“I said I am not feeling well,” he mumbles, “and that I need my American girlfriend to duet with me. Do you know ‘O Holy Night’?”
“Sort of. In English,” I hiss.
“It’s okay — no one expects you to be bilingual.”
I turn my back to the crowd so no one can see just how much I’m freaking out. “‘O Holy Night,’ though? Seriously?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Well …” I glance back over my shoulder, at the very sophisticated French office crowd. “It’s kind of impossible to sing.”
The smile he gives me looks like it’s about twenty percent humor and eighty percent absolute terror. “With our combined talents, does it matter?”
Then he signals to the DJ to start, and the music kicks in, and I take a deep breath. I guess I’m going for it. Today has already been a disaster. What’s the worst that can happen now?
*
4:48 p.m.
The worst that could happen is that my average singing and Jean-Luc’s apparently abysmal Johnny Hallyday impression get us chucked overboard. (That doesn’t happen.)
The second worst thing that could happen is that the French people revolt, pelting us with canapés and champagne, while we wait for the boat to dock so that we can be kicked off. (That doesn’t happen, either.)
What actually happens is probably the third worst thing. Jean-Luc sings, and he sounds … well, not terrible, but not great — and I’m guessing nothing like Johnny Hallyday — and everyone realizes that he’s not Louis from Accounting, new in from Bordeaux. Our duet is greeted with a stony silence — which, I’ve got to be honest, bums me out, because I felt like I wasn’t all that bad! It’s been years since I have been on a stage, and this was a lot better than the time I sang “Defying Gravity” with my friend Ariana, in our high school senior year. (The less said about that …) There’s something joyful about singing — even if you’re not a great singer, it still feels good to be “loud.”
But now Mr. Pinstripe is pulling Jean-Luc aside to have a conversation with him. I look down at the floor so that I don’t make eye contact with anyone, and then Mr. Pinstripe storms off, his face tomato-red, and I assume he’s going to talk with the captain about the stowaways. A few minutes after that, the boat suddenly lurches to the right, like it’s docking.
Jean-Luc and I retreat into the corner as half the partygoers continue glaring at us. The other half turns away and tries to forget all about us. I look at Jean-Luc, who’s looking at his shoes.
The waiter appears with our coats and bags, and the boat is slowing down, and I’m in a bit of a pickle because, after all that champagne, I kind of really need to pee, but I’m too embarrassed to speak up and ask where the bathroom is.
Finally, the boat stops, and Mr. Pinstripe says something sharp. I don’t need to speak French to know that he’s asking (ordering) us to get the hell off his boat! I follow Jean-Luc to the exit, searching for the French word for “sorry,” but all I can think to say is, “Pardon, pardon, pardon.” Mr. Pinstripe actually blocks my way and points to the microphone that I forgot I was still holding. Oh, right. Somehow, handing it back to him is the worst part of this whole humiliation.
About a minute later, I’m back on the street, shrugging on my parka, hooking my cross-body bag over my shoulder, and it’s only after I’ve done it that I realize it might be odd for me to take Jean-Luc’s arm and press myself to him for warmth. But it’s late December in Paris, and I’m pretty sure even the average penguin would be like, “Are you kidding me with this?”
I let him go when he comes to a dead stop. Guess he’s not keen on an almost-stranger overstepping boundaries.
Then I see that his expression isn’t uncomfortable. His eyes are darting all over the place, and his jaw is a little clenched.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him. “I mean, besides the obvious.” He gives the one answer I absolutely do not want to hear right now.
“I have no idea where we are.”
~ CHAPTER EIGHT ~
JEAN-LUC
17H40
“Is she your girlfriend?”
Monsieur Zidane is grinning at us from behind the counter of his shoebox of a café, which we ducked into because Serena needed to use the bathroom. He introduced himself immediately and began brewing the coffees we ordered, with a smile like he’d been waiting all day for us to come in. He looks like he might have been handsome in the seventies, but now his cheeks are jowly and his bushy eyebrows seem to be reaching for the opposite wall — the whole effect makes my skin crawl a little. I’m glad Serena doesn’t speak French.
“What’s he saying?” she asks, in between sips of her take-out latte, which she then holds up to her chin for warmth as we shift toward the door …
I can’t think of a good lie, nor a reasonable explanation for why I very quickly shake my head at the old man behind the counter. So I simply wave him away and answer in French: “We’re just friends.”
He calls me a fool and says that I should change that as quickly as possible. I try not to blush nor to launch into an explanation of the madness of this day — how bereavement, stress, mistaken identity and getting thrown off a boat are not exactly good setups for romance. Not that I’m saying that is what I am after, of course.
Once Serena and I are outside, I look up and down the street, starting to breathe a little easier for the first time since we were ejected from the party boat. For all my worrying before, it took only a quick glance at my phone and ten minutes of walking to get us back to somewhat familiar territory. Not a neighborhood I know that well, but we’re back within the Périph, the ring road that forms the unofficial boundary of the city — I’m pretty sure I’m going to see something I recognize pretty soon, and I won’t have to worry about looking lost in front of Serena.
I don’t know why the thought of that bothers me quite so much.
When I see headlights coming toward us, I think that our run of bad luck — getting on the wrong boat, slaughtering a Christmas carol, getting thrown off outside the Périph, then a mad dash through a bad neighborhood, looking for a café so that Serena could use the bathroom — is coming to an end with a taxi appearing out of nowhere to save us.
But — merde! — it’s just an ordinary car.
A flash of white appears in the corner of my eye. Serena is beside me at the curb, holding her coffee in one hand and her itinerary in the other. With a huff, she stuffs it back into her cross-body bag. “I don’t even know why I’m still bothering to look at this thing. The Romance Tour is an unmitigated failure.”
To be honest, I prefer her pronouncing it ruined than constantly fretting over what she will and will not be able to see, which is what she was doing after we left the pier, right when I was trying not to look too anxious.
We fall into another silence as we walk and drink our coffees. Monsieur Zidane might have been a little bit creepy in how he, apparently, seemed really keen that I ask Serena out — if that’s what he meant with those raised eyebrows — but I have to give him some credit: his espresso is very good.
If I’m remembering correctly, we have to take the next right, which I think is the road that leads us to Parc Sainte-Périne. I am about to tell Serena that we will turn off soon, when I hear her sigh heavily.
“I can’t believe how much of a disaster this has been,” she says. “My mom’s not here, my sister is off with her latest BF” — I think she means “boyfriend” — “and I’ve barely taken any photos for the scrapbook I’m supposed to be putting together for us. All I’ve got are a couple of street shots and a picture of you. Like, how am I supposed to give that as a gift? ‘Sorry, Mom, I didn’t make it to the Eiffel Tower, but here — have a candid of a French boy who doesn’t even know the words to “O Holy Night”!’”
“Look, please be quiet!” I snap at her. “I cannot get us out of here if you keep compl
aining to me about everything. So, please, calm down and stay quiet so I can figure out where we go now!” I say this even though I think I’ve pretty much figured out where we need to go — I kind of just want her to stop talking, just for a while.
Then I feel her annoyance, sense that she’s staring daggers at the back of my head. I suppose I was out of line for raising my voice. I know by now the fact that she had important plans for today is probably both sad and comical to her. But I had plans today, too. I’ve been running around with her for almost eight hours at this point, and I’ll be shocked if I have taken more than three or four usable shots for my project. There are certainly lots of people in the photos I took on the party boat, but that’s all that was — a party on a boat. I don’t think Monsieur Deschamps will really accept that as a theme. I might actually end up failing. While Serena is trying to grab hold of her parents’ past, I feel like I am watching my future drift away from me.
She huffs again. “Whose bright idea was it to get on that boat anyway?”
I turn around so quickly that she almost walks right into me. “Yours! It was you who bought tickets for the boat tour!” I’m yelling at her again, and I feel a flush of shame in my chest, because I’m not the type of person who yells this much — but whether it’s her or this crazy day, I find myself yelling at this American girl quite a lot.
It’s only when I see Serena roll her eyes that I know: a) she’s not going to get upset at being yelled at, and b) she’s about to yell at me, just as loudly.
“Yes, a boat tour,” she says, “which was not what that was. But who was it at the pier, who said, ‘Seh-ree-nah, I fink zattz aur bott’?” (Is that really how I sound?)
I start to throw my hands in the air, then remember that I’m holding a coffee, which I’d rather not send flying. “I would not have made this mistake,” I tell her, “if I had not been so focused on trying to cheer you up.”
“And why are you even bothering to do that? You were just supposed to open the door, give me a key and let me crash in your dorm for one night — why are you acting like I’m somehow your responsibility?”
“Because I was starting to like being with you.”
I feel as surprised as Serena looks by what I’ve just said, but I realize it’s true — it’s been quite a while since I’ve mentally cursed out Henri for saddling me with a guest. A good few hours since I’ve wondered if we should maybe go our separate ways. All of a sudden, the very talkative Serena seems not to know what to say. I’d be relieved at having a break from being yelled at, were it not for how awkward this moment feels. My eyes go to the sidewalk, and it takes a lot of effort to lift them so that I can look at her. Her mouth opens as if she wants to say something, but she doesn’t — she just freezes, her eyes narrowing like I have spoken in French and she’s trying to figure out what I said.
I can still see her absurd orange shoes on the upper edge of my vision, and she starts to step toward me. At first, I wonder what she’s doing — is she going to give me a hug? Or is she going to punch me for talking to her the way I have?
“Taxi! Taxi!” She tugs on my sleeve to make me look up. “What’s the French for ‘taxi’?”
“‘Taxi,’” I tell her, turning around and seeing a taxi crawling toward us, its headlights looking a bit nightmarish as they pierce the thick fog. I’m so grateful to have the awkward moment interrupted, I practically throw myself in front of it to flag it down. The driver — whose craggy, pockmarked face looks like it might crumble if he smiled — gives us a dirty look but beckons us in.
As we get in the back, I notice that there’s an unopened Christmas present on the front passenger seat. It’s poorly wrapped, so I figure it’s something the driver is planning to give to someone. I wonder if it’s for a partner or maybe his child?
“Merci, merci …” Serena pulls out her itinerary again, squints at it and then leans forward, saying, “Um … Maison d’angle? Bistro. Montmartre?”
A restaurant? I was not expecting that. I assumed we were headed to the Arc de Triomphe or Sacré-Cœur or some other tourist mob scene. But the driver nods like he knows the place. It sounds familiar to me, too, but I can’t think why. I’m too busy looking at the dashboard clock, which hasn’t even ticked to six p.m. yet — Americans eat dinner so early!
*
The drive into Montmartre takes almost twenty minutes because of traffic, and Serena and I are silent throughout. Partly because we carried our awkward silence into the taxi, but also because Serena is writing a new itinerary down on a fresh piece of paper. I hear her sigh every now and then.
I am not exactly in the best of moods myself as the taxi climbs the steep roads up into Montmartre. Out the window, I see nothing but a foggy night, the weak glow of streetlights looking like fire under water. The conditions today have been totally against me. Even if we had not been stuck on the party boat during sunset — magical natural light that makes even amateurs look like they have a good eye — there would have been no chance of me finding inspiration in the city. I had fun shooting the party, but I’m not going to impress Monsieur Deschamps with a series of photos of drunk office types dabbing … badly.
Perhaps I should have left Serena to it. After all, she had her itinerary and her phone — she probably wouldn’t have gotten lost, even if she’d been by herself. And I wouldn’t be the fool hoping to “stumble” into inspiration, so close to his deadline …
Now we’ve hit traffic on Boulevard de Clichy. I don’t know how long we go without moving in terms of minutes and seconds, but the red digits on the dashboard tell me that we sit still for two euros and thirty cents. The taxi fare to Montmartre is going to take a greedy bite out of the cash in my wallet.
When the fare goes up another twenty cents while we’re still not moving, Serena leans forward and taps on the screen dividing the driver from his passengers. With big gestures, she indicates that she would like him to let us out, then she shoves some euros at him. She thanks him (in English), then climbs out of the taxi. I get out the other side, running around the trunk and weaving my way through the bumpers of the creeping cars, to join her on the sidewalk.
“I had to get out of that cab,” she huffs, running a hand through her wild curls. She pushes her itinerary at me and taps an address. “Do you know if it’s far? Maison d’angle?”
“Just up rue Lepic, then turn right on Abbesses,” I tell her, still wondering why this bistro sounds familiar to me.
“Cool,” she mumbles, her whole face bathed in the lurid red glow of the Moulin Rouge as we sidestep a crowd of tourists taking photos on their phones. I stay one step ahead of Serena, trying to block her view of the … gentleman’s club that is opposite the famous venue, but I know she’s seen it when I hear her laugh.
“You are offended?” I ask her.
“What? Do you think I’ve never walked past a strip club before? I’m from New York.”
We walk in silence up rue Lepic, beneath the starry string lights that crisscross the street for Christmas. Serena seems befuddled that burlesque clubs stand so casually among ordinary businesses, like convenience stores, and butchers’ shops. I see her cover her nose at the strong scents wafting off the rotisseries that turn slowly, almost sadistically, out on the sidewalk.
We turn off Lepic onto Abbesses, which has nicer restaurants and some decent bars, but they still compete with cheap grocers for business.
I look to Serena and see that her eyes are wide as she takes it all in. It’s not a “pretty” part of Paris, but I guess it’s still striking to a visitor. The photography student in me really wishes he could see Paris anew, the way she’s doing; wishes he could borrow her eyes …
I’m not going to say this to her, though. I have a feeling she’ll take it literally!
Then we come to a stop outside a large restaurant on a corner. Maison d’angle — The Corner House. I wonder again why its name sounds familiar. I
certainly haven’t eaten here before. I see Serena in profile. Her cheeks are a little flushed, lashed by the winter wind, and the line of her jaw is set firm and tight. She is staring at the bistro, determined and exhausted all at once. From the way her eyes widen, and the corner of her mouth begins to lift in a smile, I can tell that this is one of the more meaningful stops on her itinerary.
“Your parents ate here?” I ask.
She nods, doesn’t take her eyes off the door: “Yeah. Dad said they got lunch here once — they had a reservation at some super-fancy restaurant, but Mom left the directions at the hotel, and they couldn’t find it. Plus, it was twenty-five years ago, so they couldn’t look it up on their phones or anything like that. So they were walking around, and it started to rain — they literally just walked into the first place that they passed … This place. Maison d’angle. They were wet and tired and lost, but Dad said they had an amazing meal, and that it was at that moment, he knew their new marriage would last forever. Because …” Her voice catches, and I hear her take a deep, steadying breath. “Because everything ‘just had a way of working out for the best.’”
My heart quickens at the puff of misty breath escaping her lips. It looks like a tiny rain cloud, a rain cloud looming over her heart.
“Man, this is so weird,” she says, her voice so low I’m not even sure she’s talking to me at first. “I’m in another country, but I feel like I’m closer to my dad, somehow. Maybe because I’m standing somewhere he once stood.”
My hands move without me thinking about it — I take her photo again. But Serena does not react to that — she smiles at the wonder of this moment, of really walking in her parents’ footsteps, before walking up to the door, taking the stone steps two at a time. She tries the handle but finds it locked. She turns and looks at me. “It’s closed … damn it!”
“We are early,” I explain.
“But it’s after six.”
Kiss Me in Paris Page 9