Parisian Promises

by Cecilia Velástegui

  “Oh, no! Not when I am this close to finally making the history books. I slept with enough German officers and found out all sorts of secrets, and what did that get me? Nothing, not even a pair of shoes,” Madame laughed too loudly, too out of control––a little like the crowd around them, Monica thought. She didn’t like the faces of some of the protestors. These were not the idealistic, open-eyed expressions of university students seeking Utopia. On the contrary, these protestors where mostly men who looked almost militaristic and ready to fight. The possibility of violence seemed all too real.

  Madame leaned into Monica, speaking softly. “The Gestapo is here,” she said, pointing to the neo-Fascists, “and those men next to them are French collaborators. But don’t worry, I know the German officers, they’re not so bad. They will probably take a liking to you, too.”

  “Uh, Madame, the Gestapo existed decades ago. Really, I think the crowds are making you tired––and disoriented.”

  “Yes, I’ve been bone-tired for ages,” Madame admitted. “But I must lead the maquis, my own squad of Résistance fighters. Can you believe it? After all my hard work, I finally get to lead my own group, and Robert Doisneau should be right around here ready to take my photo. He’s going to do it when I raise my arm and salute them. Do you see Monsieur Doisneau and his camera?”

  Monica shook her head, not sure of what Madame was rambling on about. The old lady was too confused and frail to be out on these streets right now. A truck inched its way onto the intersection of the two boulevards, dividing the crowd into two groups. The men with the sturdy boots gathered further up the street outside another public urinal, which gave off a horrible stench. Their unlikely adversaries, a ramshackle group of anarchists in full disarray, crossed the street, moved around the now-parked truck, and sidled up to the booted men.

  Monica and Madame were right in the middle of all this, jostled by the anarchists when they started crossing the street. Madame nearly fell off the sidewalk, but she gripped her handbag close to her chest with great ferocity.

  “Mon Dieu, I must follow the directions of mon amour,” she told Monica, her voice earnest and clipped. “If I do, he will make sure that my name and my photograph will make history.”

  At his post guarding the gate, Serge witnessed all the maneuverings of the disparate protest groups on the street and decided he wanted answers from the concierge. He knocked on the gate once again and the concierge absentmindedly opened it.

  “Merde,” she muttered. “I can’t believe I opened the gate for an old farm hand.”

  Serge snickered. “You used to like me well enough in the old days. Do you recall the fun times we had in your old bed while the Viscount and Madame had their own trysts?”

  “It only happened once, and I never saw you again.”

  “Well, I’m back.” He flashed her his snaggletooth smile. “Only this time I’m here to find out what is going on with Mademoiselle Monica. Who is she seeing here in Paris?”

  “How should I know? She doesn’t tip me, so I don’t care what she does.”

  “Why would she leave with Madame on such a crazy day? You’re a shrew––I mean to say a very intelligent woman. What do you think is going on with the two of them?”

  The concierge noticed that Serge actually meant what he said, that he did find her intelligent, so she decided to give him her opinions. “I might have my own speculations about what’s going on with Madame and those American students––and her young lover. But you look quite elderly these days, and I don’t think that you can handle bad news.”

  “What do you mean? I can still put a knife at an enemy’s throat, in case you have your doubts about my resolve.” He grabbed her rough hand and kissed it gently. “Please tell me. Anything that pertains to Monica can hurt my Christophe. Didn’t you see how madly in love he is with her?”

  “Yes, but I’ve never had anyone love me that much, so what do I care?”

  “Because, although life has dealt you a bad hand, you deserve to feel like a decent person, a kindhearted person, at least once in your life. That’s why. Please tell me.”

  “Madame has a new young lover,” the concierge blurted out. “A despicable rich young man who abuses old women. He left some things in my care and, and … well, some of those things can kill a lot of people.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Things that were hidden in the toucan’s bill up in Madame’s apartment––”

  “What? What is a toucan? You’d better not be lying and making a fool out of me.”

  “Why would I lie? A toucan is a bird––a stuffed bird, in this instance. And the things hidden in his bill were grenades. That’s the kind of person this Jean-Michel is. I hate him. He violated me and now he’s making Madame do something terrible on his behalf. And he’s taking his revenge on that Monica who you care so much about. He is furious that she cheated on him with Christophe.”

  “Do you know where Jean-Michel is now?” Serge couldn’t believe his ears. “And where are these grenades?”

  The concierge pointed to Madame’s fifth-floor apartment. Serge had heard enough. He knew that he could not solve this sordid puzzle by standing talking to the concierge. First, he had to act quickly, but this wasn’t easy. His old legs lumbered slowly past the concierge as he started his long trudge up the steps to Madame’s apartment. When Serge paused at the second-floor landing, already out of breath, he heard the concierge’s heavy footsteps as she walked up the stairs and past him. She was dangling her metal ring full of apartment keys. One of those keys was crucial; the one that would open the door of Madame’s apartment to reveal the evil hiding among her worthless treasures, evidence of a life poorly lived.

  Back in California Lola had participated in numerous anti-Vietnam War rallies, so she had a good sense of how to navigate the perimeter of crowds. When she discovered that the travel agency was closed, she wanted to return as quickly as possible to Madame’s apartment and keep a close eye on Monica.

  Lola took long strides, maneuvering her way through the crowds, her crimson curls swaying in the fall breeze. Christophe spotted her trademark locks from a block away and shouted, “Lola, attends!”

  “Damn, the fuzz is calling my name,” muttered Lola to no one in particular. Rather than look back, she picked up her pace, weaving in and out of the teeming crowd.

  The man’s voice insisted, this time more politely, “Mademoiselle Lola, attendez, s’il vous plait!

  But Lola, like her gangster cousins, never waited for any cop, even a polite cop, to ask her any questions, so she hustled away as quickly as she could, disappearing into the heaving crowd.

  Jean-Michel was astounded to feel butterflies in his stomach. He was a decisive leader, not some nervous minion. The plan he’d put into action was foolproof, of course, but he could not locate Monica and Madame among the swirling river of people in the street, and this made him jittery. He needed to imprint on his mind an image of the forthcoming destruction––of a river of blood––and remind himself that this image would obliterate any past missteps as a rebel leader.

  He leaned farther and farther out of the balcony, gripping the guardrail, but Monica and Madame were nowhere to be seen.

  “This is what happens when you rely on weak women to do your bidding,” he shouted and retreated inside. In a fit of temper he yanked the billowing lace curtain off its ancient rod and trampled it underfoot.

  In Jean-Michel’s mind there had only been one woman who proved her unending love for her man, and that was Isabel Casamayor de Godin, the namesake of his stuffed toucan. He pictured her floating alone and naked on a balsa wood raft, the bird her only companion.

  “Isabel didn’t let any ten-foot caiman frighten her,” he shouted, pacing Madame’s apartment. “She forged ahead down the Amazon River with the image of her beloved waiting for her in French Guiana. But I have the bad luck to depend on a double-crossing California girl and a senile Parisienne to prove their love for me!”

  Enra
ged at the very thought of Madame, he tore her precious Doisneau photograph off the wall and hurled it onto the floor. The image of Madame’s leg and of an admirer in a fedora lay unbroken on the ground, so Jean-Michel jumped up and down on top of the frame until the glass and the paper were pulverized.

  This didn’t calm him, so he returned to the balcony to continue his tirade.

  “Look at all those idiots––anarchists, leftists, union organizers, anti-nuclear testing buffoons, starry-eyed students,” he hissed. “They’re all going to feel pain now.”

  Only the neo-Fascists seemed organized, Jean-Michel decided, wondering if perhaps he should consider becoming a neo-Fascist himself. But he soon dismissed this idea since the Italian neo-Fascist group Ordine Nuovo, or the “New Order,” were already adept at attacking rallies with hand grenades. Other, less organized political movements needed him more.

  At last Jean-Michel spotted Madame, walking––practically hobbling––with the aid of Monica towards the group of anarchists, the spot where the photographer was supposedly waiting for them. He had instructed Madame to head towards the urinals, and she seemed to be doing exactly as she’d been told. So far, so good, he thought, smiling. But then, rising above all the sounds in the crowd, was some man’s voice bellowing out Lola’s name. Who was this man? How did he know Monica’s friend? An overpowering rage flooded Jean-Michel’s heart and his mind. He couldn’t believe what he was witnessing.

  Lola stopped to wipe sweat from her brow. She was feeling hot and anxious from dodging through the crowd to elude the persistent cop hot on her heels. She looked around to see if the coast was clear, and that’s when she spotted Monica and Madame walking timidly towards the anarchists and the baton-wielding neo-Fascists. This was madness, Lola thought. Anyone in their right mind could see the potential fight brewing between the two groups.

  She released her most ear-splitting whistle that made everyone––especially Monica––turn around and look at her. The crowd surged, and Lola lost sight of Monica, but at least now she knew that her friend was close by. Lola whistled again and again, as loud as she could, until her deafening siren made Monica stop.

  “I have to go,” she told Madame. “Lola needs me.”

  She let go of Madame’s arm and pushed her way through the milling protestors, away from the anti-Fascists and towards the sound of Lola’s whistle.

  Madame barely noticed Monica’s departure. Her mind was a blur of excitement and pride. She noticed a man with a camera, and although he didn’t look at all like Monsieur Doisneau, she smiled and waved to him. Then she recalled that Jean-Michel had told her to raise her right arm stiffly before she did some other step, a step that didn’t come to mind just then. Again, Madame smiled at the photographer and at the Gestapo, and she raised her hand in what she realized was a Nazi salute.

  The anarchists had been waiting for a trigger to release their anger, and once they saw this provocative salute, they rushed the neo-Fascists. Punches were thrown, and men were tumbling all around her, shouting and yelling. She could hear the crunch of fist hitting bone, and blood splattered onto her Chanel suit. Madame was confused––so very, very confused. She smiled at the camera again, but now the photographer was taking photos of the men fighting. He didn’t seem interested in her at all.

  Then she remembered what Jean-Michel had told her to do: “Your actions today will prove to history that you are a leader of your own maquis, not just some strumpet pretending to be a Résistance fighter. When you and Monica get near the metal urinals, you will take out the play grenade,” he had shown her the toy grenade, “then you will pull out this safety pin, raise your right arm high and throw it. Can you do that?”

  “But why can’t I just hold the toy grenade? I don’t want to be remembered for appearing violent. This is a photograph for posterity, and I’m a lover not a fighter,” Madame had said, laughing flirtatiously with her young amour.

  “Ask yourself this question––who remembers the behind-the-scenes Résistance fighters?”

  “Well, no one comes to mind.”

  “And do you know why?” Jean-Michel had asked her sweetly. “Because the world remembers bold and defiant acts. And now is the time for you to be very bold. Can you do this for you and for me?”

  At the memory of Jean-Michel kissing her so very tenderly, Madame pursed her lips again as if she were preparing for his moist lips. Everyone near her had backed away to avoid getting embroiled in the fight between the anti-Fascists and the anarchists. With her lips pursed, she took out the grenade from her handbag and she pulled out the safety pin. Then, with acute clarity of mind, as if the flash from a camera had illuminated her addled brain, Madame realized that this was no toy. She only had seconds before the spark would ignite the fuse, setting off the combustible material in the detonator––and the explosion would embed pieces of metal, killing and maiming the demonstrators. Madame clasped the deadly weapon close to her body, hugging it to her womb. Then she closed her eyes and let herself fall to the ground––and onto the grenade. Her last thought was not of Jean-Michel, nor of the Viscount who loved her long ago, but of the young people in the crowd who would be saved by her action. One day, they might remember her altruistic sacrifice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Heart’s Content

  The concierge opened Madame’s front door quietly and stood back to let Serge in. He rushed through the salon towards the balcony where Jean-Michel stood, leaned over the railing and shouting obscenities at the crowd below. As soon as the explosion echoed up from the street, Jean-Michel began laughing uncontrollably.

  “That’s the end of my California Girl, that two-timing slut, Monica!” he cried, and leaned farther out to observe the mayhem he had masterminded. His plan must have worked to perfection.

  Serge didn’t think twice. He squatted low and used all the might of his bony body to push Jean-Michel over the rail. He had seen enough evil during the war, and he had no qualms about ending Jean-Michel’s life. But Serge wasn’t an agile young man anymore. He used so much force to topple Jean-Michel; he hit the rail himself and catapulted over, tumbling, as if in a slow-motion, through the windy Parisian air. Serge shut his eyes and, for the last few seconds of his life, concentrated on the memory of Victoire’s smile.

  A voice from the crowd shouted, “Je t’aime,” and Serge called back, “Je t’ai toujours aimé.” Knowing that he had always loved Victoire filled his heart with sheer ecstasy. Just before his body hit the ground, Serge opened his eyes and smiled broadly. It was Christophe’s voice shouting “je t’aime”––he’d recognize his voice anywhere. Serge had changed Christophe’s diapers as a wailing infant; he had heard Christophe first word, cheval; and he had heard Christophe’s laughter when he rode his first pony, Serge running alongside him in case Christophe lost his balance.

  The woman’s voice calling back to Christophe must be Monica. They were together again, as they should be. Serge closed his eyes and died in peace.

  Unlike Serge, Jean-Michel had not fallen to the ground. He was clinging to Haussmann’s dictatorial iron guardrail, legs dangling down the side of the building, and begging the concierge to help pull him in inside the apartment.

  “Please, help me,” he called up to her. “You are the only true love of my life. Help pull me up, and we’ll leave today for South America. We’ll spend a year exploring the Amazon––just the two of us!”

  The concierge stood on the balcony, her thick varicose-veined legs planted wide, as if balancing a decision between torturing Jean-Michel by not pulling him in or taunting him with fake promises of help. But really she was standing there adding up her numbers. She didn’t yet have enough money to pay for her dream bird-watching vacation, but she could not trust Jean-Michel to pay up.

  “I need the money first,” she said. “Do you have any money here?”

  “I have some money, but I…I promise to give you more.” Jean-Michel flailed against the building, writhing in pain. When he tried to raise one arm
to a higher grip of the guardrail, his other hand slipped down to a lower grip, so he was now dangling lopsided. Paris no longer seemed to be cooperating with Jean-Michel, and his only view now was disgusting: the old woman’s hairy legs.

  “I beg you, please help me up,” he cried, grimacing in agony.

  “Where’s the money?”

  “High on the top shelf. Over there!” He pointed with his chin.

  The concierge ambled back inside as though she had not a care in the world, and took her sweet time finding a chair to stand on, and to look for the money Jean-Michel had hidden in Madame’s top book shelf.

  “Yep, I see some cash here, but it’s not enough,” she called. She was using all her fingers to add up the numbers. The concierge had always been dense at school, and her diminished intellect had declined even further with her bitter age. “Where have you hidden more money? I already checked the toucan’s bill, and it’s empty.”

  Jean-Michel felt himself losing strength, his life literally hanging by his fingertips, and his anger got the best of him. “Damn you, don’t touch my beautiful Isabel. Use those big, ugly milkmaid hands of yours and pull me up! You’re not worth one more franc.”

  The concierge felt a surge of resentment towards this man who demanded so much and treated her with such contempt. Fifi was barking in a locked bedroom, so the concierge clambered down from her chair and opened the door. Fifi scurried to the balcony and nipped at Jean-Michel’s white and strained fingers, now barely gripping the iron rail. The concierge followed the dog out, determined to have the last laugh.

  “Bite the bad man, Fifi, bite!” she commanded. As the poodle growled and nipped, the concierge lifted her trunk of a leg and kicked away his fingers, ending Jean-Michel’s beastly grip on her life.

  While the last act of the life of Serge––and Jean-Michel––was playing out, the crowds nearest the pissoir had scattered, running after Madame fell on the grenade. But a block away, protestors of every stripe now stood smiling and transfixed by the romantic drama taking place in front of them. The crowd had parted to allow a scene that can only take place in Paris, and Paris alone.