Maybe in Paris

by Rebecca Christiansen

  “Technicality.”

  “Way more people died at the hands of Stalin.”

  “So I’m guessing you’d save him, too.”

  “No. He was evil.”

  I roll my eyes, but seriously, what the fuck. Does my brother really sympathize with Hitler? Isn’t that illegal? Maybe I should text Mom. She’s worried before about him getting into weird shit. Nazi shit would definitely qualify.

  “You just said to pick someone to save,” he says. “You didn’t say save from their death. What if I choose to save someone from their life?”

  Nothing comes out when I open my mouth. Levi keeps going.

  “What if Hitler was accepted to art school in Vienna? What if he never joined the military or fell on hard times? What if he never had the chance to develop a hatred for Jews? What if he just quietly studied art and went on to sell paintings and just lived out the rest of his life harmlessly?”

  Holy crap, I think he might be kind of right. I run the theory through my brain and, somehow, it all makes sense. What if we could neutralize the harm in people like Hitler?

  Maybe Hitler could have a spot—if I can come to terms with the fact that the name Adolf Hitler would appear on any list containing my favorite people from history.

  “That’s very wise of you, Levi,” I tell him.

  He shrugs. “It’s just logic. Who would you save?”

  He’s probably just going to rip me apart for all my choices, but I tell him anyway.

  “Anne Boleyn, because Henry VIII was a brute. Joan of Arc, for obvious reasons. Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia Romanov.”

  “So basically every princess ever.”

  “Well, princesses were so often used as pawns. But Joan of Arc was the opposite of a princess.”

  “Wait, who was she again?”

  “The French girl who heard voices she thought were angels telling her to lead the French army against England. She was burned at the stake for heresy, but really just because she wore men’s clothes and challenged peoples’ assumptions of what a poor, illiterate girl could do.”

  “Speaking of illiterate girls, is Marie Antoinette on your list?” he sneers.

  “She was,” I say, sighing. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe in another context, she would’ve just been a silly, average girl.”

  “So she deserved to get her head chopped off via guillotine?”

  “Well, no, but … wait, you switched opinions!”

  Levi shrugs, biting his thumbnail. “Just trying to make you think.”

  I don’t know what to think. I just kind of look at him for a while as he gnaws his nails and stares out the window, and I feel something I don’t often feel for Levi: pride. My little brother is an interesting, unique person. Maybe he says weird things sometimes—weird, sorta-pro-Nazi things—but they’re weird things that come from pure intelligence.

  Even when Lego and PlayMobil were the order of the day, I had this vague worry that Levi would slip through the cracks. Levi had a pretty bad speech impediment when he was little, he always wore those rain boots and sweatpants in the summer, and he was known to switch to shorts and sandals in the snow. Now that he’s older, he lets his scraggly facial hair take over his face and refuses to replace his crooked glasses. He still doesn’t speak to strangers, and he considers everyone but Mom and me to be strangers. The world tends not to treat people like him very kindly, and even when I was young, I was afraid for him. Afraid the world would stop trying to reach him, because he refused to be reached.

  Then on this average day during junior year, I left my English class to go to the bathroom, and on my way there, I passed by an open classroom door and heard Levi’s voice. I peeked inside. It was his freshman history class and he was giving a PowerPoint presentation. His voice was loud—almost too loud, like he didn’t know how to control it. He stood there crookedly, clicking the remote to switch slides, his other arm tucked against his tummy like a wing, in that way he has. But none of that mattered. He was talking about the Bolsheviks, not even looking at his slides, no cue cards in his hand. All the facts were memorized, but the words were off the cuff. He was just speaking his mind. And his classmates were listening intently. His teacher smiled behind her hand, like this side of him was brand new to her, too.

  I grinned on my way to the bathroom. It was the first time I had felt reassurance when it came to Levi. The first time I felt that he could make it.

  I try to forget the fear and constant worry of the past two months, Dr. Pearson erasing all hope, because right now I feel it again: he’ll be okay someday.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  In the morning, Levi refuses to get out of bed. I get dressed and cross the street to our bakery. Maybe fresh bread can wake him up. And croissants, and cookies, and marzipan animals …

  I tug on the door handle but it doesn’t budge. The store is dark. The glass case that holds all the miraculously delicious things is empty.

  I glance at my phone to check the time—maybe I’m ridiculously early?—when the date jumps out at me. Sunday, August 30. Sunday.

  Everyone is Catholic and in church today.

  While I’m still standing there, probably looking desperate, the woman who runs the bakery emerges from a door behind the counter, in pajamas. She’s looking for something around the cash register when she glances up and sees me. She rushes to open the door.

  “Ma chérie, je suis désolé, we are closed!” she exclaims.

  “I know, I just realized,” I say with a laugh, my cheeks starting to burn. I must look so stupid. “We’ll have to find something else.”

  “No, there is nothing open,” she says. “Reviens! Come back in one hour. I will make your breakfast.”

  I try to protest, but she won’t take no for an answer. She bustles off, saying she must get her lazy brother on his feet and baking as soon as he opens his eyes.

  I’m as selfish as Marie Antoinette. I’m ecstatic at the prospect of freshly baked goods, made just for me, on a lazy Sunday morning. I feel horrible for disturbing them, too, but come on. Those croissants.

  I go back to the hotel and wake Levi, telling him about our luck. “Isn’t that nice of her?” I say as he yawns cavernously. “We’ll have to think of something to do for her in return.”

  “Why aren’t they open on Sundays?” he asks.

  Oh boy. He hates religion.

  “A lot of people in France are Catholic.”

  “They’re just lazy,” he scoffs. “All businesses should be open all day. Twenty-four hours, if feasible. It’s the most convenient.”

  “Not for the people who you would have work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

  “Uh, it’s called working shifts.” He frowns in irritation.

  “I’ll pass on your business advice to the entire working world, then.”

  If he hears the sarcasm in my voice, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

  We get dressed and go down to the bakery. The woman ushers us in with her big smile and shows us to our usual table.

  “Sit, sit! The croissants are ready. The rest will be ready soon.”

  “The rest?” I repeat. “You didn’t bake us the entire works, did you?”

  “Only a few things,” she says with a wave of her hand.

  She won’t let me say another word. She brings us a plate of croissants drizzled with chocolate, still steaming. Their buttery flakes call to me like the One Ring calls to Sauron.

  The owner, nothing to do since her business is not actually open, putters around the front counter at first, but ends up pulling up a chair at our table. I push the plate of croissants toward her. She smiles shyly.

  “Oh, I could not.”

  “Of course. Please, have some.”

  “Well …” She reaches for a smaller croissant. “Nico does bake the best.”

  “The best I’ve ever had,” I say, and then I realize something. “I’m sorry, I can’t believe I don’t know your names.”

  She blushes. “Je m’app
elle Margot Belliveau. My brother is Nico.”

  “Je m’appelle Keira Braidwood,” I say, holding out my hand. She shakes it. “Mon frère s’appelle Levi.”

  “C’est merveilleux de vous recontrez,” she says.

  “Et vous,” I answer. “This is the exact conversation I had on the first day of French 101. It’s uncanny.”

  She laughs and it’s like bells.

  Levi sits through all of this with a slight frown on his face as he chows down on croissants. He shoves a little too much into his mouth at a time. I really hope Margot doesn’t notice.

  “Il parle français?” she asks me, indicating Levi.

  I shake my head and whisper, “He barely speaks English when it comes to strangers.”

  She chuckles. “Nico is almost the same. In fact … Nico?”

  I decide that I love that name, especially the way she says it: not NEE-co, but ni-CO. Somehow it makes a world of difference.

  “Oui?” Nico emerges from the kitchen wearing a purple button-down and gray pants dusted with flour. Not his usual baking clothes, I’d imagine. He has his sister’s glowing cheeks perched on high cheekbones, and his eyes show signs of early crow’s feet; he’s definitely a smiler, too. Just not in uncertain company.

  “Voici Keira et Levi Braidwood,” Margot says.

  He nods. “Salut.”

  “Bonjour,” I say. Levi says nothing.

  “Merci pour … uh … all this,” I gesticulate around the croissants. “Merci beaucoup.”

  “De rien.” It’s nothing. Nico smiles shyly. “Les biscuits suivent.”

  Cookies are next. My mouth waters all over again.

  “What are you two doing today?” Margot asks. “A beautiful Sunday. So many choices.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, looking at Levi. “We went to Versailles yesterday.”

  “Ahh, magnifique,” she says. “You enjoyed it?”

  It seems too heavy to say I had an existential crisis at Versailles. So I just nod and say it was beautiful.

  “You must go to the Tour Eiffel today,” Margot says simply. “The day is perfect for that.”

  Yes.

  “What do you think?” I ask Levi. “Eiffel Tower?”

  Chewing on one of the hot cookies Nico just brought out, Levi nods. “Have to finish these first,” he says, stuffing another one into his mouth.

  I turn to Margot. This is my chance to maybe do something for them. “Would you like to come with us? I mean, I’m sure you’ve seen the Eiffel Tower thousands of times, but … my treat, as a thank-you for breakfast?”

  “Oh!” Margot flaps her hands. “Oh, I could not. Your money!”

  “Please?” I beg. “I mean, I understand if you have somewhere to go or something. But if you don’t, and Nico doesn’t, we’d love for you to come.”

  She considers it for a moment and looks back at the kitchen.

  “Nico?”

  “Oui?”

  “Tour Eiffel?”

  He pokes his head out and looks at her quizzically. “Toi?” he asks. You?

  “Et toi,” she adds. And you.

  He ducks back into the kitchen and calls, “I will get my coat.”

  Sunday may be dead in the 13e arrondissement, but the Eiffel Tower, in the 1ière arrondissement, is teeming with life. The long grassy park leading to the tower, the Champs de Mars, is full of tourists enjoying the sunlight and taking photos of them pretending to lean against the tower. Voices giggle and shout in Japanese, Spanish, Hindi, Russian—every language I could name and many I couldn’t if I tried.

  The Eiffel Tower has been a far-off watcher and reminder, but now it’s so in-your-face we couldn’t ignore it if we wanted to.

  “Same height as an eighty-one story building, you know,” Nico tells us.

  “That seems impossible,” I say, laughing.

  “Of course it’s not, moron,” Levi murmurs beside me.

  I swat at his arm. He flaps his hand back at me.

  Margot points at the camera around my neck as we stroll down the Champs de Mars. “I can take a photo of you two, if you wish?”

  I hand Margot the camera. I only have a handful of half-hearted pictures. This trip is going to end sooner rather than later, and I know I’m going to regret not having photographic evidence.

  Margot arranges Levi and I with a few feet between us and shoots from a cross-legged position on the ground. She snaps the pictures and grins.

  “You both are giants.”

  I look at the picture on the little display. It’s a bad angle for me; I have about three extra chins. I sure look happy, though, pretending to lean against the Eiffel Tower. Levi’s hand is out like he’s poking it, like a total goof, but his face is impassive. I laugh.

  “Mom would love this picture,” I say, showing him. “We should take more, really silly ones.”

  Levi grunts. I look around for a photo op.

  “There! Go stand by those pigeons.” Levi does, dragging his feet along the pavement. “Now do something funny.”

  “What do you mean, do something funny?” he grumbles. He waves his arms in the air, making a face. “Like this?”

  I snap the picture, and when I turn the camera around, I start laughing like a madwoman. Levi stands in a crowd of pigeons, arms thrown wildly over his head. His eyes are crossed and his tongue sticks out.

  “This is the best you’ve ever looked in a picture,” I tell him. When he sees it, he grunts, but that’s it.

  We continue on to the tower. The square it stands on is Tokyo-subway-level crowded. Here, you can only see the top of the tower if you look up, way up, so far you have to bend backward. You never see it in pictures, but huge swaths of netting stretch from each of the tower’s four legs to catch any suicidal jumpers. Good thing, too—the ground teems with tourists. Imagining a jumper going ker-splat in the middle of all that chaos is pretty brutal. I almost open my mouth to say this to Levi, but then I remember being woken in the middle of the night. Ambulances. Levi kept prisoner for two months.

  My heart squeezes tight. I can’t think about that, not now, when I’m about to ascend the equivalent of eighty-one stories.

  “We take the elevator, right?” Margot asks, pointing to two lines, one to buy tickets for the elevator, one to buy tickets to walk up.

  I always had this romantic vision of myself climbing each step on the Eiffel Tower. It seemed a more authentic, pure experience. But now all I can think is nope, nope, nope. It is way higher than I’d pictured in my head. Even the first level is squint-to-see-details high.

  “Elevator,” I say definitively.

  Margot looks relieved.

  It takes a long time to get onto the elevator. I expect Levi to complain and fidget and whine, but he stays remarkably quiet. I worry that this is just a sign of an impending implosion, but when I try to get him to talk—“Look at that dog! That guy’s hair is funny. Ooh, look, a mime!”—he responds pretty well. By “pretty well,” I mean that his grunts slant up instead of down.

  I take a bunch more pictures of us making faces, sticking our tongues so close to metal poles and rope dividers that it looks like we’re licking them, and then I take a series of photos I have titled “Levi Coughing in Various Locales.” I tell him to go over to a tree and cough under it. Cough next to the mammoth leg of the Eiffel Tower. Cough against a background of tourists crowding together making peace signs. In every picture, Levi is just standing there, face all scrunched up, a fist in front of his mouth. For some reason, it’s hilarious. I laugh like I did that time in Walmart with the romance novels.

  We finally get into the elevator. They pack it pretty tight, but I make sure Levi has plenty of space near the window. He tilts his head to examine the massive cables the elevator slides along.

  “Huh,” he says. “The elevator goes up diagonally. Makes sense, I guess. Since the legs are slanted.”

  I get a wibbly-wobbly feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it gets worse when the elevator starts to move. It’s smoot
h and safe-feeling, but the angle freaks me out. We are moving diagonally, higher and higher, but also sideways. The combination of directions makes me woozy. I close my eyes and grip the handlebar under the window until the elevator comes to a stop. I open my eyes and pretend I’m still on ground level as we exit.

  And it almost feels like we are still on ground level, if the wind at ground level had ripped at our clothes and whistled this angrily. If the view from ground level stood way, way above the treetops and you could see the Montparnasse Tower in the distance, the only thing anywhere near as tall as the Eiffel Tower.

  So, not ground level at all, basically.

  We’re on solid ground, though, and far away from any railings. The crowds are still enormous, with people bustling to and from the gift shop and the—wait.

  “Is there a restaurant on the Eiffel Tower?” I ask Margot, pointing in the direction of a doorway where a hostess stands, smiling at a group approaching.

  “There are two,” she says, laughing.

  Somehow I missed that in all my research. The tower is like its own island, self-sustaining. You could stay on it forever.

  “You need months in advance for the reservation,” Nico says. “But I hear the food is very good.”

  I don’t think I could eat this high up if I tried. Levi, however, is fine. Hands in his hoodie pocket, just looking around.

  “Let’s go to the second level now,” he says after we wander for a few minutes.

  “You don’t want to go to the gift shop? No Eiffel Tower keychains for you?”

  “There’re guys selling them on the ground.”

  “We should get some for Mom and Josh and everyone back home.”

  He nods. “Let’s buy them on the ground, though. You should only make purchases on the ground.”

  I can’t figure out if this is one of his weird logical hang-ups, or if he’s using some made-up metaphor for not making purchases with your head in the clouds.

  “Okay, Levi,” I say, patting his arm.

  We find the elevator to take us to the second floor. I can’t imagine, now, walking up the stairs to this point, attaining this insane height slowly, slowly, slowly, your legs aching after carrying you up 1,700 steps, higher than any building in the city center of Paris. It’s better—less scary, more sane and rational—to take the elevator. Pure, authentic experience or not.