Parisian Promises

by Cecilia Velástegui

  Just a week earlier, he’d followed a lanky blonde up the narrow circular stairs of the tower at Notre Dame Cathedral; when he leaned her against the winged stone chimera, she kissed him passionately. When Jean-Michel recalled that heady moment, he seemed to remember the stone gargoyle drooling from its open jaws, winking approvingly at him while, at the same time, the cathedral’s bells pealed their admiration of his stunt. Jean-Michel grunted as he recalled the words of an ancient clergyman who had asked: “To what purpose are here placed these creatures, half beast, half man?” Jean-Michel rejoiced in knowing the answer to this 12th century conundrum. The gargoyles were both a symbol of evil and also a talisman against evil. Either way, these Parisian gargoyles watched over him.

  Ever since his early childhood, he’d imagined that the inanimate objects around him spoke to him, uttering words of validation for whatever small feats he accomplished, feats that went uncommented upon by his socially active parents. In their absence, surrounded by household staff that only made sure he was fed and washed, Jean-Michel relished the applause––the pat on the back that the many large clocks gave him every hour, on the hour.

  In Paris, Jean-Michel began to believe that the lion statue of the Pont Alexandre III bridge was beginning to ignore him when he walked by—that, in fact, the lion and the other statues were energized by the overt actions of the more militant groups exhibiting their power in Paris. If Jean-Michel wanted to hear the lion roar again for his stellar leadership, he had to act quickly.

  Monica settled back in her seat, unable to see to where Jean-Michel had disappeared. He had descended into the café’s centuries-old wine cellar, and sauntered all the way back to its mustiest and most secure storage area. Unlike other oenophiles, Jean-Michel didn’t stop to read a wine label or daydream about a particular vintage; he could imbibe the best and rarest wines in the world whenever he wanted, and by now all the hoopla about French wines bored him. He only paused for a moment to ridicule the new motto of the Château Mouton Rothschild estate: “First, I am. Second, I used to be. But Mouton does not change.” Everything changes, Jean-Michel thought, and I will be a part of a sea of change in Western Europe.

  Two men waited for him, shivering in the coolness of the cellar. They peered into the dusty bottles of Château Margaux, locked up behind bars, their eyes darting to and fro in case a dreaded turncoat or police officers might pounce on them from behind the stored wine bottles. The dark cellar’s stone walls and stuffy atmosphere reminded them of the prehistoric caves they explored as children in their Basque homeland, their beloved Euskadi. This was a place they were no longer free to roam, the homeland they would always carry in their hearts and try to protect from those who wanted to destroy all their rights.

  This was their purpose for living now––they served Euskadi and no one else. Other better- organized insurgent Basque groups maintained headquarters in Paris, but the men hiding in the wine cellar thought these groups did nothing but hold conferences and talk in circles about their demands and decisions. One of these decisions was to train all the exiled Basque rebels in France, and to remain in contact with the Basque nationalists in France––hence the presence, albeit surreptitious, of so many Basques in Paris. This better-known Basque nationalist group was also effective at raising funds. Its bank robberies in 1972 netted over one million francs, an amount that couldn’t fail to impress all the other disparate nationalist groups trying to organize themselves in this ancient city. In this era of social upheaval, the tactics employed by one group influenced the actions of evolving insurgents.

  However, the secret faction that had sent these two inept men on this specific mission did not just issue communiqués; it took action––even if in some instances their Basque comrades managed to accidentally blow themselves up. The faction believed that these were the casualties of war. Not only did combatants suffer, so did the innocent. A pregnant Basque woman captured by the Spanish police in Pamplona in 1968 was tortured so viciously that she suffered a miscarriage. These were individual tragedies, but nothing on the scale of the catastrophe of losing their Basque liberties and culture—their beloved Euskera language––and this was the solemn purpose that made the men hiding in the cellar cherish their outlaw status, even if they were also shaking in their boots with fear.

  Back in the Basque Country, the shorter man had been a medical student, and the other a village plumber, so both were ill-prepared for the clandestine work they’d been assigned. Their superiors had selected them for the Paris operation because they both had dark hair, long noses and unremarkable pale faces, ideal for blending in to the Parisian crowds. They’d also selected them for their facility with languages: both had been raised in the countryside of Irun, near the French border, and spoke three languages fluently.

  As Jean-Michel approached, his slender silhouette mysteriously backlit like a spy in a movie, the men could not make out his face. In fact, these two fools were not very observant; they were as gullible as they were patriotic.

  “He can see our faces,” hissed the plumber. “Turn around!”

  Jean-Michel’s laughter echoed through the cellar.

  “I don’t care about remembering your faces,” he scoffed. “I can already see that neither one of you is a tactician. Suppose I wanted to harm you: wouldn’t it be easer this way?”

  He tapped both men sharply on their shoulders. Unlike trained fighters who would have struck back, both men cowered, turning just enough to glimpse Jean-Michel’s face.

  Instantly, they mistrusted him. He looked too tanned, and he spoke Spanish with the tempo of an Andalusian, or perhaps with the breakneck speed of the Caribbean. This was exactly how others in their group had been misled before. They’d thought they were dealing with foreign sympathizers whose Basque ancestors had migrated to Venezuela long ago, but instead they had fallen into the clutches of the Spanish police, and had never been seen or heard from again.

  The men whispered their requests to Jean-Michel, and then he ambled away past the racks of wine bottles, showing no fear of the two men lurking in the cellar. He would never be the rat caught in the trap, and he had developed the acute observation skills of an ace hunter. Jean-Michel knew that these two weaklings would break easily. In his mind, he had already disposed of them.

  A couple of minutes after Jean-Michel’s departure, the men heard the familiar ring of a tiny brass bell, wielded by the waiter. This was their signal to leave the cellar and melt into the famed Paris avenue as anonymously as they had entered. By the time they adjusted to the sunlight and peered through the flapping red awning, Jean-Michel was nowhere in sight––Paris had followed his command and camouflaged him.

  Jean-Michel guided Monica down a labyrinth of side streets that led, at last, to an elegant women’s boutique. The saleswoman smiled when they entered, and pursed her lips at at Jean-Michel. Monica looked at the display of chic clothes and was puzzled.

  “I thought we were stopping at an art supply store,” she whispered to Jean-Michel. She’d told him that she had sketches due in two days and needed to pick up some supplies.

  “You will have the art supplies in no time,” Jean-Michel assured her. “But I just remembered that I saw a stunning dress here that would look amazing on you. Please humor me, and try it on. I was going to buy it for my sister, wasn’t I?”

  He turned to the impeccably groomed sales woman, who nodded. She held up a pale-blue mini dress, floaty and ethereal. Monica’s eyes grew wide. It looked so pretty, and very expensive.

  “You see? You must try it on for me,” he said, and Monica couldn’t resist.

  When the heavy velvet curtain to the dressing room was drawn, the saleswoman sidled up to Jean-Michel. “Your sister is very special to you, isn’t she?” she said. He didn’t like the woman’s tone or her insinuation, but he had visited this shop often enough to know that she was easy to buy off. He didn’t reply, and his scowl sent her scurrying to the back room for a pair of shoes to match the dress.

  Monica co
uldn’t believe her own glamorous vision in the mirror.

  “It’s a gorgeous dress,” she said, stepping out of the dressing room and twirling for Jean-Michel. “I’m sure your sister will love it.”

  Jean-Michel liked his women angelic and pliable, and in this dress Monica didn’t disappoint him at all. “You must wear this dress when we go dancing tonight,” he commanded. “We’ll take the other dress for my sister.” He waved a dismissive hand at the sales woman, and told her to ship the “other” dress.

  The saleswoman smiled broadly and thanked them both effusively. She knew that there was no other dress to ship out, and probably no sister, either. But one thing was certainly real: the several hundred francs Jean-Michel had slipped her, lining her own threadbare pockets.

  Jean-Michel led Monica towards his apartment in the lively 6th arrondissement, maneuvering in a circuitous way in order to tire her, disorient her––and to probe further into her character. Knowledge was power, after all. He was tempted to take Monica to his family’s vacant apartment in the elite 8th arrondissement, but the nosy concierge there would find a way to meddle.

  He had misjudged some of his other targets before, and this time he had to be sure that Monica had the fortitude to carry out his directions, and to do everything he dictated for nothing else in return but his love. Recently he had erred with a young German student; she’d turned out to be a brazen Amazon who wanted to be a hero and to take the lead. In the end, Jean-Michel made sure that her desire to be in command came true, sending her bossy head deeper and deeper, all the way to the bottom of the Mediterranean after she mistakenly thought that he would reward her unauthorized initiative.

  With every step Jean-Michel took with Monica, he convinced himself that he was madly in love with her. He needed to believe with all the molecules in his body that she was the love of his life. If he could command his inner troops to exhibit the dilated pupils of sexual excitement, to make his heart palpitate vigorously, to get an erection whenever her mini dress revealed her pale inner thighs, then he knew she would respond in kind––if he had selected the right woman.

  He paused along the quais to see if his charm was working.

  “I guess you can tell that I don’t want this afternoon to end,” he murmured, stroking Monica’s soft hair and gazing into her own dilated pupils. “Even the later sunset is cooperating with us, don’t you think?”

  Monica inched towards him, her breathing heavy. She couldn’t believe that she’d met someone so handsome and enthralling and European. “I guess I could stay out a little longer. I mean, I have to go do my sketches. But afterwards I’d love to go dancing with you.”

  She put her arms around his neck and fondled his ears, as though she was placing a bridle on Rocky.

  “What do you like to sketch?” Jean-Michel caressed her cheek, and a thrill raced down Monica’s spine.

  “At home, I mostly … I mostly sketch my horses.” Monica gulped as if she were running out of air. “But here I’d love to sketch––that is, I’d love to paint this very moment.”

  Jean-Michel guided her to a bench looking out over the Seine. It was quiet along this part of the river, ideal for a seduction. When they sat down, he wrapped his arm around Monica’s shoulders. She leaned into him, and he could detect the violent resignation in her trembling body. Monica was in a dreamlike state, awash with surging molecules and hormones of her own. Instinctively she turned to face Jean-Michel, raising her right leg onto his knee. He slipped off his leather jacket and draped it across her lap. Monica let him take control, his cigar-tainted fingers probing and massaging her erotically. Her moans were imperceptible to all but him. Paris camouflaged him again by casting the shadows of early dusk over them. While Jean-Michel pleasured her, Monica never took her eyes off his, and as she climaxed, he observed that the shallows of her hazel eyes now reflected his own profoundly dark eyes. He congratulated himself for having such control over the internal engines of love––and for managing to select such a fine female specimen.

  But although he was satisfied with her risk-taking behavior on the public bench, Jean-Michel had to probe deeper into Monica’s core beliefs. He removed a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped between her legs.

  “If only the old nuns knew the delectable origin of the stains on their handmade linen handkerchief,” Jean-Michel whispered, “they might have to do penance, don’t you think?”

  This, he knew, was a deliberate and crass trap, but he had met a number of women whose religious background paralyzed them in the heat of a clandestine operation. The last woman he sent on a mission across the border into Spain had perspired profusely during the crossing in Le Perthus, and when she caught sight of a crucifix in the customs office she’d fainted, spilling the handful of false passports she was carrying on his behalf––though at least she had enough sense to keep her mouth shut. Fortunately, her parents’ wealth had greased her release, and they assigned her their own penance by shipping her to Patagonia to teach in the local parish school.

  “I’m not religious, so I wouldn’t know, but .…” Monica whispered, pulling him closer to her. She nuzzled Jean-Michel’s neck and inhaled his promises of love and excitement. Desperate to savor this moment, she decided not to mention to Jean-Michel that she knew all about nuns and novenas and lighted candles, all about prayers asking for divine intervention so the punches would stop. Unlike Notre Dame and its empty pews, Monica’s parish church back home was packed every Sunday with weeping women and their damaged children. She had wasted enough years kneeling next to her mother, praying that her father would end his frequent strikes against her.

  Monica knew enough about animal husbandry to recognize she’d inherited her father’s dominant traits, along with his hazel eyes and pale skin. She also knew that if a mare was young enough, she could be retrained, whether it was with positive reinforcement or brute force. She brushed these two thoughts from her mind. Every bone in her body was telling her that she would learn everything about being a woman with Jean-Michel, and that he would be her gentle but masterful and passionate trainer.

  “But what? What were you going to say?” Jean-Michel asked.

  “Uh, just that I’m not … uh, superstitious. All I know is that I’ve never wanted anyone as much––”

  Jean-Michel’s mind was on the logistics of the mission––the men in the wine cellar had asked for firearms–– such that he almost forgot his role in the romantic courtship duet he was dancing with Monica: he was to match the words tumbling from her cupid-lipped mouth.

  “As much as I want you,” he managed to chime in unison, though the sappiness of this mutual proclamation of love made him shiver, albeit nearly imperceptibly, with disgust. He resented having to play such an elaborate game of romantic subterfuge, just to get one woman to do as he instructed her without getting snared at a control point or deciding to take liberties with his directions. Unlike other rebels who bragged that their women were dutiful to the extent that they would even do time in prison for their men, Jean-Michel preferred to be a ghost puppeteer pulling the strings of his love-struck envoys of destruction.

  Monica noticed Jean-Michel’s quiver, and hugged him. She tenderly handed him his leather jacket and beamed when he pulled her to her feet. She would follow him anywhere now, he knew. Consequently, Jean-Michel grasped her hand, resolutely guiding this nubile and compliant partner to his impressive lair.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Trawling for Babes on the Seine

  There is no way I’m boarding any of the Bateaux Mouches,” grumbled Bertrand, the tallest of the compañeros, as the men approached the dock for the tourist boat ride down the Seine. “We should wait for directions before we proceed. Putain!”

  “I agree. We’re not deplorable tourists,” sniped Charles, the most handsome of the three, adjusting his aviator sunglasses. “Paris is our second home––what if someone sees us? We’ll be ridiculed by everyone! They’ll slaughter us with their taunts.”

  He exch
anged a flirtatious smile with the redhead walking ahead of them with her friends. She was smiling at him over her shoulder, but showing no signs of slowing down.

  “Who cares about matters of appearances?” Xavier, the clean-cut compañero, retorted. “You’re not in prep school anymore. This is a serious mission. If someone means to slaughter you––it won’t be with words, putain!”

  “Easy for you to say––nobody here knows you. You’re invisible. But see the Eiffel Tower here?” He pointed up to the tall compañero. “He stands out, don’t you think?”

  “Again, irrelevant fact,” said Xavier. “Our task for tonight is to convince, pick-up, seduce, sweet-talk…whatever you rich preppies call convincing those three American chicks over there to go dancing with us. We’ll find out the rest of the plan once we’re at the disco––on a need-to-know basis.”

  Xavier was always insinuating that he already knew every detail of the mission. Although he viewed himself as the self-appointed head of the pack, he had yet to meet face-to-face with the leaders of their rebel group. So far their superiors had only communicated cryptically through the faux-Che–– a nom de guerre that Xavier had invented for his more charismatic comrade.

  “Faux-Che” did not stick: the man in question had opted instead for Jean-Michel. The other men in the squad had chosen their pseudonyms by alphabetical order: the tall man was Bertrand, the handsome one preferred the name Charles, and together with Jean-Michel, they had assigned the clean-cut intellectual the fusty name of Xavier. This unimaginative naming ritual––not to mention the oversight in not appointing him as the leader––bothered Xavier almost as much as the recent reduction in the already meager funds his father transferred to his expense account. His father had just cabled two enigmatic questions to him: “Are you sure you have an advanced degree in economics? From Paris?”