That's Paris

by Vicki Lesage et al.

  I’ve never even read anything about Paris. Not a single thing. If hard-pressed, I think I could maybe come up with three facts1 about Paris:

  1. Something something Marcel Marceau.

  2. The Phantom of the Opera lives there and runs around yelling “THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERAAAAAAA” in everyone’s face all the time.

  3. There’s some sort of famous tower in Paris. Did you guys know about this? I have to say, it’s not exactly an original design. I’ve seen a lot of knick-knacks on clearance at HomeGoods that look AWFULLY SIMILAR.

  **FOOTNOTE HERE**

  1 Not actual facts.

  Still, despite my appalling lack of Parisian knowledge and experience, I do have a short tale to tell about La Ville-Lumière. (Yes, I did just look that up on Wikipedia. Wanna fight about it?) While I myself have never been to Paris, I just happen to know someone who has.

  It was 1999, and my friend Tommy was a young gay man full of hopes, dreams, four years of high school French and a yearning desire to visit the grave of Edith Piaf. Fortunately for him, one of his good friends relocated from the United States to Vichy, and a once-impossible dream of visiting France suddenly became a Much More Affordable Opportunity.

  Almost as soon as his travel plans were set in motion, I was summoned to Tommy’s apartment and assigned the tedious job of helping him fill his suitcase with what I’ll generously call “le Costume d’Eurotrash.” Tommy also asked me to help him brush up on his French, which was rusty since he hadn’t spoken a word of it since high school. In retrospect, this may have been a stupid idea, since my own French is limited to the following expressions:

  • Bonjour

  • Bon voyage

  • Merci beaucoup

  • Hors d’œuvres

  • Au Bon Pain

  Oh well. I did the best I could.

  Anyway. The time came for Tommy to wing his way to France. He spent a few marvelous weeks in Vichy with a group of warm, welcoming young people who taught him as much about the culture and language as he wanted to know. Within a very short period of time, and thanks to a wealth of patience and encouragement from his new French amis, he became more competent in the French language than he had ever been.

  By the end of his stay in Vichy, Tommy was speaking French around the clock. He might not have been fluent, exactly, but he was MAKING AN EFFORT. Which is more than can be said for most American tourists.

  Sadly, all good things must come to an end, and Tommy’s stay in the cordial French countryside did as well. He packed his bags and caught a train to Paris, where he was scheduled to fly back to the United States the next day.

  Upon his arrival in Paris, Tommy had some time to kill, so he found a café in which to drink a few glasses of wine and enjoy his last delicious meal in France. With his newfound cultural confidence, he lifted his hand to attract a nearby waiter’s attention.

  “Excusez-moi,” he politely said to the waiter. “Un vin blanc, s’il vous plaît.”

  The waiter looked down his nose at Tommy and replied in cold, perfect English:

  “Don’t even try.”

  And that’s everything I know about Paris.

  View From a Bridge

  Half Past Midnight

  Didier Quémener

  Louis-Philippe Bridge, île Saint-Louis, half past midnight.

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t opt for a late night dip. The Seine is a bit chilly this time of year…”

  Mélusine didn’t turn around.

  “You can think whatever you’d like, but you’re not me,” she said under her breath. “So you can’t judge a situation you know nothing about.”

  Cigarette in hand, Damien stared at the water, illuminated only by lights from the evening’s last fly boats.

  “In any case, you won’t get very far. With all of the people around here to call for help, they’ll drag you out in less than ten minutes. Your plan is far from perfect!”

  He approached the railing and leaned against it.

  “And I’ll be frank with you: I’d be kind of annoyed about wasting my cigarette after lighting up only a minute ago.” He took a drag.

  “Who asked you to? I didn’t. Go along your merry way and do your little display somewhere else.”

  “I see,” he said. “You’re a tough character. But at the moment, I’m not the one putting on a show. You are.”

  Damien turned to face her.

  “I’m Damien. And you?”

  “What difference does it make?” she asked sharply.

  “Well, if I know your name, I’ll come here, right to this spot, to see you at every half past midnight. Just to make sure you’re OK.”

  “I already have a psychiatrist. I don’t need a second. And it’s Mélusine.” For the first time, she looked at Damien.

  “Your psychiatrist’s name is Mélusine? That’s unusual!”

  “You’re a little slow, aren’t you?” she said, shaking her head. “That’s my name: Mélusine.”

  “Well, it is unusual.”

  “Do you ever come down to earth and stop talking in circles?” she asked in annoyance.

  “Rarely. I’m not convinced that most of the human race is truly worth that effort. But from time to time, through a chance encounter, one can discover something charming…”

  “Uh-oh. The outdated pick-up line that goes all the way back to the disco era! Did it ever work, even back then? I don’t think so.”

  Silence. Once again, Damien looked at the lights flickering in the calm water. Mélusine, filled with anger and frustration, studied him.

  “Why am I even wasting my time?” she asked. “First of all, I was here before you, so at least be polite and leave me alone. And keep your philosophy lessons for your next chance encounter!”

  “Let me guess,” he said. “This is all very recent. It happened perhaps two or three weeks ago. You thought he was the love of your life. He was attractive. Even his little flaws didn’t bother you. They made you smile. Then, one evening, he came home late. The reason? A few extra drinks with his friends. It happened a second time, then a third…”

  Mélusine listened, her mouth half open.

  “One day, without asking yourself why, you started doubting. That’s perfectly normal. It’s human instinct, you know. An evening that he came home late, while he was in the shower, you had a look at his cell phone. You didn’t know what you wanted to find, but you persisted. And then you quickly understood those so-called evenings with his buddies actually had a Spanish accent, was about five feet eight and had long, brown hair. Those ‘evenings’ were called Melinda.”

  Damien took a final drag on his cigarette. Spellbound, Mélusine only had the strength to take one step toward him. Finally, after several long minutes, her rage poured forth.

  “You bastard!” she shouted, approaching the edge of the bridge. “You bastard! You’re one of his goddamn friends, aren’t you? He sent you because she dumped him and now he regrets his bullshit? Poor idiots. That’s what both of you are: two poor idiots!”

  Damien smashed his cigarette butt into the ground. He didn’t flinch.

  “How do you know the whole story?” Mélusine asked. “He told you everything? All the gory details… No? Well, I’ll tell you the details. You’ll see. I’ll paint the real picture. I’ll tell you all about him and that girl—that bitch!”

  Hot tears ran down her cheeks, reddened from the cold air.

  “I’m really a fool,” she said, the anger in her voice turning to pain.

  “I’m not one of his friends. Not even an acquaintance. I’m here for you—not for him. And as I told you, I’ll come to see you at this same place over and over at half past midnight if that’s what it takes! Until I’m sure all of this is behind you. When this becomes a distant memory in the depths of your heart, when you forget the details, when you move forward.”

  Mélusine looked Damien straight in the eye.

  “Who are you, then? How do you know all of this? Tell me.” Her voice was cal
m.

  Damien glanced up at the starry night. Mechanically and without knowing why, Mélusine did the same. The full moon lit their faces.

  “Do you remember your twin?”

  That question was the last one Mélusine felt like hearing. Her legs trembled like those of a newborn.

  “Do you remember?” he repeated.

  “Of course I remember… No, what I mean is I don’t remember, but I know the whole story.”

  “Ask your mother for his real first name. Not the one they gave him for the records, but the name your parents wanted to give him if…”

  “You’re crazy! Call my mother at this hour? She’d have a stroke!”

  “Do it.”

  Not really knowing what she should do, Mélusine groped around in her bag until she found her phone. She scrolled down to her mother’s number and dialed before she could change her mind.

  “Mom? It’s me. Yes, everything’s fine. Don’t worry.”

  “What’s going on?” Her mother’s groggy voice crackled across the line. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Yes, I know… Listen, I have an important question. What was Arthur’s real first name?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Arthur, my twin. What was his name? I mean, what did you want to call him if…”

  Mélusine lowered her head and covered her other ear to better hear her mother’s words.

  “I can’t hear… Speak louder!”

  “Mel, what has gotten into you? Asking such questions in the middle of the night!”

  “I have to know, dammit! I’m not asking for the world! What difference does it make after all of these years?”

  “Before your birth, your father and I decided on names. You were born first, and we gave you the name Mélusine. Your brother arrived a few moments later… lifeless.”

  “I know all of that! But my question?”

  “Considering the circumstances, we were too distraught to give him the name we’d planned… But we had to give him a name for official records. Randomly, we chose ‘Arthur.’ We were in complete emotional turmoil. We were happy because you were healthy, yet devastated as we held your brother. His name would have been Damien.”

  Mélusine’s telephone tumbled to the bridge. She looked up, searching for Damien. The sidewalk was empty. She turned around, but she was alone. On the ground, the smoke from his cigarette dissipated little by little. In her heart, his words echoed like a soothing melody:

  I’ll come here, right to this spot, to see you at every half past midnight.

  Minuit et demi

  Didier Quémener

  Pont Louis-Philippe, île Saint-Louis : minuit et demi.

  — A votre place, j’éviterais le grand saut du bain de minuit. La Seine est un peu fraîche à cette époque de l’année.

  Mélusine ne se retourna pas.

  — Libre à vous de penser comme bon vous semble mais le fait est que vous n’êtes pas moi et que, par conséquent, vous ne pouvez pas juger une situation qui vous échappe, bafouilla-t-elle.

  Cigarette à la main, Damien fixait les reflets lumineux sur le fleuve que les derniers bateaux-mouches éclairaient.

  — De toute façon, vous n’irez pas bien loin. Ils vous sortiront de là en moins de dix minutes avec tout ce monde autour pour alerter les secours. Votre histoire est plutôt mal engagée !

  Il s’approcha du parapet et s’accouda.

  — En fait, je vais vous dire franchement : ça m’ennuierait quand même un peu de la gaspiller alors que je viens juste de l’allumer, dit-il agitant les cendres de sa cigarette par-dessus son épaule gauche.

  — Ne vous sentez surtout pas obligé ! Je ne vous ai rien demandé. Passez votre chemin et allez faire votre numéro ailleurs.

  — Je vois. Une coriace. Sauf que pour le moment, vous êtes celle qui se donne en spectacle, pas moi, ironisa-t-il.

  Damien fit un quart de tour dans sa direction.

  — Moi c’est Damien. Et vous ?

  — Ça changera quoi ? rétorqua-t-elle sèchement.

  — Ça changera que je reviendrai ici vous voir, au même endroit, chaque lendemain à minuit et demi précis… Histoire de faire le point.

  — J’ai déjà un psy. Mélusine. Pas besoin d’un deuxième, ajouta-t-elle s’adressant à Damien en le regardant pour la première fois.

  — Votre psy s’appelle Mélusine ? C’est pas banal !

  — Un peu lent à ce que je vois, dit-elle secouant la tête de gauche à droite, c’est mon prénom : Mélusine.

  — Ah oui, c’est bien ce que je disais : pas banal.

  — Dites, ça vous arrive de redescendre sur terre et de cesser de vous écouter parler de temps en temps ? lança-t-elle visiblement agacée.

  — Rarement, répliqua-t-il instantanément, je ne suis pas convaincu que la majorité de la race humaine en vaille vraiment la peine. Mais parfois en faisant de nouvelles rencontres fortuites, on se raccroche à quelque chose de presque charmant et vivant.

  — Oh-oh… La bonne vieille technique de drague lourde et ringarde qui date de la fin de l’ère disco ! Tellement faux, ça sonne tellement creux et faux !

  Un court silence s’était installé. Damien regardait de nouveau les dernières lumières sur l’eau qui retrouvait son calme nocturne. Mélusine le dévisageait, colérique et crispée.

  — Mais qu’est-ce que je fous à perdre mon temps ? s’exclama-t-elle. D’abord, j’étais là avant vous. Alors ayez la politesse de me laisser en paix. Et gardez vos leçons de philosophie pour vos prochaines rencontres comme vous dites !

  — Laissez-moi deviner… C’est tout récent, deux ou trois semaines, tout au plus. Vous voyiez en lui l’homme de votre vie. Il était beau, vous aimiez même ses petits défauts. Ses petites manies vous donnaient le sourire. Puis un soir il est rentré un peu tard. Le prétexte ? Une soirée un peu longue avec ses potes. Et puis une deuxième, une troisième…

  Mélusine écoutait, bouche bée, comme effrayée.

  — Un jour, sans même vous demander pourquoi, vous avez commencé à douter. Rien de plus normal, c’est instinctif chez l’humain. Un de ces soirs, alors qu’il était rentré toujours un peu plus tard et pendant qu’il prenait sa douche, vous avez cherché dans son portable. Vous ne saviez pas ce que vous vouliez trouver mais c’était plus fort que vous. Et vous avez vite compris que ces fameuses soirées entre potes avaient un petit accent latin, qu’elles mesuraient environ un mètre soixante-quinze, brune, cheveux longs et que ces « soirées » s’appelaient en fait Melinda.

  Damien tira la dernière bouffée. Médusée, Mélusine n’eut la force que de faire un simple pas vers lui. Après de longues minutes, elle se mit à crier :

  — Espèce de salaud ! Espèce de salaud ! hurla-t-elle se précipitant vers le bord du pont. Tu es un de ses copains de beuverie, hein ? C’est ça ? Il t’envoie parce que l’Espagnole l’a largué et qu’il regrette ses conneries ? Pauvres types… Toi et lui : deux pauvres cons !

  Damien restait de marbre. Il écrasa son mégot sur le sol.

  — Comment tu sais tout ça, hein ? Il s’en est vanté ? Il t’a donné des détails ? Non ? Mais je vais t’en donner moi des détails sur son comportement… Tu vas voir : je vais l’habiller pour l’hiver ! Et l’Espagnole avec, cette salope !

  De chaudes larmes recouvraient les pommettes saillantes de Mélusine, rougies par le froid.

  — Je suis vraiment trop conne, conclut-elle, la colère retombant légèrement.

  Damien se dressa face à elle.

  — Ni un de ses potes, ni même une connaissance. Je suis là pour toi, pas pour lui. Et comme je te le disais, je reviendrai ici te voir, au même endroit, chaque lendemain à minuit et demi précis s’il le faut ! Jusqu’à ce que je sois certain que tout cela est derrière toi. Que ça devienne du passé enfoui, là au fond de ton cœur, que tu en oublies la plupart et que tu ailles de l’avant.

  Mélusine releva le visage. Elle regarda Damien droit dans les yeux.

  — Tu es qui a
lors pour savoir tout ça ? Vas-y, explique-toi ! interrogea-t-elle plus calmement.

  Damien jeta un coup d’œil vers la nuit étoilée. Sans réfléchir, Mélusine fit de même. La pleine lune illuminait leurs fronts.

  — Tu te souviens de ton jumeau ?

  La question sembla asséner le coup de grâce. Les jambes de Mélusine tremblaient, fragiles comme celles d’un nouveau-né.

  — T’en souviens-tu ? insista Damien.

  — Evidemment que je m’en souviens… Enfin, non je ne m’en souviens pas mais je connais toute l’histoire ! répondit-elle.

  — Demande à ta mère qu’elle te donne son vrai prénom. Pas celui de sa naissance qui figure l’état civil, son vrai prénom : celui qu’elle voulait lui donner si…

  Damien s’interrompit.

  — Tu es fou ! A cette heure, appeler ma mère ? Elle va faire une attaque ! lança Mélusine inquiète.

  — Fais-le, reprit Damien.

  Ne sachant pas réellement ce qu’elle devait faire, Mélusine fouilla dans son sac. Elle chercha mécaniquement le numéro de sa mère dans le répertoire de son portable et appela avant de perdre courage.

  — Maman ? Oui c’est moi… C’est moi Mélusine ! Oui, oui tout va bien, ne t’inquiète pas…

  — Qu’est-ce que tu veux ? Tu as vu l’heure qu’il est ! répondit une voix enrouée.

  — Oui, je sais… Ecoute-moi, c’est important : quel est le vrai prénom d’Arthur ? demanda Mélusine empressée.

  — Quoi ? Qu’est-ce que tu racontes ?

  — Arthur, mon jumeau ! Quel est son véritable prénom ? Enfin je veux dire : comment tu voulais l’appeler si…

  Mélusine baissa la tête et se couvrit l’autre oreille.

  — Je t’entends mal… Parle plus fort !

  — Mais enfin Mel, qu’est-ce qu’il te prend de me demander une chose pareille au milieu de la nuit ?

  — J’ai besoin de savoir ! Bon sang, ce n’est quand même pas la mer à boire ! Qu’est-ce que ça peut faire après toutes ces années ? dit-elle en haussant le ton.