Lives Paris Took

by Rachael Wright

  Halfway to work, he realized, with a massive sigh, that he’d left the hotel’s tax documents at home. He used another house’s drive to whip around, flew back down the road, one hand stoking the sensuous body of the car, and basked in the hot, dry air as it glided over and under his hand.

  Suddenly, a shiver like shivering skin exposed to a sudden burst of frozen air, convulsed through his body. John’s eyes jerked from the road, and he gripped the wheel and waited for it to happen. For whatever it was that his subconscious reacted to. A gnawing feeling, a step out of place, or a misunderstood word filled his mind. He clenched his teeth, frowned, flexed his toes, and studied the road.

  The corners came too fast.

  He braked, pumping the pedal angrily.

  What the hell?

  The force of one too-fast corner slammed him into the door and the Morgan’s passenger side wheels lifted off the ground.

  He stared ahead and pictured what was out of sight. There was no way he’d make the next corner intact. It was too sharp. He viciously slammed on the brakes, but the speedometer only crept higher and higher. The road flew by in a torrent of white marks.

  He couldn’t jump out. His mind painfully blank, he tried to crank the wheel, to turn the car into the mountain.

  Too late. He had lost all control.

  He tugged at the emergency brake, his fingers slippery with sweat.

  With an almighty crash, the ocean appeared in the windshield. Was he flying over it? Had he stolen James Bond’s car? The rocks rose to meet him. The surf pounded them into shards of sand.

  “Wait …” he said, before the car smashed to a halt.

  The water lapped against his ears. His body weightless and effortless. Nothing else. But water caught him and tugged, and he blinked and searched for the sun. He stared at the steering wheel, submerged in the sea, a rectangle and then a circle again in the tide. His arms floated lifeless on the surface of the sea. A queer warm, sticky liquid poured down his head and dripped into his eyes.

  The car. The cliff. The embroidered sea. The calm river. The stoic wife.

  With a groan he looked to see a massive wave forming fifty feet away. Water lapped at his shoulders. Should he shout for help? Should he? Would anyone hear it?

  ‘I don’t want to die.’

  “I … no …” he managed before a white curtain drifted down and the wave consumed the car and then crawled back like some retreating beast.

  #

  MAY 2006

  Davonna peered out of the window of the second story flat, at the corner of Arneway and Medway Street. London hummed like a great slumbering beast, the snores seeping in through the cracks and the thin weak joints of windows. Umbrella clutching hordes scurried on the faded grey pavement towards the Home Office. She stood, imagining them existing for the sole moment they passed before her eyes.

  Davonna pushed back limp brown strands of hair, which had fallen across her pale face, and sighed. Her slim body curved into the window moulding and her pale, sea-green eyes darted from the sky to the street to the people with a startling quickness. Her thick fingers, with their flat nails and rough beds, caressed an intricate silver heart pendant at her throat.

  She moved her right foot and fell against the window, and a dull thud echoed like a canon blast around the flat. With a jerk, she whipped around, her pained eyes darting again. The flat was empty; all emptiness about her. She looked at the band on her finger, the simple gold band put there two months ago. There wasn’t a flat in Geneva anymore. She no longer strolled through the Palais des Nations. Davonna Wolfe had become Davonna Fitzroy.

  She sighed and stared at the dreary London flat, with its bare floors and white walls, and listened to the silence. It had happened so suddenly. Could it be two months ago she was living in Switzerland? Marriage hadn’t been a part of her plan. John was kind enough, but the move to Greece, it was so sudden and it would tear her away from everything familiar. But perhaps … perhaps, it wouldn’t be bad. Perhaps they’d find the blissful happiness her sister Miriam and her husband Seamus had found together. Perhaps they’d have children and settle, and life would be perfect.

  “You ready?”

  “Yes,” Davonna said, and curled her fingers through the leather strap of her black purse.

  John raised his eyebrows dubiously, nodded, and walked back out of the flat. She turned one last time, closed her eyes, and breathed. The air rippled under her nose, full of smells and emotion, it swirled around Davonna’s lank hair and across the tops of her beige heels. Was it the spilled pot of chamomile tea by the breakfast nook, the whiffs of change, or the London smog?

  Somewhere below a taxi horn blared. Davonna took the stairs two at a time, tripped on the last one, smashing her funny bone against the wall. John didn’t stir as she swung herself into the taxi, clutching her right elbow. His hand curled around their passports, knuckles an opaque white. She inched forward to take her passport from John’s hand, but a niggle in the back of her mind stopped her. Instead she squeezed his arm and smiled. He patted her hand absently as he dug out his phone and waded through emails.

  They stopped at Heathrow Airport and John swiped his credit card before he fled the car. He declined to leave a tip. Davonna grimaced at the cabbie as he heaved their luggage out of the car. His heavily scuffed shoes scratched the steaming pavement and his jacket was worn down, exposing the white batting like an open wound. In the front, Davonna noticed a picture of a large, laughing family attached to the visor. As he unloaded their bags, his back curved with strain. Davonna pulled a twenty-pound note from her pocket and shoved it in his hand as John flagged an airport employee to bring a trolley.

  The cabbie tipped his hat to her and muttered a “thank you ma’am” before he jumped behind the wheel and left. She watched him pull away. Perhaps he’d get the shoes repaired, go buy his wife a bouquet of red roses, or he’d pay off a debt to his best friend. Or, perhaps he’d just go to his favorite chip shop and have a pint or two with his fish.

  “Let’s go,” John said. He stood beside a loaded trolley and waved imperiously.

  Davonna smiled weakly and followed in his wake.

  An hour later they were beyond security, divested of their luggage. They sat sipping a mediocre cup of tea at the café next to their gate. John pulled out a copy of The Guardian and disappeared behind it. An unflattering picture of Tony Blair stared out beside the title “Revealed: Blair attack on human rights law.”

  They sat, as the whole world turned around them, for the better part of an hour, before a calm polished voice on the intercom announced that the flight to Athens was boarding first class. John dropped his paper, tipped back his teacup with a grimace, and beckoned for Davonna to follow.

  The flight was as uneventful as it could have possibly been. John and Davonna settled themselves into business class and listened as economy filled behind them. A silence grew between them. John didn’t notice she was there, and Davonna wished she were in economy with the college students and young families and tourists. Instead pretentious professionals who never took their eyes off their newspapers, trade journals, or computers surrounded her. Six long hours later, they left Lesvos’ quaint answer of an airport.

  The air crackled, and the wind blew bursts as though it was brittle and the heat sapped it of any energy. John walked resolutely toward the front of the airport where a young man in a hotel uniform stood beside a gleaming black sedan; as out of place as a skyscraper in rural Oklahoma. Everything had been faded and worn from the sun; even the white paint on the airport had lost its luster. Davonna shaded her eyes, and peered across the rippling parking lot to where the Aegean Sea overtook the horizon and stretched out like a languid swimmer.

  “He’ll take the luggage,” John said, snapping his fingers.

  Davonna blinked and pulled her gaze from the shimmering sea. The boot of the car popped open, and she let John take the handle of the trolley.

  “I’ll drop you off at the house first, I want to work at t
he hotel for a few hours and make sure the car arrived.”

  “Sure,” she said. “You don’t want to walk through it with me?” She batted her eyes at him and smiled.

  He grimaced. “I’m off to the hotel. Get settled; I’ve seen the house. The garden needs work. After you get the house settled that’s the next project.”

  “Sure.”

  They drove on in silence. John pulled out his phone and emailed colleagues. Davonna stared out the tinted window and watched as the island slid past. Even the faded rubble of abandoned buildings was bright, colorful; so much warmer than England. Instead of greens and grey, the island was a riot of orange and yellow and the bright cerulean blue of the ocean. The sky was an endless mirror, unmarred by a single cloud. As the car wound around a hill, the houses became more grand, with wide sweeping porticos and twisted columns and massive palm trees which shaded marble façades, and gardens which overflowed with towering white sculptures.

  A green hedge appeared on the right side of the road. Davonna caught sight of one particularly grand house before the driver signaled and slowed to turn into the drive. In front of them rose a grand two-story home. It was a sweet shade of pink with red shutters and white moulding and trim. Sweeping marble stairs led to a set of glass doors, that protected a recessed front door. Above the glass doors was a small patio. To Davonna it looked like the balcony at the Apostolic Palace where the Pope waved at the assembled awestruck crowds.

  “There you are,” John said, as he tore his eyes from his phone.

  “It’s lovely.”

  John cleared his throat, and Davonna jumped.

  “Would you take out my luggage, please?” she asked the driver.

  The young man looked in the rear-view mirror at John, who nodded.

  In less than a minute she was out in the heat, a set of keys in one hand, and sweating. A large black suitcase stood on end behind her. She listened as John told the driver to wait while he checked the garage for his black 1936 Morgan 4. The driver whistled and John smirked. The door to the garage rose and Davonna glanced at it. John ran his hand over the curve of the bonnet, the wavelike fender, and checked that the red and green St. Christopher medallion and the silver Morgan grill ornament were still pristinely attached. He slid behind the wheel and started the car, cocked his head, listened to the motor for a moment, and then cut it. He walked back to the black sedan, tossing his keys in the air.

  Davonna turned back to the house. It was so quaint (even in its behemoth state), like it came from a Valentine’s Day postcard. But the front garden was in a desperate state. The flowers had overgrown their boxes, and the shrubs were at least three feet taller than they should have been with scruffy, Medusa-like tendrils.

  A gust of wind tore up the side of the island, and Davonna caught the handle of her suitcase before it topped into the rocky driveway. She unlocked the glass doors, into the warm entryway and stuck the key into the second lock.

  It was grander and larger than she’d expected. Her footsteps echoed off the hardwood floors. Ghostly shapes of furniture stood in the corners. The house had a peculiar quality about it. Davonna couldn’t put her finger on it, but the closest she came was that the house was holding its breath as though in purgatory.

  She ambled around the house, looked in rooms, and got lost. She climbed to the second story and found the master bedroom, a new bed stood in pride of place, sheets, duvet, and pillows stacked on top. A large bay window, complete with cushioned seat, faced the back garden. Davonna unlatched the windows and flung open the red shutters. The back garden was a mass of wild greenery.

  Across the garden and beyond a towering stonewall were the immaculate grounds of another property. The house was entirely white marble, which gleamed in the sun, giving off a golden glow. Davonna shaded her eyes, leaning out the window to get a better look. A lone black car parked in the driveway. She squinted. It was possible to make out a figure get out of it it; he (it was a he, right?) wiped his brow and then hopped back in the car.

  The front doors of the mansion opened. A man and a woman exited. Davonna leaned forward, the man was dressed precisely like John: a blue suit with white shirt and a red-checkered pocket square. It had to be him. The woman beside him wore a white dress, which floated around her legs. She tucked a thick strand of black hair behind her ear, reached out, and pulled John close and wrapped her arms around his neck. Davonna’s heart sank. It was him. Regardless of the suit, it was the same black car with the same driver in the same hotel uniform. She collapsed onto the window seat and stared at the couple surrounded by glistening marble. They separated after a long while. John moved in for one last kiss, pumped the woman’s breasts, and then sauntered down the steps and into the back seat of the sedan.

  The woman in white watched the car drive away before gliding back into the house. The double doors shut with an audible thud. Davonna drew her head from the window and laid on the cushions as the black sedan edged out of sight. What had happened? Who was the woman? Tears streamed across her cheeks and soaked the pale blue fabric.

  “Why?” she screamed into a pillow and hurled it across the room. She jumped and glowered at the house. The white monolith. A sudden fury overtook her; she’d confront the harpy.

  Davonna was halfway across the large hall, her hair streaming behind her, when a knock echoed from the door. Her fury popped. She rushed forward and tugged the doors open. John stood there, his hair windswept, one cheek raised in a smile.

  “I thought we’d make use of the new bed,” he purred.

  Davonna stood frozen, unable to move. Her mind was empty, admonition died on her lips. Her throat was raw. She allowed John to direct her upstairs and into bed. Tomorrow, she thought, as John’s lips hovered over the hollow of her neck; I’ll confront him tomorrow.

  #

  John left Davonna sprawled on the bare mattress. Rays of bright afternoon sunlight warmed her toes. Her mind was quiet. It wasn’t important to be angry. John poked his head out of the closet.

  “I think we should try to get settled this week. The shipping company called and said they’d be here today.”

  “It won’t be a problem.”

  “I can’t stand the chaos.”

  “John, I’ll handle it,” Davonna said, placating.

  “I know.” He pulled a fresh suit from his garment bag. “Don’t you think you ought to get dressed?”

  “I was enjoying the moment.”

  “Time to get to work.”

  Davonna blinked, hurt, but John just pulled on his suit coat, oblivious. The doorbell rang for the second time. He frowned at her and she frowned at the door. He snapped his fingers at her and she leapt from the bed, as if burned, and pulled out clothes at random from her suitcase. Jeans and a black bra and a long sleeve grey henley shirt. John rolled his eyes as she wiggled and jumped into the jeans.

  They opened the front door. A woman stood sensuously in the enclosed porch, her long black hair tickling the tops of her nipples, which were just camouflaged by a silk dress.

  “Hello,” John said, waving the woman in. Davonna moved out of the way, her eyes wide with anger and horror. “Davonna, meet our neighbor, Megan Moreau. I met her on my last trip here when I was looking at houses. Megan, my wife, Davonna.”

  “So pleased to meet you, Davonna.”

  Davonna lifted her eyes and stared. Megan’s skin was the color of caramel and her dark brown eyes shone out of a face that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Vogue. The whole effect, the simple construction and long lines, was superb, except for a cloying overpowering scent of perfume, which radiated from her. Even in her anger and frustration Davonna was embarrassed. She still smelled of stale airplane air.

  “Please, come on in, Megan, I’d love to show you the house,” John said motioning Megan forward. He rounded on Davonna, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Just surprised.”

  “Pull yourself together,” he whispered and strode off after Megan who was eyeing a massive chandel
ier with interest. “Let’s go to the garden?”

  Davonna walked in their wake, watching as Megan clutched John’s arm, and leaned against him, laughing. John smiled. He stood straighter, taller. It’s turning him on, Davonna thought, the woman with the see-through dress, throwing herself at him.

  They walked to the back of the house to a morning room; the entire back wall was one massive sheet of glass. John flung open a pair of double doors and led them out on to the terrace, which overlooked the garden.

  “Here,” John gestured.

  “It’s a lovely space, I’ve been jealous ever since I moved,” Megan purred. “How about a fountain over there, a walkway there, and a gazebo flanked by short hedges? You’ll need a large lawn space, separating it all. We should start very organized, mathematical, and as the garden extends, have it grow wilder, more natural. What do you think?”

  “I’m sorry, forgive me, but I’m confused,” Davonna said. John and Megan turned to her, eyebrows raised, as if they’d forgotten she was still there.

  “Oh Darling, it’s my fault,” Megan said silkily.

  “Megan is an architect of sorts,” John said.

  “For gardens.”

  “I’ve asked for her ideas on ours.”

  “Oh,” Davonna said, picking at the hem of her shirt. It was stifling outside, even in the shade; it was far too hot for long sleeves.

  John, shook his head imperceptibly, and then led Megan through the overgrown garden, chattering and laughing. Davonna stood on the terrace. She forgot the shirt soaked with sweat and how it stuck to her back: she saw only John.

  Davonna wanted to scream, wanted to pick up one of the concrete planters, perched on the four corners of the half wall, and chuck it at Megan’s head. John looked over as he rounded an overgrown section of half-dead rose bushes. His face was a mask. Davonna slumped, the anger melted away. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from his eyes. They were blank. Dead and flat, like a shark’s. A predator ready to pounce.