by Sarah Jio
“Sorry,” he says with a shrug. “I wish I could be more helpful.” He stands up when he hears his name called from the kitchen.
“Wait,” I say. “Is there anything else, at all, that you can tell me? How could it be that I’m such a sad, miserable, grouchy person?” I glance at Margot again and shake my head regretfully. “I must have snapped at her at some point.”
He tightens his apron. “When working in restaurants, you learn a lot about humanity. You see it all, from the beautiful to the ugly, and all the various shades in between. One thing I’ve come to learn over the years is that hurt people hurt people.”
“Hurt people hurt people,” I say, repeating his words. “Wow.”
He nods. “You may not know why, Caroline, but you are hurting.”
I expectantly hang on his every word, but he offers me no more. “I’m sorry. I have to get back to the kitchen. But I’ll see you tomorrow for poached egg over spinach.”
I may be a hurt person, but I decide that I won’t be one who hurts others. Not anymore. And it’s time I begin eating food that tastes good. “Thank you, but tomorrow, I think I’ll have quiche instead.”
“Excellent idea,” he says with a smile.
* * *
—
THE STREETS OF Paris feel like a maze. I gaze up at the apartment buildings hovering over the narrow streets, balconies brimming with pink geraniums. Do I turn right, or left? It’s hard to believe I have apparently succeeded in living here for three years. I stop and ask an older woman for directions in French; my words sound sophisticated and savvy as they pass my lips. I wonder what other latent skills I possess. Perhaps I can do splits or recite the Pledge of Allegiance backward. The more I discover about myself, the more confused I feel.
I spot the Apple Store in the distance and find my way through its doors and to a female sales clerk with a nose ring and hair streaked with blue. I explain my problem, in English, as she looks at me skeptically. “You’ll have to wipe it,” she finally says in French.
I shake my head. “But you don’t understand. I have amnesia. I had an accident, and I was in the hospital for a week.” I hold up my laptop. “I need to access this computer.”
She stares at me blankly, as if I have just walked in and told her that I am Steve Jobs’s daughter, and I would like her to box up one of every device in the store and charge the company account, thank you very much.
“Please,” I say.
She radios to someone on her headset, and a man in his fifties appears a minute later.
“I’m sorry,” he says robotically. “I’m afraid we can’t help you, as your device is password protected.” He opens my laptop and points to the screen. “While you won’t be able to access the password-protected area, you can log in as a guest user. In this way, at least the device will be functional.”
“Thanks,” I mutter dejectedly as I head to the door.
* * *
—
I WALK FOR a long time, aimlessly, until the streets start to look familiar again. My inner compass must know how to get me home, and eventually I see Bistro Jeanty in the distance. It’s almost seven o’clock, and my stomach is growling. I think of the owner, Victor, and how kind he’d been to me this morning. Would it be weird to go back for dinner?
I remember what he said about steak and set aside my hesitation. A different hostess greets me when I walk in the door, this one older and with dark hair. I can’t tell if she knows me or not. “Just one?” she asks. I nod. The restaurant is busy, but I notice an open spot at the bar, and she leads me over to the counter, leaving me with a menu and a glass of water.
I pull my phone, freshly charged at the Apple Store, from my bag and am grateful it isn’t password protected. I open my messages, but all of my texts appear to be deleted. My contacts don’t provide much interest, either—only a list of names I don’t recognize. There’s no Facebook or Twitter app to comb through, so I open the photo folder, only to find two lone images: one of the backyard of a house, with palm trees and a pool. It reminds me of the painting on the wall in the apartment, the one with the bowl of lemons. The next photo is of two figures on a beach somewhere. A man and a little girl, holding hands, backs turned to the camera.
Strange. Why just these photos and no others?
“Excuse me,” a man behind me says, tapping my shoulder. “Caroline?”
“Yes,” I say, tucking my phone in my bag and turning around to face him. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
“It’s me, Jean-Paul.” He’s tall and well dressed, good-looking, to be sure. “You may have had a few glasses of wine the other night, but surely you remember.”
“Oh yes, of course,” I say, playing along. I don’t want to be rude.
“Is that seat taken?” he asks, pointing to the stool beside me.
“No, no,” I say.
“Great,” he says, smiling and taking the seat beside me. “It’s good to see you again. Did you get my message?”
I study his face cautiously. Obviously, we are acquainted. But how? I scan the restaurant for Victor, hoping he might be able to connect the dots, but I don’t see him. “Oh, no, I’m sorry,” I say awkwardly, fumbling with my purse.
“I called you a few times.”
“I’ve been…busy.”
“That’s okay,” he continues, grinning. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Sure,” I say, just as Victor walks out from the kitchen. His eyes meet mine immediately, but he doesn’t approach. Instead, he hands something to the hostess, then slips back behind the double doors.
My companion motions for the bartender and orders us each a martini. The first sip hits me like a punch to the face, but it feels good. I take another sip, and then another, and in a few minutes, I’m warm all over, and a little numb.
“What did you say your name was again?” I ask.
“Jean-Paul,” he says with a laugh. “You must have had more wine than I thought the other night.” He orders us a second round of drinks and begins to tell me about the lecture he gave today at the university, where he is a professor of one subject or another. I half listen, but really, I’m watching the kitchen to see if Victor will appear through the double doors. By the time my third drink has arrived, so has my steak, and I devour each bite as Jean-Paul discusses the merits of existential thinking in the modern age, or something like that. After the first martini, I’d given up all hope of following his very big ideas. By half past nine, I feel lighter than a feather, and I hardly notice when his hand slips under the bar and touches my leg.
“This has been so fun,” he says.
Has it? I wonder. I barely remember saying anything other than “oh,” “yeah,” “no,” “that’s great.” Frankly, I barely remember anything he said. But there’s music playing, and he’s nice to look at, and who else do I have to sit beside me at a bar?
“May I walk you home?” he asks, leaning closer to me, just as Victor appears behind the bar.
“Well hello again,” Victor says, refilling my water glass, then nodding at Jean-Paul. I can’t tell if they know each other, but something about their exchange is…tense.
“We’ll just settle up the bill now,” Jean-Paul says.
“No dessert?” Victor asks.
“Not for us,” he says.
“A shame.” He looks at me. “Not even crème brûlée?”
“Yes, please,” I say. “At least, for me.”
Victor rattles off our order to the kitchen, and within moments, the most heavenly caramelized confection sits before me.
Jean-Paul dips his spoon in first, then sets it down. “A bit too sweet for my taste.”
I try it next and close my eyes as the flavors swirl in my mouth. “It’s perfect.”
“How about another drink?” Jean-Paul suggests.
Before I can reply, Victor p
ipes in, looking right at me. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
His intention may be coming from the right place, but his tone reads as judgmental, and it rubs me the wrong way.
“You make a good point,” Jean-Paul says, handing Victor his credit card. “Why have another drink here when we can go back to your apartment?”
I think I detect a fleck of regret or concern or…something…in Victor’s eyes, but it’s gone in a flash. Jean-Paul stands and heads to the door as I fumble for my bag. The martinis have kicked in, and I steady myself as I rise to my feet.
“Be careful,” Victor whispers to me across the bar. “That one’s a shark.”
I let his words sink in, and yet I wonder: If Victor is genuinely concerned about me, why isn’t he offering to walk me home himself? Besides, Jean-Paul seems nice enough, if a little self-absorbed.
“Good night,” I say to Victor as Jean-Paul slips his arm around my waist.
* * *
—
“HERE WE ARE,” I say when we arrive in front of my apartment. “Thank you for dinner. It was a fun night.”
“What, you’re not going to invite me to come up? You know I have a thing for the historical spaces on the rue Cler. You’re torturing me.”
For a brief moment, I consider shooing him away, but then I see a flash of movement to my right. Though it’s hardly detectable in the dim street light, I think I see someone’s shadow peering around the building ahead, but it quickly vanishes.
“Did you see that?” I ask Jean-Paul.
“What?”
“Well,” I say, stumbling a little, “I’ve had way too much to drink.”
“Then let me help you up,” he says, reaching for my hand before tucking his arm firmly around my waist. Suddenly everything begins to spin. The lamppost above me strobes, and as Jean-Paul’s face comes in and out of focus, my body goes limp.
* * *
—
I OPEN MY eyes and gasp, momentarily confused about my whereabouts, but then the scene comes into focus: I am on my living room couch, with a blanket draped over me. I sit up, clutching my head, and glance at the clock on the wall: 3:34 A.M. The previous evening’s memories come screaming in. Jean-Paul. Martinis. Bistro Jeanty. Victor’s disapproving gaze. I must have passed out. Did Jean-Paul carry me upstairs? I look down at myself, grateful to see that I am still fully clothed but also horrified that I risked my own safety. I vow never to drink martinis again and quench my parched throat with three glasses of water in the kitchen.
I let out a defeated sigh as I walk to my bedroom, where I take off my clothes, then select an oversized T-shirt from the top drawer, which smells like lavender, and…something I can’t quite place. I pull it over my head, and before I shut the drawer, a fleck of green catches my eye. I reach to the back and pull out a carefully folded man’s linen button-down shirt. It’s short sleeved, with a faded palm print, like something a guy would wear on a tropical vacation, or in an ad for Tommy Bahama. Whose is this, and why have I kept it in my drawer?
A phone rings from what sounds like the kitchen—the landline I didn’t know I had. I run down the hall as it continues to ring. It might as well be a fire alarm or air-raid siren, because the shrill sound sends shivers up my spine.
“Hello?” I say, heart racing as I wait for the caller to speak, but there is only faint breathing, and then a click.
I hang up the phone and stare at it for a long moment. Who would call at this hour? I decide to put it out of my mind and walk back down the hall, but before I turn to my bedroom, a flash of light catches my eye. The door to the third bedroom at the end of the hall is cracked open, and a spray of moonlight projects onto the floor, enticing me to peek my head in.
The hinges squeak as I open the door wider and walk inside. About half the size of the master bedroom, it contains just a double bed and one side table and a small desk by the window. Something about the space doesn’t fit the rest of the house, but I can’t quite pinpoint why. Perhaps it’s the light fixture, which looks more dated than the modern selections in the rest of the apartment? I run my hand against the plaster wall, feeling the peeling paint and deep cracks beneath my fingertips, and then it hits me. While the entire apartment has been remodeled, this room remains veritably untouched. Why? I peer out the window, where the moon hangs low over the rue Cler, and for a moment, I could be anyone, at any time in the history of Paris. A little girl wishing on a star before school the next morning. An expectant mother humming a song on Christmas Eve. An old woman praying for safety during the Nazi occupation. Whoever had once lived here, in this very bedroom, somehow, I can feel her presence.
As the moon slips behind a cloud, I switch on the little lamp on the bedside table, which immediately casts a menacing shadow above the closet. I pull the two brass knobs, opening its doors and releasing a blast of stale air, which smells like an old attic layered in dust and forgotten memories. There are no clothes inside, just a few lone hangers and the remnants of floral wallpaper that has long since faded and peeled. I reach up to the top shelf, displacing an avalanche of dust, before kneeling down to have a look at a decorative wrought-iron grate in the wall, the remnants of an old heating system that has long since been updated. I press my hand against the grate, and when it pops back into the space behind the wall, I crouch in closer to retrieve it, extending my fingers into the dark crevice, where I detect an object of some sort. I extend my hand deeper, until I am able to grasp a small wooden box, which I set on the bed and examine in the light.
It appears to be an old cigar box. I blow a thick layer of dust off its surface and carefully release the delicate clasp. Inside is a tidy stack of yellowed envelopes tied with a strand of twine, which I pull loose. I examine the first envelope, which is addressed to a Mr. Luc Jeanty. The next one is, too, and the next. But there are no stamps or postmarks on the letters. In fact, they appear to have never even been sent. Who left these here, and why?
I slide my finger along the seam of the first envelope and pull out the two carefully folded pages inside, studying the beautiful handwriting as I move closer to the light. The words are in French; I read them easily.
My dearest Luc,
While you’re away, I have decided to write you letters to pass the time. Time is all we have now, and I cling to it. Every second, minute, day until you are home, and we are reunited. And we will be, I know it. I feel it. If not on this earth, in heaven.
It’s challenging to stay positive in these grim times, to hold firm to the idea that good will eventually overcome evil, that in the end, love will always overcome hate. But we must persevere. We must draw on the love we have for each other and let it be our strength.
I don’t know where you are, but I pray you are safe. I pray for you every day, in the morning when I wake, and at night when I close my eyes. It gives me comfort to think of you praying for me, too. I know you must be.
I need your prayers now more than ever. I am in trouble and deeply afraid. I don’t know if this letter will ever find its way to you, but I will continue to write to you just the same. I long for the day when this is all behind us, when we are together again.
I love you with every ounce of my being.
Yours forever,
Céline
Before I tuck the letter back into the envelope, I return to the first page to examine the date—October 18, 1943—and my eyes widen. That was wartime and, if I’m correct, the height of the occupation of Paris. I return to my bedroom and set the cigar box on my bedside table before crawling under the covers. I shiver as a draft of cool air hits my skin, and I pull the blanket around me tighter. I feel like a stranger in my bed, and also in the world. I’m too exhausted to think about my life, my problems. Instead, I think of Céline. Who was she, and how did her letters end up in my apartment?
My eyelids are heavy, and when I close them, I feel mys
elf slipping into that space between sleep and waking. It’s as if I’m standing at the center of a bridge that connects each side. In the distance, I hear the distinct sound of palm fronds in the breeze, and then the giggle of a little girl. “Look, Mama, look!” she says, jumping into a pool with a noisy splash. I feel the droplets of water hit my face. It’s enough to make me open my eyes, to sit up in bed, but I don’t. I want to stay here, just a little longer. My eyes flutter closed as a man appears in the distance. I can’t see his face, but I know him. A wind chime hangs from the eaves of the house, jingling in the breeze.
The rustling of the palm trees fades away as quickly as it came, and when I open my eyes the next morning in my strange Paris apartment with secrets seemingly hiding in every corner, I blink back tears. I have no memory or understanding of the life I once led, but for the first time, I am acutely aware that I sorely and deeply long for it.
CHAPTER 6
CÉLINE
SEPTEMBER 30, 1943
“Don’t you love autumn, Mama?” Cosi asks, nestling her head into the crook of my arm.
“Yes, love,” I say, smoothing her raven-colored hair. I don’t tell her that this is the first autumn that I haven’t loved—in fact, that I’ve even despised. Yes, there are pumpkins at the market and the trees are starting to turn glorious shades of crimson, yellow, and burnt orange, but the city is not ours anymore, and Luc is not in it.
I received a letter from him a week ago. It arrived last Tuesday, with no return address, and our postman, Gustave, handed it to me with a wink. “A special one for you today, Céline.”
But as excited as I was to tear open the envelope, my heart sank when I read his words—cold, brief, and utterly foreign.
Dear Céline,
A beautiful day in the south of France.
Nothing is like home, however.
Give my best to Cosi, and your father.