“He thought it was a great idea,” Wendy said, smiling at her. She liked Stephanie, she was friendly and direct and open. “A little too much so,” Wendy added. “He’s going skiing for two weeks while I’m away. It feels weird not seeing him for a month, but we don’t see much of each other anyway. His specialty is transplants so he works even more than I do.”
“I feel so lucky that we got sent on this mission. I’m fascinated to hear how they do things differently from us. Do you speak French?” Stephanie asked her.
“Only what I learned in high school. I’ve forgotten all of it. I’m not sure I can get past ‘bonjour.’ ”
“I took Spanish, so you’re in better shape than I am. I think all the doctors we’ll be dealing with speak English. At least I hope so.” They were like two girls going off to college and sharing what they knew about the school.
Wendy got to work on her computer after they took off, and Stephanie watched a movie. The men had breakfast and talked for a long time, and then watched movies too. And eventually they all fell asleep and slept for several hours. They had another meal before they landed, and were glued to the windows as they flew over the city on a cold winter day, and then landed at Charles de Gaulle airport at six A.M. local time on Monday. It was seven in the morning local time when they left the airport with their bags, found the van and driver who had come for them, and were driven into the city as the sun came up. They were all wide awake and had slept well on the flight. Stephanie texted Andy that she had landed safely and he didn’t respond. It was ten P.M. for him by then and she knew the boys would be asleep and he might be too.
They drove through the city, and the driver took them down the Champs-Élysées so they could see it. There were barricades where the bombs had gone off, and riot police in combat gear and soldiers with machine guns patrolling the street. They crossed the Pont Alexandre III onto the Left Bank with the Seine beneath them, and the Bateaux Mouches tied up at the dock, which reminded Bill that he wanted to take his daughters for a ride on one of them to see the sights. Then they drove down the Boulevard St. Germain to the rue du Cherche Midi, to the address they’d been given. The concierge was sweeping the street, and they used the access code to enter the building.
There was an ancient elevator that looked like an open birdcage big enough for two people. All four of their apartments were on the third floor, French style, which would have been fourth in the States. They decided to walk up the stairs, which slanted severely, rather than trust the elevator, and they each had a set of keys for their apartments.
As they opened their doors, they could see little bits and pieces of what must have been beautiful rooms a long time before, but had been chopped up into tiny apartments. The apartments were almost identical, with wooden floors that were original to the two-hundred-year-old building. Wendy’s had a small marble fireplace, and there was one wall with beautiful moldings, the other walls had been put up more recently, and there were elegant windows. Each apartment had a small bedroom, a tiny bathroom with an old-fashioned bathtub, a toilet, sink, and a bidet, and each kitchen had a small two-burner stove, a narrow refrigerator, a sink, a minuscule oven, and a kitchen table for two that dropped down from the wall like an ironing board. They looked like student apartments. When you looked out the window, you saw the streets of Paris and in the distance the Eiffel Tower, which had recently been saved before a bomb could go off in the last terrorist attack. Paris had been a city under fire for several years now, but France had lived through worse before, during the German occupation in the Second World War. The current attacks were more insidious and of a different nature, but the Parisians were banding together to defend their homes and their city. Wendy noticed that there was a French flag at almost every window on their street.
The doctors left each other to unpack, set up their computers, and get organized for a full day of meetings the next day. They all wanted to explore the neighborhood, buy some groceries, and check out the restaurants where they might want to have dinner. They decided to meet that night at the Café Flore, which wasn’t far away. It was a famous old writers’ bar, one of the oldest in Paris.
Wendy and Stephanie agreed to go out walking together in a few hours. Bill had emails to answer, he wanted to call his daughters that afternoon, and Tom wanted to check out the nearest bars, so he’d know where to go after dinner, hopefully to pick up women. He didn’t conceal how he intended to spend his evenings, and he was still trying to enlist Bill as a cruising partner but hadn’t convinced him yet. Tom had mischief in mind and made no bones about it. He could hardly wait to get started and had a pickup phrase book in his pocket and an app on his phone to translate whatever he wanted to say. He could have been offensive, but he wasn’t, and both Wendy and Stephanie found him funny, since he didn’t try to hit on them. He wasn’t obnoxious, he was just exuberant, like an overgrown high school kid or a college boy away from parental supervision for the first time. He had been that way all his life.
The two women bought cheese, pâté, a baguette, and some fruit that afternoon at a nearby grocery store, and a bottle of wine for each of them. They bought another bottle for the two men, and then wandered back to the apartment building, and were going to meet at eight for dinner. Wendy said she’d text Bill and Tom to meet them downstairs, and they set out together a few minutes before eight. They had a delicious meal of bistro food at the Café Flore and talked about where they’d been that day. They had all gone out and done some exploring and loved their lively St. Germain neighborhood. It was full of activity, people, stores, bars, restaurants, galleries, and things to see.
They went back to their apartments at eleven. Even Tom looked tired by then, and decided to wait a day before beginning his pursuit of Parisian women. They were all being picked up at nine the next morning, to be taken to the offices of the emergency services. They had a day of introductory meetings and orientation scheduled, and would be meeting their French counterparts.
They each settled into their beds that night with a sigh, thinking with pleasure of their first day in Paris. Stephanie called Andy again, but he didn’t answer. It was three in the afternoon for him, and he was probably busy with the boys. It was midnight by then. She sent them a text and said she’d try them later, and as soon as she sent the text, she fell sound asleep. The others were asleep by then too. All four of the American trauma doctors had enjoyed their first day, and couldn’t wait to see what was in store for them. They were becoming friends and for the first time in years, they felt like students on an adventure, and it was all going to begin the next day.
Chapter Six
The van picked them up on time, and traffic was heavy, but the ride to the office they’d been assigned to gave them a chance to look around and see other parts of the city. The office was in the Eighth Arrondissement, and it was a combined office of the COZ, the Centre Opérationnel de Zone, the operations center for the Paris zone. It was under the direction of the Ministry of the Interior, and the COZ was in charge of an arm of emergency services called CODIS, the departmental center for fire and rescue operations. The division of power was very different than in the United States.
A dozen people were waiting for them when they arrived. The four Americans felt like the new kids in school, and weren’t even sure if their counterparts spoke English, although they assumed they did.
The office that was used for conferences was once again in a very old building that looked like it had previously been a home. There were chandeliers and marble stairs and fireplaces, a large reception area, and everyone shook hands as soon as they walked in. After a few minutes they were led to a large conference room with a long table, where they all took their places, and there was a folder at each seat. Wendy checked hers and found that their schedule for the first week was in it, and some articles in English about the most recent acts of terrorism and which agencies had handled various aspects of them. And there was a brief descr
iption of some of the most important hospitals in the city, which the group would visit: the Pitié-Salpêtrière, Pompidou, Bichat, Cochin, Hôtel-Dieu, and Necker for children. Some of the hospitals sounded like the medical centers they worked in, particularly Bill at SF General. All of the materials had been printed in English and were informative and easy to understand. In addition, there was a chart showing the hierarchy of French emergency services, from the president to the minister of the interior, the COZ, CODIS, the SAMU medical teams, COGIC, the mayor, and the police. As they read the material, all four Americans were trying to guess who were the four doctors they’d been assigned to, and who would be coming to San Francisco in six weeks for a month’s stay, just as the four Americans were doing now.
Everyone introduced themselves by name as they went around the table. An older man in a suit and tie from a supervisory government agency said that he was sure they were eager to meet the four colleagues they would be working closely with, and he introduced them in greater detail first, as to their credentials, and then let each of them speak for themselves. Two pretty young women served coffee to those who wanted it, and Tom looked at them carefully for a minute with a smile, and then turned his attention to the woman who stood up first.
“My name is Marie-Laure Prunier,” she said in excellent English, with a French accent. “I’m in charge of this office of the COZ, the center of operations for the Paris zone. We have two hundred and sixteen geographical regions and two hundred and twelve metropolitan regions in France. The minister of the interior and the chief of police are my bosses. At the COZ, we coordinate information from all emergency services twenty-four/seven. I’m a physician, but I’m not in private practice anymore. I work exclusively for the center of operations for emergency services in this zone. We try to plan where we will achieve the best medical care in future disasters, and how best to avoid them. I am on-site and work closely with the police when an attack occurs. We do not always deal with terrorist attacks. It can be a fire, a gas explosion, a train collision, a plane crash, a bombing. If there is an emergency situation in Paris, we are there, and my job is to be there too.” She smiled pleasantly. “Our specialty is crisis management. I received my medical training at the Faculté de Médecine here in Paris, I’m thirty-three years old, divorced, and have three children. My medical specialty is neurology and emergency medicine, like you, and I have additional training in surgery. I am a pediatric neurosurgeon by training. In France, all specialists deal with trauma in their particular area of expertise. But our ‘emergency medicine’ resembles your specialty in trauma. I work here now, planning how to save injured children, or overseeing rescue operations, or even ways to prevent an attack. I have been instrumental in setting up the White Plan, which is a means of handling catastrophic events with large numbers of casualties. I’m a civil servant, and at night, I can go home to my children.” Several people in the room smiled and she and Stephanie exchanged a warm look. Marie-Laure had a desk job, which was much easier to manage for a divorced woman with three children.
Gabriel Marchand was the second person at the table to stand up. He looked like a banker except his graying hair was too long for him to be one. He had a powerful frame and was a tall man with wide shoulders. He exuded energy as he greeted each of their American visitors. “Like Marie-Laure, I’m also a doctor, a cardiologist. I work for the Assistance Publique, the public health services, which is a government position. I see patients occasionally, but not very often. I am a fonctionnaire, what you call a civil servant, and like Marie-Laure, we try to devise systems that will keep our citizens safe in case of an emergency. I am forty-three years old, I have four children, and I am very excited to come to San Francisco,” he said, smiling at them, and then sat down. There was something very strong about him, as though he was accustomed to commanding. He was almost military in his bearing and his style, and all four Americans correctly suspected that he had a high-ranking position in public health.
The next person to stand up was a tall willowy woman with a spectacular figure, long blond hair, and a dazzling smile. In a seemingly effortless way, she was noticeably sexy. She spoke English with a British accent, from where she had learned it. “My name is Valérie Florin. I’m a physician, a psychiatrist. I have a private practice of patients whom I see regularly here in Paris. I also devise the programs for victims of traumatic events, with ongoing follow-up care, for what you call post-traumatic stress. Our programs begin immediately after hostage situations and the kind of violence we’ve seen recently. We set up therapy programs on-site, as the event is happening, for victims, parents, and spouses. I work closely with the police in the negotiation with hostage takers. I am a consultant with the COZ and the author of three books.” And then she grinned. “I am forty-two, unmarried and I prefer it that way, and have no children. My patients are my children, and fortunately none of them live with me.” Everyone laughed at that, and she sat down gracefully. She was one of the most striking women any of the Americans had ever seen, she was gracious, sexy, poised, calm, and totally French, despite her near-perfect English. Tom Wylie was staring at her, and looked like he wanted to crawl across the conference table and grab her. Valérie seemed totally uninterested in him, ignored him, and focused on the others, which drove him crazy. He was unable to catch her eye, and she glanced right through him as though he wasn’t there.
The last member of the team they would be working with was Paul Martin, he looked about eighteen, tall, gangly, awkward with a shock of uncombed hair. He was thirty-four years old, single, had worked for the COZ for a year. He was an emergency doctor and a surgeon, and had worked for Doctors Without Borders for three years in Africa, and loved it. He had come to Paris to learn more about violence in the cities, which he said was much more savage than what he’d seen in Africa. Paul was full of life and very excited about everything he said. He exuded youthful zeal, energy, and idealism, and spoke as though he had just been shot out of a cannon, as he ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. He sounded extremely bright and excited about the work he was doing, and what he had learned at the COZ, COGIC, and CODIS so far.
The others at the table introduced themselves and were part of the administration of the various branches that provided emergency services. They took a break after that, so people could talk to each other and get acquainted. Marie-Laure, the head of the office, explained that they would be visiting the hospitals where victims were sent in an emergency. They would also be meeting members of the government and the police. They would be speaking to the SWAT teams that handled hostage situations, and also participate in a drill for a terrorist attack. It was going to be a fascinating four weeks, without a dull moment. As the various people milled around the conference room, Tom Wylie made a beeline for Valérie Florin, and looked like he wanted to gobble her up. More than anything he seemed like an excited schoolboy, and she was visibly amused.
“Dr. Wylie?” She had correctly guessed which one he was.
“I’d love to spend some time talking to you, maybe we could have dinner sometime.” He was hopeful and starstruck and she laughed.
“I don’t think so. But you are all invited to my apartment for dinner tomorrow night, at nine o’clock.” The time was very French and later than they were used to. “Casual, in jeans, nothing fancy. Hachis parmentier, which is one of the few things I know how to cook.” She said it to their four American counterparts and her three French colleagues, all of whom were delighted. She gave them each her address on the rue du Bac, which was fairly close to where they were staying, within walking distance, on the Left Bank.
For the rest of the day, they were barraged with pamphlets, information, statistics, newspaper and magazine articles, and several books in English. They were all exhausted by the end of the day. Marie-Laure went home to her children, and Valérie hurried off to see patients. It felt good to walk into the cold night air at seven o’clock after being cooped up all day.
; “No one said there would be homework,” Tom Wylie complained, and his fellow Americans laughed at him and teased him about how he was going to chase women, if he had homework to do. But they were all looking forward to dinner at Valérie’s the next evening.
Bill and Tom rented bikes from a Vélib’ stand to go back to the apartment, and Stephanie and Wendy took the Metro, figured it out, and chatted on the way. It had been a very interesting day, and more serious and intense than they had expected. When they got back to their building, they all went to their apartments to relax. The two men then went to a bistro down the street for dinner, and both women said they were too tired to go out. Stephanie wanted to wash her hair and call her children, and she had to stay up until midnight to do it, to catch them after school. But she reached them this time, and they talked to her for ten minutes and then handed the phone to their father. Stephanie told him all about it, and how interesting it was. He mellowed for a few minutes and told her he missed her. She missed them too after she hung up. She had some of the cheese and pâté from the day before, and poured herself half a glass of wine. It felt very grown up being in Paris without her children or Andy. The Eiffel Tower was sparkling as she looked out the window, sipping her wine. She was thinking about Marie-Laure and wanted to get to know her better. And Valérie was fascinating.
Turning Point Page 7