All the Flowers in Paris

by Sarah Jio

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  LUC KEEPS HIS arm draped tightly around me on the walk home, frequently looking over his shoulder. Instead of saying good night outside, the way we always do, I invite him in, and he follows me up the stairs. Papa and Cosi have long since gone to bed. I hear the faint sound of snoring down the hall.

  I sit on the couch and Luc nestles in beside me. Close, so close. I don’t recall my legs ever touching his before, and for the first time in all the years I’ve known him, I want to be even closer. Like an avalanche brought on by spring, or this surge of love brought on by war, I feel as if the walls around my heart are beginning to come down. One crack, then three, then twenty, and all at once, the ice has melted and with it all of my fears, reservations, and insecurities. I move closer to Luc, first finding his hand, then his mouth.

  We’ve kissed before—small pecks in greeting and farewell—but nothing like this. My heart races as he pulls me closer to him, his fingers caressing my hair, my face, my neck. I touch him, too, feeling the outline of his cheekbones, his strong jaw, the lines of his collarbone under his dress shirt after I undo the top buttons.

  “I love you, Céline,” he whispers to me. “I have always loved you.”

  “I love you, too,” I say, the words slipping out of my mouth easily, like a reflex. I love you, too. It’s a catharsis to release these words, long held in my heart, into the space between us, and Luc practically eats them up.

  He pulls me closer, kissing me again with such passion, I wish we could be anyplace other than here. I want all of him, and I know he wants all of me.

  “I don’t ever want us to part,” I whisper, running my hand slowly down his torso.

  “Me either,” he says, pulling my hand to his lips and kissing each of my fingertips. “And that time will come soon, my love.”

  I nod, eyes fixed to his, hanging on his every word.

  “When I return, we’ll get married. I’ll care for you and Cosi, your father too. I’ll buy us a beautiful home. You’ll have everything you wish for, and Cosi will too.” He smiles and reaches for a peony stem in a vase on the coffee table. The work of Cosi, to be sure. She loves peonies. He hands me the flower, and I hold it to my nose with a smile. “My love,” he continues, “I’ll give you anything your heart desires. All the flowers in Paris, if you’d like them.”

  I grin, twirling the stem between my fingers. “All the flowers in Paris,” I say, loving his sentiment.

  He nods.

  “But I only want…you,” I whisper, blinking back tears.

  “And you have me,” he says, kissing my forehead. “You always have.”

  I smile. “Why me, when you could have any other woman?”

  He shakes his head. “No other woman would do. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

  I wipe away a tear. “Thank you for waiting for me.”

  “I wouldn’t have waited for anyone else,” he says, standing. He kisses me once more before reaching for his overcoat and heading to the door.

  Now I will be the one waiting, in a Paris so different from the one of our childhood. Luc will be out there, somewhere, and I’ll be here, waking and sleeping; putting one foot in front of the other; keeping my head down until the joyful day he returns.

  “I’ll be home before you know it. Promise me you’ll be safe.”

  He stands in the doorway, hair a little askew, a big smile plastered on his face, eyes beaming with love, so much love. If I owned a camera, I’d photograph this moment, just like this. Instead, I capture it with my mind.

  “I promise,” I say a beat later, memorizing the image of Luc and tucking it away in a safe place in my heart.

  “I love you,” he says. And then he is gone.

  CHAPTER 5

  CAROLINE

  Light streams brightly through the living room windows as I open my eyes, gazing around the strange apartment that is apparently my home. The events of the last few days, and nothing else, hover like a fog stubbornly lingering on the horizon, blocking my view of the world around me.

  I stand up and stretch, peeling off the jacket I fell asleep in, then tossing it on the back of the sofa. I find my way to the kitchen, where I rummage through the bag of groceries from the hospital. My stomach growls as I survey the contents: one baguette, a wedge of hard cheese, two peaches, a carton of cream, which I should have put in the refrigerator last night (oh well), a small bag of coffee beans, a hunk of salami, and a brown paper bag containing two chocolate croissants, one of which I reach for. My mouth waters as I sink my teeth into the flaky confection studded with chunks of dark chocolate. But as I swallow my second bite, I’m hit with a pang of doubt. Do I even eat sweets? I catch the reflection of my very thin figure in the kitchen window and envision the real me subsisting on carrot sticks and hummus. I consider setting the croissant down, but it tastes like heaven, so I finish it anyway.

  I peer into my refrigerator, surveying its meager contents: a dozen eggs (expired), a shriveled apple, a moldy block of cheese, and a lonely jar of jam. In the back is a carton of milk and a box of what looks like old takeout, which I dare not touch.

  There is no butter. No container of leftovers from a previous night’s homemade dinner. No dessert left chilling before a dinner party. Clearly, I do not cook. And maybe I don’t even eat.

  I wipe a croissant crumb off my face and survey the rest of the kitchen. It’s well appointed, with custom white cabinets fitted with brass knobs, black granite countertops, and an antique brass lantern hanging over the small island. Shiny copper All-Clad pots and pans, presumably never used, are stacked in the cabinets below. The pantry is bare, except for a box of oatmeal and an unopened bag of rice.

  I scour the kitchen drawers for any clues to the life I once led but only find a stack of junk mail, some pens, a lone clothespin, and, curiously, at least two dozen unsharpened pencils in varying colors. I feel a sudden tinge of…a memory? But as quickly as it appears, it disappears again.

  I sigh, defeated, then peruse the drawer beside the kitchen sink. Inside is a box of matches from a place called Bistro Jeanty and a phone number written on a scrap of paper, which I study for a long moment then tuck in my pocket along with the matches. Clues. They’re all I have now, I guess.

  I find my way to a tiny den beside the bedroom and notice a laptop, which I open and turn on. Of course, it’s password protected. I make a mental note to take it to the Apple Store. Maybe if I explain my situation they can help me unlock it?

  I smile to myself. It’s funny that, even with such a massive lapse in my life memories, I can still think of things like the Apple Store or know what a fork is or that a bed is for sleeping, or how to hard-boil an egg.

  “This is called passive knowledge,” Dr. Leroy has explained. “Knowledge that is embedded in you, but not personal to you.”

  Whatever this meant, or means, for now, I am currently a person without a story. But I feel more like a person without a soul.

  I walk out to the balcony facing the street and shiver as the cool morning breeze touches my skin. The sun shone so bright during these past days, one could almost forget that it is actually autumn. I watch as a single tawny-colored leaf falls from a maple tree on the street below, sailing in the breeze until it lands on a cobblestone in front of a café with a green awning.

  I take a deep breath and walk to my bedroom, where I bypass the stiff-looking black dresses in the closet and rummage through the dresser until I find a pair of jeans and a light blue T-shirt. I slip them on, then take in my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My eyes are blue, and my nose turns up a little at the tip. Do I look like my mother? My father? Are they still living?

  I wash my face, then brush my hair and pull it up in a bun, then find a canvas bag and collect my laptop before sliding my feet into a pair of sandals by the door. It feels silly to be surprised that they fit, but then ag
ain, everything feels surprising.

  “Hello there,” I say to a portly concierge when the elevator deposits me in the building’s foyer.

  He sniffs and turns to the door, busying himself with his pen and notebook.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, my voice a bit louder. “I just wanted to say…hello.”

  “Hello,” the man says quickly, as if my very presence is causing him a sharp pain.

  “I’m Caroline,” I say, extending my hand.

  He looks at me as if I am certifiably crazy.

  I smile, tucking my hand back in my pocket when he doesn’t take it. “You’ll have to forgive me. I was in an accident, and my memory’s a bit unsteady.”

  He sighs dismissively. “I heard.”

  “So we’re acquainted, then?”

  “Mademoiselle,” he says, without a shred of emotion. “I’ve been taking care of this building for thirty-five years. You’ve lived here for the last three. Yes, we are acquainted.”

  “Well, good then,” I continue. “Will you remind me of your name?”

  He gives me a long stare. “Monsieur de Goff.”

  “Is that what I should call you? Or do you go by—”

  “You may call me Monsieur de Goff.”

  “Of course,” I say as he opens the door for me. “Well, I’ll just be going now.”

  “Good day,” he says, though he might as well have said “Good riddance.”

  I shake off the grouchy doorman as I head out to the street. I have bigger things to worry about. But first…coffee. I don’t even know if I drink it, but it sounds like heaven right now, so I look around for a café. I remember the book of matches I’d found in my kitchen and tucked in my pocket. Bistro Jeanty. I eye the address and walk ahead, rounding one block, then two, until I see its sign in the distance.

  I place my hand on the door, cautiously, then walk in. At once, it feels familiar and foreign, with its little wooden tables and walls painted a deep crimson. Customers form a line at the counter, where a number of swift-moving waiters buzz to and from a shiny chrome espresso machine. Steam wafts in the air, along with the smell of freshly ground coffee. A woman in a navy suit jacket orders a double espresso and a pastry from the case. A couple walks in hand in hand behind me, requesting a table by the window. The place has a hum to it, a pulse, and for some reason, I feel a part of it.

  The hostess regards me cautiously. She’s pretty, about my age, but her eyes look very tired, as if she hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in far too long. She whispers something to another employee, who looks up at me, then hurries through the double doors leading to the kitchen. “Good morning, madame,” she finally says, her words stiff. “Your usual table?”

  My usual table? I suppose I must have come here often…before the accident. I look around hoping that some person, some table or light fixture, might jog my memory, but like everything else, it’s all a blur. “Uh, yes,” I finally say, and she leads me to a table tucked away in a dark corner in the back.

  “May I please order an espresso?”

  Her eyes widen. “You never have coffee.”

  “Oh,” I say, smiling. “I guess I just feel like it today.”

  “Very well,” she says, looking at me strangely.

  “Wait,” I say. “What’s your name?”

  She studies me quizzically. “Margot.”

  “I know we may have met before, but…I had an accident, and my memory is…well, it’s gone.”

  She nods at me as if I’ve just told her that I have a pet unicorn, then returns with a coffee, but no menu. Before I have a moment to inquire, a timid-looking man in his twenties deposits a plate before me. “Bon appétit,” he says, scurrying back to the kitchen.

  I look down at what is, presumably, my usual breakfast order: one poached egg, with nothing more than a dusting of black pepper, over a bed of wilted spinach. I notice the couple at a nearby table enjoying a quiche that looks freshly pulled from the oven. At another table, a man reads the newspaper between bites of a mouthwatering plate of eggs Benedict. I survey my breakfast with disappointment, then take a sip of coffee, just as a man wearing a white apron approaches. He’s distinguished-looking, with handsome, chiseled features and wavy dark hair, speckled with a little gray at the temples.

  “I trust we haven’t made any mistakes today,” he says with a cautious smile. His eyes are kind, if not familiar.

  “Mistakes?” I search his brown eyes. “Oh, no, no,” I say a moment later, glancing at my untouched breakfast and then back at him. “No, it’s…perfect. I’m just…” I sigh, gesturing toward the chair across from mine. “Do you have a minute to…sit down?”

  He seems surprised, even a little confused, but nods and slips into the chair at my table.

  I lean in and lower my voice. “The thing is,” I say, “I assume you know me, and that I’m a regular customer here. But I don’t remember you. I don’t remember anything. I had an accident and in the process, well, I lost my memory. I’m trying to piece together my life.”

  “Oh,” the man says. “I’m very sorry about your accident, and of course, I am at your service.”

  I extend my hand to him. “I suppose I should start with an introduction.” I feel the hostess’s eyes burning a hole through my right side. “I’m Caroline.”

  He takes my hand, equal parts amused and guarded. “I’m Victor. I own the place—at least, as of recently. Big shoes to fill, but I’m up for the job. I do most of the cooking, too, though I have a few excellent sous-chefs, which means I never have to chop onions, which I hate.”

  I smile, then point toward the hostess. “And Margot? Am I reading into things, or does she want to throw a menu at me right now?”

  Victor grins.

  “So that proves it. I’m a jerk.”

  He laughs. “No, no, you’re not a jerk.”

  “Then what am I?”

  He looks at me curiously. “I don’t know you well enough to say.”

  I sit back in my chair. “Fair enough. But if I owe anyone an apology, I hope someone would tell me.”

  “I’m sure there are no apologies necessary,” Victor says with a smile. “And don’t worry about Margot. She’s a single mother and commutes from the farthest part of the city. She has a lot on her plate.”

  I suspect there is something more he isn’t saying, but I don’t press him. I glance at my plate and frown. “If my breakfast order is any judge of my personality,” I say sarcastically, “I must be loads of fun.”

  Victor laughs. “Maybe you are.”

  I sigh, looking around the restaurant. “So you recently bought this place?”

  Victor clears his throat. “Yes, it’s a Paris landmark, you might say, owned by the same family for nearly one hundred years.” He pauses. “Stop me if I’m being redundant, or if you…remember something I’ve already told you.”

  “Do you know how badly I wish you were being redundant right now?”

  “Okay,” he says, grinning. “Anyway, I was shocked to see it come on the market and snatched it up as quickly as I could. I updated the menu a bit, but other than that, I didn’t make any big changes.”

  “Nor should you,” I say, looking around. “It seems…perfect.”

  “And loaded with history, too,” he continues. “Gertrude Stein, Hemingway, the Fitzgeralds—they all dined here. And when the Nazis pillaged Paris, these walls stood strong. The menu’s changed with the times, but we’ve always served a mean steak, a memorable breakfast, and a perfect martini.”

  “What more can you ask for?” I say with a smile.

  He nods. “I used to come here as a boy—every Sunday, with my mother. I looked forward to it all week, because it meant I could have crème brûlée for dessert and stay up past my bedtime.”

  “And did you always dream of buying it?”

 
He shakes his head, turning his gaze to a spot on the wall behind me, or rather, a place in his memory, far, far away. “No, not really. I never thought it would be a possibility. Besides, life took me in a different direction.” He pauses for a long moment. “But, yes, when the opportunity presented itself, it seemed like the right thing to do. Now, enough about me. It’s you we need to talk about.”

  I nod, taking a long sip of my espresso. “It seems so strange to ask someone I don’t know to tell me about myself. I wish you could fill in more details.”

  “Details, I’m not so sure. But I can give you a sketch.”

  “Please,” I say.

  He nods. “I know that you come in each morning at precisely seven-thirty A.M., not a minute before, or a minute after. You order the same thing.” He points to my plate. “A poached egg over a bed of spinach. You talk to no one.”

  I grin. “Clearly, a party animal.”

  He pauses for a long moment, looking at me as if I’ve just said the most peculiar thing.

  “What is it?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s just that…you’re smiling.”

  “And that’s strange…because?”

  He searches my eyes. “You never smile.”

  I rub the spot on my head that had been hit hardest in the accident. It’s still a little tender, but not painful the way it had been in the hospital. “Gosh,” I say. “I sound miserable.”

  He forces a smile. “I wouldn’t say miserable.”

  I grimace. “I sound pretty miserable.”

  “No, no, please, that isn’t the case,” he says reassuringly.

  “Then what? I’m just a recluse?”

  “No, Caroline, if you want my humble opinion…”

  “I do, please. Anything you can tell me.”

  He nods. “I think you’re just very…sad.”

  “Why?” I ask, leaning in closer to him as if this stranger somehow holds the key to unlock my memories—but, alas, he doesn’t.