Shimmers of Pearl (The Pearl Trilogy, Part 3)

by Richmonde, Arianne

  “For what?”

  “For causing a revolution in my heart.”

  “To have a sexy Frenchman telling me things like that in Paris, itself, is almost sinful.”

  “I can shut up if you like.” He winks at me and a little tremor capsizes my insides. I think of my baby and wonder if he (or she) can feel what I feel; the thrill of absolute love.

  I squeeze his hand, glove on glove. “Don’t you dare. I want to hear sweet talk for the rest of my life.”

  Alexandre suddenly envelops his arms about my hips and lifts me into the air, the way my father sometimes did when I was a child. I wrap my legs about him and we kiss. When he sets me down he says, “It feels good, doesn’t it, baby, knowing we’re getting married? Knowing we share each other’s secrets? I’ve carried such a burden all these years. What my mother did, my abusive past. Now Laura. Thank God it’s all out in the open, finally.”

  I reply, “I know. What a relief.”

  As unexpected as the lift was, Alexandre’s cell rings. It makes us both jump. He fishes it out of his coat pocket, looks at it and connects the call. “Hi Daisy, where are you all? We’re kind of slowly making our way to Notre Dame – very slowly, walking and talking about charming things like decapitated rolling heads and…” He pauses to listen. “You’ve done all that already? Jesus! Alright, we’ll meet for ice cream. We probably won’t have one as we’re on our way to lunch – well Pearl should, ice-cream is good for her but…perfect. See you there in an hour and a half.” He looks at me. “I know it’s winter but this ice cream place is very famous.” Just as he’s putting his phone back in his pocket, it rings again. “Daisy?” But his smile quickly vanishes - a dusky cloud sweeps across his face.

  “Who is it?” I mouth, fearing I already know the answer.

  Alexandre’s lips twitch with a mixture of sadness and anger. “Look, Laura, just calm down.” He says nothing, just rolls his eyes. I can hear her screaming through the line, although what she’s saying isn’t clear. “I can’t alright, I have commitments,” he says through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched.

  I look up at him expectantly, terrified Laura’s going to steal him from me – steal our happiness away like the thief she is.

  “I told you, I can’t fucking well come right now. I have a meeting, I have—” he bites his lip, closes his lids and lets out a menaced groan. She has obviously slammed the receiver down on him. When he opens his eyes again, the green of his irises shine like wet moss. He shoots me an apologetic glance and says, “If I don’t go now, she’s going to do something crazy. She’s going nuts.”

  “What about lunch with your mother?”

  “You’ll have to go on ahead without me.”

  “No way, Alexandre. No. I want to meet your mom with you there.”

  “Okay, I understand. Well, we’ll just have to postpone it, then, and go when I return.”

  “When will you be back?”

  He rakes his hands furiously through his hair. “As soon as I fucking can. Jesus, this bitch is ruining our lives - I could fucking kill her!”

  “You mean, you’re going to just leave, right now?”

  “I have no choice. You could come with me if you like.”

  “Somehow, I think that might make things worse.”

  “You’re right. If I can get back late tonight, I will. If not, I’ll be back tomorrow by midday. I need to sort this shit out, once and for all.”

  “What are you going to say? Tell her you’ll go ahead with the IVF?”

  He shakes his head solemnly. “I just don’t know.”

  “Are you going to the airport, right now?”

  “That, or the train, which actually might be faster; it’s so quick these days - just over two hours. I need to go back to the hotel to get my passport first, just in case I do end up flying. You can get some rest.”

  “If you’re not going to be hanging out at the hotel with me, there’s no point. I’ll carry on with my walk and meet Daisy, as arranged.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m a big girl. This is Paris not South Central L.A.”

  “Well, if you’re sure. You can’t go wrong and you’ve got your map.” He points left. “Go through the park, Le Jardin des Tuileries – you’ll hit the Louvre – then head across one of the bridges to Isle St-Louis. The ice cream place is famous, it’s called Berthillon Glacier. The little island next to it, Ile de la Cité, is right where Notre Dame is. Here, take this.” He stuffs a massive wad of Euro notes in my hand and a credit card. “My code is 1492 – Fourteen ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. You can withdraw as much cash as you need or punch in that code when you buy things. Treat yourself to whatever you want; go on a spree.”

  “Don’t be silly, Alexandre, I have money.”

  He widens his eyes as if to say, ‘don’t argue’ and holds me tight against his chest. “I love you, Pearl. Have fun today. Don’t exhaust yourself. Just jump in a cab if you get tired. I’ll call you at the hotel later.”

  “I don’t have a cell phone, remember.”

  “I know. But you can call me any time from the hotel and I think you should stay in tonight anyway, and take it easy.”

  “I will, I’ll order room service. I mean, hello, how much punishment is it to slob out in one of the most beautiful hotels in the world?”

  “Get Daisy and Amy over – they can spend the night; we might as well make use of that big suite.”

  “Good idea.” I look square into his eyes which are flickering with fear. I have never seen him look that way. Ever. “I love you, Alexandre. Good luck with ‘you know who.’ I’ll support whatever you decide.”

  “Thanks. I needed to hear that. Although, what that decision will be, I haven’t the faintest fucking idea.” He gives me a weak smile then hugs me again. We kiss but the kiss isn’t romantic. How can it be with Laura as good as standing, right there, between us? He turns on his heel to go and we both look back several times, hardly bearing to let go of each other, even for one second, let alone the whole night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Laura is infiltrating my mind, polluting the beauty I see about me like toxic waste in a meadow. Ten minutes ago, the world was awash with perfection but sank instantly with one jarring phone call.

  The Tuileries Gardens are bleak in winter yet breathtakingly beautiful, but I walk along with misty eyes, wishing that Alexandre hadn’t been snatched away from me and wondering how in the world he’s going to extricate himself from Laura’s tangled web. Is it possible that he can convince her to drop this madness? I doubt it. I can’t see a way out of this. One thing I have learned about him is his fierce loyalty to his loved ones – he won’t let his mother down, of that I’m sure. He feels responsible – had he not gotten involved, those stupid, hip bits and teeth remnants would still be hidden in her attic. It’s true; in a sense it is his fault that Laura got her bony hands on it all. But poor man, how could he have envisioned what could have ensued? How could anybody have imagined? Not even the script writers for CSI could come up with such an insane scenario.

  The only good thing about having my eyes on the ground, as I scurry along through the park (to avoid people’s stares – I’m crying shamelessly now) – is that I miss stepping in some dog poop right in my path. Yes, I’d heard Paris was famous for that. Just like Laura, it is unexpected; a blight on perfection. The gardens have an air of formality with flower beds set out in a pattern; gravel paths lined with rows of trees, so the dog shit seems incongruous here where everything is in such order. A mess left to be picked up by some innocent bystander, or for someone to tread in and have smeared all over their shoe. I think of Laura again – it is as if the dog shit is a symbol of everything that has gone wrong.

  I sit down on a stone bench to pull myself together and get my breath back. Not from the walk, but the torrent of emotions churning around my body, draining me of oxygen. I want my baby to feel serene and peaceful inside me, not all riled up and bubbling with rage. Surely t
hey can feel everything?

  I raise my head up to the sky as a cloud lifts with the breeze and the blue is once again revealed. A warm sun is welcome with the biting chill and I let it caress my cold cheeks. That feels so good. I think of our baby, again, and take my iPod out of my Birkin and go through my playlist until I find what I’m looking for – Here Comes the Sun by George Harrison. I mustn’t dwell on Laura. Just a couple of months ago, I thought I had lost Alexandre for good but our bond is stronger than ever. I have him and his baby and that’s what counts, no matter what happens with this IVF threat. Alexandre loves me, not Laura. That is what I am holding onto right now. And I need to trust him to make the right decision.

  “This song’s for you, little baby,” I tell my belly, smoothing my gloved hand over myself. And it’s true; the being inside me is the sun. Maybe even the ‘son.’ I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, I am just grateful, and pray that I’ll make it to the first trimester, and there won’t be any complications with the birth and that he, or she, will be healthy.

  The song has lifted my spirits and I continue walking. I’m feeling positive and hopeful. If Alexandre can manage all the thousands of people who work for him in his multi-billion dollar empire, surely he can handle Laura. I have faith. It will work out.

  As I wander through the park, I have the sensation that I’m meandering through an open-air museum, and I’m glad for the distraction. There are classical marble sculptures dotted everywhere – characters from Greek myths and some modern ones, too. A few people are sitting on metal garden chairs placed along the paths or about the octagonal pond. It seems that it is forbidden to sit on the grass in this park, even in summer. I watch water spurt out of the pond’s fountain but my gaze gets distracted by a huge Ferris wheel in the distance with the Louvre in the background.

  As I approach, I soak up the pure majesty of the Louvre set like a horseshoe in an expansive courtyard – the space in front giving the facade the added grandeur it merits. The modern glass pyramid (that caused such a stir when it was first erected) seems like a rebellious teenager in contrast to the classical Renaissance of the Louvre - probably the most famous museum in the world, once a royal palace. The vast glass and metal pyramid is surrounded by three smaller ones. Being able to see through the pyramid is interesting because it doesn’t block out the honey-colored stone of the old Louvre behind. But if I tilt my head, the reflection of clouds gives it a different feel. Do I like the Pyramid? I’m still not sure. There’s no doubt in my mind that it’s interesting and probably something that needs a lot of mulling over. I could stand here and pontificate all day long.

  But I can’t, and there’s no chance of a visit or I’ll be late meeting Daisy. So I continue on my merry way, still humming Here Comes the Sun and blanking out my thoughts from any word beginning with L.

  I come across a little pedestrian bridge with wooden decking which I realize is the famous Pont des Arts. All over the sides are little padlocks clipped to the railings – ‘lovelocks’ with names of lovers written or engraved on each one. One even says ‘Bonnie and Clyde.’ Another rusted one, has a pink lipstick mark with scratched-on hearts and the initials B and P at each end. Everlasting, locked love, left in Paris. I wonder how many of these couples are still together. As I am reading some of the messages, a man in a black wool hat tells me, “Zee Pont des Arts used to be one of my favorite bridges, now I can’t stand to see it. I bet zaire is some jerk selling padlocks near ze bridge, with little hearts on them. He should be shot.”

  I turn around, surprised that he’s talking to me in English. How does he know I’m not French? Do I look so obviously like a tourist? But then I realize I still have the map in my hand. “Oh, you don’t like the padlocks?” I ask. “You don’t think it’s romantic?”

  “Ze Pont des Arts used to be a beautiful, delicate bridge, now it looks like it’s covered wiz some kind of metallic disease in zis mindless graffiti rusting on ze padlocks. Zis and ze dog crap everywhere.” He gesticulates with his arms in the air and blows out air through his lips.

  “Yes, I noticed the dog poop,” I reply, and Laura shoots into my mind again. “Well bye, have a nice day. Au revoir,” I say, and scurry off in the direction of Notre Dame.

  I swing my Reverso watch around to Parisian time and see that I won’t have a chance to go inside Notre Dame, itself, or I’ll be late for Daisy and her gang. The cathedral looks majestic in its Gothic glory, commanding the ancient Île de la Cité with its flying buttresses and extraordinary gargoyles. It’s both a chilling and comforting thought to know that heads once rolled in Paris, yet this great stone building still remains through all that turmoil – more real to us than what was once flesh and blood – people that are now no more than words in a history book.

  I know I’ll need time to explore Notre Dame to do it justice. I shouldn’t be worried – I am marrying a Frenchman, for Pete’s sake - Paris isn’t going anywhere fast, so I shouldn’t feel I need to do a whirlwind sightseeing trip all in one day. Chill out, Pearl. Take your time.

  I pass a man playing Edith Piaff’s Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien on an accordion, and I think back to the conversation I had with Alexandre in L.A. about regrets, life and external forces. The evidence he didn’t destroy – that’s sure to be one of his regrets.

  The smell of something deliciously sweet wafts before me, and when I turn the corner, there is a wheeled cart with a knobbly-faced old man selling honeyed almonds. I buy a little bag – the last thing I want is ice-cream right now; it’s simply too cold. Honeyed almonds are far more tempting.

  When I arrive at the ice cream parlor, I see the posse of exhausted twelve year-olds licking their cones with great concentration. Daisy is in a heated discussion with Mary, one of the teachers, and Amy is looking up adoringly at the eldest child in the group; a girl named Vanessa.

  “Daisy!” I shout. Amy rushes over and flings her little arms about my legs.

  “Auntie Pearl!” I have been promoted to ‘auntie’ since Christmas.

  “Hi guys, hi Mary, hi Susan – hey girls have you been having fun?” I ask the small crowd. They all start shouting at once, squealing about their adventures and discussing which of the outings has been their favorite, so far.

  We chat about how beautiful Paris is, and they relay their activities which have been non-stop since dawn. A bus ride, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame – I’m exhausted just listening to it.

  Then Daisy mouths to me silently, “Take me away from this, Pearl, I’m wiped out!”

  I laugh and whisper, “Do you want to come and hang out in the lap of luxury?”

  “Yes, I bloody well do! But just us, not the whole lot ‘cause they’re too wild and excitable.” She turns to Susan and says, “Would you mind if Amy and I go off with Pearl for the rest of the day?”

  Susan, a lanky woman with glasses and a Trilby hat (who reminds me of Diane Keaton in Annie Hall) replies, “Throwing in the towel already, you lightweight?”

  “Yes I am, because I know what’s next and I think Amy’s a little young for it.”

  “What have you all got planned?” I ask.

  “A bicycle tour around the city with a company called Fat Tire.”

  “Tire being the operative word,” I joke.

  “We saw them this morning by the Eiffel Tower, it looked really fun,” Susan tells me. “Perfect for the girls.”

  “Wow, you lot are going to know Paris like the back of your hands by the end of this trip. It puts me to shame.”

  “Shall we get going, then?” Daisy asks eagerly. “Come on Amy, we’re going with Pearl back to her hotel.”

  “Mommy, I want to stay.”

  Daisy hesitates but then tells her, “No, sweetie, you’re still too young. But you’ll be back with the big girls tomorrow, all day.”

  “I hate my age,” Amy grumbles to her mother with a pout. “It sucks being five.”

  “Rubbish. Five is the best age ever. Now come on, or we’ll be late for lunch.”

  Ma
ry, the other teacher on this trip, bustles up to me and says, “Thank you Pearl, you have no idea what this means to the girls - and to us, too. This is an experience of a lifetime.” She is the antithesis to Susan and they look like a comic duo. Mary is so round and podgy, all you want to do is squeeze her; next to Susan’s towering skinny frame, they could be a female version of Laurel and Hardy.

  I smile and reply, “It’s not me, but my fiancé. It was his idea. He’s the one who organized everything.”

  “He’s so incredibly generous! I mean, our apartment is divine. The spending money he gave us is way too much…I feel…I mean…I don’t know how to repay that level of kindness, I don’t—”

  “Just knowing how much fun you’re having in France will be payment enough, believe me. He’s the kind of person who gets a real kick out of helping people and seeing he can make a small difference.”

  “I mean, these kids haven’t even been out of the Bronx and now one of them is saying she wants to be a pilot, to fly a private jet, one day.”

  “You see, that’s what seeing another slice of life can do,” I tell her.

  I can tell that Vanessa is Amy’s crush. She’s an elegant black girl with soulful, sparkling eyes. She bounds up to us and exclaims, “And I’m going to live here in Paris when I grow up, and learn to speak French.”

  Amy tugs on her mom’s coat and asks, “Where are we going for lunch?”

  “To the Marais. I’m treating you and Pearl.”

  “What’s the Marais?”

  “It’s a neighborhood, darling. Marais means swamp in French – that’s what it was hundreds of years ago. Now it has itty bitty winding streets and lots of galleries, beautiful medieval buildings and amazing boutiques. I’ll buy you a present, if you’re a good girl.”

  “I’m always good.” Amy looks up at me with her large brown eyes as if to gain an ally and I laugh.

  “I’ll buy you a gift, too,” I whisper, “and maybe you can choose something for each and every one of the girls.”