“Perhaps another time,” I said. So with that, he led me into the building.
We moved through and around throngs of people. Like a dance partner, he lightly put his hand at my back to guide me, and I shivered. I heard bits of what Gerard said. “…built from 1861-1875 … nineteen hundred seats … Second-Empire Beaux-Arts style … showcase for the rich.” He led me halfway up the Grand Escalier, the ceremonial staircase, where we paused and turned to look back. “Here the man would stop. …” He held out his arm. “… and the woman would place her hand on his extended forearm and show her finery to those below.” He took my hand and placed it on his forearm. I wore a tight, finely knit wool dress, pale yellow, and I noticed his appraising glance. I withdrew my hand and proceeded up the staircase, my stomach fluttering.
At the theater door, security checked my passport. An Israeli company was setting up a ballet. Someone shouted orders to stagehands and a tour filed in. Gerard showed his ID as he had before, and we took two seats near the front and away from the tour. I could feel his body warmth and smell the evaporated rain on his clothing. He told me about the theater. I wrote a few shorthand notes in my journal, trying not to notice his hand so close to my thigh. I looked up and caught his eye. He grazed my thigh with the back of his hand and I bit my lip.
Gerard looked pained. I wanted to run my fingers through that thick dark hair, over his arched eyebrow, down to those lips that I couldn’t help but imagine on mine. I had to stop, but I didn’t want to. He was holding back, so I leaned in.
He reached up, pulled my head closer, and kissed me.
Our position was so awkward that our lips didn’t fully meet. An old woman seated a few rows behind us cleared her throat, but Gerard turned slightly and reached for my shoulder, pulling me closer. He tasted of coffee, smelled of lavender-scented shave cream. The more intense and demanding the kiss, the more scared I became. I didn’t want this. I couldn’t have feelings for this man. A crash from the stage broke us apart.
When we realized it was a dropped prop, we both laughed with embarrassment. I straightened in my seat and opened my journal. My hands shook. “Tell me about the theater,” I said, the words rushing together, my pen hovering over a page. “What about the ceiling? The Chagall? The building is so formal and Chagall is so playful.”
I felt him relax as he looked up. “I would also add magical. Chagall painted this in 1960 and it wasn’t immediately popular. He refused to be paid for his work. I think choosing a Jew to paint this famous ceiling was an attempt to apologize for France’s decades of anti-Semitism, particularly during World War II.”
“Interesting,” I said. Did I sound as phony as I felt?
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the chandelier.”
Now I popped to attention.
“Made of bronze and crystal, it weighs seven tons.” He glanced over at me, unclasped his hands, and rested them on his thighs. “In 1896, one of the chandelier's counterweights broke free and burst through the ceiling into the auditorium, killing a construction worker. Have you seen The Phantom of the Opera?”
My heart banged against my chest. I nodded.
“Then you know they use a similar scene in the musical, only the entire chandelier comes down and kills an audience member.” I waited, holding my breath. “It’s a signature moment at the end of the first act. But in the film version, they moved it to the climax of the movie. In my opinion, it ruins the scene’s significance.”
I stood so abruptly I almost fell.
In my opinion, it ruins the scene’s significance.
Those were my sister’s exact words.
Gerard rose. “Helen? Are you all right?”
“I feel a bit queasy.”
He took my arm and hurried us out, down halls and stairs, then through the gift shop and outside where I held my face up to a cold mist.
“Helen?” he repeated.
“I’m OK,” I mumbled. Did I need any more evidence that he’d been my sister’s lover? Didn’t Sophie say there were no coincidences?
We walked, me hurrying ahead of him. He tried to keep up, placing his hand on my back, but I shrugged it off as we zigzagged down quiet streets, my stomach in turmoil. I felt his confusion. I was giving him mixed signals. Kissing one moment, running off the next. Every day with him, I did something crazy. What did he think of me? Did he like crazy?
It was quite theatrical really and reminded me of how I used to act before I started taking the medication. But so what if I was confusing him? It didn’t matter. Gerard’s feelings didn’t matter. All that mattered was Sophie.
Abruptly, I came to a stop. Across the street the Galleries Lafayette department store drew families attention with its animated Christmas windows. I hurried to join them. Gerard caught up with me and the excited crowd at the Star Wars display. A five year old boy squealed and stomped his feet. His mama scooped him up and held him on her hip while the father approached with a baby strapped to his chest.
A baby.
Like the promise of seasons, of the sun rising and setting, I knew I would send Gerard to his afterlife.
22
I don’t remember the Metro ride back to the apartment, or the evening. Time meant nothing. Memory was no longer important.
I woke up still wearing the wig, and on the dining room table my journal was open with copious shorthand notes and a big X over one page. A half full glass of scotch sat next to a plate of crackers, cheese and olives. If I were a smoker, there’d be an ashtray full of cigarette butts too. I was losing my grip and I knew it. I also had a message on my phone from Gerard.
“I’m sorry you do not feel well. Perhaps the rich food? I hope you’re better this morning. I know you need to work on your other article over the next few days, but do you still plan on going with me on New Years?”
You bet your ass I am.
I called him. We arranged to have a light dinner at a nearby café and then walk to the Seine and Eiffel around 10:30 to join the rest of the revelers.
I prepared that day, bought a very nice bottle of champagne, plastic champagne glasses, napkins, brie, crackers, and put them all in a shoulder bag I bought for the occasion. A shoulder bag that had a convenient small pocket on the inside, a pocket that would hold the carefully wrapped pill that I would use to kill Gerard.
23
Over the next few days, I went shopping. I bought a sexy dress. The woman who sold it to me said it had “excellent décolletage.” The thing was tight and cherry red. She also recommended gold flats for easier walking and a scarf of gold, black and red that pulled together the whole ensemble. Hank would have spit out his burger if he’d seen me in it. Unfortunately, I’d have to throw it away before going home.
On New Year’s Eve day, I spent extra time on the wig and makeup, put in small gold hoops and downed some scotch, not too much, just enough to take the edge off. I was drinking too much, forgetting too much. I wondered how I’d live knowing I’d murdered someone. Still, I’d been around murderers and some seemed perfectly rational, offering what I thought were good reasons for killing someone.
“He killed my brother and the cops weren’t going to do anything about it.”
“We ended up penniless because he wore a suit and bilked us out of our lifetime 401k savings. He ruined many lives. A few people committed suicide. Then the motherfucker got off scot-free. He deserved his fate.”
“He abused my sister for years. Even with a restraining order, he found her and butchered her. He had it coming.”
I couldn’t blame them. I sympathized. In my case, how was I expected to sit idly by when the man responsible for my sister’s death, as well as her unborn child, was free to victimize someone else?
I headed out.
At L’Atome as we ate, my brain would not slow down. My thoughts ricocheted back and forth, making it almost impossible to swallow. If only this had been under different circumstances. If only my sister hadn’t had an affair with Gerard. If only he hadn’t been a pig. If only S
ophie had come to me. If only I had called her that night. If only I had discouraged her in the first place. If only, if only, if only.
When Gerard held out a piece of scallop on his fork and put it to my lips, I wanted to both suck it into my mouth and spit it at him. Our conversation lurched-stopped-started over and over again like a broken down car. After dinner, we walked to Pont de Bir-Hakeim overlooking the Seine. Police cars and vans lined Quai Branly, the street leading to the Eiffel Tower, all the way from Avenue de Suffren to Pont d’lena where crowds flooded into the Eiffel area. I tied my scarf over my head as the wind chafed my cheeks and whipped up my dress. I was burning up inside. Then three French women, bottles of champagne in hand, smartphones out to take photos, asked Gerard to take theirs. The women already had more than their fair share of alcohol and they flirted heavily with him. And he flirted back. Again. As if I weren’t there.
I shouldered my bag and walked away. Gerard quickly caught up with me and took my arm. I let him. I had to keep him interested. All Frenchmen flirt, I reminded myself.
But this was no ordinary Frenchman.
We took in the crowd as we walked the quai and stopped just before reaching the carousel. I glanced up. Gerard gave me a little lopsided grin, something I hadn’t seen before. Boyish. Adorable. Now I wished I had murdered him the first night and been done with it. Then he bought me a stupid little souvenir, a silver Eiffel Tower about three inches tall. I kissed his cheek and dropped it into my bag. When he tried to kiss me, I turned away and the wind blew down my scarf and whipped my hair into my face. I shoved back the unfamiliar blonde strands.
The blonde hair reminded me of why I was there and the truth. It wasn’t me Gerard was attracted to. It was Sophie. Under this disguise, I was Angeline, thick armored and tough. I’d never tried to be sexy, just dependable and strong.
I couldn’t compete with a sister like Sophie so I hadn’t tried. But right now I felt ugly under my disguise. Maybe I’d always felt ugly.
No, it was worse. When I’d been with Sophie I’d felt invisible.
Gerard was talking, again, but who gave a shit? If he touched me, I’d slug him. Sophie had killed herself because of this guy? Really? He was sexy, but so what?
That’s when I realized that what I was feeling wasn’t anger. Sure, anger was part of it, but it was much more. It was green-eyed, newly risen, virulent jealousy.
I was jealous of my dead sister.
Oddly, once I realized this, I was calm and in control and realized something else—I was also angry at Sophie. She hadn’t thought about me or how I’d feel, thought about my loss or the pain she’d cause. She hadn’t even had the decency to leave a suicide note for me. If she hadn’t been dead, I might have killed her myself. I was through being seduced.
Gerard gestured to indicate the crowd. “I love my fellow Parisians, the mix, how different ethnicities can peacefully gather after such horrific attacks.”
I nodded. Around us, champagne corks popped, bubbly flowed like any other normal New Years.
I smiled up at him. “I think it’s time for champagne.”
We opened our bottle, and I poured a glass for each of us. We sipped as we left the carousel area and searched for a place to sit and after finding a patch of grass across from the Eiffel along the embankment, he put his arm around me and my thighs traitorously tingled.
I quickly drank another glass, and before I knew it, we’d finished the bottle and the tingling went up my body to my chest and head. I could smell him again and his breath was on my neck. I knew if I were to be an avenging angel, I had to also be the devil and feel nothing.
Now we were fifteen minutes from midnight and out of champagne. Gerard grabbed me, kissed me long and hard, my breasts against his chest, our legs awkwardly interlocked. When we pulled apart, he whispered in my ear, “Helen.”
I looked away. How could I kill him? My stupid sister was to blame for all of this. But I reminded myself that Sophie’s choices had always seemed good at first. Even when they started to go bad, she had her mind set and was unstoppable. Gerard was no different—a man who had seduced her, made her fall in love, then left her. I may have been jealous of Sophie’s beauty, but she’d always envied my marriage to Hank, of our happiness and partnership. “And the sex is still great,” I once shared.
I looked at Gerard. He could never be Hank.
It was time.
But we were out of champagne. Shit. “Ok,” I told myself calmly. “Ok.”
Let the next ten minutes determine his fate. I relaxed a little. I was no longer in charge.
Lights flashed as a procession of police cars and vans moved from the sidewalk and up the street, crossed the bridge, turned and returned. People called out, “Vive la France!” Some sang “La Marseillaise.” The crowd was ramping up.
Five minutes to midnight, a young man selling champagne from a backpack approached us, and Gerard paid an extraordinary amount for a mediocre bottle.
Gerard opened the bottle and filled our glasses. Fate had stepped in. I began to shiver at the prospect of putting that pill in his glass.
Gerard put his arm around me. “Are you cold?” he asked.
I shook my head and tried to smile.
A group of young Parisians filled in the open spots around us. A few minutes to midnight. The crowd became more raucous waiting for the Eiffel Tower to light up. Blood pounded in my ears. It was happening too fast. What was I doing?
One minute to midnight.
I fiddled with my shoulder bag, slipping the pill from the packet into my hand. While he watched the police caravan proceed up the quai, I took his glass, dropped in the pill, wrapped my hand around the flute so he couldn’t see the pill, nudged him, and held up both glasses. He poured the champagne and we both waited to toast the New Year.
Then he picked up a lock of my hair and said, “You look beautiful tonight.”
Couldn’t he tell it was a wig?
I stared at his glass. I could knock it out of his hand. I could ask him all those questions I needed answers to: why did you betray my sister? If you’re single, why did you lie? Why couldn’t you love her? Why did you have to be like all the others?
Midnight struck.
The cheering drowned out the pounding in my chest. The Eiffel Tower lit up in red, white and blue, white balloons ascended to the sky, and Gerard tossed back his glass of champagne. I froze and stared at him.
He reached for my hand.
Oh, god. I did it. Tears welled. As much as I hated him, I wanted him to live. I was crazy. I was beyond redemption.
Could he feel it? Why wasn’t he feeling it?
As people continued to shout and cheer, I whispered, “Sophie, Sophie, Sophie,” my mantra. He didn’t hear me and turned to kiss me.
I shook my head and said, “Why?”
More singing. More cheering, kissing, clapping. Everyone so happy. Parisians had made it through another year.
Suddenly Gerard looked at me, a puzzled look on his face.
Everything I’d wanted to ask him floated away as I reminded myself that I had no choice. I did what had to be done. Justice for Sophie.
Then his expression changed. The look on his face chilled me to the bone. He looked like a little boy, punished for something he didn’t understand.
“Helen?” he whispered. Pain spread across his face.
Suddenly I was overwhelmed with the smell of sweat, sparklers, alcohol, perfume, cigarette smoke. I thought I’d vomit. He dropped his plastic glass down the embankment. His body convulsed. His skin paled. I grabbed his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He tried to speak but couldn’t. “My sister Sophie. Remember her?” Now he looked scared. “Did you know she was pregnant with your child? She hung herself.”
He managed to squeak out, “Qu … uoi…?” then stared at me, wide eyed and frightened. His eyes lost their focus and his eyelids fluttered. A dribble of foam trickled from the corner of his mouth before he toppled to the side, his head landing on my lap.
I slid from beneath him, scrambled to my feet, and grabbed the shoulder bag. People were packing up to leave or toasting with more champagne. What was one more passed out drunk?
I forced myself to walk normally. When I reached the end of the quai, I headed up Grenelle amidst a crowd of people who had left right after midnight. I had to get rid of the bag. Ahead, I saw a trash bin and was about to shove the bag into it when I looked up and saw Santa, the skinny Santa I saw the day I arrived in Paris. His suit had become a dirty bag hanging from his body, but his eyes narrowed, and he pointed a drunken finger at me.
I ran and felt him watching me until I ducked around a corner. I’d get rid of the bag later. After I caught my breath, I peeked around the corner. He was gone.
At the apartment, I could barely get the key in the lock. Inside, my chest hurt so badly and my heart banged so hard, I thought I was having a heart attack. I threw the bag on the couch and breathed, taking in one rattled breath after another until the shaking stopped. Over and over I told myself now was not the time to second-guess myself. The act was done. Finally, when my legs would move, I made my way to the table and sat down. I shoved all my notes and files into a pile to take to the trash and decided this never happened.
24
I threw away my bag and the contents of my suitcase in two separate Metro stations and gave my carryon to a homeless woman. At the San Francisco airport, I smashed my burner phone in a cubicle in the bathroom. At home, the house felt cold and uninhabited. I turned up the heat, took one of my pills and went to bed.
When I woke, I felt as if I’d just had a long horrible nightmare. I struggled to adjust, to drink my coffee, and listen to messages. A few from work welcomed me back from Todo Santos, not knowing that I’d never gone, not knowing I was supposed to have been extremely ill and stayed home. Two from Hank as he worked his way back to Hong Kong and soon, in a week, he’d be home, this time to stay for a while. Another from the police, saying Sophie’s death had been officially deemed a suicide. The last was from the mortuary, saying they were sorry and had just sent me the blue dress my sister wore when they received her body.
Revenge in Paris Page 5