by Doug Walsh
Chapter 21
Thursday, June 18 — Paris, France
They arrived in Paris sweaty and flustered. Edward came to understand that the pedals in and out of major cities were the most stressful, but Paris tested his nerves more than any other so far. He expected to get lost, or be squeezed for space alongside inattentive drivers, but not to have to detour around a sea of angry faces holding signs, shouting in protest of who knew what.
“Typical Paris,” Kara said, once outside the hotel. “At least we didn’t get caught up in one of the roller-blading mobs.”
Edward gave her a puzzled look.
“It’s a weekly thing. Thousands of Parisians roller skate through the city every Sunday. I borrowed skates from my host family last time, but I’m sure we can rent some.”
“We should,” Edward said, already anticipating the wackiness of it. Especially if it meant fewer hours spent in a museum.
He handed Kara his passport and detached the panniers while she ventured up the stairs of the skinny, nondescript hotel with the weather-beaten sign. It wasn’t long before the bikes were locked to a pipe on a second floor terrace, safely confined within the center of the ring-shaped hotel. Together, he and Kara shuttled their bags up four flights of stairs, to a tiny box of a room with peeling paint and the aroma of disinfectant. A framed pastel of fruit, its coating of dust visible from the doorway, hung crookedly over the bed.
Hours later, Edward stared at the lone piece of thrift-store art, unable to sleep in the sticky stillness of the room. He kicked the sheets off in frustration long before midnight, cursing the hotel for its lack of air conditioning. At twenty past one, he yanked the curtains aside in hope of coaxing a nonexistent breeze. By two thirty-five, he was convinced the street lamp outside was pointed directly at his pillow. And by four o’clock, he resigned himself to staying awake.
The red digits of the alarm clock read 4:44. Edward turned the alarm off before it buzzed, thankful he wouldn’t have to explain to Kara why it was set.
Kara’s hand slid across his chest as he made to leave and Edward felt her inch closer, whispering in her sleep.
“I’m gonna get some fresh air,” he said, and kissed her forehead, just above her eye mask. “Keep sleeping.” Her lips curled into a peaceful smile as he slid out from under her arm.
He moved carefully, stepping over their panniers, trying not to bump anything as he groped for the phone hidden in the shadows. Edward padded down the stairs to the terrace, barefoot and shirtless, clad only in shorts, the Blackberry in hand. There, he stared at the phone, practicing his pronunciation of bonsoir as he waited anxiously to hit the call button. He hadn’t spoken to Tom since Boston—his call last week went to voicemail—and Edward couldn’t wait to hear Tom’s reaction to them being in Paris.
“Thursday already, Edward?” Tom asked, picking up on the second ring without so much as a hello.
“Bonsoir, Tom.”
“Huh?”
“Good evening,” Edward said, rolling his eyes. “Though, it’s already morning here in Paris.”
For a moment, Edward was afraid the call dropped, but he soon heard Tom muttering and the rustling of paper. Tom mentioned a map on an earlier call and Edward now pictured him leaning over his desk, pen in hand, perhaps drawing a line, or stringing colored yarn between push pins.
He knew it was silly, but he wanted Tom’s approval, or at least acknowledgment of how far he’d gone in two weeks. Edward risked a lot to get to France so quickly—they were nearly three months ahead of schedule by his estimate—and he deserved some recognition.
Instead, he heard only silence.
“Hello. You still there?”
“Yeah, yeah, hold on a second,” Tom barked back, before continuing to talk under his breath. It sounded like he was calculating something.
Edward paced the terrace, enjoying the swishy sensation of the artificial grass carpeting on his feet. Above, the blackness of night absorbed a purplish hue.
“I figured you’d have taken my advice to heart and picked up the pace. Weren’t you taking a ferry to Denmark last week? Why are you headed southwest?”
Edward’s head lolled back on his neck as he searched the heavens for patience. Because we can’t just pedal across Russia, you horse’s ass. He took a deep, calming, breath. “Because we had to get south, for logistics.”
Tom sighed. “You better not cost me my bet with Ron. How many miles are you averaging per day?”
Edward balled his fist and fake-jabbed at the brick wall “Sixty-three, sometimes seventy.”
“And you’re riding every day, right?” In the background, Edward heard what sounded like Tom tapping on a calculator.
Edward bit down on his lip. Of course they weren’t. The pros don’t even ride every day in the Tour de France. What the hell is wrong with this guy? “Mostly. We take a day off every week or so,” Edward said, not about to tell him he intended to spend the better part of a week in Paris.
“I suppose your wife wants some time in Paris.”
Edward dragged his finger along the frame of Kara’s bike, absently wiping away a smear of dirt as he said yes.
“Well, while she’s out sightseeing, I’ve got something you can work on.”
“Okay,” Edward said, unsure he wanted to hear what it was, wondering if he wanted any part of Tom at all.
As if I have a choice. Edward felt a pit forming in his stomach.
“You need to find office space for your team. Seattle’s a hot market. Goddamn tech companies buying up every inch of real estate out there. You need to lock something in soon. October’s just four months away.”
He shrank to the ground, balancing atop the balls of his feet in a squat, with a hand on the outdoor carpet for balance. The strength to stand abandoned him. Four months? Impossible.
Tom continued talking, his words forming a disorienting fog Edward couldn’t see through. “It’ll take a few weeks to furnish and get the branding in place. So you got to decide soon. You also need to start interviewing candidates for your support staff.”
Was he hearing this right? How was he supposed to find office space and conduct a candidate search from halfway around the world—while still trying to bicycle seventy miles a day? The absurdity of Tom’s request snapped Edward out of his stupor, jolting him like a speed bump struck during a mountain descent.
“That’s impossible. I’m hardly ever near an internet connection, not to mention the time zones—”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“I don’t see how. Can’t someone in your office help with the hiring?”
“Why? They’ll be your employees, not mine.”
Edward’s eyes went wide. My employees? Did Tom expect their pay to come out of Edward’s salary too? It sounded like it. How could he have been so stupid not to get the details in writing? He pumped his fist in a calming motion. Deal with it later. I don’t even have an office yet.
“Fine, then what about the office space? Can’t your assistant help with that?”
“I’ve got more than enough to keep my team busy. You’ve yet to bring in one dollar for this company. Don’t shunt your responsibilities off to my staff.”
“No, it’s just—”
“I’ve warned you about excuses, Ed. I’m starting to think you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
The feeling’s mutual.
“I’ll have my gal here in Minneapolis text you a link to our hiring protocols. She’ll coordinate getting the lease signed. Just send her the details once you pick a site.”
“Uh-huh.” Edward’s head swam as one obstacle after another crashed atop him, waves of responsibility dragging him under, choking his breath. He’d never felt more overwhelmed in his life.
“Another thing. These calls are too late for me. Call me at nine o’clock from now on. That’ll be better for the both of us.”
“Well, actually, that would mean—”
“And every other week is fine, okay? Great. Two
Thursdays from now at nine. Au revoir,” he said, chuckling. In that moment, Edward envisioned Ron Madsen laughing alongside Tom, clinking glasses, celebrating Edward’s struggle.
The phone fell silent as Edward grasped his stomach, feeling for the knife he’d surely been stabbed with. Instead, he felt only nausea, and the suffocating onset of panic-laced discomfort. He’d dreamed of one day setting up his own office, hiring his own staff. But here? Now?
He bound up the stairs three at a time, racing to reach the bathroom before he vomited, dashing to hide the phone before Kara woke, clinging to an unraveling strand of hope.
Edward rinsed his mouth in the sink and stared at the mirror. He’d never been one of those people who paid attention to the subtle changes in another’s complexion, but he knew his own face well. Despite his cyclist’s tan, it looked several shades paler than healthy.
He replayed the phone call in his mind, the knot in his stomach cinching tighter with every word, eventually wringing himself empty once again. He flushed the toilet and turned the faucet to full blast, but no amount of cold splashes could allay his dread.
There was a light tap on the door. “Is everything okay?”
Edward jumped at the sound. “Just a second,” he called back, his eyes darting to the phone atop the sink. He searched the indecorous bathroom, feeling like a prisoner in possession of contraband, but it was no use. He stashed the phone in his shorts pocket, dried his hands, and opened the door.
Kara greeted him with a pitying look. “Aww, you look awful.”
He clutched his stomach and winced as he stepped past her, mindful of the phone in his pocket and moving swiftly to avoid a conciliatory hug.
“Maybe something you ate?” she asked.
He shrugged, unsure how much to reveal. Or how much to lie. “We both had the shawarma last night. You’re okay, right?”
Kara nodded and looked at him, her face a wealth of concern. She stepped into the bathroom and shut the door. Edward quick-stepped to his pannier and buried the phone in the stuff sack containing his winter gloves and hat.
He made sure to be in bed, the sheet pulled to his neck, when Kara returned. She felt his head. “You’re not warm.”
“It’s my stomach. Couldn’t sleep at all last night.”
Kara sat down next to Edward on the bed. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He doubted it. “It’s probably stress. I’m sure I’ll feel better this afternoon.”
She scooted closer and looked surprised. “What’s got you worried?”
Edward hesitated as his heart raced. Everything he told her was true. He was stressed. And he’d been sick and felt he might vomit again any moment.
What can I say? She’s too good to me. I can’t lie.
But he had to. And she was in the nurturing mood. “My knee,” he said.
“Really? You should have told me. Since when?”
He rolled on his side to face her and grimaced, for her benefit. “We’re cycling around the world. I’m not going to make a big deal out of every little ache and pain.” If she noticed him avoiding her question, she didn’t say anything.
“No, but if it’s causing you stress—”
“I can ride, but the mountains have me worried.”
Kara angled her head, whether with sympathy or suspicion, he couldn’t tell.
Edward took a deep breath, finding the nerve to plant the seed. “I don’t know how I’m going to get through the Pyrenees if it doesn’t get better soon.”
She stroked his head, running her fingers through his hair gently. “Don’t worry about that now. Just get some rest.”
He nodded.
“We’ll think of something,” she added, undoubtedly aware he couldn’t do anything but worry about it.
Kara shifted to lie next to him. Outside, the purple pre-dawn light gave way to a frail blue. Songbirds were in full throat, but no match for the sound of the water gurgling through the pipes behind their head. Paris was starting to wake.
“I don’t think I’m up for sightseeing today,” Edward said.
“That’s fine. Maybe you’ll feel better tonight.”
He doubted it. “What about you?”
“Well … Since I’m awake, I’ll probably head up the hill to Sacre-Coeur and grab breakfast,” she said, shrugging. “Probably just wander the city.”
“Save the Eiffel Tower for me, okay?”
“Of course,” she said, patting his hand. Kara looked around the room, disapprovingly. “It’s too bad we don’t have a phone or a laptop you can occupy yourself with. That TV looks older than us.” Near the door, a tube television, yellowed with age, sat askew atop a mini fridge.
“I’m sure I’ll find something to do,” he said, noticing for the first time, the green lights of a Wi-Fi router on the ceiling above the door.
Edward’s mind raced at full gallop by the time Kara left. For as much as he tried to calm his nerves—and his stomach—he couldn’t swim free of the day’s current, its undertow dragging him to oblivion. An hour earlier, he couldn’t wait to update Tom, so certain he was of finally receiving his due praise. Now he was in bed, sick with anxiety, and pretending to be injured.
Being idle only made his problems worse. Tom’s latest demands were a call to action, to advance or surrender. And with a full day at his disposal (Kara said she’d be back by dinner), he had a perfect opportunity to get online and see what he was up against.
He pulled on a pair of pants and a short-sleeved shirt and went in search of food and the hotel’s internet password. He descended two flights of stairs before realizing he was limping. Whether a trick of the mind or a sign that he’d become too adept at lying, he didn’t know, but he hated himself for it. He gripped the iron banister, wanting to drive his knee into it, to give himself something worth limping about, he thought, recalling his father’s echo. But he paused, letting the adrenaline of his shame dissipate.
The receptionist directed Edward across the street to a corner café, where he ordered a petit déjeuner consisting of a croissant and espresso. He slid another euro coin on the counter and ordered a second breakfast, knowing Kara would never have allowed such a gluttonous faux pas.
The caffeine and carbs wouldn’t help settle his stomach, but he felt his mental fog lifting, allowing him to focus. Back in the hotel room, with the door locked and the chain drawn, he retrieved the mobile phone and a notepad and flopped onto the bed.
A certain element of him was excited to have a task, a sense of purpose for the day, but he didn’t know where to begin. He’d never hired anyone before, let alone staffed a department. He decided it best to start with the office space. After all, prospective employees would want to know where they’d be working.
His search turned up a number of options, but mostly for shared desks, business incubators, and the types of coworking places geared more toward creatives like Kara. He wanted a proper office, with a locking door, and bookcases, and a wall where he could hang his diploma.
An office like he had, one that looked the part.
Edward continued his search, wading through an endless stream of listings. The options overwhelmed him, the descriptions containing more questions than details. How many desks would he need? Open floorplan or private offices? What were his conference room demands? “How the hell should I know?”
Every link bragged about the views, each outdoing the next with photos showing off the Space Needle, the house boats on Lake Union, and Mt. Rainier.
He scrolled through the assorted hometown scenery, his mind wandering from the search for office space to the more pleasant quest for a place to live once he won the job.
A shadow flew across the wall, distracting him from the Blackberry’s screen. Even in the dim light, the room was a dump. A rat trap he endured to maintain the illusion of them still being on a budget. Kara never complained, but he suspected she hated it. How could she not?
“She won’t have to put up with it much longer,” he mumbled to him
self, knowing they’d soon be home.
October was only four months away.
I can’t win.
Edward felt his pulse accelerate as visions of a calendar flashed in his mind’s eye. He closed the browser and opened Google Maps. He stumbled as he typed, his fingers feeling as if they’d been slept on. Finally, a line stretched over eight-hundred miles from Paris to Madrid. He zoomed out as his breathing intensified. Another four-hundred miles to Barcelona. Three weeks at a minimum with no days off.
“That’d leave us three months,” he whispered. Three months to get from Spain, across Asia, to Seattle?
Kara wants to bike through Morocco next.
Edward flicked the trackball and sent Europe zipping across the screen. He flicked it again to Italy. Another flick landed in Turkey. Again. Uzbekistan. Again. China. And China once more on the next flick.
He panted, as if his breathing sought to match his ever-quickening pulse. His numb fingers had gone slippery with sweat by the time he scrolled to the blue of the Pacific. Flick. Blue. More blue. Blue again. His body shook erratically, his heart and lungs racing side by side down the backstretch to …
Where the fuck is America?
Edward threw the phone aside and leaped from the bed. Bad idea. The dingy linoleum floor seemed to wobble beneath him. Bird shadows swooped across the room, circling him, closing in, landing atop his chest, squeezing out his breath, boiling his blood.
Four months?
He crawled back onto the bed, clawing for the phone. He pulled the sheet over his body as he curled himself in a ball, shivering, hyperventilating, and drenched in sweat. Clutching the phone between his hands, Edward squeezed his eyes shut with all his strength, and having never experienced anything like this before, he began counting. “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi …”
By the time he reached fifteen, his breathing had grown from sips to gulps. By twenty, he felt well enough to sit up.
Edward went to the bathroom, filled the sink with cold water, and plunged his face into it. The stinging chill delivered the smack he needed—dread lingered, but he no longer felt certain to implode. When he returned to the bedroom, he noticed the phone’s screen was centered on Paris. The combination of buttons he’d mashed in his fit of terror somehow landed a pin on the Gare de Lyon train station.