Romancing the Dark in the City of Light

by Ann Jacobus

  He takes a swig, then squints at her. “What is that?”

  “Blueberry and vanilla bean vodka mixed. Plus a pinch of cinnamon. I like to think of it as a liquid muffin.”

  They sit side by side, just touching. He radiates heat and she feels it creeping into her. She scoots a centimeter closer to him, her thigh touching his long muscular one. They’re headed toward the Seine.

  He intertwines his fingers in hers. Cold and slick.

  Woot.

  She’s holding hands in Paris.

  Threads of icy numbness weave in and around her finger and hand bones. He’s not quite as young as she thought. More like mid- or even late twenties.

  It’s hard to be relaxed because she’s taking a risk. She knows nothing about him. Who is his family? Where did he grow up and go to school? But another part of her doesn’t care. She’s sitting beside him going she knows not where, trusting him, at least a little. Right? It feels like they’ve crossed a threshold somehow. Not to mention that she wants to climb into his lap. Not for a bedtime story.

  The taxi crosses the Pont de l’Alma then stops on the Left Bank corner. Kurt gets out and taps his long fingers on the rim of the door while Summer pays the driver.

  “What?” she says as she gets out. “No small change again?”

  He shakes his head sadly. “No.”

  Nearby, La tour Eiffel towers above them. The wind whips cruelly here by the river. Heavy, bruised clouds blow over as she pulls her coat around her.

  “So where now?” she asks looking up. “By the way, I’ve been to the Eiffel Tower. And it’s still kind of a hike from here.”

  “Nope. We’re not visiting the tower now. Follow me.” He takes her by the hand and they cross to the other side of the avenue to a little pavilion. A small sign reads ÉGOUTS DE PARIS.

  “Welcome to the Paris Sewers,” he says.

  “Oh. They let you go down into them?” Who would want to?

  “Évidemment,” he says. The French way to say duh. “Buy a ticket there.”

  “Just one?” she asks.

  “I have lifetime privileges.”

  “Of course you do.”

  She does as instructed. Kurt leads her down the stairs. Sure enough, the stern woman who takes her ticket, does a double take at Kurt, then scowls and waves him through. Kurt winks at Summer.

  It’s damp, cold, and quiet. They walk along a dimly lit corridor. Multiple large pipes run along the low ceiling. They ignore the framed photos and explanations periodically hung along the wall and pass a tour group of old people gathered around an exhibit of posters in glass cases.

  “This is kind of boring,” she says.

  “Patience.” He squeezes her hand.

  They turn into a wide intersection. The thunder of rushing water and the smell of rotten, ammonia-laced, slightly sweet, decaying raw sewage swallows her. It’s overwhelming, even in the cold, like a punch in the nose.

  “Ahhuuk.”

  “Eau de merde,” Kurt says gaily.

  She peers over the concrete wall into a wide chasm of foaming, brown-water rapids, leaning for a good look.

  “Why is it closed off with wire?” she asks.

  “To keep people out.”

  He doesn’t mean just falling ones. The implication settles over her along with the stench.

  “Look,” he says, jiggling the wire. “It’s loose here on the corner. One could push it back far enough…”

  Things rush by in the water, too fast for her to identify. “Jeez. Not a good way to go,” she says quickly, stepping back. Although if someone really wants to die, she thinks, what difference does it make?

  “No?”

  She looks at him. “What? You think it is?” Her stomach sloshes. “Why are we here again?”

  “For your entertainment, edification, and enrichment.”

  “I don’t feel too good.” Her vision is white around the edges.

  “You are pale. Buck up, ma poule.”

  The walls are closing in and she rocks side to side in her boots, reaching for something to steady herself against. She wishes Moony were here with her instead of Kurt. He takes her by the shoulders, then puts one hand on her hip bone. “Deep breath. What a disappointment. I thought you’d get a kick out of this.”

  “What on earth made you think that?” Her eyes are closed. She shivers involuntarily. “Wait. You’re disappointed?”

  He leans in close, pressing himself against her, and touches his tongue to her earlobe, then nibbles. Through her queasiness, it barely even registers. He whispers in her ear. “You’re beautiful when you’re nauseated. Such a shade of jade green.”

  The contents of her stomach may truly erupt. She shakes Kurt off and staggers back a step.

  “Got to get out of here.”

  He says coldly, “There is nothing I abhor more than quitters. Chickens.” He touches her cheek. “Remember that.”

  “Chickens don’t like you either,” she mutters. It’s all she could come up with in her state. She forces herself forward and focuses on the arrows leading out. But she winds around several times past new rushing rivers of excrement as each corridor doubles back on itself. She returns over and over again to the main intersection, like in a feverish dream. Kurt must be behind her, but she keeps moving. Finally she recognizes the main gallery and a SORTIE sign points the way. She jogs through the visitor reception area, and up the stairs into the daylight.

  Doubled over, she gulps in fresh air on the street corner, not caring that it’s exhaust laden. She kneels on one knee to wait for her stomach to calm. If Moony didn’t hate her, she could tell him about this. After ten or so minutes Kurt hasn’t appeared. She walks back to the stairs and looks down.

  He ditched her, the jerk. For her entertainment and enrichment. Please. A big buildup, expectations of something fun and romantic and then … lectures. And nausea.

  She goes to the corner and waves for a taxi.

  At least he makes school look good.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Over the next two days, Summer works to catch up at school, although she goes late and leaves early. She takes taxis, unable to override her trainophobia.

  She cannot help but fantasize about Kurt. Undressing each other in a taxi. He’s so hot, but she is out of her league with him. He could have any female he wants and yet he keeps making runs at her. Why? Because he’s a jerk and probably a broke one. He must suspect she has access to money. “Ma poule,” he called her. My hen. Is that a normal term of endearment or does he knows she’s a chicken princess?

  They were certainly holding hands in Paris, but he’s not at all what she had in mind. More like a boyfrenemy. Maybe it’s her. For sure, she could handle him better if she were more experienced.

  She avoids Moony at PAIS, cutting concert choir all together. She wants to talk to him, and to apologize, and almost texts him numerous times. But she cannot pull the trigger.

  On Thursday, she turns in a big Environmental Studies lab, proud to have completed it. But then Mr. Hernandez hands back a trig test and Summer’s is covered with red marks. He’s requested an appointment with her.

  Madame Lacroix springs a surprise French dictée, or an oral test, on them. She speaks slowly and clearly about actor Jean Dujardin and the film festival at Cannes. Summer writes down what she hears, definitely getting “Academy Award” right, but she’s flailing and near tears. She studied all this, but her head is filled with Jell-O.

  Cluck. Maybe drinking is killing too many brain cells.

  Final exams are in less than two weeks. She must get her act together. Stop partying. Or more accurately, drinking alone. Which is uncool anyway. Stick to her study schedule. If she can just pass finals, she may be all right. Graduate by the skin of her beak.

  On Friday, she goes into a ladies’ restroom stall to drink a few slugs from her flask. Normally, she waits until after school as the rules here are clear and strict, and she’s gotten expelled for less. But she’s not going to be able to do what
she must do today without it. Then she pops a Mento and marches into Concert Choir, head held high.

  “Mademoiselle Barnes. You have decided to grace us with your presence,” says Monsieur Blanche drily.

  “I have,” she agrees. She stuffs her sweaty hands in her pockets.

  “It’s been so long.” For some reason, he likes her—the only faculty member who does. “We are preparing for the holiday concert on the seventeenth, as you may or may not remember.” He holds out copies of sheet music. “‘Feliz Navidad,’ ‘O Tannenbaum,’ and ‘Douce Nuit.’”

  “How Euro. I mean, how nice,” she says. There’s no flipping way she’ll show up for that. In her peripheral vision, Moony is trying not to smile, but failing, so she mirrors him. Widely. She takes her place and does her best to sing with the group. Moony keeps looking at her.

  When class is over, Summer hangs back. Moony moves on, but waves at her.

  Relief floods her.

  But she has no energy left to deal with Mme. Laforge so she ditches her follow-up appointment to discuss colleges.

  * * *

  That evening, a Friday, she works on her English paper, smoking almost a whole pack of cigarettes. In her delayed-reaction way, she thinks quietly about Dad, too. He must have been depressed in a big way, from what she remembers. He gained weight, slept a lot, and sat around stony-faced, unresponsive to her, and to pretty much everything. At the time, she thought it was her fault. It’s sad but it also explains a lot.

  Yeah. She’s got to watch out for it in herself. Genes and all that. History might repeat itself. She wonders if it would be worth it to get back on her last meds. She’s doing okay, but she’ll think about it.

  Before she settles in to watch a documentary on mummification, she texts Moony with a fluttering stomach and clammy hands:

  Sorry for everything.

  She fiercely hopes that will cover it.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Saturday morning, Summer rises at the crack of 11:00 A.M. and eats Ouaiba’s tasty French toast, pain perdu, with Canadian maple syrup from Monoprix. It reminds her of Saturday mornings at IHOP with Dad a thousand years ago.

  Back in her room, her phone shows a missed call. Moony!

  She calls him right back. “Hi,” she says tentatively.

  “Summer!”

  “Um, saw that you called.” She squeezes her phone-holding arm, until it hurts, then stops.

  “Missed the prop meeting,” he states.

  “Oh, drat. Was that yesterday? Sorry. Won’t happen again.” He probably knows she’s kidding.

  There’s a pause. “Never thanked you. For the culture.”

  “About that,” she says. She sits, then falls back on her bed and stares at her ceiling. “I was really weird, even for me. I feel terrible about it.”

  “Enjoyed the poet.”

  Now she’s squeezing her phone so tightly her fingers are bloodless. “But you were pissed off with me. Hooboy. Um, of course.”

  “Over it.”

  She closes her eyes and lets her breath out. Thank God, she thinks. Another chance. I won’t blow it. She needs him and his friendship enough that it scares her. “What are you up to?”

  “Marché Saint-Pierre. In the eighteenth.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Fabric market.”

  “Why?”

  “Prop work.”

  “Are you there now?” she asks.

  “Going.” He pauses. “Come with?”

  “Love to.” Truer words were never spoken. She clicks off and hustles to get ready.

  * * *

  This time Moony’s waiting for her, leaning on his cane, when she gets out of the taxi in front of the Métro. Traffic on the busy boulevard de Clichy zooms by them. They kiss hello. She wants to hug him, but settles for making sure her lips touch both his cheeks, rather than just puckering air. Then indulges herself in a sniff of his limey soap.

  Don’t be a perv, she reminds herself. She will be on her most balanced, sober, considerate, and responsible behavior today.

  It’s a rare sunny but cold day. A large bus full of Irish tourists (judging from the shamrock on the side) unloads down by the neon-outlined windmill of the Moulin Rouge. Even though Pigalle is full of sex shops and peep shows, it lacks the menace of the area outside the flea markets.

  They pass an XXX store with packaged blow-up dolls and handcuffs hanging in the front window next to stacks of dusty DVDs featuring lots of female flesh. She pretends not to notice, as Moony’s face is squinched into discomfort. Like he’s worried she’s never seen this stuff before. She appreciates his concern. Maybe he’s pretty traditional, even conservative about sex.

  “Come on,” he says, veering up the hill that is Montmartre, passing small cheap souvenir and notion shops stocked with all colors of threads, zippers, ribbons, and trims. At the next block, he points. “Look.”

  At first she thinks he means the old-fashioned carousel across the street in a park. It’s full of squealing kids. But then she gazes farther up the steep hill. Looming over them is a giant, white, multidomed church framed by bright blue sky and puffy clouds.

  “Cool. Arkansas State Capitol crossed with the Taj Mahal,” she quips.

  “Sacré-Coeur. Built late 1800s. This way. Marché Saint-Pierre.” He veers to the right along the bottom of the steep park toward narrow winding cobblestone streets.

  Several big buildings ahead, hundreds of bolts of bright-colored fabrics line the sidewalks. Shoppers, not tourists, crowd this tight street—mostly women, many wearing head scarves and dragging small children behind them. The kids who are not whining and pointing at the carousel turn to gape at Moony as they pass. Summer sees him through their eyes, tall and commanding but tilted, limping, and imperfect. Interesting.

  From the awning in front of one small shop hang gauzy, jewel-colored, gold-and-rhinestone–encrusted belly dancing outfits. Moony pauses to stare.

  “What are you looking for anyway?” Summer asks, noting feather boas and fake gold chains as well. Maybe he has a thing for belly dancers. She smiles.

  He clears his throat, and walks on. “Uh, cheap cotton, use as ‘wallpaper,’ maybe curtains.”

  “And why do you of all people get to be the one who comes out to search the city for this stuff?” The theater is full of able-bodied crew who should be running around instead of Moony. “What about what’s-her-name, the Norwegian set designer?”

  “New to Paris. Doesn’t know where anything is. Anyway, rather be outside. They’re building today. I’m no help with a hammer.”

  “But doesn’t this tire you out?”

  “No,” he says sharply.

  “Okay, okay. It tires me out. Why you can’t admit that you might occasionally get a little tired is beyond me. I love to complain of fatigue.”

  They walk into a big three-story building, with worn wooden floors and old-fashioned, patterned opaque glass above the doors. The faint scent of hundred-year-old dust hovers. Up a set of creaky stairs, they find bolts of inexpensive cotton spread out on large wooden tables and Summer approves some small flowery prints, Victorian looking stuff, ninety-nine centimes a meter.

  In his perfect, slow French, Moony asks a sales lady to cut many meters of two prints, and they stand in line to pay the cashier, who sits in an old-fashioned wood-and-glass booth.

  Outside, he asks, “You been? Want to go up?” He gestures with his head toward the grandiose cathedral above.

  She grimaces. “All those stairs? I’ll have to have a cigarette first.”

  He rolls his eyes at her. “Come on.”

  They climb slowly, not talking much, and don’t stop to rest until they’re under an arch on the church’s front steps. She’s breathing harder than Moony when he nudges her to look out at the incredible view of all of Paris.

  “Look,” he says.

  “Wow.” She gazes in awe. “Your hometown.”

  “Napoleon’s tomb. Les Invalides,” he says, pointing at the distant landmarks
illuminated by the afternoon sun. “La Tour Eiffel.”

  The Eiffel Tower looks like a little toy off to the southwest. She can’t help but think about the sewers—the égouts—near it, but quickly pushes them from her mind. She would like a cigarette now, and a slug from her flask while she’s at it, but will wait.

  “Are Muslims allowed inside?” she asks, hooking her thumb behind them.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Just teasing. Do you go to … mosque?” A busload of Asian tourists crowd up the stairs and push around them.

  “Yeah, in Kuwait mostly.”

  “Do you pray five times a day?” She’s sincerely interested. Maybe it makes life easier for him. Maybe it’s the secret of his success.

  “Sometimes. More like twice. And meditate. Visualize good health. Hybrid Islam, Christianity, New Age.”

  “Wow. You could offend huge numbers of people with that.”

  “But not God.”

  “Okay. Whatever lights your candle.” How cool and not surprising that he’s spiritual. And that he’s totally forged his own irreverent path of reverence.

  “You and religion?” he asks.

  “Not on speaking terms.”

  “Ha. Care to elaborate?”

  She kind of wishes she did have some sort of religion. Or maybe a guru. Or something. “My folks weren’t religious. But my grandparents were and I spent enough time in Bible Belt churches to know it’s a bunch of silly man-made rules and lame explanations of unexplainable shit to keep the masses—especially women—in line.”

  Moony grins. “How do you really feel?”

  “I’ve learned to expect nothing from life,” she says, with a toss of her head and a little more vehemence than she intended.

  “Hmm,” Moony says. “But what does life expect from you?”

  She doesn’t answer, but his question sticks in her mind like a melted Normandy caramel. Yeah, why is she here? If only she could find a reason.

  Whatever it is, she’s not going to waste this time with Moony worrying about it.

  “Come on, let’s go in,” she says, standing. She gives him a hand up, successfully.