That's Paris

by Vicki Lesage et al.

  — Dis quelque chose mon garçon !

  — Je… Je ne sais pas, je ne sais plus ! Tout est si confus et à la fois si évident dans ma tête… dit finalement Anatole. C’est comme si tout autour de moi s’était écroulé en une fraction de seconde et que tout s’était reconstruit aussi vite d’une manière féérique… J’ai un profond sentiment de fierté naissante, de responsabilité, de spiritualité : tout me semble normal et pourtant toujours si incroyable !

  — C’est normal mon enfant, c’est normal ! ajouta la Comtesse d’une voix caressante. Allons, prends les partitions et referme le coffre. Il est temps pour toi de partir et de te mettre au travail avec toutes ces belles notes qui t’attendent ! Je suis sûre que tu es impatient de les découvrir sur ton piano : tu verras, les dernières mazurkas sont tout naturellement exceptionnelles.

  Anatole suivit instinctivement les directives de la Comtesse. Il referma la porte du caveau derrière lui.

  — Garde la clef mon Anatoly, garde-la en souvenir de notre rencontre et des liens profonds qui nous unissent maintenant et pour l’éternité.

  Anatole glissa la clef dans sa poche, referma la sacoche contenant les partitions qu’il venait de trouver et marcha paisiblement vers la sortie du cimetière.

  — Passe lui rendre hommage une nouvelle fois mon enfant quand tu auras déchiffré ses notes : tu lui dois bien ça ! Frédéric et toi étiez de si bons amis…

  Le vent de mai soufflait dans ses cheveux. Anatole regarda le ciel parisien dans son crépuscule. Il escalada le petit muret, sauta par-dessus la porte métallique de la rue du Repos et descendit le pas léger sur le boulevard de Ménilmontant. La Ville Lumière ne lui était jamais apparue aussi belle.

  Noëlle

  Cheryl McAlister

  “It’s for a full year,” Dan said. “You sure you want this place?” He took off his reading glasses and handed the lease back to the landlord.

  “I have to stay in Paris,” David answered, “and I can’t find a rent this low anywhere else.” He and Pascal were poking around the little apartment. It needed painting. The tall windows that opened onto the street were filthy, but they would let in plenty of light. Pascal looked into the WC. The old fashioned tank was mounted high on the wall and flushed with a pull chain. “Your knees will keep the door from closing when you sit,” he complained.

  “That’s all right. I’ll be alone. I’ll leave it open.”

  David opened another door to what must have been a closet at one time. It held a narrow pre-fab shower with a high step into it. Beside the shower were a small sink and some raw plywood shelves.

  Monsieur Hamidou said something in French to Pascal who translated for David. “He says the shower is new. The last tenant installed it.”

  “Tell him I’ll paint the place if he’ll provide a few gallons.”

  “Liters,” Pascal corrected.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Pascal huffed and translated.

  Monsieur Hamidou considered for a moment before answering.

  “What did he say?”

  “He says he likes artists, and since you’re an artist, you can paint the walls.”

  “I’m not going to paint a mural. He gets that, right? I just want white paint.” Most of the buildings on the street below were covered with murals and graffiti.

  Monsieur Hamidou nodded and said, “Yes, OK, paint.” He smiled broadly as he pushed a pen and two copies of the lease toward David. “Very good,” he said. “You write?”

  “Look OK?” David asked.

  Dan shrugged. “It’s a standard lease.”

  David signed both copies and handed them back to Monsieur Hamidou who signed, then stood looking expectantly at the three men.

  David understood, took out his wallet, and counted out the euros for one month’s rent plus security deposit. Monsieur Hamidou furrowed his brow, smoothed his mustache and re-counted the bills, occasionally turning them to face the same direction.

  “Really?” David muttered.

  But the landlord was smiling again and said, “Très bien. Welcome Mr. Glaser.” He pocketed the money and his copy of the lease, and gave David a key ring.

  “The little one’s the mailbox,” Dan translated. “The round one is for the entry, and that one’s for the apartment door.”

  Monsieur Hamidou continued chatting with Dan and Pascal. Finally, after what seemed to David like forever, he looked at his watch, said, “Bonsoir” and shook hands all around.

  “So when do you want to move in?” Dan asked after he left.

  “Soon as possible.”

  “Is Brooke pressuring you to leave?” asked Pascal.

  “Not really. She’s not even there. She’s been staying with the new guy, but I gotta get out soon. That apartment belongs to her father.”

  “We wondered how you two could afford to live there, but Dan wouldn’t let me ask.”

  Dan took Pascal by the arm. “Because you’re too nosy. Come on, let’s walk down to La Veilleuse and grab an apéro to celebrate David’s new digs.”

  It was five-thirty, and the late-August heat was finally lifting. The café wasn’t busy; most Parisians were on vacation, so David and Dan laughed when Pascal rushed to claim a sidewalk table as if it were the last one on Earth.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “Seriously?” said David. It felt good to laugh.

  Brooke had introduced David to Pascal and Dan five years before, and the couples had grown close. Back then, Pascal was Adella’s lead ready-to-wear designer and had hired Brooke as his assistant. When Pascal left Adella to start his own label, he made sure Brooke got his position.

  “Have you seen her?” David asked impulsively. He had promised himself he wouldn’t.

  “Not at all,” said Dan. “What happened?”

  “Fuck if I know. She came home last Tuesday and said she met someone else. Said I was holding her back, and she was sick of me relying on her for everything.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “For one thing, she didn’t want to translate any more so when we went out with clients or her boss I’d be stuck sitting there like an idiot.” He took a sip of his beer then stared into the foam for a moment before adding, “It caused some pretty big fights.”

  “Why don’t you just take French lessons?” Pascal asked.

  “I have no ear for languages. Besides, why bother? It won’t bring her back.”

  “It might if you made the effort.”

  “She’s with someone else.”

  “Bof,” Pascal scoffed. “She doesn’t love him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s too soon. It’s just infatuation.”

  David hoped Pascal was right. He needed time to show Brooke he could get along fine without her. That should make her want him back.

  “You want to borrow the car to move?” asked Dan.

  “That would be great if I could drive.”

  “You don’t have an international license?”

  “I don’t even have an American license.”

  “Why not?”

  “The day before I was supposed to take the test my old man forced me to prove to him I could drive. This was after fifteen weeks of Driver’s Ed and six months driving around with my mom. Anyway, he went ballistic when I let the clutch out too fast and stalled. Blasted me again for not turning around when I backed out. Then when I got to the stop sign at the end of our road he ripped me a new one for braking too hard. I was so pissed off I got out of the car and walked home. Never took the test; never drove again.”

  Pascal put his hand on David’s arm. “My father is a—” He paused. “Daniel, un connard?”

  “A bastard.”

  “My father is a bastard too.” Pascal laughed. “Voilà, you see? Now you learn good French.”

  “Thanks, that’ll come in handy.”

  “I studied your dad’s buildings when I was in architecture school,” Dan said.

  “Oh, he’s a brillia
nt designer, just an asshole.”

  “Does he at least like your work?” asked Pascal. “My father hates that I’m a couturier.”

  “Who knows? I’ve had work in The New Yorker and Rolling Stone, and I’m sure he’s seen it, but he’s never said anything, which is better than his usual response.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’d tell me everything that was wrong with it... and me.”

  “But you’re a very successful illustrator.”

  “Dan, if I ever told my father I illustrate covers for romance novels he’d freak out. He’d say I was a total failure even though I’m Pantaloon’s primary illustrator.”

  “Will you tell him about Brooke?” Pascal asked.

  “And bring up another failure?” David felt his throat tightening and took a swig of beer. “He gave me hell for following her here in the first place.”

  “He didn’t like her?”

  “He was crazy about her. Thought she was the perfect woman.”

  “Then what was the problem?”

  “He didn’t think I was good enough for her, and he wanted to save me the trouble of moving back. Said painting was the only thing I was good at, and other than that I’m spoiled and self-absorbed, and she’d leave me once she figured it out.” David rubbed his eyes then smiled sardonically. “But he graciously admitted my shortcomings were his fault.”

  “People should be required to get a license to be a parent,” said Dan. “We’ll help you move. Can you wait till Sunday?”

  ~~~~

  Monsieur Hamidou left a 2.5-liter can of white paint by the door. David wondered what he gave the last guy to install the shower, a spigot? But he couldn’t ask for more even if he wanted to. Maybe he should take some French classes, but it would take forever to be able to ask for things like paint. It was easier to walk to the hardware store around the corner, grab the paint and plunk down some money.

  After two days of painting, scrubbing and trying to sleep on a quilt on the floor, David’s back ached. Thankfully, on the third day, Ikea delivered a chocolate brown futon, a laminated coffee table, a rattan rug and a pre-fab armoire. By the time he got the damned armoire together he was toast. He sprawled across the futon and surveyed his studio apartment. Besides his drawing table, flat file, and the table that held his computer and printer, all he brought from Brooke’s apartment were his clothes, a box of art supplies, a quilt, a towel and his pillow. Maybe he should have taken the reading lamp and a few books too. He dialed her number.

  She had a new phone message, in French, of course. David couldn’t understand this one any better than the old one, but he could tell his name was no longer included. He hung up without leaving a message.

  He opened the window and leaned out. Weird how his life could feel so over while the people on the street below went about theirs as usual: Two toddlers ran around their mothers’ legs laughing, a couple of guys painted a new mural, and his landlord swept the sidewalk in front of the building. Must be nice to be so carefree.

  He took a deep breath. This neighborhood was not only noisier than his old one in the sixteenth arrondissement, it was smellier. The reek of cigarettes and spray paint mixed with the aroma of Chinese food. David hadn’t eaten much over the past week. Now the thought of Chinese take-out made his stomach growl. He decided to find the restaurant.

  Monsieur Hamidou opened the street door for him when he returned with his bags of food. The jolly landlord, oblivious to David’s inability to understand, began speaking rapidly. He took David by the elbow and led him to an apartment opposite the stairs in the courtyard. A plump, smiling woman wearing a green polka-dot dress and a pink flowered headscarf came to the door. Madame Hamidou. David shifted his bags to one arm to shake her hand.

  “I’m sorry, I really don’t understand a word you’re saying,” David said, but the Hamidous chattered away unconcerned. When they finally paused, he lifted his bags a little and nodded toward the stairs.

  “Allez, allez,” said Madame Hamidou, and she turned him by the shoulders and shooed him off as if he had been the one keeping the conversation going.

  It would have helped if he could have told them he had to leave, but he doubted he could ever learn to speak French. Still, it might impress Brooke. Back in his apartment he texted Dan to ask where he could find a class. “Nothing uptight,” he wrote.

  Dan texted back immediately, “This is where I went. Ten years ago, but they’re still there. Good school. Glad you’re doing this.”

  David took his box of fried rice to the computer to look up the school Dan recommended. Still no internet. He could find the website on his phone, but it would be much easier on the computer. Anyway, it didn’t matter if he signed up now or next week. Brooke probably wouldn’t care anyway; she was with someone else. And he was busy. He had to get going on the work he’d ignored since the break-up.

  On top of his to-do list was Lilia Dufort’s latest manuscript. The sketches were already a couple of days late, but he had to read the book before he could do the drawings. The last thing he was in the mood for was one of Dufort’s ludicrous canned love stories, especially because for the last three years Brooke had been his model.

  David spread the boxes of Chinese food on the coffee table and pulled the table close to the futon. He put his feet up and began reading Foxglove and Foolscap, by Lilia Dufort.

  Her novels were so predictable he could get away with skimming through them. They were all set in France, so once he knew the time period and the hair and eye color of the current Aphrodite and Adonis he would get to work.

  Not this time. Foxglove and Foolscap was about a beautiful, young wise-woman living in seventeenth century Paris who was accused of witchcraft and sentenced to burn at the stake. Dufort had developed her so convincingly, and the story was so intriguing, that David went back to re-read the parts he had skimmed. He began reading more slowly and found he couldn’t put it down. By the time he finished the manuscript the next morning, he had fallen in love with the heroine, Noëlle.

  Dufort described her as “petite and slender,” with “ebony hair” and “fierce, ash-gray eyes.” David rolled on his side and pictured how he’d compose the book cover. He’d portray Noëlle in a triumphant pose illuminated by flames with the duke in the background. He closed his eyes. He became the young nobleman saving her from the flames, then looking into those intense gray eyes as he let his fingertips wander over her silky skin...

  For a moment, Brooke appeared as his model. He mentally pushed her away. His Noëlle would look nothing like Brooke. Brooke was a bottle blonde with an asymmetrical bob who wore lots of makeup. His Noëlle would be natural. She’d have wavy, black hair, and her lashes would be thick and real. Brooke was as tall as he was, five-eleven. His Noëlle would be so small he could rest his chin on her head when he embraced her.

  Of course there were things about Brooke he would want in his Noëlle. Brooke was bright. His Noëlle would be brilliant. Brooke was athletic, although workouts had to fit her schedule. His Noëlle would be fit, but also delicate and graceful, and she would love to go on his long spur-of-the-moment walks. Brooke had an angular, boyish figure. His Noëlle would be slender, but shapely with feminine hips and high, round breasts. That was important. He didn’t want her to be built like a guy.

  And she’d like to eat. Brooke spent her days around anorexic models, and she avoided food like it was poison. She was a talented designer, though, and David wanted his Noëlle to be great at something too. In the book she was a healer, but his dream was of a modern woman. He’d figure it out later. For the moment, he was content to fall asleep imagining his lovely Noëlle who would be happy just to be with him.

  David woke refreshed at noon. This was the longest he’d slept since the break-up. He made coffee, grabbed the leftover duck with noodles out of the fridge and went to his drawing board to sketch. He made thumbnails of several concepts for his cover, chose the best three and drew them in more detail. But not having internet made it dif
ficult to research costumes.

  David dialed Pascal. He’d made the original call to get the internet hooked up; maybe he could help. “Hey buddy, I’m still not connected, and I need it for work. Can you call and see what’s up?”

  “You know it takes a few weeks in France.”

  “I know but...”

  “Hold on.” Pascal spoke to someone in French.

  Shit, David thought. He didn’t have time for this.

  “I’m at work,” said Pascal when he came back on. “I’ll get to it as soon as I can. Give me the number again.”

  David would just have to wing the clothing based on past research, scan the sketches and submit them from a cybercafé.

  On his way out, in the late afternoon, he noticed a piece of paper wedged in his mailbox. His heart did a drumroll as he read, “David, I left a package with your landlord. Hope you’re doing well. Brooke.”

  David went to the Hamidous’ door and knocked. No answer. He knocked harder. Damn. They weren’t home. The closest cybercafé was in the twelfth. He couldn’t wait. It was getting late, and he had to email those scans.

  When he knocked again two hours later, Madame Hamidou answered. She left him waiting long enough for his mood to swing from anxious desire to get Brooke’s package, to annoyance, to anger. She finally reappeared with two boxes: the one from Brooke and another filled with baklava.

  “For me?” asked David. Now he felt ashamed for his impatience. God, he was a jerk.

  Madame Hamidou smiled and said something in French.

  David wasn’t sure if he should try one on the spot, but Madame was watching expectantly so he tasted one of the sticky diamond-shaped pastries. It was chewy-sweet and buttery, with a hint of salt from the pistachios, and had a surprising aftertaste of roses.

  “Mmm,” he said making a show of how delicious they were. He ate another. This delighted Madame Hamidou, and she started speaking rapidly, pointing at the box then at David. He wondered how he would ever get upstairs. Finally he put his hands up in an attempt to pantomime, “I don’t understand.” She seemed to get that and let him go.