a hand at the gray metal chairs. “Are these really chairs? Or are they supposed to be pieces of art?”

  “I know what you mean,” I add. “I went to the restroom and then didn’t dare to use it. What if I think this is a toilet but I’m actually about to pee on one of their masterpieces?”

  “I think we can safely give up on modern art,” she concedes.

  “Oh, thank God!” I pretend to wipe sweat from my forehead.

  Sophia giggles as she checks her Google maps app. “Let’s see how far we are from D’Orsay. Oh wait!” She squeals in delight. “I forgot about the Rodin museum! Now that’s something we have to go see!”

  “I’d rather go home,” I confess, suddenly tired.

  “No, no! You’ll love this place!” she argues. “It’s not only about the sculptures in it, but the building itself is an elegant mansion and has beautiful gardens, worth seeing.”

  Oh well, nothing can be worse than the ridiculous place we just toured. “Okay, I’m sold.”

  * * *

  The rain gives us a break for just enough time to ride the taxi and arrive dry at the next stop, the Rodin Museum.

  And, God, Sophia scored a point. I like the house and dig the gardens, but, surprisingly, I absolutely love the sculptures (36, 37).

  I once said that after a dozen rooms filled with naked statues, you’ve seen them all. But there’s something different about Rodin’s art that speaks to me. It has… movement. I’d never seen sculpted bodies holding such impossible gymnastic positions. It’s also loaded with sexual energy. What a genius this guy was, carving intertwining limbs in lovers’ embraces. We finally found my happy midpoint between two-thousand-year-old classical statues, and indigestible modern art.

  Sophia blows my mind with her interpretations of the different sculptures, which she describes as alive—and I agree. In front of I am beautiful, the clay model of a naked muscular man lifting a crouching woman up to the sky, Sophia comments, “It’s like there’s a soul trying to break free from the stone or the clay.” I lean over her shoulder to get a better look as she continues in a whisper, “Just as our human souls struggle to make sense of our clumsy flesh.” (38)

  I’m in awe.

  But her word choice makes me realize how close I am to her flesh.

  I imagine the heat of Sophia’s back soaking into my chest as I hover behind her, just far enough away to maintain our unspoken boundary of propriety. I have to restrain myself not to close the distance between our bodies. My awe is quickly turning into restlessness, so I breathe out in relief when it’s time to move on around the room.

  Is it weird that I’m getting turned on by art—literally? In my humble, uncultured opinion, Rodin’s specialty is “people about to get it on.” Every piece seems to scream of sex. From something as subtle as the model of two hands gently touching each other (39), to the more explicit bronze statue we admire now: a kissing naked couple, half embracing, half dancing (40).

  “This piece is called, The Eternal Springtime, and it was inspired by Rodin’s lover, m
use and most famous student, Camille Claudel,” Sophia explains. “Rodin and Claudel had a torrid, complicated affair for years, forbidden since he lived with another woman. Can you see the passion and despair in the lovers’ embrace?”

  Oh, yes, I can. As Sophia raves about the beautiful composition, and how the figures seem to form a rising spiral, all I can see is that passion and conflict. The woman’s kneeling body arches toward her man, as if begging him to take her. He seems to fight with himself—one arm pulled back, the other wrapped around her torso, his hand approaching her breast.

  And I so understand their struggle, the sculpted man’s and Rodin’s. What do you do when the woman next to you is forbidden—but so irresistible?

  Our next memorable stop is a marble sculpture of yet another naked couple. The woman leans on a tall tree stump. The man is on his knees, encircling her waist and kissing her ear. And he must know what he’s doing, because she slumps toward him, weakened with pleasure, a delighted expression on her face (41).

  “This is one of Claudel’s statues,” Sophia explains. “Here they call it Vertumnus and Pomona. But I prefer its other name, Abandon.”

  Abandon. Maybe that’s the answer to my previous question. When was the last time I abandoned myself in the arms of a woman? Have I ever?

  From where I stand, behind Sophia, I can see the delicate curve of her neck, exposed after she removed her jacket and tied back her hair. That groove between her neck and her shoulder draws me in. I’d only need to lean a little for my mouth to reach it. To kiss it. To then allow my lips and tongue to slide to her ear, imitating the figures we admire. Would she also go limp in my arms, overcome by ecstasy if I did?