One Star Awake

by Andrew Meehan

  —I won’t think less of you if you need to take a minute, Daniel said. You know what you are to me.

  —Do I?

  His cheeks warmed as he listened to Karen’s response, which was that in another place and at a different time she may have wanted to marry him, too, but not here and not now. Then she told him they were taking a break. Daniel stared at his mute phone, himself as dumb as a Wolcott cabbage.

  —Why are we calling it taking a break?

  —That’s pretty much what we’re doing.

  —How long are we taking a break for?

  —A long time.

  Daniel was too much, Karen said. She had been planning to break up with him for a while. Almost since the start, she said. He perched, cat-like, while she covered the basics: them, over as of now. There was no persuading her. In fact, persuasion had the opposite effect. Say what you like about heartbreak, it creates adrenalin. Daniel threw his phone across the room then ahoyed a passing busboy to retrieve it. He stomped and roared, he scraped a wound in his arm, he ran around the parking lot grasping at the air. And the next day he got on a plane to France.

  Old habits die hard. Once he had settled in Paris, Daniel began once more to interest himself in love as a profession. Are you supposed to renounce the thing you crave because there is not enough of it?

  No. If you do not love you do not exist.

  In the space of six royal months, Daniel ended one engagement, started another and, in the assumption that in time it would be required, laid the groundwork for one more. In particular he shared three and a half weeks of highly intoxicating bliss with a certain Miriam, which he decided was sufficient bliss to warrant making things permanent, a point about which they had agreed to disagree. In all of these new relationships, with Miriam and whoever, he asked the girls, all of whom he’d been seeing for less than a month, to accompany him to an appropriately ecclesiastical restaurant in the seventh. There Daniel gorged them with enough truffles to close down their systems before requesting outstretched palms and finding them shaking. The ingredients of farce were universal and eternal but the bum notes were all his.

  None of these young women wanted to marry him, no way; even though he knew that with a little old-fashioned persistence he could have persuaded them, one or two anyway. Would Daniel take any of the proposals back now? Possibly, although he couldn’t tell you which ones. He hardly had the stomach to admit, least of all to himself, that he had only proposed to Miriam because the vegetables at L’Arpège hadn’t turned out to be the best vegetables of their lives. (Miriam later revealed that she would have preferred a good ham sandwich, and he agreed.)

  Walt always said he was good at making too much of nothing.

  Daniel’s parents dined with Bloomberg when he was mayor and were the third largest donors to the American Republican Party. As long as he stayed off the horse tranquilizers he was destined to be number-one son and heir. They also dined with Eva’s parents (where, he didn’t know; in the kinds of places rich people eat) and it was on Tony and Maeve’s behalf that he was asked to intervene.

  He had just one conversation with her parents. Even on Skype, he could tell her dad was a piece of work. Maeve did Tony’s bidding, much like Daniel’s own folks who were the ones he was trying to please in the first place. His father thought he was just bumming around Paris anyway, and there was no good answer to that. He knew his son needed a project. And Daniel couldn’t deny it, Eva was a project. It was not as if he had anything else to do. His life had not been what you’d call full lately.

  Her parents described her with a combination of awe, wariness and regret. Eva might smile at you while accusing you of the most terrible thing. No further details were forthcoming, but Daniel needed to be aware of one thing: she had a vivid imagination, or, more accurately, a dangerous imagination. Thanks to being an only child, she was a dreamer, they said. Always in a hurry and quick to shift positions, they said. If he did find her he would have to keep up with her, the chaos, the booze, the noise.

  There had been a boyfriend, a certain Australian. When they spoke to Jerome he said he hadn’t heard from her in a year, maybe longer. They themselves hadn’t heard from her in more than two years. Not a completely unreasonable length of time, they said, given their relationship and all that had gone on.

  —Lookit, Tony said. I’ve had this thing: Tony Blair. It’s my cancer. Goes where he’s not wanted.

  —Where?

  —Invading Iraq.

  —Your cancer invaded Iraq?

  —Tony Blair invaded Iraq and destroyed the Middle East, which—

  —Shouldn’t that be George W. Bush?

  —But my name’s Tony.

  —And I’ve made you explain your joke, I’m sorry. Where is your cancer?

  —Was lung. He’s been and gone and been and gone but this is the last I’ll see of him. So there’s a reason why we feel we should be … a family again.

  It wasn’t as if they expected her to be spattered at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, they just wanted to know how she was.

  —It might be better if you don’t tell her anything about speaking to us, Tony said. Just tell us she’s okay, or well. Tell us what you see.

  Paris isn’t that big and Daniel was told Eva would stand out. His job was to find her and befriend her.

  Ségo Carena he had come across at wine tastings at La Cave des Papilles and sometimes Daniel would stop into Gravy for a late drink that turned into an early drink. She had no idea who he was. Daniel supposed she had him down as a dabbler; another excitable American toying with being French for an extended semester or two.

  He hadn’t considered taking another job (he didn’t need the ones he already had) but then he saw who was washing the dishes and asked to help. As soon as he met Eva, he sent the mail that Tony and Maeve had been hoping for: she’s here, she’s fine, all is well.

  He didn’t mention her memory. They would have asked questions he couldn’t have answered. Amadou’s theory, a watery one, was that Eva had been bitten by an insect and in time would not only lose her mind but her reason and her ability to function in a working environment. Other days he thought she was an undercover journalist. According to the meat guy she was an Irish terrorist on the run and he advised Daniel against tackling her. The fish guy just thought she was gorgeous and wanted to ask her out.

  Daniel didn’t tell Eva’s parents that everyone called her La Plongeuse. To call her that was to mythologise her. It was so strange to think he knew Eva’s name and they didn’t. She didn’t. There was of course the small matter of her mind but they’d soon get to the bottom of all that.

  Daniel had a picture in his head of his perfect lover and, although Eva wasn’t quite it, she was it. She was the type of woman around whom he was a piece of boiled meat with a mouth. And she was not at all the dreamy creature Tony and Maeve had described. There was something submerged about her. A solemnity of a very persistent kind; some kind of space cadet, her chin tight with dried egg. There had to be reasons why she did everything so quickly. She got lost in the tying and rapid retying of a lace. Sometimes she accompanied her actions with a light sigh and sometimes not—it was all in a private code and that’s what made it so rousing.

  At staff-meal, she would gum an apple or a waffle then study it faintly, whereupon she would disregard the food in the manner of someone who had just been reminded of something unpleasant. At first Daniel thought it was a formulation, created precisely so that you would wonder and lean forward.

  Some act, he thought. Brava. Good show.

  Then Daniel was the one leaning.

  Since her scorn seemed to be reserved for his benefit, it was something that he grew to crave. Her at the sink and him in the dining room delivering scalded coffee and patronising wine advice. Nevertheless, at lunch, Daniel imagined Gravy belonged to him and they were welcoming pe
ople into their home and once they had closed the doors after service and swept the floors Daniel and Eva would be resuming their lives together.

  Sometimes he felt sad to leave after work and he couldn’t help but wonder if Eva felt the same. Ségo, having eyes in her head, noticed all this.

  —You think she’s hot, right?

  —Is it that obvious?

  —You know she’s kind of tuned into a private station.

  —You warning me off?

  —A little.

  —What’s the harm if we feel like a relaxing drink after a long day at work?

  —I’m just saying be careful. But, I suppose she could do with someone to stare at over the top of her Orangina. Just remember she’s fragile.

  —Taking it slow, he said. I like that idea.

  Mostly Eva hid away in the kitchen, transcribing recipes and avoiding Amadou and cleaning things she had already cleaned. The moment she drifted into Daniel’s airspace, he didn’t hesitate, making the case that someone washing pots for a living might appreciate a little looking after.

  —Want to get a taco? he said.

  Her gaze lowered but she didn’t reply. There was all of a sudden a deserted feeling in the room.

  —No, was the eventual answer.

  —Why don’t you watch me eat a taco? he said.

  —Okay, she said.

  They went to some place on Rue Santoinge. Inside, morale had hit an all-time high. In spite of all Daniel’s offers of cash to the manager she would not allow anyone to skip to the top of the line. After a long and silent wait, they were allowed to proceed to a bar where, before taking her seat, Eva asked for tap water. Room temperature.

  —I don’t know what it is, Daniel said. I never have it anywhere else, but when I have tacos I have to drink beer.

  —I asked for water, she said.

  —Do yourself a favour, he said. Order a beer. It’s on me.

  —Why do you want to pay for everything?

  —I have money. I’m telling you that up front. So you won’t have to worry about it.

  —I don’t need your help, she said. And you talk about money more than you talk about anything else.

  —I won’t talk about it anymore, he said. But can I take that as a yes for a beer? I’d really like to buy you a beer. I hope that’s not a problem.

  Eva sipped her water.

  This being Paris, there was a wait for the tacos and an argument about the wait. When the food arrived, she took a knife and fork and addressed her taco so studiously that Daniel felt he was listening to a recording of an epic and anxious silence. Off came the sour cream and so too the avocado, although the onions received the official pardon. She cut the taco like it was a cake, arranging everything on the plate until she seemed satisfied there would be four identical bites.

  They ate in silence, her lips and cheeks devilish with grease. If wiping Eva’s chin was the culmination of his life so far, then good. He took a sheaf of napkins and she lowered her eyes so that they did not have to share any sense of recognition.

  If he had been waiting for something to happen, it just had.

  —Can I kiss you?

  There was still pork in her mouth when she kissed him. And she bit his lip, although that made it no less significant.

  Bristles and Cheeks

  In case anything ever occurred to me, I slept with a notebook by the bed. Nothing occurred to me apart from refinements to my systems and the comings and goings at the storeroom in Gravy. It seemed crucial that I should draw pictures of a corn on the cob—kernel after kernel. And I didn’t stop there. I drew all the in-season vegetables.

  I found myself at Bertrand Rose before dawn on Easter Sunday. The light was gone in my bathroom so—when I didn’t even need to—I brushed my teeth with my finger in the dark before heading off.

  I always slept in my kitchen clothes so I went from asleep to awake and outside and hoofing it along Mathurin Moreau in less than three minutes—this would allow me plenty of time to explore the streets between there and Bertrand Rose in good time before they opened.

  I could not expect to bump into Eagleback as randomly as I had before so I decided to assemble on that junction at Paul Bert every day until such time as he would return. Daniel said I was a fool for going back to Bertrand Rose. I wasn’t a backpacker, he said. I didn’t have to live on chocolate bread. But I had stolen enough from the till at Gravy to buy something small every day for a month if need be.

  Insofar as I could tell, no one ever took much notice of me around Paul Bert, and I felt wearing my chef’s clothing offered me some cover.

  As I waited for the shop to open, I imagined our perfect day together. Our perfect Sunday would have begun early. Breakfast in bed, or out of bed, I’m not fussy. Then we’d go out, so people could see us. We’d flit in and out of different Sephoras, layering the scents. If it was hot we’d take shelter in a Monoprix by the fish counter’s mist—a kind monger might give us a bag of ice. I could get an hour out of staring at the cut ham. Strange desires for yoghurt. At night we wouldn’t do much because we’d both be tired from all the fresh air and I’d have to get up early the next day anyway. It didn’t matter that my perfect day with Eagleback was a little like every Sunday with Daniel.

  Bertrand Rose opened. Delivery vans swept in and were gone. I stepped inside then delivered my rehearsed question. Did anyone know a man with impressive arm hair who had been in the shop at this time on Good Friday?

  —Non was sung in unison.

  Bristles—the woman with whom Eagleback had negotiated over the chocolate orb—was as evasive and perplexed as before. I pressed on. It was his face that you couldn’t mistake—prowling eyes, a top-class beard, skin with one or two marks. In fact I continued to have concerns about Eagleback’s skin condition. Why would he have gone around with psoriasis like that? I hoped he was getting someone to look at it.

  I couldn’t get Bristles to tell me where Eagleback was. I tried every trick in the book, couldn’t have tried harder—even though my French was drying up under pressure.

  I might have said, —Comme ci comme ça.

  I might have said, —Où est la gare?

  I supposed I cared and didn’t care what Bristles thought of me—as in I altogether didn’t. Or most of me didn’t. I felt useless in the face of her apathy. I used all the French I had, writing down some of the hard-to-explain stuff—the eagle on his back for one thing. Bristles would not acknowledge that she remembered a thing—even as I recounted their exchange verbatim. The bitter chocolate, the child for whom it was intended.

  She sighed and called over my shoulder for the next customer. I took my mille-feuille—quite good, better than the éclair—and she glared at me. The little hairs shooting out of her at all kinds of angles. Her cheeks blazed with tiny, fibrous veins. The patterns of a broken leaf.

  The thought of returning to the pâtisserie kept me awake all night—imagining I was on the look-out for Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster. I wanted to leave home at 2 a.m., 3 a.m., 4 a.m. but I fell asleep and woke again not long before I was due at Gravy. Outraged, I had to go straight to work.

  I didn’t make the same mistake the next morning, turning onto Paul Bert just as it hit seven o’clock. My new plan depended on Bristle’s absence. From the corner opposite, I strained to watch her, faraway in her own incidental universe—a talented multi-tasker of sorrow and aggression.

  Home again to wait.

  The next day I patrolled the street, wondering how I might explain myself to one of her colleagues should the opportunity arise—best to appear meek and confused to disguise my ignorance of Eagleback’s real name.

  On Thursday, Bristles was gone. Where I could only guess. Nor was there anyone queuing and before I had a chance to talk myself out of it I was talking to lovely young woman�
�with cheeks of pink chamois leather—who honoured my questions with great curiosity. Within seconds I had made more progress than I had in days. Cheeks had a cold and I offered commiserations. I stuttered in French and she smiled, helping me along as she moved around the shop slowly—as you would do if you were in pain or you were lazy.

  I told her I was buying a gift for someone, a special surprise, with an emphasis on the special. I hadn’t managed to prepare a story to divert her from asking Eagleback’s name. In the end an airy tone and the language barrier overcame that obstacle. Cheeks remembered the cake—she usually worked in the kitchen—as well as the man’s conversation with Bristles. He had seemed so disappointed as he left the shop.

  Cheeks even pitied me enough to speak English and to look at me with shared disappointment when it was revealed that, yes—yes of course, they could make another orb just like the last one, but it would not be ready for a few days.

  —I myself remember him, she said. He do not seem happy but I am so happy that it work for the best.

  —Can you deliver? It’s better that way, don’t you think? For a surprise.

  —As you wish.

  —You should have the address.

  —Let me look for the place. Jerome Cooper? she said.

  —Jerome, I said.

  I had to stop myself from shouting it out loud. If I knew his name then I knew everything—that he was Jerome from the notebook, for one thing. It was already a happy ending, or that’s how it seemed to me.

  Cheeks’ little fat fingers fluttered as she looked for the address in the order book. I asked her if she had enjoyed a good Easter.

  —Mais yes, she said.

  —And if I change my mind and decide to take the cake myself, will that be possible?

  —As you wish.

  I had not planned to be so chatty but Cheeks’ good humour permitted me to appear so casual. I can’t remember what else she said when she searched through the old orders—but then she had it. It was so very hard to believe that she was holding Eagleback’s address in her hands. Without giving the slightest warning, I reached across and attempted to hug her.