by Tom Larsen
He wanders the streets trying to find the hotel, finally has to ask for directions. Three, four times until a pair of black women point the way, chattering French and dabbing his face with a hanky. Hookers, no doubt, but tall and lovely, and he wants nothing more than to lose himself in those eyes. But they have other plans, which they explain to him with much giggling and touching, something that might include him if he only knew what they were saying. But he doesn’t know and they wave goodbye and he watches those hips sway into the night.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lena’s flight is scheduled to leave at 6 a.m. She walks two blocks in the dark, catches the number 6 bus to Broad Street, transfers to the southbound subway and finds a seat by the rear doors. Everybody’s still half asleep and it reminds her of Harry. All those bus and train rides, setting off before the sun to one job or another. How he’d tell her about the subway snoozers and the harried mom’s getting the kids off to childcare and the guy in the fatigue jacket with a bedroll and the three-inch fingernails. Way too early for the world to start up, but here it is and buenos dias.
Harry used to say that life runs on habit. If you find yourself on the bus at 5 a.m. every morning you can’t think of it as insanity, so you lose yourself in routine. One of the shitty things you do every day without thinking about it, just to keep going. But if you did think about it you’d see that it’s madness, so you just nod off. Harry’s problem was he could never sleep on public transportation.
She’s afraid of what she’ll find when she gets to Paris. Harry mailed her the address, Rue de Temple, the Metro Hotel, but when she tried to Google it she drew a blank. Not that it matters. It’s not like they’re on their honeymoon or anything. More likely it’s near the airport, something small and dismal, close to a liquor store.
The sun’s up when the train rolls into the airport and Lena’s spirits lift a little. Sure, the circumstances could be better, but she is headed to Paris and it’s exciting in a nerve-wracking kind of way. It’s better to see it like this, she supposes, than never see it at all. That thought makes her feel better too, and by the time they take off she’s considering a different kind of trip altogether. What Harry said, the two of them on the run in Europe, four-star hotels until the money runs out.
The money. It was all she could think about all week. The teller’s face when she said she wanted it in a cashier’s check. Like it was his money! One million, one hundred and sixty-six thousand right in her freaking pocket! At first she was terrified, lose a cashier’s check and you’re out of luck. But Lena didn’t know any other way and she sure as hell wasn’t leaving it behind. But she knows she won’t lose it and can’t wait to see Harry’s face when she shows it to him, if she shows it to him. In any case, she’s got it on her, folded away in that skinny little pocket she can barely fit her fingers in. Harry doesn’t have to know. Not that he’s asked about the money even once.
The money. Having it all on her, so if worse comes to worst she can just run. Money’s good anywhere, right? American dollars? It’s insane and she knows it, but right now it feels good and she sneaks a finger in to feel it, yeah, there it is. So she can run.
It’s just as sunny when they touch down at Orly. Lena makes her way through customs, grabs a taxi and shows the driver the address. He grunts in some language then pulls away. Lena watches out the window, pretty ugly here, sort of bulldozed over then long stretches of boxy apartment buildings with identical balconies too small to use. Nicer as they approach the city, then just what it always looks like on television, older than God and Euro-beautiful. Lena can’t help but smile.
She sees a young woman walking a dog and flashes on Chester, or Luke, as it turned out. Yesterday, while they were watching her soaps there’d been a knock on the door and Chester charged at it. Didn’t bark, just that weepy thing dogs do and when Lena looked out an older man was standing there smiling. Chester scratched at the door, the man called out “Luke” and the dog went crazy, pawing his way up the door then dancing back on his hind legs. Lena let him out and while they wrestled around, the man explained that he’d been away and his housekeeper had let Luke out by mistake. He’s Mr. Hardiman from down the towpath. Sweet old guy, agreed to let Lena come see Luke whenever she wanted, and maybe ride his horses now that they were neighbors. She was sad to see Chester go, but it solved the problem of what to do with him while she was gone and at least she knows where to find him.
The cabbie drives too fast and they clip a pigeon crossing at windshield level. There’s a loud clunk then a smear of blood and feathers. The driver says something then turns on the wipers and laughs. Lena’s stunned, by the mess and the notion that you could hit a pigeon. She’s lived in the city her whole life and has never once seen it happen. Always assumed pigeons had a sixth sense. Maybe French pigeons were different, slower.
She sees the sign for the Metro Hotel a block before they get there and slips the driver a twenty. He jumps out and opens her door then picks at bits of bird caught in the wipers. Lena goes inside the building and heads for the desk.
“Room 6C?”
“6C, 6C . . .” the desk clerk scans the register. “Ah, Monsieur Watts?”
“That’s right.”
“Two flights up, second door on the left,” he tells her in English.
Emotions swirl as she climbs the stairs. The place is run down but handsome, steps curving around, the cool thickness of the handrail, arched windows at every landing. The door says simply 6C. Lena knocks and listens but she hears nothing so she knocks again, louder this time. It’s just like Harry not to be there, but then she hears floorboards creak, a deadbolt slide and . . .
“Harry? My God, what’s happened?”
He pulls the door open and she slips past him without taking her eyes off him, holding a towel to his swollen nose, still in pajamas though it’s late afternoon. She hears a television and the hiss of radiators behind her.
“Someone hit me,” Harry takes the towel away and she sees blood spots.
“Who?”
“Beats me.” he shrugs and holds his arms open. Lena hesitates then steps into them.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he sobs.
“Why’d he just hit you? Did he say?”
“He said a few things. They weren’t in the phrase book.”
She pats his back repeatedly. What she can see of the room is a shambles, clothes strewn around, the bed unmade, bottles lined up on the table. She pushes free and starts picking things up, but Harry pulls her to him.
“Don’t,” Lena stoops to snatch a shoe. “I’m a little wired from the trip. I need to–”
“It’s okay, Lena. I know I’ve let you down.”
“You haven’t let me–” she straightens up suddenly. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing, I just . . .”
Lena sees the strain in his eyes and how Harry’s aged. Not just his bruised face, all of him, neck creased in wrinkles, knobby elbows, collarbones like little handles. Poor Harry and what he’s done to himself. Lena knows she should go to him, but thinks he might just crumble completely. So she stays where she is and Harry settles to the edge of the bed.
“What do you want me to say, Lena?”
“Don’t say anything. Let’s just ease into this.”
Outside, church bells ring and Lena goes to the window. The street below is halved in shadows and the buildings across from them shine in the sun.
“I didn’t picture a place like this. You can see Notre Dame.”
“All distance in France is measured from the front steps of the cathedral. Did you know that?”
“It’s like where the artists would live, Picasso and all of them. Right here.”
“They didn’t, for the most part.”
“Are you in trouble, Harry?”
“How would I know?”
A group of men come out of a restaurant below, chat for a second by the door then head their separate ways. Farther down, kids in un
iforms gather at an intersection, the boys loud and laughing, the girls prim and disapproving.
“I want to go eat in a French restaurant,” Lena keeps her back to him. “Coquille St. Jacques and a chocolate mousse.”
Harry looks no better in the fading daylight: wasted and disheveled. The streets are crowded with shoppers and workers going home. As they cross the bridge into Isle Saint Louis, Lena takes his arm and for the briefest moment it feels like a vacation. Different but not unfamiliar, like Mexico before the ball got rolling.
“Where shall we go?” Lena leans into his shoulder.
“I don’t think it matters. There’s a French restaurant on every block.”
“Where do you eat?”
“No place special.”
“Take me there.”
“I don’t think they have Coquille St. Jacques.”
“I don’t care. I want to see what you’ve been doing.”
“Right here,” he steers her into the Friterie a few blocks from the river. It’s busy, mostly young couples and college kids. Harry’s never been here, but it’s the sort of place he might go.
“This is great!” Lena falls in behind the waitress who leads them to a table by a shuttered window. Four other tables are unoccupied but within minutes the room begins to fill.
“This where you usually sit?”
“I usually eat in my room.”
“What do you get here?”
“Soup, usually.” Why he’s lying about this he has no idea.
The waitress speaks English and they order the French onion, what else? Lena gets a side salad and Harry orders fries.
“So, what do you think?” Lena asks when the waitress has gone.
“About what?”
“Anything. Talk to me Harry. I need to hear your voice.”
“I’ve missed you. Do you mind if I tell you that?”
“I’ve missed you too. That’s why I need you to talk to me.”
“How’s your dog?”
“His real owner came for him yesterday, was it yesterday?” Lena puzzles for a second. “Isn’t that so amazing? You can be in your yard with a neighbor one day and the next, sitting by Notre Dame.”
“He’s a neighbor?”
“Um-hmmm, sweet old guy, I have dog visiting rights, and he has horses.”
Harry laughs, “Every little girls’ dream, a sweet old geezer with horses.”
“Old and rich, every big girl’s dream.”
A couple in the corner keeps looking over and Harry tries to place them. Maybe patrons at the bar last night, though he can’t recall. Gives them his Pennsport glare and they nearly knock heads looking away.
“You stopped shaving your head.”
“It didn’t seem worth the effort. I’ve lost so much weight no one would recognize me.”
“You don’t think we’ll run into someone we know, do you?”
“Here? Not unless there’s a Paris Mummer’s club. Anyway, you still look like Lena. We’ll probably have to do something about that.”
Lena grunts. “Like what?”
“I don’t know, do a makeover. To go with your new identity.”
“I still have to wrap up things at home.”
“What things?”
“Look, I can’t just drop off the face of the earth like you, Harry. What do you think, no one will miss me?”
“Call Alice, just say something came up. It’s nobody’s business.”
“Maybe where you grew up.”
Harry heaves a sigh. “Okay, but after that we make some changes, both of us. The world isn’t as big as you think.”
Lena’s smile is non-committal. She’s put a lot of years into being Lena and doesn’t see herself giving it up.
“Have you heard about Lilly?”
“What about her?”
Lena lowers her voice. “You didn’t hear? She’s making a comeback.”
Harry searches her face.
“It was on the news all last week. They don’t get Oprah here?”
“You mean she’s not going to die?”
“Well, she’s still critical, but the doctors seem to think she has a chance.”
“A chance.”
“It looked bad there for a while. But they showed pictures of her and Larry King had a telephone hookup with her mom. Everybody’s optimistic.”
Harry leans in and touches his forehead to the table.
“You haven’t been following?” Lena fairly whispers
“I couldn’t take it.”
“Maybe that was a good thing.”
He looks up. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe you had too much stress invested in her getting well. Who knows how these things work?”
“Am I supposed to know what that means?”
Lena giggles like she thinks he’s kidding. “Don’t worry, Oprah’s in charge.”
Their soup arrives. Harry scalds his mouth on his fistful of fries.
“There’s something else. Muriel died.”
“Aww, Jesus.”
“I was there when it happened, just me and Sister M. And the last thing she said was the last thing I told her.”
“Which was?”
Lena smiles through the steaming soup. “Harry’s alive.”
At first she doesn’t think he’s heard, but his eyes well up and that makes hers well up and then they’re both blubbering.
“Madame, Monsieur?” their waitress rushes over. “Is something wrong?”
Harry makes a joke about winning the lottery and the waitress claps with delight. So he spins some story no one understands and Lena gets a glimpse of the Harry that used to be. And she cries even harder as he takes her in his arms to heartfelt oohs and ahs. Then a little man with a walrus moustache presents them with a bottle of champagne to celebrate their good luck.
“Thank you so much, merci,” Harry nods and smiles. Moustache bows and blabs away.
“He says the French believe that luck brings luck,” their waitress translates.
“I didn’t know that.”
“My uncle lives in his own little world,” she winks.
Closing time comes but no one makes a move to leave. Music drifts up from the street and Harry leads Lena in a dance, circling the room to the crowd’s delight.
“Luck brings luck, you heard the guy,” Lena whispers.
“Here maybe,” he steers her to their table. “Let’s finish our drinks and toddle home.”
“How did you ever find this place?”
“You know me,” Harry lifts a glass. “Monsieur Out and About.”
“Vous reveillerez Notre Madame,” the uncle points to the window.
“He’s saying for you we will wake Our Lady,” the waitress leans in, pulls a bolt and throws the shutters open on Notre Dame, centered like a picture in a frame. Jesus! Then a gasp as the moon slips a cloud and the whole sky turns silver.
Harry looks to Lena. “Eh?”
“You sure know how to show a girl a good time!”
***
That night she has a dream. Harry’s dead again, but she spots him on a passing bus. He gets off after a few stops and she follows him, but it’s a part of town she’s never been in and she gets lost. Then they’re in a bar, that 9th Street club Riley Prentiss took her to, and Harry tells her that Muriel had it all figured out right, the heaven and hell thing is a crock. And Lena’s sorry for Sister Muriel but okay with the rest of it, now that they won’t have to burn in hell. When she wakes she feels woozy, the color’s gone from the room and everything has a murky look about it. Like Purgatory she thinks, cold and clammy.
The temperature dips and Lena makes a wish for snow. It just looks like snow, the color clouds get, slate gray and heavy, Lena’s always been able to tell the snow clouds from ones holding rain or just drifting by. She says nothing to Harry even when it does start to snow. In Paris! Lets him be the first to notice, though she couldn�
��t say why. And Harry can’t get over it. Moves the chairs to the window and they sit and watch as the city changes. Later, they throw snowballs then trudge to the cathedral to light a candle for Sister M.
Harry takes her to see The Postman Always Rings Twice, watching Garfield murder Lana Tuner’s husband and the hell they go through. Lena gets a feeling she’s never had before. The two of them watching the two of them murder for money. Strange too, Garfield with that haunted look and Lana wondering if he’s got what it takes. What is it about these hard-boiled women who hustle men and work things round their way with nothing but the promise of love? And it’s over the top, Hollywood style, but Lena sees through to the simple fact. When it comes to crime the women are stronger.
She comes back from the bakery and Harry’s at the window with a sketchpad. He shows her what he’s drawn, their view caught in the winter light, trees and rooftops snow-frosted. It moves her to think he can still surprise her, the sides to Harry she’s learned not to see. The sketches are rough outlines, but the scale is right and they might even be good.
“Regarde,” he flips a hand. “Fugitive Artist, the Paris years.”
“I like it.”
“Here’s the good part,” he starts on her portrait. “In the unlikely event le shit hits le fan it’ll make a splash. With Oprah and the hoopla, see where this is going?”
Lena sets the baguettes on the table. “Your fifteen minutes of fame?”
“Exactement!” he jabs the sketchpad. “Like minting money. Whatever happens, hold on to these.”
“I rented a video,” Lena pulls it from the bag. “Grand Hotels of Europa.”
Harry smiles. “Europa. The fugitive years.”
“The rules are no Third World, no former republics, no mullahs or warlords.”