by Alix Nichols
Three years ago, when Geraldine and Cyril got back together, Emma was twenty, a student at the prestigious Ecole des Beaux-Arts, and still a virgin. As the couple’s relationship deepened, being around them became too hard, so she resolved to leave Paris. The ideal solution was to find an exchange program that would let her spend a year abroad before she’d return and finish her studies.
Of course, seeing how long she’d been in love with Cyril, a year wasn’t guaranteed to solve her problem. But it was a long time. Who knew what could happen in a year?
She applied to a bunch of arts schools and fine arts departments, and the first one to admit her was the Sichuan University in Chengdu. She looked it up. The province of Sichuan boasted spicy Tibetan food, a peaceful coexistence of Buddhism, Taoism, Confucianism, and giant pandas. Its capital Chengdu was a smallish city for Chinese standards, even though it was the size of Paris and other European metropolises. Dynamic, unpretentious, and open, Chengdu sounded like a fun place to be. It was also very, very far from home.
She didn’t wait to hear from the other schools.
In Chengdu, Emma met Manu, a quiet Frenchman studying Buddhist philosophy in one of the local monasteries. She also hooked up with Lino, a dashing fellow art student from Italy. Like her, Lino had come to China with a knowledge of Mandarin that boiled down to ni hao and xiexie. They attended after-school language classes every weekday and waited tables at the same high-end pizzeria off Jinli Street in the evenings. On Saturday nights, they went clubbing in Lan Kwai Fong, and on their free Sundays, they scoured the city’s flea markets in search of bizarre objects.
Two months into their friendship, Lino rid Emma of her virginity. He had been gentle and considerate—the almost perfect deflowering a woman could have.
When the man of her dreams wasn’t scrambling for the honor.
“Be careful not to fall in love with me,” Lino had warned her the morning after.
“You’re as safe as if I were gay,” Emma said. “This was just a one-off never to be repeated.”
He gave her a funny look that was both surprised and a little hurt. “Was I that bad?”
“No! No. You did everything right, just like it’s done in books and movies. It must be me.” Emma held her palms up as though to say, What can you do? “I guess I’m just not a sexual being.”
“Shit happens,” he said, as the last traces of hurt vanished from his eyes.
In the weeks that followed, Emma’s mind obliterated the details of that night, only retaining a diffuse sense of satisfaction that a long-delayed chore was finally over and done with.
By Christmas, which she celebrated in Chengdu with Manu, Lino and a few other friends who couldn’t afford a round trip to Europe, she had nearly convinced herself that the story she’d fed Lino was true. Her love for Cyril must have been no more than a platonic admiration for his talent. She didn’t fancy anyone. After all, even a first-class hottie like Lino hadn’t managed to stir any kind of longing in her. From there, it wasn’t so farfetched to conceive that she was, indeed, an asexual woman with no need for a boyfriend or even a fuck buddy.
When she returned to France, just in time for the start of her final school year, she was certain the libido-free persona she’d fabricated was her true self.
Until she saw Cyril again at her homecoming party.
He greeted her with a bear hug. “Welcome back, Boney Em.”
“Thanks,” she breathed, her head spinning from the caress of his velvety baritone, his intoxicating male scent, and the snug haven of his strong arms around her.
She nearly collapsed to the floor when he released her, stunned by the intensity of her reaction. Luckily, others stepped forward to hug her, providing the necessary props for her body and time for her senses to regroup.
The rest of the party was a haze, dominated by dizziness and regret. It had been a huge mistake to come back to France. She should’ve stayed in China—and to hell with finishing her fancy school and getting the degree.
Emma rubbed her forehead as if to drive away those memories and tried to focus on the river again. But her mind refused to obey this time, disregarding even the most picturesque barges that passed by. Some critical pathway in her brain got stuck on the same refrain as at that disastrous party two years ago.
I should’ve stayed in China. I shouldn’t have come back.
Chapter Fourteen
Cyril
At one in the afternoon, Cyril flicked his portable radio on and slumped into the sofa.
“It’s thirteen hours in Paris,” the radio said, “twenty-eight degrees Celsius. Traffic is heavy on the Boulevard Périphérique…”
Cyril tuned out, his thoughts wandering off to his calamitous morning. He still struggled to wrap his mind around the fact that Laura, the charming stranger who had tumbled into his life two weeks ago, was Emma. And that Emma, the sweet, withdrawn girl he’d known for ten years, had tricked him so unkindly. Why would she do such a thing?
His lips stretched into a sardonic smile. What a poor judge of character he’d turned out to be! He used to think Emma didn’t have a cruel bone in her body. He’d also believed Laura was a Heaven-sent angel… a kindred soul who sought him out because she appreciated his music… a beautiful creature who liked and desired him as he was and didn’t find him pitiful or lacking in any way.
A few hours ago he had practically asked her to move in with him. She’d been a virtual stranger, but he figured he’d glimpsed enough of her soul to know she was a keeper. Maybe even the woman of his life.
What a schmuck.
He was a vastly admired and allegedly wise schmuck.
Why was it that people equated fame with intelligence? Fans were persuaded their favorite singer or actor was smart and knew something about life that ordinary folks didn’t. The public emulated celebrity styles, workouts, diets, and political opinions—including the most ridiculous ones.
The worst thing about this uncritical reverence was that the “stars” ended up believing that they had, indeed, tamed the universe. Cyril pictured himself a year ago, when three of his songs hit the Top 20 in France and Belgium. Had he fancied himself special back then? Smarter than others? Had he—despite all his clowning around and self-mockery—actually bought into the myth of his superiority?
Absolutely.
Well, as far as rude awakenings and cold showers went, his had been Niagara Falls. In the space of three short months, he’d lost his eyesight, hearing, looks, girlfriend, and his passion for music.
And then Emma came along and finished him off.
Cyril startled at a familiar sound and his attention zeroed in on the radio. It was airing his guitar intro to “Maybe I’m the One”—the song he’d written for Gerrie two years earlier.
Then came his voice. He hated the sound of it, hated the lyrics, hated the music—
Enough.
He grabbed the radio receiver and turned it off. Must get up and do something. Preferably something challenging enough to keep his mind occupied. Why not cook spaghetti? The saucepans had turned up, so he had no excuses.
He dragged himself to the kitchen and opened the pantry doors.
His phone emitted Louis’s ringtone.
Cyril sighed. He was in for another pep talk from his upbeat agent.
“Hey,” Louis said. “The weather is beautiful today. How about a trip out of town?”
“Whatever for?”
“Fresh air, greenery, birds?”
“I’m in the middle of something.”
“Listen, I’m under your windows and I’m double parked. Hate Paris for that. You need to come down.”
“I’m cooking spaghetti.”
“I’ll get us some from that fantastic Italian place next to the Bois de Vincennes Park, and then we’ll picnic. How’s that?”
Oh well, his pasta-cooking feat could wait until tomorrow. “Fine. I’ll be down in five minutes.”
On the lawn, Cyril paid more attention to the beer he had insisted
on buying than his spaghetti tub.
Louis babbled on about the future. “The sales of both your albums are still strong. Which is great, but you shouldn’t rest on your laurels. Have you tried out your new home studio yet?”
“Nope. I haven’t even touched my guitar. And I’m not sure I ever will.”
“Come on, of course you will. You just need to finish your… grieving and adjustment.”
“Could you pass me another beer?” Cyril held his hand out. “My banker tells me that if I’m prudent, I can live a very comfortable life with what I’ve made so far. Even if my albums stop selling.”
“That’s great news. But you never did this for the money. I don’t believe you’ll last long without writing new songs.”
Cyril shook his head. “I’m dry, Louis. My mojo’s gone. And it has nothing to do with grieving. It’s… I need to see the world around me so I can spit it out as music.”
“Bullshit. Your mojo will come back. You just need time. Stevie Wonder did it, Ray Charles did it, Andrea Bocelli did it. So will you.”
“You’re a great agent, Louis, and a good man.” Cyril sighed.
“But?”
“You have to move on.” His shoulders sagged as a bout of monumental fatigue came over him. “Can you drive me home now?”
On the ride back, Cyril cringed from a throbbing headache. If only he could stop thinking for a while. If he could just forget—snap his fingers and make the hurt crushing his chest and the anger stuck in his throat go away. If he could shut his emotions off and turn into a zombie that walked and talked and felt nothing.
Before Laura’s—Emma’s—cataclysmic incursion into his life, he’d been well on his way to that coveted state of apathy with the help of substantial amounts of liquor. But she gently shook him out of his stupor and gave him something precious. Affection. Hope. Joie de vivre.
He became borderline happy… until her gifts turned into poison.
He’d always considered himself strong and resilient, but this was too much.
More than he could bear.
More than alcohol or any other distraction could ease.
Except maybe… the little smiley pill Kiki had thrust into his hand a few days ago. He had intended to throw it in the trash, but he didn’t. Which meant—unless the pill’s magic properties involved mobility—it still sat on the countertop where he’d left it.
For the day you hit rock bottom, Kiki had said.
Looked like that day was today.
At home, just before he put the pill on his tongue, a little voice in his head whispered he should abort this stupid act. Taking a drug was a bad idea. Taking it for the first time in his life, alone, after half a dozen beers, was a terrible one.
But he silenced that voice. This wasn’t even a hardcore drug, right? Just a little shot of lighthearted oblivion. It had lasted Kiki a few days. Imagine that. Not just hours, but days of being at peace with the world, of not feeling any pain or anger.
He swallowed the pill.
The next few hours zoomed by in fast-forward. His spirits rose, and his energy level went off the charts. He played his rock ’n’ roll CDs and pranced around until he collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, in the middle of his living room. He remained there for a while, enjoying visions of Martian landscapes. Then he zipped to the bedroom and climbed on his rowing machine, where he rowed and rowed until he was hot, sweaty, dry mouthed, and half-conscious.
And then he rowed some more.
The last vision he had before darkness swallowed him up was a memory.
He was at the wheel of his car. Emma in the passenger seat. He fumed that she’d gotten so pissed at her friend’s party and insisted on going home in the middle of the night instead of sleeping over. Thank God, she’d had enough sense to call Gerrie, who then called him. And now here he was, driving her home in this downpour when he could have been in bed asleep or watching his favorite show. Emma mumbled something about Gerrie. He couldn’t make out her slurred words. And then she puked into her hands. The vomit spilled over onto her clothes and the cream leather seat of his brand new car.
“Shit!” Cyril started groping for the paper towel roll in the glove compartment before remembering he’d left it on the backseat.
He stretched his arm as far back as he could and felt the seat. The roll must have fallen down. With a quick glance to the road, he unbuckled his seatbelt and groped the backseat floor. His index finger touched the roll, so he bent farther, reaching a little more as he tried to grab it.
And then the car skidded, nose-dived onto its bonnet, and flipped over. There was sharp pain before he sank into darkness.
Just like now.
Chapter Fifteen
Emma
Emma spent the afternoon around the Seine, wandering along the quays, watching the boats, and crossing the bridges from the right bank to the left and back again. She hung around until the setting sun gilded the roofs and kissed good-night to the river. With twilight, the turmoil in her mind finally subsided, making room for meek beginnings of clarity.
The night she’d spent at Cyril’s place had meant the world to her. And it had meant something to him, too. Something more than a bit of fun with an enthusiastic groupie. She was sure of it. She knew it in her bones. Even if he had believed her to be a stranger, what they had shared was real. That connection, that sense of having finally come home was real.
And it was beautiful.
Emma threw one last look at the now dark water and crossed the Pont Neuf back to rue du Louvre. On rue Montmartre, she realized she was returning to the 9th arrondissement, which was in the opposite direction from her apartment southeast of the city.
Too late to turn back now.
She might as well drop by La Bohème on the off chance Cyril was there.
She sucked in a long breath, visualizing that possibility. Suppose he agreed to hear her out. What would she tell him?
The one thing that really matters.
In all these years, she had never told him about her feelings. She’d written him at least a dozen love letters, chickened out, and ripped them to pieces, rationalizing that he must have known or suspected how she felt.
But what if he didn’t? What if he had no clue?
Cyril wasn’t at the bistro.
Emma went to his building and buzzed his intercom. He didn’t answer.
She tried his landline and his cell phone. Same luck.
Her hands began to tremble.
Calm down. He’s just out with friends.
It was what people did to take their minds off a disappointment.
But what if he wasn’t out? What if he’d had too much to drink and tripped over something and hit his head? What if right now he was lying on the floor of his apartment, bleeding to death?
Her knees wobbled.
She keyed in the code he’d given her last night and ran to his door. She rang the doorbell again and again before banging on the door with her fists.
“Are you a friend of Cyril’s?” someone asked from behind.
She whirled around. An old lady stared at her from her doorstep across the landing.
Emma nodded. “I’m worried about him.”
“Wait here.” The woman retreated inside her apartment, pulling her door shut behind her. A few minutes later she reopened it. “He left me his spare keys in case he locked himself out.”
Emma snatched the keys from the woman’s hand, unlocked Cyril’s door, and rushed in.
He was in his bedroom, slumped on the floor next to his rowing machine.
Please.
No.
Kneeling next to him, she took his pulse, and her whole body sagged with relief. He was alive.
She carefully rolled him onto his side, thanking God for that first aid class she’d taken in Chengdu, and dialed the emergency number.
The sapeurs-pompiers promised to be there in less than five minutes.
Emma sat on the floor next to Cyril and fixed her eyes on her watch
. She reminded herself how well trained and competent the pompiers were. Everyone knew that. They were the country’s superheroes.
They would fix him.
He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine…
She kept murmuring these words like a conjuration as she waited. She still murmured them as she jumped up at the siren, let the pompiers in, and watched them carry Cyril’s limp body out of the apartment.
* * *
“I just couldn’t stop. I kept at it until my body overheated and I passed out.” Cyril pulled himself up against his cushion and grimaced in pain.
Emma moved closer to his bed. “Are you OK?”
She ached to touch him, to take him in her arms and press his head to her chest. But she didn’t dare.
“Yeah, don’t worry,” Cyril said. “The doctor said I’ll be discharged tomorrow. I’m just hurting everywhere right now, but I’ll live.”
“Good.”
He smirked. “What’s good? That I’ll be going home, that I’ll live, or that I’m hurting? Mind you, I deserve the pain. I might’ve died from dehydration had you not found me.”
She shook her head to drive away the scary thought. “No, you wouldn’t have. You’re too strong.”
“I just lucked out, Emma.” He sighed. “Did you know that some people are chemically sensitive to MDMA? They can actually bite the big one from their first dose. It doesn’t apply to me, apparently, but I wish I’d looked this up before I—”
“What’s MDMA?”
“The official name of Ecstasy—the little pill I took yesterday afternoon. No doubt one of my smartest moves yet. Comes second only to unfastening my seatbelt while driving.”
“About that…” Emma’s hand went to touch his arm, but she pulled it back just before her fingers came into contact with the sleeve of his hospital gown.
“Yes?”