That's Paris

by Vicki Lesage et al.

  “Do you know that when you attach one of those locks to the bridge, you’re violating it? Read this, and you’ll understand.” But not many people wanted to understand. They didn’t want to read my carefully prepared document detailing the structural and environmental damage caused by the locks. They were only interested in writing their names on locks and fastening them to the bridge’s railings to attach their love story to the story of Paris.

  In the best scenario, my audience had ignored me. In the worst, they had doused me with water and told me to go fuck myself. My gentle tactics clearly hadn’t worked. So after days of putting up with verbal abuse, it was time to be bold. I returned to the bridge at dusk and attached myself to it with my bicycle chain. A few people giggled, and others looked shocked. But, in all the hours I had spent on that bridge, this was the first time no one dared to fasten a lock… or even approach the railing.

  Except one person. I saw him out of the corner of my eye. By now, night had fallen and my tired eyes scanned the pages of a classic I promised myself I would read before classes started in the fall. He seemed to be looking for something amid the layers of locks, and he was so absorbed in his search that he stepped on my foot. My toe now seemed as bright as the chipped, red nail polish I should have removed days ago.

  “Excuse me!” he exclaimed as I let out a cry. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “Forget it. I’m fine. What are you doing anyway, fiddling around there over my head?”

  “Looking for a lock.”

  “Are you kidding? Do you actually think you’re going to find some old lock in that mess of metal?”

  “I think I remember where we put it…”

  I shook my head and gazed through the misty gas-lamp light illuminating the river. Upside-down images of buildings and trees cast dark spots along the edges. And then there were the locks. Dark chunks of ugly metal growing across the bridge like aggressive tumors.

  “You’re a part of this, then,” I said.

  He stopped and looked down at me. For the first time, I saw his face. Beautiful on one side, marred on the other by a jagged scar. Like the bridge. I lowered my gaze for an instant. Enough time to mask the surprise.

  “It’s not like I put up every lock on this bridge!” he said. “You don’t have to be so accusatory. You make it sound as if I’m in a conspiracy against mankind or something!”

  “Fuck you… and all of you who hide behind everyone else! It’s easy to say you weren’t the first and to follow the crowd. That way, no one takes responsibility. Instead, you get defensive and then yell at the person who says what you don’t want to hear. I know. I’ve seen that kind of shit all week.”

  “You’ve been here all week?”

  “Chained, no. Unchained, yes. Chained worked better than unchained.”

  He lowered himself to the ground beside me, continuing his search and talking at the same time.

  “How long are you going to stay here? Chained, I mean…”

  “Well, I guess I’ll eventually have to pee or take a shower. I didn’t plan it out… I just needed to make this statement, to do something.”

  “Found it.” His words were filled with both satisfaction and regret.

  “OK, you found your lock. Now what? Are you going to, like, take a picture with it or kiss it? I discourage the kissing. Too many hands have touched those locks.”

  He smirked, yet his eyes, now nearer to me, seemed sad. They looked almost golden in the dimness.

  “I’m unlocking it.” He pulled a small key out of the pocket of his jeans, released the lock and tossed it into the trash can a few feet away.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Our story is over. We broke up today.”

  “You only wanted to get rid of your lock because the relationship is over? Typical. You’re not doing this because you care about the bridge or our environment.”

  “Typical of what? Of everyone except you? Of everyone who cares more about relationships and people than inanimate objects and vague ideas? You’re a strange girl… uh… I don’t know your name…”

  I froze. I didn’t need to have my personal life dissected by some stranger. Did I really want to tell him that I was an ordinary girl who grew up in a farmhouse an hour from the city? Did I want to say that, there, watching my grandfather work, I learned to appreciate well-built structures and natural resources? And did I want him to know that in spite of the poor outcome of my recent dates, I cared about relationships probably as much as anyone else? No, no and no.

  And then, before I could decide whether to snap back or not snap back, two sets of heavy black shoes settled nearly toe-to-toe with my flip flops. I looked up and straight into the faces of the police officers.

  Then came the list of questions I should have expected, should have been ready to answer. Instead, I had been so focused on making a statement that I hadn’t thought of the consequences. And that is how I found myself being carted off to the police station just before midnight. The young man I had been speaking with was no longer in sight.

  I sat under the neon lights for I don’t know how long. The outside of the station might have looked like the entrance to a dungeon centuries ago, but the inside was typical of a bland 1970s office with brown linoleum floors and stark white walls.

  At least I had my book, but I kept reading the same passages over and over because I couldn’t concentrate. Behind my poker face and nonchalant attitude, I was quaking with fear. It’s not like I was used to being arrested. The most illegal thing I’d ever done was smoke a joint at my best friend’s birthday party last year. This was decidedly new territory for me.

  Finally, one of the officers I saw earlier called me into her office. I gave her the basics. Name? Anna Citron. Yes, I know it’s funny that my last name means “lemon” in French. Age? 19. Yes, I know I’m lucky that I’m not a minor, and you don’t have to embarrass me by calling my parents or guardians about this. Address? Rue Cardinal Lemoine. And yes, I know that Hemingway once lived on that street. But I live in a different building, and I’m not a writer. Just a literature student and I’m not sure what I’m going to do when I graduate. What the hell were you doing, Ms. Citron? Protecting the bridge, which is more than any of you have been able to do.

  The police officer sighed, shook her head and leaned across the table toward me.

  “Look, we could have you spend the night here. We could make a big deal out of it. But considering it’s a first offense, if you can control the attitude, we can go easy.”

  I nodded, not quite sure what I was agreeing to, yet it didn’t seem I had much of a choice.

  “First of all, Ms. Citron, we don’t want to see you chaining yourself to bridges again. This will be on your record. If you want more control over the law, go into politics. Now, let me see what I can do about the fine…”

  “Fine?” I raised my eyebrows and thought about my meager budget.

  She retreated into a back room, giving me plenty of time to worry and do mental calculations that in many cases involved me skipping meals and hocking a few pieces of inexpensive jewelry.

  After another hour under the neons, I was a free woman. Thanks to some stranger who convinced them not only to let me go, but to waive the fine. I recognized him, half beauty, half beast, waiting in the lobby. His name was Justin.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled. “How did you swing that one?”

  We were back on the street now, walking in the direction of the Seine.

  “My motorcycle accident happened right around the corner… I got to know a few of the officers over there pretty well.”

  “The scar?”

  “Yeah, along my arm and down the leg too.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Two years ago, on my way to pick up Pauline.”

  “The girl you just broke up with?”

  “She broke up with me.”

  “Well, too bad for her!”

  “That’s nice of you, but I doubt she sees it that way. I
think, for a long while, she felt guilty about my accident and the injuries… and a relationship can’t be built on guilt.”

  “It was wrong of you to say that I care more about inanimate objects!” I snapped at him suddenly. “If I did, I wouldn’t be feeling sad for you right now. I just so happen to care about people and the environment.”

  “Wanna sit down?” he asked.

  I sat on Justin’s good side, seeing the smoothness of one cheek. We dangled our legs over the edge of the riverbank. From afar, we heard laughter, crying and conversations. The sounds of a city that never sleeps.

  “Why did you get me out of there, anyway?”

  “I was curious.”

  “About what?”

  “You. A girl who would chain herself to a bridge…”

  “You thought I was a freak.”

  “Initially. But then I changed my mind. So what’s your story?”

  “If you think I hate the idea of romance or resent those supposedly happy couples sealing their love through metal, you’re dead wrong.” My snappy voice was back.

  “I’m not thinking anything in particular…”

  “Romance is something completely different. But that’s another subject. The point is, I walked along the Pont des Arts so many times a few years ago, before the locks disfigured it. My last photo with my grandma was on that bridge. She pretty much raised me, out in the countryside… She would take me to the city a lot during the summer. I guess it’s hard to see things change, and to accept that, when all you want is for things to go back to the way they used to be.”

  Strangely, I didn’t feel the discomfort that usually would have arisen after such a declaration. Instead, I felt almost a sense of peace.

  Justin’s hand touched mine on the cool stone. I didn’t move away. I caught his eye and smiled for the first time since we met. Slowly, the sky had been transforming itself from dark to light, from monochrome to multicolored.

  “Do you think you’ll do it again?” Justin asked.

  “You mean chain myself to the bridge?”

  He nodded.

  “Not alone.”

  Justin smiled at me and shook his head. And then the two of us walked toward the sunrise.

  Cafés and Sidewalks

  The Little Book of Funerals

  Laura Schalk

  You think it makes you look interesting to write in a notebook while you’re sitting alone in a café instead of like someone who has no friends or acquaintances in this city—someone who doesn’t know a single person to invite for an apéritif.

  You use a fountain pen and a spiral notebook with thick creamy pages lined in pale blue. You pretend to be jotting down profound thoughts, but you are really transcribing the fruits of your eavesdropping, which has become compulsive.

  Surely people will wonder what that interesting-seeming woman is writing, you think. What has she observed that sent her hand groping inside her leather bag for a pen? And they will want to talk to you, and maybe they will.

  Café Martin is a good place for this, you decide, where someone might notice you and strike up a conversation. The tables are close together, and the clientele is verbose. These people are more prone to talking about themselves than tapping on or peering at electronic devices like the patrons do at Chez Irène next door.

  At Café Martin, others accompany their anecdotes with sweeping hand gestures that rarely knock cutlery off the tightly packed tabletops, though you keep your elbows clamped to your torso, suppressing your sprawling American tendencies.

  Today you settle at a two-top away from the sidewalk, under the awning but next to the sunlit tables which are popular with the lightly clad demographic: men and women in careful t-shirts who favor oversize sunglasses and angle their faces upward while talking. Tanning trumps etiquette at Café Martin; it’s not necessary to look at your conversation partner here. Maybe your mother’s strictures really were suburban bullshit, not applicable outside the borders of New England.

  “Suddenly I’m like, ‘Oh my God I think I made out with your father when I was seventeen,’” announces a blonde who looks to be in her mid-30s.

  “You said that to him?” Her companion has a careless updo and a pale pink, glossy moue.

  “No, no, I just thought it. They have the same last name, and his father’s in industry all right.”

  “Did it make you more or less inclined to sleep with him?”

  “I’ve been asking myself that question all morning. I couldn’t decide last night whether it would be grotesque or hot to kiss two generations of d’Hautevilles.”

  You think “grotesque,” and the other girl agrees.

  The waiter sets down a small pot heaped with glistening cubes of fried bread, dusted with salt and fines herbes next to your second glass of Chablis. Your excitement causes you to miss several minutes of your neighbors’ conversation.

  When the pot is almost empty, you realize you have been licking your fingers after each cube dissolves in your mouth, and your wine glass is smeared with greasy fingerprints. The paper napkin under the glass has disintegrated. You furtively wipe your hands on your skirt.

  “So what’s the deal with Fred? I still think he’s gay,” says the blonde.

  “Who cares? He’s such a mama’s boy he probably couldn’t get it up with anybody unless his mother personally approved the candidate.” Marie—you have decided her name is Marie though you haven’t heard the women call each other by name—twists a frond of hair that has fallen over her shoulder, and jams it into the clip on the crown of her head. She looks tousled, ready to climb into or out of bed, which you suppose is the intended effect.

  You are a lamprey, an empty sack, you decide, and ask for the bill.

  ~~~~

  “That’s not interesting, it’s weird,” says Sophie on the phone that evening. “Why don’t you just move back? You can house-sit for my in-laws until you find a sublet. They’re on a Galapagos turtle rescue mission for the foreseeable future. You’ve got the settlement, and the rest of your mom’s annuity. You could not work for awhile.”

  “Is that the world’s worst pick-up line ever? ‘I think I made out with your father when I was seventeen.’”

  “Conceivably. I don’t recommend you try it. Have you been trying out pick-up lines?”

  “No,” you say in a small voice. “No, no, no, no, no.”

  “Come back,” Sophie says. “It’s OK to quit your job.”

  “I just got here,” you say. “I’m still settling in. I was unsettled for the first few months.”

  “Okay, but you don’t need to be a martyr. At some point, settling in has to become living a normal life. Working twelve hours a day and talking to your friends on another continent for human companionship doesn’t feel like that to me.”

  You can’t explain to Sophie how horribly afraid you are. You won’t describe your conviction that if you give up and run away, you’ll never achieve anything and be condemned to exist purely through mirroring others’ experiences until you die. You can’t go back, you think, after having lived abroad, gotten your work visa and your foreign apartment and your nominative contract with France Telecom. It’s a small achievement in the grand scheme of things, but an important one in the scope of your life.

  You think the beep-beep in your ear is a problem with the connection, but it’s Sophie’s call waiting. She apologizes, and says she needs to take the call. She offers to ring back, but you say you are about to go to bed anyway.

  ~~~~

  Your friend Carey has attended more funerals than anyone else you know. She is a font of good advice—on etiquette, attire, the appropriate length for commemorative remarks, what to carry in one’s purse (an actual handkerchief and not Kleenex, breath mints, face powder.) It is permitted to smoke outside, in the parking lot for example, but not graveside. You need a good manicure—everyone will want to hold your hand.

  You decide that co-hosting two memorials in six months makes you something of an expert yourself and tha
t others could benefit from your acquired experience. The hand cream, the one-and-a-half medicinal glasses of wine before the proceedings commence, the most expensive control-top pantyhose: These are your own additions to Carey’s playbook.

  You start a special section in your notebook devoted to funerals, but not referencing your people who died.

  ~~~~

  It’s difficult to eavesdrop on the couple sitting next to you. They don’t speak much—to each other or to the newborn they’ve brought to the terrace of Café Martin. The baby is zipped into a fleecy sack in the thin sunlight. You resort to staring obliquely, through lowered lashes, which hurts your eyes after a moment.

  The father tears into a large bloody steak. The mother strips all the flesh from a lamb shank, separating a tower of meat from the bone before forking the glistening filaments into her mouth. These parents exchange slow smiles when they pass the infant back and forth to each other. Occasionally, one or the other will get up and walk with the tiny thing when it wails. The baby’s cheeks are the size of apricots and stippled with a bright red rash. Its arms make you think of macaroni for some reason.

  A woman with brittle white-blonde hair eating alone a few tables away calls out gaily, “We’ve all been there! Oh it can be difficult when they’re that age! Courage to you!” Reddish, crêpey skin hangs over her breastbone. Her bracelets clack on the tabletop.

  A waitress stops, balancing a tray of dirty plates on her hip-bone, and says, “Ah, but once they sleep through the night the parents can go back to normal for a few years.”

  A middle-aged couple who have just sat down both laugh. The man rumbles, “Yes, you can be tranquil until they hit adolescence. Then you stop sleeping again, wondering what the little angels are up to and when they’ll be coming home.”