Lives Paris Took

by Rachael Wright

  “I think about seeing other things,” Catherine said with a twinkle in her eye.

  It was the end of the conversation, because he could no longer feel his tongue. Catherine reached over to hold his hand.

  The train boarded and left the station in well-run order. Soon they were leaving Paris and breezing through the countryside that rolled around it. Catherine leaned against him, curled into his body, and fell asleep in moments. He could not bear to wake her, and so they lunched late before arriving in Cannes. They hailed a taxi and made their way downtown with the sound of seagulls filling the air. It seemed every sidewalk was full of women in wide brimmed hats that shielded everything but their chins.

  “You’ve been here before?” David said, watching the Côte d’Azur slide by.

  “Yes, many times. Though we would not always stay in a large hotel in Cannes. For a few years we rented a villa, outside of Cannes, friends came often to visit,” Catherine said.

  “Your father, why did he leave Russia?” David blurted. She turned to contemplate him for a moment.

  “He was terrified. Stalin’s friend Kirov was assassinated in December of 1934 just after my parents were married. There were many more assassinations. Stalin slaughtered innocent people at the same time that he claimed he was bringing such peace and prosperity. I was born in 1940. I wasn’t even five years old before we left Russia.”

  “I’ve heard that the KGB operates outside of Russia? Is your father worried about them?”

  “There was a time we all were. We were on holiday in Provence when I was thirteen. A massive storm broke out early one morning. We were all inside. My father and I were playing chess and my mother was finishing a large piece of embroidery. We had lunch; we took an afternoon nap, the storm died down. My mother and I went down to the kitchen to start dinner and get a glass of wine for my father. I remember my mother was singing a Russian folksong. Her face was full of joy.

  “She looked out of the window, and the song died on her lips. Her face was white. She gripped the counter with terrible strength. I pulled at her coat, nudged her, she wouldn’t move. I looked out to where she was staring, at a box that had blown into the yard. I kept tugging her and then began to cry. I screamed her name. In a flurry of movement, as though my scream had finally woken her, she grabbed me around the shoulders. She shielded my head with her arm and rushed us out of the kitchen.

  “She screamed for my father before she shut us in a closet. We were both sobbing. She clutched me, pulling me closer and tighter. My father threw open the door begging her to tell him what was wrong. All she would say was, “The Box. The Box. The Box”. His eyes went wide. I asked him what was wrong, barely able to speak, but he just left, shutting us in once more. We stayed in the closet for what seemed like hours before my father came back.”

  “What happened?” David breathed.

  “It was a simple cardboard box that had blown into the yard during the storm. It took hours to calm my mother down, and even longer before she was able to speak. She thought the box was a bomb left by the KGB because of our defection. My father told me, many years later, that such terrorism was not uncommon for the Secret Police. I will never forget that day. The look in my mother’s eyes still haunts me. She shook with fear. Russia was never closer to me than it was that day.

  “So yes, my parents still fear the KGB.”

  Silence fell like the fear of a box, the fear of shadows that somehow existed even on the Cote d’Azur. Catherine perched her head on her hand, stretched out her other hand to hold David’s, staring out the window so she wouldn’t have to cry.

  “MONSIEUR?”

  DAVID BLINKED IN the harsh sunlight. He looked around; Catherine was beside him, on a white chair by the sea. David turned, adjusted his sunglasses. They had left the train station hours ago, checked into their hotel, and promptly left for the beach. A tanned footman stood above him.

  “Oui?”

  “There is a phone call for you in the lobby, monsieur, if you’d like to follow me.”

  The footman held out his white-sleeved arm, gesturing to the hotel behind them. Catherine sat up, squinting beneath her wide brimmed hat.

  “What is it?”

  “Its nothing, cher, I’ll be right back,” David said, stooping to kiss her forehead.

  They hadn’t gone more than a few yards before each step across the sand was as painful as a firebrand. It was welcome relief to step onto the marble hotel floor and stand in the flood of cool air after the baking sand and heat. The footman motioned to a plush white linen chair in an alcove where a gilded phone lay on the table.

  “Bonjour, this is David.”

  “David! You must forgive me for having to call you on your vacation…”

  “There’s no need for an apology, Jeanne.”

  “David…there was a cable for you, from America. There was no one here to take charge of it, so I did. I couldn’t give it to Gilbert and of course Catherine is with you …”

  “Please, just tell me what it is.”

  “Your father, he has passed away. Yesterday it seems.”

  David almost dropped the phone. He wrestled with the receiver, slamming it back to his ear. Jeanne cried quietly.

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “Oh David, I am so sorry.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see you soon.”

  David hung up the phone, stood, and walked back out of the hotel. He could not form a thought beyond the haze of shock clouding his mind. Robert Golike had always been an unshakeable, immovable, force … how could he be dead? How many years had it been since they’d last spoken … those final words when he’d left on a cold January morning? He stopped on the promenade, looking over the tide of sunbathers. Robert’s face swam in his mind, France disappeared, and he was back home … back there.

  David opened his eyes and it was though freedom had dawned, he was finally leaving. A beautiful array of pink clouds lined up in front of the rising sun like heralds. The sounds of a boiling kettle filtered up through the floorboards. David tossed a book on French Renaissance art back on his desk and left the room.

  “Father?”

  David stood at the entrance to the kitchen watching Robert who froze with a thermos in his hand. Robert was taken aback; David could see it in his eyes. They did not yet have the hardened exhausted look to them that they would take on later in the day. There was softness to them and disappointment.

  “I didn’t think you would say goodbye,” Robert said, his voice low.

  “I wouldn’t like to think we parted on poor terms.”

  “You’re breaking her heart by going to France,” Robert said. “You’d better keep in contact with her. I won’t have you do any more damage than you’ve already done.”

  “You don’t care about her!” David yelled, indignant. He instantly regretted this outburst.

  Robert strode forward until their noses were almost touching. A faint flowery smell wafted I in from somewhere in the distance and, even in his fear, David frowned.

  “You watch your tongue. You ought to be grateful for what you have. Family and God, it’s all that matters in this world. One day it’ll get through that selfish head of yours,” Robert whispered sternly.

  He shoved his way past David, who didn’t turn quickly enough and was still caught in his father’s wake. David fell against the doorjamb, clutching at the wood, and gaped at his father’s disappearing figure.

  He burned and seethed with anger. How many years would he be content being perpetually cast aside in favor of a better option? Perhaps if Robert had raged a little more … if he had said more … perhaps things would be different. David choked on a sob that was working to claw its way out of his throat.

  He took the stairs two at a time and packed the room methodically, rolling up the clothes so they’d fit in the case. It was short work; he didn’t care for the few items leftover. The toys, the old books, the wooden box. They belonged to a different person. A weak person. A person he was goi
ng to leave behind. All he took, packed with the utmost care, a wartime photo of his brothers and the sheet music to Madama Butterfly, framed in black. He wrapped them in clothes, padded them all around; he pressed lightly on the top of the case to make sure no harm would come to them.

  David’s feet passed over the sand as if in a dream. He wove around the crowd of sunbathers scattered like confetti across the beach. The heat no longer traveled from sole to brain. He moved robotically, stunned by the news.

  “Darling, what was it? Who was on the phone?” Catherine said, sitting up, her dark hair spilled in rivulets down her shoulders. Sweat sparkled on her forehead.

  David looked at her, his mind still blank. He sat on the edge of the white chair, in the shade cast by the blue striped umbrella, and looked towards the Mediterranean. His mind drifted far from the disturbing reality of his father’s demise. Trickles of sweat started anew on his scalp. He drew his hand across his forehead and sighed.

  What better location to escape to than Cannes? It wasn’t like Paris; here the heat had a purpose. The sun warmed the sea, making it suitable for swimming; it grew vegetables in thousands of acres of fields; and it brought families together.

  “David?” Catherine said again, pulling on his shirt.

  “My father died yesterday.”

  The grip on his shirt went slack. “David, I am so sorry. Let’s…let’s find when the next train to Paris leaves, then we can book you a flight. David?”

  He stared off across the sea. The words met his ears, garbled, as if they came from a great distance. He turned to face Catherine, her eyes watered, and though her fingers were pressed against her lips, they shook. He stared. Her gaze was troubled but distant. Was she thinking of her own father, what it would mean for his life to be snuffed out, without the chance to say goodbye?

  In a small, unacknowledged, part of his heart he was disappointed by Raikes’ sudden death. They had parted on bad terms; both determined to never see the other again. The wish had been granted.

  “I am not going back.”

  “What?” Catherine hiccupped, frowning at him.

  “There’s no purpose to it.”

  “Your family would love to see you.”

  “Catherine, you don’t understand. How could you? You are blessed with a perfect family, one who adores and treasures you. You are their pride and joy. I am nothing of the sort. I won’t go back.”

  He didn’t have to look at her to see the same look she so often gave him. He could even predict her rebuttal; it was an all too common one.

  “How do you know if you do not try? They do love you. You’ll see.”

  “If they knew about us, about our relationship, I would be cast out. They can’t abide anything that smells of a scandal. You and I, unmarried, alone together–sleeping together.”

  “You can’t imagine they would do such a thing.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Why don’t we both go?”

  David started. “What?”

  “Why don’t we both go to Illinois for the funeral? You could introduce me to your family. They could get used to the idea.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” she said, her voice rose dangerously.

  “I don’t want to go through it.”

  She was incensed. Fire burned in Catherine, it lent passion to her career, her family, her politics, and right now she directed it at him. “You must stand up for yourself. Tell them that this is your life now. Why cower?”

  “Why should we have to do any of that? I want to sit on this beach and watch the tide roll in. I want to go out to eat and think nothing of anything beyond Cannes. I want to hold you in my arms tonight. I treasure you and I don’t want to share you.”

  She sat back, biting her lip hard, and crossed her arms. After a prolonged silence, he scooted back in his chair, poised for the spell to break. But Catherine only replaced her hat and slid down the back of the chair. She did nothing to show her displeasure the rest of their time on the beach. She chatted freely with David, with other tourists, smiled, and ate with gusto at dinner. It was only when they returned to their room, late at night, that she put on her most modest pajamas, climbed into bed, and laid down with her back to him.

  AFTER A NIGHT SPENT staring at the ceiling, his mind full of memories, David went down early to breakfast. He talked with one of the valets, then warmed himself up over a cup of coffee and a croissant. As he tore off a piece from the croissant Catherine made her way over to the table.

  “Bonjour.”

  David looked up and smiled. She wore a blue summer dress made from a floaty material that shimmered as she walked. Circling her small waist was a white belt and in her hand was the large, brimmed hat she had worn yesterday.

  “Autre café, s’il vous plaît,” she said to a passing waiter.

  “The car is available today, if you still want to go to Florence.”

  Catherine looked at him from under hooded eyes, “That will be lovely.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  It was unfortunate, David thought, that their conversations had digressed into such formality. They stared at each other across the table, both seemingly immersed in their coffee. David’s eyes dropped and he contemplated the napkin in his lap. The silence sat heavy between them as though one of them had forgotten to apologize, and they were off track. A breeze wafted through the windows, bringing in the sounds of car horns and shouts from shopkeepers. Distracted, David closed his mind to nothing else than planning the drive into Italy.

  “Shall I drive?” he said as Catherine set down her cup with a firm thunk.

  She cocked her left eyebrow, staring dubiously at him.

  “I learned how to drive this way; I can manage.”

  “There are a lot of turns.”

  Even as the words left her mouth, her icy demeanor melted and she laughed. She looked up, her napkin clutched to her mouth to stifle her laughter. Her eyes were clear and bright, full of love once more.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” David blurted. “It’s a sore point for me. Him.”

  “You know my feelings on the matter.”

  “And you know mine. Can we forget about this, for today?”

  “The drive is beautiful.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  It was strange how sadness overwhelmed him at the thought of their first argument. It opened a new and frightful possibility that terrible disagreements were possible. Catherine had come back around, they both had. They found a way back to each other. What was there to worry about? His family could not touch them … but it was a lie. To himself. To her.

  As David finished his coffee, Catherine rose and ordered a picnic basket for the drive. He sipped the last dregs of the now-cool liquid. A nagging sensation pulled at his conscience. He had let his family wiggle their way in, between the sheets, between the fabric of his new life. Even that, he mused, as the last dregs of his lukewarm coffee slid down his throat, was not right. Farther down than he cared to look, he knew the fault was his. The problems and all the solutions lay squarely on his shoulders. It was a miserable thought.

  “Bathing suits!” Catherine blurted out.

  She had no sooner arrived back at the table before she tore off in the direction of the stairs. Her feet slid on the marbled floors.

  He watched her go; smiling inwardly at the thought of her frantically throwing ten things they wouldn’t need into a suitcase. A valet announced the car minutes later just as Catherine came bobbing down the stairs carrying a small bag. She tied a silk scarf over her hair and perched large black glasses on her head. David thought she looked twenty years younger, her clothing choice echoing that sentiment.

  “I’m ready,” she said, her chest heaving.

  “The car just arrived.”

  It was still early; most guests were still asleep in their rooms; those that were out were nursing large cups of hot chocolate. David was grateful to be able to get away from the crowds of tourists. He did no
t mind them at the beach, but the hotels, shops, and restaurants were all terribly over-crowded with refugees from Paris.

  “Monsieur,” a sweating valet said, handing David the keys.

  “Merci.”

  It was a lovely, older black car with a beige canvas roof, folded politely down. Catherine thanked the valet as well and assured him they would be fine. His young features smoothed themselves into a smile and he now stopped staring at David. Perhaps it was her cultured Parisian accent and the smile she threw his way—or the francs she pressed into his palm.

  After long minutes in traffic, they finally began to make their way east. David took the Promenade des Anglais as they wound their way down through Nice. It could not have been a finer morning. Palm trees swayed in the Mediterranean breeze as the sea beat out a meditating tune on the rocks. Catherine laid her head back, turned her back on the city, and looked out toward the sea and the cerulean water.

  They drove for hours, occasionally pulling over to admire the scenery, to get gelato, or to buy from street vendors. In the heat of the afternoon sun, outside the small town of Invrea, Catherine called a halt and scuttled around the car to pull out the wicker basket. They walked down to a spot she knew of, a trail that led down to a small patch of rocky shore. It was an image of perfection, the sea on one side, two tunnels opposite each other, and the vegetation-strewn hillside at the back. It was deserted apart from a few gulls.

  David collapsed on the ground, drawing hysterical giggles from Catherine. A rock took offense at his abrupt arrival and drove itself into his back. He shot up, rubbing a sore spot while Catherine howled, clutching her side. Frowning, David peeled off his shoes and waded into the blissful waters beyond.

  It was not the sandy beach at Cannes; he had to pick his way over the rocks to wade. Behind him Catherine scoured the beach for the softest spot to lie out the picnic blanket. It was hard to imagine that Africa was just beyond the horizon. A small stretch of water the only separation between wealthy Europe and war, famine, and poverty beyond.

  “You know, in the United States, you have to travel for hours and hours just to cross into another state. Most Americans could not comprehend driving two hours and crossing another country’s border,” he mused.