Waking up one April morning in her small flat overlooking the rue Saint-Honoré, she gathered a blanket around herself and opened the shutters on the tall double windows to watch the changing light color the wet rooftops. This morning was uncharacteristically dark. After a moment, she dressed quickly, grabbing her new hat and her camera and leaving the flat quietly, careful not to wake her roommate. She loved walking in the very early mornings before the tourists were out. So quiet and still that it was easy to imagine that there were no other people in the city. She had been in Paris for three weeks.
The Tuileries were mostly empty. The sand crunched under her footsteps. The air was thick with moisture and the wind felt cold on her skin. Impossibly, dawn appeared to be losing ground, as the sky darkened. Unhurried by the weather, she walked slowly through the garden before choosing her spot on the grass beside a pathway. Standing very still, she brought the camera to her eye and scanned the softened landscape. She stood there for a long time, watching the light change within the frame of her lens, feeling the cold air brush her skin and hearing the sound of the traffic increase.
She liked the protection of the camera, which immediately defined her as observer rather than participant. People seldom approached her when she was taking photographs. She was invisible. She relished the ability to examine things up close without being detected. Alone, she savored the cool, smooth feel of the machinery in her hands and the deliberate, metallic blink of the camera.
She had been taking a lot of photographs since arriving in Paris. It was an indulgent, solitary activity that suited her. She found it to be almost a philosophical exercise, allowing her to think about how she looked at the world, to play with light and space and time. This city of sand and stone and water was so beautiful that it was very nearly overwhelming. Photography allowed her to isolate the smallest details. The intricate forms of the gilt-bronze statues on the Pont Alexandre III. The changing palette of light that laid itself across the Seine. The different textures of the sand in the Tuileries.
Passing over the more obvious beauty of the gardens on this damp, dark morning, she rested her lens on a small, hunched man who sat on a bench, his head listing toward his right shoulder. He might have been sleeping, he was so still. Only his arm and hand flickered as he reached into a crumpled paper bag by his side and scattered handfuls of its contents on the ground. She watched him through her lens, examining the creases on the paper bag and the creases on his weathered face. He seemed to take no notice of the increasing number of nervous, gray birds bubbling at his feet. When the bag was empty, he stood immediately to leave, stuffing it into his coat pocket before shuffling through the pigeons, eyes downcast. Such was his familiarity with the garden that he had become blind to it, navigating his way out solely by memory.
Camera still at her eye, she scanned farther into the park, watching the trees change color as the wind blew the leaves upward, exposing their pale undersides. Following the low line of linden trees that led to the river, her lens caught on a tall figure with wide shoulders, standing very still in the middle of a path, hands in his pockets. What little light remained was behind him, having the effect of making him appear in her lens as a dark angular tear in the fabric of the Tuileries. As she brought his face into focus, she was surprised to find that he was looking directly at her. Startled, she quickly removed the camera from her eye. At this distance, without it she could no longer see him clearly, but she could see that he continued to look in her direction. He was about her age, she guessed. The only other thing she had noticed was his black eye.
Her self-consciousness was cut short by the arrival of the rain. As she ran for cover, instinctively tucking her camera under her jacket, she noticed that the raindrops filling the air seemed to be coming not only down, but up. Big drops, like marbles, bouncing off the ground. It was only a short distance to the nearest tree, but she was wet through well before she got there.
Safely under the tree, Kat wiped the water from her face and looked out through the wall of rain at the barely visible figures clustered under the neighboring trees. Rainwater swam and pooled around her feet. The garden was transformed. What had been near was now far, as the trees became individual islands of refuge in the storm. She brought the camera to her eye to capture the curtain of rain hissing at the edge of the tree, then opened the aperture and set a faster shutter speed to freeze the different shapes of the raindrops. Falling fast, they hit the ground hard, the force of the impact sending them back up, and then, unbelievably, at the apex of their trajectory, they seemed almost to hesitate—caught between gravity and flight, between inevitability and will—before succumbing to their fate. With each click of the shutter she imagined what the image might look like. The drops, elongated as they fell to the ground and then flatter, rounder as they bounced up.
“You’re missing it.”
The voice made no apologies for interrupting her. Startled, she turned around, dropping the camera from her eye. Standing five feet behind her under her tree, slick and dark from the rain, he stared directly at her, his face matching the rough tone of his voice. In the silence that marked the absence of her reply, he continued.
“The moment. You’re missing it. If all we remember is what we feel, then all that you’ll remember is what it felt like to take a picture.”
She was so surprised to be addressed in English that it took her a moment to notice the British accent. This time he waited until she found her voice.
“I’m not missing it. I’m saving it.”
“What for?”
“To save it. Because it’s beautiful, I guess.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“What? I don’t know. Look at it. See what the camera captured. Sometimes you can’t see everything in the moment.”
The rain danced in the brief pause before his response. Under any other circumstances it would have been rude to stare at his injury, but the fact that it was at his eye made it necessary. The dark purple bruising surrounding it made his eye look even paler than it was. His face was wet with rain, which made the colors seem liquid, as if she could have wiped them away with the corner of her sleeve.
“If you look at anything long enough, you’ll see all sorts of things that you didn’t notice at first. That doesn’t make them real.”
Kat frowned and shook her head. “No, but, just because you don’t see something in the moment doesn’t mean it isn’t real. There’s always more to things than what we see.”
They were still standing about five feet apart, isolated in silence under the tree. He made no move to approach her. He wasn’t as scruffy as he had seemed from a distance. Another student, she guessed. She had a strong urge to put the camera to her eye at that moment and photograph him, but she couldn’t seem to break eye contact with him long enough to do so. His hands hung at his sides. It seemed a conscious effort for him to keep them there. His stillness was a contrast to the urgency of the rain. The silence stretched out between them.
After what must have been a long moment, he spoke again.
“You’re a photographer?”
She glanced down, momentarily surprised by the camera in her hand. “Maybe. I don’t know yet.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face.
“Is there a problem with that?”
“If you don’t know, then I doubt that you are.”
She looked down at the wet ground.
“You’re offended.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“What are you doing here?” She wasn’t sure if she meant under her tree or in Paris.
“Just looking.”
The silence that followed seemed louder than it had before, and she realized that the rain had stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Looking out from under the tree, she found that the garden had become two gardens with the reflection in the water puddled on the ground.
She turned back to him.
“I guess the moment is gone.”
He held her gaze and then shrugged.
“If you say so.”
He turned away from her and walked out from under the tree, hands tucked back into his pockets. His steps left faint traces in the thin layer of rainwater that hadn’t yet drained into the ground. Suddenly feeling the weight of her camera in her hand, she brought it to her eye, found his receding shape through the lens, and snapped one photo before lowering the camera and watching him until he was out of the garden and lost to the city streets.
And then she was alone under the tree. Rain had soaked through her clothes and found its way onto her skin and the air was cold. Her hand holding the camera was shaking. She walked home quickly, treading lightly on the new world beneath her feet.
chapter two
The party had started late, but was definitely still going when Kat had arrived. The face in front of her leaned in close. Too close. The room was very loud, but she wasn’t entirely sure that was the reason. It was becoming increasingly obvious to her that the French had different ideas about personal space than Americans had. The double cheek kissing was unnerving enough, but was it possible that three inches between faces was the norm for polite social conversation?
The flat belonged to Jean-Paul, a popular Parisian in the program who had quickly established himself as the epicenter of the social scene. With its tall shuttered windows and smooth herringbone floors, it was almost a caricature of classic Paris chic. The furniture was certainly not what would be expected in a student flat. An elegant, eclectic mix of contemporary and antique. Kat remembered her roommate, Elizabeth, telling her that Jean-Paul’s mother was an interior designer.
The face belonged to another student. It was particularly angular in that specific European way. All jutting cheekbones and chin and an aquiline nose that shone with a faint sheen clearly visible at such close proximity. Since hearing her American accent, it had regarded her with an oddly impatient hostility, as if merely waiting for her to demonstrate all that it already knew to be true about her.
A clutch of young women stood on the threshold of the dining room. Their backs to her, they seemed to be waiting for something as well. Peering between them, she could make out Jean-Paul and Christopher Hastings in conversation within the room. Christopher was tall and handsome with manners that could charm snakes. A Fulbright scholar from a prominent East Coast family, he was in Paris studying international relations. His political ambitions were already widely known.
Her companion turned and followed her gaze. Catching sight of Christopher, he pulled back from her for the first time since they had begun talking, and regarded her triumphantly.
“I think I know him,” she explained. “He’s…”
Her companion made a small dismissive noise. “A puppet,” he said dryly.
“Excuse me?”
“He is a puppet. He has no thoughts of his own.”
“You know him?”
“There is nothing to know. What can it mean? To have your life placed in your hands? To do something simply because you have the capacity to do it. Because it is expected.” He sniffed loudly, accusingly. “Do you do everything you have the capacity to do? I think you do not.”
As her companion leaned in closer, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she saw Christopher, smiling at her warmly from a suitable distance. He must have overheard the conversation, but he gave no indication.
“Katherine? I thought that was you. Chris Hastings. We met at the Brewsters’ Fourth of July party last summer.”
“Chris. Of course, I remember.”
She did not have to struggle to recall the occasion. She had a very clear image of that particular evening. It had been one of those incandescent summer nights that seemed to go on forever, when the sun itself seemed to hesitate at the edge of the horizon, waiting to see what would happen next. She could hear the crickets and taste the sea air on her lips as she moved across the lawn, feeling the heels of her shoes sinking into the soft, damp grass. She had been wearing a long backless dress with ropes of pearls down her back that brushed against her skin as she moved. She remembered the way the men had looked at her as she crossed the lawn that night. She could feel their gazes on her skin just as surely as she had felt the pearls.
As he inclined his face imperceptibly toward her, the other face melted back into the crowd. “I had no idea you were in Paris.”
As they talked, she became aware of a decidedly different type of gaze. Several of the women at the party were stealing glances at them. Kat guessed that this time it had little to do with her. Chris was witty and charming and had the singular ability to make her believe this even more when he listened to her than when he spoke. He never once mentioned his uncle who was a senator. He never once mentioned his grandfather who had been secretary of state. And it was only when she looked away that he discreetly scanned the room.
Kat listened to him talk, alternating between his English and the French that surrounded them, amused by the patchwork of conversation that her efforts yielded. She was bored. The ease with which they had slipped into conversation. The solicitous way he asked all the right questions. They discussed all the things they had in common. Life back home, life in Paris, college, acquaintances. Shared history and perspective. It was all so easy and so familiar that here in this most Parisian of Parisian places, within stone walls that had felt the breath of history for centuries, she felt Paris begin to fade. Leaving her sitting at a party, one foot halfway out of her shoe, talking about home with a companion who was half listening.
“I head back to Boston in a few months. I have a position lined up with Poole and Poole in their corporate practice. I start in September.” He took a small sip of what she had first assumed to be white wine, but now realized was water; and smiled in a way that was warm and yet clearly signaled the end of the conversation.
“But you are going to run for office?”
“That’s the plan.” He stood up.
Kat was suddenly curious and followed him up from the couch.
“Why?”
He laughed. He seemed amused and slightly surprised by the question. For the first time that evening, she felt she had his full attention.
“I mean, is it because of your family? Or is it something you want to do?”
Christopher didn’t need time to consider this. He answered immediately. “I believe in free will, so I don’t think the decision was beyond my control, but it is based on some things that are—the feeling that I can make a difference, the sense of responsibility to do so. I know that there are sacrifices.” Here his face clouded momentarily. “But it’s about having the courage of your convictions. Once you decide what it is you believe in, everything becomes very clear.”
He fell into it without thinking, she thought. The reverent tone. The rhythm of persuasion. She considered this beautiful, fully formed explanation that had sprung so effortlessly and so immediately from him.
“Is that true?”
“Mostly.”
He smiled at her. He was shaking her hand now. The final gesture in the separation pantomime. He paused momentarily and leaned forward, looking out at her from under earnest eyebrows. When he spoke his voice was softer than it had been.
“Sometimes I worry that it will never mean as much to me as it did to the people who came before me, simply because I won’t have had to sacrifice what they had to sacrifice for it.”
Here he stopped speaking suddenly and shook his head.
“I don’t know why I am telling you all this.”
“I have that kind of face.”
“You absolutely do not have that kind of face.”
* * *
KAT FINISHED THE wine in her glass. The noise level at the party was reaching dangerous heights. She had already stopped trying to translate the speed-of-light French being spoken at increasingly higher volumes around her. The wine seemed to speed up the rate of speech while simultaneously slowing down her rate of translation. Following Christopher’s d
eparture, a dour young man had positioned himself in front of her and was currently lecturing her about French politics. She nodded at regular intervals.
To their immediate left a heated argument was unfolding between a tall, lanky expat and a shorter French student with wild corkscrew curls. She was not sure what the quarrel was about, but it seemed to involve a gaunt blond girl who stood smoking nearby, apparently utterly unaffected by the disagreement. They were almost shouting by now, which might otherwise have alarmed her, but, again, she was still not clear what passed for normal in terms of social interaction in this country. None of the other guests appeared to be concerned.
Looking around the crowded room, she located Elizabeth, her blond hair swirled into a loose chignon, standing by the front door along with Jean-Paul. She didn’t know her new roommate well. They had been put in touch by mutual friends. A pretty girl from South Carolina, she possessed just the right amount of plump so as not to be perceived as threatening by other females. This was her first time out of the country and she seemed fiercely determined to get it right. In the brief time Kat had known her, Elizabeth seemed to be in a constant state of self-examination and grooming. Her hands always in motion in what looked like a singular, precisely choreographed dance of touching, smoothing, and rearranging herself.
Before Kat could make her way over to them, she was startled to see a familiar figure come through the door. He entered the flat purposefully and was immediately intercepted by their stylish French host and Elizabeth, who directed him down the hallway leading away from the main rooms. Kat leaned forward, craning her neck to watch them as Elizabeth pushed at the edges of her upswept hair with nervous fingertips. They entered a room off the hall and shut the door abruptly behind them. Luckily, her companion was now on about the Parti Socialiste, while his eyes periodically ran up and down her body, and her active participation did not seem to be essential to the conversation. She kept one eye on the door.
The Blue Bath Page 2