“Merci,” he says. “She began to cry and to be angry, because she saw we had looked into her sac à dos.”
“Backpack.”
“Ah bon. And then I ask to myself, ‘What about Aimée?’” He squeezes my arm. “I recall that when Sophie is unhappy, she stays unhappy for many hours. So I give her the pill, et me voilà.” And here I am.
I can’t help but feel a flush of victory. Sophie is back at the apartment, dead to the world. William is shut up in his hotel room on his conference call, happy to be in a situation where he’s clearly the one holding the reins. Manu is here with me.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For letting me stay at your place.”
“It is nothing. It is my pleasure.”
“Well, I really, really appreciate it.”
We arrive at his building, where I relax the instant we step into the courtyard. Here no one can find me. Here Catherine and I will be safe. Sheltered.
“Aimée, tell me now.” We are trudging up the stairs—Manu lives on the sixth floor, no elevator. “Tell me why you are so troublée.”
I wait until we reach his door before answering. Then, gasping to catch my breath, I announce my momentous news. “William. He’s here. In Paris.”
Manu peers into my eyes before turning away and inserting his key into the lock.
“He wants me back,” I add.
I don’t know this for sure. But seeing Sophie wrapped in Manu’s arms today has made me want to have someone’s arms wrapped around me.
Yes, this sounds desperate. But I’ve had a long dry spell, hug-wise and romance-wise. Paris is supposed to be the city of love—but for me, not at all. I’ve been on a different track.
When I enter the apartment, I kick off my wet shoes, shrug out of my ratty coat, and pad across the room to stare out one of the two tall windows overlooking the courtyard. Margaret would be pleased to see that the African violet she gave Manu earlier this summer now has five blossoms. I want to ask him how he can get a plant to flower in such low-light conditions. I want to offer to make us a pot of coffee. I want to suggest that he try coiling up his millions of computer cables and stowing them out of sight.
Stupid, casual, unimportant things—that’s what I want to be talking about.
Instead I return to the fateful topic at hand. “William? You know, my husband?”
Manu takes off his jacket and hangs it up. “Oui. I know.” His voice is barely audible.
“Well, I saw him on the street when I was on my way home from the bakery, completely by chance. He was actually checking in to my old hotel!” I plop down on the clic-clac and pick up an orange-and-white-patterned pillow to cradle in my lap. “He’s texted a few times since then. He wants to talk to me.”
Manu perches on a barstool, his face smooth and expressionless. “When did he arrive?”
“Late yesterday afternoon.” Just about twenty-four hours ago. Seems longer. I hug the orange and white pillow, wishing it could hug me back.
“Did he call first to say he comes?”
“No. He showed up with no warning whatsoever.” I chuck the pillow to the side, peeved by Manu’s composure. How annoying that he doesn’t seem the least bit surprised by my announcement. I suppose he guessed something important was happening during the birthday dinner last night, when I kept checking my phone. It would explain why this morning, when I failed to appear for the lunch deliveries, he didn’t contact me right away. He went ahead and did all the work himself, then checked in with me later. It would be like him.
“Do you answer his texts?”
“Have I answered them, you mean?” I am oddly enraged by Manu’s subdued reaction. Or maybe I just feel guilty about flaking out on the lunchtime deliveries. “Yes. I have. He put me off. Says he’s busy.”
Manu tugs at the corner of his eye with the tip of his right index finger. In the rich vocabulary of French hand gestures, which is a language unto itself, this means he doubts my veracity.
Or perhaps he’s doubting William’s veracity. Either way, I shake my head. “Seriously! First, he seemed impatient to see me. That was yesterday. Today he’s had some work emergencies, so he says he can’t meet up until tomorrow.” William has not yet specifically stated he wants to meet up. I’m just assuming it.
Manu nods. “Alors. What can I do to aid you?”
I lean down to retrieve the pillow from the floor and to hide the fact that my lower lip is quivering. Manu is not criticizing me for failing to handle this better, as I suspect many people would. He simply asks what he can do to help.
“Thanks for offering, Manu. I mean it. But, really, there isn’t anything you can do. It’s my issue. I have to deal with it.”
For a moment neither of us says anything. We both know this development likely means I’ll be returning to Phoenix soon. Manu has been my biggest supporter when it comes to staying in Paris—he and Margaret will discuss for hours how I could manage to apply for a residency visa without getting in trouble for staying past the legal ninety days tourists are allowed in France. But all along I’ve been skeptical. People from Phoenix, Arizona, don’t generally end up living in Paris, France. At least no one I’ve ever known has. It’s too offbeat.
I’m thinking how great it would feel right now to curl up on the clic-clac and close my eyes, just for ten minutes, when Manu stands up. “And you will. Deal with it. N’est-ce pas?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” I’ll not only deal with it, I’ll do the right thing. Catherine deserves no less.
He grins at me. “And now, Aimée, I am sorry, but I must depart, to check on Margaret.”
I leap to my feet, which is not so easy anymore as the clic-clac is low and Catherine keeps me earthbound, if not grounded. “Will you call me? Later?”
He moves around the room, locating things. “Here are clean towels for the bath. Here is a key. Here is a pillow and blanket. Do not worry. Sleep well. Je t’appellerai demain.” I will call you tomorrow.
Before I can think of anything to say that will delay his departure, even for five seconds, Manu is gone.
The silence he leaves in his place drops around me like a cloak. You might think of Paris as a big noisy metropolitan city, and it is. But what you may not know is that within Paris there exist places as hushed and tranquil as the remotest countryside. Manu’s studio is one of these. It’s even more serene than Margaret’s far-grander three-bedroom apartment, which faces the street and gets traffic noise.
I yawn, stretch, and eye my carry-on still standing by the door where Manu left it. It’s been days since I’ve updated Fun French Food. That’s my blog. I don’t have many followers yet, but it’s been huge fun adapting French recipes into dishes I think Americans would like—dishes that are both easy and authentically French. Someday I’d love to do a whole cookbook. I should check to see if Sophie put in my laptop, though I don’t particularly feel like blogging. My belly is finally full, and I feel like sleeping.
But then I remember the money belt. When I arrived in Paris last April, I carried nearly three thousand dollars in cash with me. It’s my stash. It’s what keeps me from being completely vulnerable to William. It means I’m not a penniless waif he needs to rescue. Or rule.
Which is why I’ve spent very little of it, keeping it in my money belt buried in my underwear in the bottom drawer of the armoire in my room. The room that Sophie is now occupying.
My stomach flipping and flopping like a trout, I lunge for the carry-on, unzip it, and dig through the contents.
The computer is here. Some clothes and shoes. But no toiletries. No underwear or socks. And no money belt.
The missing underwear, however, could mean that Sophie never opened the bottom drawer of the armoire and therefore never saw the money belt. To be on the safe side, I fire off a quick text to Manu:
Manu, remember I keep my money belt in the armoire in my room! Bottom drawer. I don’t want Sophie to find it!
His answer is prompt:
&nbs
p; Do not worry. Sophie sleeps. I guard all.
I thank him, then power down my phone to save on battery (naturally, Sophie did not pack my charger) and head for the bathroom. Before I do anything else tomorrow morning, before texting or calling William or even eating, I need to go over to Margaret’s and rescue my money. At the same time, I can retrieve the rest of my clothes because, oddly, the only clothes Sophie packed are the ones I brought with me when I first came to Paris—pre-pregnancy jeans that don’t button anymore and form-fitting tops no longer roomy enough to accommodate my expanding girth. My small precious collection of maternity items, found on sale or at flea markets, is entirely absent. Meanwhile, I stand for a while under a hot shower, reminding myself for the zillionth time that I don’t need to worry about money.
At least not in the short term. I’m in better financial shape than most thirty-year-olds. In addition to the three grand in my money belt, I have savings in the bank back in Phoenix, plus a car, plus half the equity in our house. I have no college debt because Dad’s life insurance policy paid for my degree. “You’re such a miser,” Kat said once. “Will-boy probably married you for your money.”
That’s not true. And I’m not rich—I was the first one in my family to go to college. But I know William was impressed when he got a look at my trim finances. It’s the sort of thing that’s important to him. And, I guess, to me.
Showered and wearing one of Manu’s clean T-shirts, I spend a good ten minutes struggling to transform the futon into a bed. Apparently, you need to be French to operate a clic-clac. Or at least in a less exhausted state. Finally, I give up, settle myself into the crook between the seat and back, and arrange the cotton blanket so my feet are tucked in.
I close my eyes and inhale the clean soapy fragrance of Manu’s shirt. It’s soothing and makes me think of him and our time together. No. I shouldn’t be going there, shouldn’t set myself up for more confusion in my life. I roll uncomfortably onto my other side and thoughts of Sophie fill my mind. Manu must have wondered what was behind Sophie’s less-than-factory-fresh condition. Actually, it kind of backs up her kidnapping claim. From what I know of hostages, they typically do not have access to bathing facilities.
Boy, I can’t wait to hear the rest of that story.
nine
I sleep for twelve hours, waking from time to time to listen to the sound of raindrops tapping the windowpanes. It’s the best lullaby in the world. If you’d been born and raised in Phoenix, Arizona, you’d love the sound of rain too. You’d appreciate it for the gift it is.
In the morning I hop up from the futon, pull on the same clothes from yesterday, power up my phone, and wait. William has been in Paris for nearly forty hours. You’d think he’d want to do what he came here for. Whatever that is.
But—once again—I get nada. No texts, no voicemails. No emails either. From anybody.
Well, at least nothing crazy happened during the night. I can rescue my money belt, talk to Margaret for a bit to be sure she’s all right, and—without fail—be back here at eleven sharp to join Manu for the lunch deliveries. Yesterday was so over-dramatic and out of control. It stands to reason that today things will be more normal.
First, however, I type out a pleasant, neutral-sounding text:
Will. Hey. Good morning. I’m assuming you’re still asleep. Jetlag! I get it. Take your time. I have stuff to do this morning but can meet this afternoon. Coffee? Around three? Let me know.
There. Friendly, prompt, and informative. Just the sort of communication style William prefers.
I’m rounding up my shoes and socks when my phone rings, slicing through the silence of the room like a cleaver through a melon.
Damn. William may be up after all. He’s a seasoned traveler and could’ve already beat jetlag. Nevertheless, as I reach for my phone I pray that it’s Manu, calling to say bonjour, or Margaret, calling to say oh-my-darling-girl-please-come-home.
It’s none of the above. It’s Hervé.
“Bonjour, ma chère.”
“Bonjour.” Hervé is the last person I feel like talking to, but I don’t want to be rude.
He says nothing, probably remembering the last time we spoke, the night of my birthday, when he quizzed me about Margaret’s assets and I got so mad.
“What’s up?” I finally ask.
He fake-coughs. “I call you with a surprise. Do not go to work today. Tell your associate you must have the time free. I insist, dear Amy!”
I sigh. “Hervé. You know that can’t happen. I have to go to work today.”
But he carries on as if I haven’t even spoken. “I will come to look for you chez Margaret in thirty minutes. Wear the red Christian Dior.” Hervé’s a little like a kindergarten teacher in that his suggestions manage to sound super fun and non-optional at the same time. “Ciao, ma belle.”
“What? No, wait! I’m not at Margaret’s. Hervé!”
Too late. He ends the call and doesn’t pick up when I dial him right back. Of course not. He knows what I’m going to say, and he doesn’t want to hear it. The thing to remember about Hervé is that it’s always about Hervé.
I pad over to one of the windows and consider my options. It might be good to briefly meet up with him. After all, it would be wise to arrange a roof over my head for tonight before meeting up with William because I don’t see myself, no matter what is said between us this afternoon, spending the night with him tonight at his hotel. It would be too soon. And I feel guilty taking over Manu’s studio two nights in a row. Hervé’s place might be the perfect solution.
It sounds like a plan, but still I linger at the window. Outside, the sun is peeking through the clouds. Inside, Manu’s African violet has produced a new periwinkle blossom overnight. My mother used to grow African violets, a whole row of them lined up on a glass shelf in the kitchen. She was particular about keeping them only in an east-facing window and never getting water on the leaves. But they all died after she died because neither Dad nor I could ever get the hang of caring for them. Yet to this day I love African violets. They remind me of what it was like to have parents.
Catherine stirs. Oui, mademoiselle. I know. Time for us to get going.
Needless to say, I can’t wear the Christian Dior tunic. Sophie didn’t pack it. Hervé will be annoyed because he gave it to me just last week. Well, not “gave,” exactly. He was lending this item to me, he said, because I should have something nice to wear when we go out. When I asked how he happened to possess a piece of women’s clothing he smiled his feline smile and purred, “Ah, but that is my secret.”
He cracks me up. Margaret and I have a ton of fun puzzling over his many mysteries.
Had a ton of fun. Damn Sophie. Everything’s changing now. Plus, I haven’t had the chance to wear that tunic even once.
I’m pulling on my socks from yesterday when I notice they both have huge holes in the heels. Great. Well, I’ll have to wear them anyway. The rain has stopped, but the day remains cloudy. It looks too cold to go out with bare ankles.
Unless. They’ll still be there.
Conscious of the need to hurry, I lay the carry-on across my knees, work my hand under the lining, and grope around until I locate what I’m looking for, a worn plastic baggie. Inside is a pair of thin white nylon ankle socks. I press them to my cheek. My mother has been dead for twenty-two years, so it has to be my imagination that I think they still smell like her—lavender mixed with Ivory soap. When I pull them on, I feel a little silly wearing white socks with black shoes, black yoga pants, and a black coat. But my ankles will be warm. And the socks make me happy.
Like most things, they’re connected to Kat. “Hey,” she said. We were clearing out my parents’ personal effects. “You complained about being cold. Put these on.”
I reached out to catch the pair of balled-up white socks she pitched across the room to me. “No way.”
“Well, then, don’t moan to me about your icy feet.” It was December and chilly, which in Phoenix means the low
sixties. She headed for the windowsill. “What about these ceramic pigs? You wanna to keep one as a souvenir?”
“Gack, no.” I chucked the socks into a bag marked Goodwill.
I was eighteen, and it had taken me until midway through my first year of college to tackle this job. Dad had passed away nine months earlier, and I’d been living alone in a house completely unchanged since my mother’s death ten years before. Her clothes were still hanging in the closet she’d shared with my father, and her collection of ceramic piglets still lined every windowsill in the house. Dad insisted on keeping everything exactly the way it had been on the day my mother died with no warning from a massive stroke.
“Yow!” I’d stepped on a box cutter. Bright red blood welled up between my toes, and I was hopping up and down on one foot.
“Medic!” Kat yelled.
Kat was one of those unflappable people you like to have around in a crisis. She helped me to the bathroom, where she washed the cut, doused it with hydrogen peroxide, and bandaged it with tape and gauze. “Here, put these on.” She had retrieved the discarded pair of my mother’s socks. “Shoes too.”
I obeyed.
“Look,” I said a minute later.
“What? You bleeding again?”
“No, I’ve just realized something. My feet look exactly like my mother’s. Same size. Same shape. I didn’t think I physically resembled her at all.” I held up my non-injured foot and wriggled my white-nylon-clad toes. “Is it possible to inherit feet?”
“Why not?” Kat asked. “Besides, they are very cute feet. You never told me your mother was cute.”
Maybe because I didn’t think of her as cute. I never got to really know my mother. Sometimes she seemed like the distant aunt you see only on holidays but are expected to kiss even though she makes you feel unworthy. Sometimes she called me mija, and baked my favorite cookies, and sewed tiny elegant clothes for all my dolls, and did my math homework for me after I went to bed.
The point is I kept the socks. They are the only things I still own that belonged to my mother. I tell myself she would like it that I brought them with me all the way to Paris. She might have even found it funny.
Paris Ever After: A Novel Page 9